#someone else’s code. so theoretically it shouldn’t take too long because i should just be able to get all the elements working; put them

[fingertipsmp3]

I so badly do not want to do my homework omg. But who else is going to do it? Nobody

[brushstrokesapocalyptic]

it’s time for the “overanalyzing one-off lines” show!

so the very first thing magnus says when he sees pit in chapter 2 of kid icarus: uprising is as follows:

“Well, I didn’t expect to see an angel here. Hope this doesn’t mean I’ve kicked the bucket.”

now, i’m not sure if you’re aware, but that’s a really weird thing for someone to say, and it’s even more weird that no one comments on it. pit and palutena go on talking about unrelated things, as if that’s a totally normal and expected thing for magnus to say.

now, if you’re like me, you probably also didn’t really react to this line the first few times you saw it. it’s the second chapter, kiu has a lot of slightly-odd lines which turn out to be foreshadowing. me, personally? my first thought was “oh, i guess angels are probably associated with escorting the dead to the afterlife,“ and then i moved on.

they’re not, though. that’s what reapers do. and there’s no way humans have these two races mixed up. just fucking look at them.

do they look anything alike to you??? no. they don’t. which raises the question of why, exactly, magnus said that.

now, we don’t know a lot about angels as a whole. pit (and by extension dark pit) is emphatically not the gold standard of angeldom. we can assume he looks fairly ordinary for an angel, seeing as no one has trouble identifying him as such. beyond that, though, a lot of what we know about angels comes from what pit isn’t. for starters, he can’t fly. and there’s something else, too, but i’ll get to that later.

before that, though, i’m gonna go through the various unsubstantiated comments made by people with a dubious level of authority on the subject. (incidentally, i sourced these screenshots from the wiki— much more convenient than trying to dig through youtube for every single random conversation.)

without any further ado! let’s get into it!

Angels as Messengers

Gaol: Aw, Palutena’s little messenger boy. And Magnus, it’s always a pleasure. (src)

in the specific context of overanalyzing magnus’s first line, this is an important sentence to pick out. magnus and gaol are both humans, both with presumably a fairly similar history as mercenaries up until gaol got stuffed in a suit of armor. but while magnus makes a weird comment about death, gaol calls pit a messenger.

and pit agrees with her!

Viridi: I wish I had an angel to do my bidding. It’s like having an intern.

Pit: I’m not an intern. I’m a messenger of the gods!

Viridi: Poor Pit. Don't you know that the definition of angel is "errand spirit"? (src)

this particular conversation is the most insight we get into angels as a whole, i think. viridi thinks of angels as like divine interns, there to do little tasks for gods, and palutena doesn’t exactly disagree with her. pit says they’re specifically messengers, which lines up with biblical mythology. i could see the traditional role of angels in the world of KI being exactly that, showing up to tell the humans what the gods have to say because the gods themselves are too busy being petty jerks to do it themselves.

The Angel’s Code of Conduct

Magnus: You go in fully dressed? Don't you at least want to change into a...swimming tunic or something?

Pit: Oh, no no no! The angel's code of conduct says that we must always be ready for duty.

Magnus: I guess you wouldn't be an angel if you didn't do things by the book. (src)

Pit: Hey! You know the angel's code of conduct! I need to be prepared at all times! (src)

another random little thing is the angel’s code of conduct. without a larger sample size, we can’t know if it’s a real thing or just an excuse to save on laundry, but apparently it’s against the rules to not be on call at all times. in pit’s case, the duty he has to be ready for is doing palutena’s dirty work, but it can easily mean just about anything— including, of course, being a messenger.

No Warrior

Chariot Master: But you are no warrior, angel. Tell me, why do you fight?

Pit: I fight for Lady Palutena. And I fight for the people under her protection!

Chariot Master: That's not reason enough for an angel. (src)

remember how i said there was something else weird about pit? the chariot master seems to think angels aren’t very prone to battle— or perhaps even that they’re actively opposed to it. this lines up well with the idea that they’re supposed to be messengers, peaceful go-betweens for gods and mortals. this does not line up well with pit, the adorable weapon of mass destruction.

and it also does absolutely nothing to explain the question driving the whole existence of this post.

you know what does kinda lean towards an explanation?

No Other Angels

Pit: Do all gods have their own angels, like you have me?

Palutena: No, I don't think that's necessarily the case. (src)

i said before that the Intern Pit conversation had the most illuminating information on angels. this is what i was actually referring to. on its own, it’s pretty innocuous, but it’s just as weird as the magnus line. shouldn’t pit know about other angels, seeing as he is one himself? but he doesn’t know if there are other angels.

the only angels we ever see are him and his clone. no one ever directly references the existence of other angels, they only make general statements about what angels as a whole are like— statements which clearly don’t apply to pit, meaning they’re not just extrapolating based on the one angel that definitely does exist.

the one time someone does comment on the hypothetical existence of other angels, palutena gives a vague answer to the tune of “no,” the topic is changed, and no one brings it up again.

let’s go over everything i’ve established about angels up to this point. they can fly, they’re peaceful messengers of the gods, and pit is the only one that seems to exist as of the start of KIU.

it should be pretty obvious at this point what answer i’m dancing around, if it wasn’t obvious from the start. pit is the only angel around because all the other ones are dead. the reason why magnus said what he did is that his thought process went something like this:

See an angel.

Think “Aren’t angels extinct? Is that a ghost? Am I a ghost? I sure hope not.“

Make a quip about that.

Move on with his life, because he isn’t dead and evidently neither is this guy.

i’m not gonna pretend i went into this post with the intent of any other conclusion to that mystery. anyone who’s bothered glancing over a plot summary for the original kid icarus can draw that conclusion. it’s certainly what i did, reinforced by fics by people who had the same thought!

the truth, however, is that this was all a trick to get you to read my analysis of the theoretical nature of angels as a race. now that you’re invested, i’m going to dramatically throw aside my cape and reveal my TRUE FORM: telling people that fandom consensus is wrong, and my ideas are cooler and better than everyone else’s and you should all throw roses at my feet and bow before your king.

(or just, y’know, take it as the subjective analysis that it is. whatever floats your boat.)

Hot Takes

the original kid icarus does not actually tell you about angels going extinct. here’s the wiki article with the full text of the backstory, just for convenience, so you know what i’m on about for the rest of this post.

so, the part of the story that i think gets misinterpreted is this part about palutena’s army.

Medusa led a surprise attack on Palutena's army which could barely fend off the attack. Palutena's army suffered major losses and was heavily defeated in the final battle.

specifically, i think a lot of people interpret said army as having been made up at least partly of angels. sure, in the actual game it consists entirely of centurions, but you have to take old NES games with a grain of salt. i know i don’t buy for a second that pit was part of palutena’s guard before the original game (he was just too goddamn young), there’s nothing wrong with reinterpreting things.

recall everything i established about angels already, though. this is the hot official lore, from the game everyone knows and loves. angels are messengers, and if the chariot master is to be believed, never warriors. pit is an outlier. palutena’s army consists of centurions, not angels. if medusa wiped them out, it wasn’t because they were fighting for palutena.

(and honestly, i don’t think angels are necessarily associated with palutena exclusively. sure, she’s got the wing imagery, and she’s got the one known surviving angel working for her, at least up until pittoo is born. but angels are messengers of the gods, not messengers of palutena. again, pit is an outlier.)

which all brings us to the real question of this post.

what the FUCK happened to all the other angels? why is there only pit? why does magnus act surprised to see a messenger of the gods, and make a quip about being dead, if not because angels are otherwise extinct?! WHO KILLED THEM, AND WHY?!

thus concludes the “over analyzing one-off lines“ show. see you next, uh, maybe at some point if i feel like it!

(also another thought i had but couldn’t find room to fit it in properly: the gods don’t really act like angels are all extinct, but i feel like that can be explained through the sheer scale of a god’s lifespan. if we assume they were wiped out sometime around the original kid icarus (even if not as palutena’s army) then that’s a whole twenty-five years. that’s a long time for us humans, but for a god, that might as well be last tuesday. “yeah, i know what angels are like. sure wish i could have one. too bad palutena’s got a monopoly on the one single angel that medusa didn’t manage to wreck.”)

[no-droids]

The Floor is Better

Part Eight of the Rough Day Series

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 9.4K i am. appalled.

Warnings: SMUT, very vague attempts at sprinkling in hints of an overarching plot, language, the slightest bit of angst, TONS OF FUCKING FLUFF WOWWWW

A/N: This is by far the softest smut I’ve ever written.  I will say that there is a hint at butt stuff tho (just a HINT—THERE IS NO ACTUAL BUTT STUFF IN THIS GUYS) so brace yourselves

***

Alright so this bed is, like.  Atrociously uncomfortable.

It’s not even a bed.  It’s a cot.  Just a bare minimum place to sleep, shoved into the wall and taking up less space than the ship’s armory.  Like a… like a really shitty gurney almost, except no padding.  So not even a gurney then, just a fucking.  Piece of metal.  Just a piece of fucking metal to sleep on.

There’s surprisingly a bit of space to maneuver yourself when you’re pulled into the cubby completely like this, and yeah, it’s quiet and dark in here but man does your back hurt.  Is his spine made of metal, too?  Is that why he prefers this?  The floor isn’t a feather mattress by any stretch of the imagination, but at least there aren’t any uneven support bars digging into your side.

You’re on Coruscant, and Mando’s been gone for over three weeks.

It.  Fucking.  Blows.

You’ve literally run out of ideas to occupy your time.  You’re far enough above Coruscant’s dangerous underworld to not worry about any potential… mishaps, like what happened on Corellia, but the only issue with the ground being so far below you is that it’s not like you can just stroll down the road and buy yourself a deck of cards at the nearest merchant.  The only shop within walking distance of this hub contains the bare essentials; things like food, medical equipment and bacta, spare electronics and parts—all of which you purchased without hesitation.  Other than that, you need a ship to travel anywhere in this massive galactic capital, and while you just so happen to have a ship, what you don’t have, at least right now, is a Mando.

Fuck, but you did.  Before he left, you had Mando all to yourself for at least a full hour.  After he landed the Crest in a long-term terminal and turned his attention back to you, for some reason, he was insatiable.  It didn’t really make much sense back then, but in hindsight, it’s like he knew good and well how long he was going to be gone this time, attempting to search for a quarry on a planet with a population that broke a trillion last year.  It makes sense.  With this many people, a biometric tracking fob would be almost useless, and sure, you realize he set the ship down in the long-term terminal for a reason, but long-term with Mando typically means a week or two.  You suddenly realize that in a handful of days, he’ll have been gone a full month.

You suppose you probably could fly the ship somewhere else and send him a coded coordinate set of your new location, but for some strange reason, you can’t seem to reconcile going to all that trouble just because you’re bored out of your fucking mind.  You don’t want him to have to travel another however many miles out of his way to get back to you just so you won’t have to twiddle your thumbs for weeks on end.  You don’t want to run the risk of trying to make a quick trip there and back without alerting him of any change in location, either, especially on a planet this size.  He could return to the hub at any time, and if he comes back to a different ship parked in this lot, you’ll probably never see him again.

Okay, no, that’s not true—he hunts people for a living, and you have his kid.  You probably just wouldn’t see him for at least another month or so, and by then he’d be fucking livid.

So.  You stay here.  The baby offers a distraction, but only to a certain point.  The ship is pristine right now, inside and out.  Fucking pristine.  Almost… almost compulsively so, you reluctantly admit.  The console’s entire motherboard has brand new soldering and connections.  You used ear swabs to clean and polish each individual button, key, and knob in the entire flight deck.  You… may or may not have even labeled and color-coded the heat shrink wrap on every single cable in the Crest’s patchbay, all five-hundred and something of them.  When you pried open the metal paneling that covered all the ship’s interior routing jacks, you remember gasping at the sight of a mechanic’s worst nightmare and wondering if the last person who touched it took even more than a few hours on its installation.  What used to be a horrifying tangle of haphazard wiring is now a lovely set of rainbow snakes meticulously gathered and bound together with zipties, and you’re incredibly proud of it, though you still haven’t decided whether or not you should be.

There’s also a very particular reason you’re in this poor excuse for a bed.  You still very clearly remember Mando’s unfiltered voice in the pitch darkness, telling you he wants to come back to find you in his bed.  To find you in it, so he can fuck you though it.  

Well.  Three weeks ago, sleeping in here sounded like a good idea.  You even have a pillow now, and a blanket you can lay out beneath you while you curl up under the one you brought from home.  It’s thick and warm—probably a shock blanket, to be honest, since you did happen to find in the medical section—but it still doesn’t offer near enough padding to feel like you’re laying on an even surface right now.  Mando could theoretically get on top of you in here and fuck you—there is enough room vertically.  He might break one of your ribs on accident though, just judging from the way this one Maker-forsaken support bar seems to dig into your ribcage no matter which way you position yourself in here.

Stars, your back hurts.  You should just lay on the fucking floor.  If he hasn’t come back by now, what are the chances of it happening tonight?  But then your mathematical hindbrain immediately reminds you that statistically, the chances are the highest they’ve ever been.  The longer Mando’s gone, the more likely he is to come back every single day that passes.

It’s just as well, you figure, grabbing the tracks beneath the bed and slowly beginning to squeak yourself out of the wall.  You try not to let your fingers get pinched between the railing and the slider, but that just means the quickest you’re able to inch out is in intervals the approximate length of your index finger.  It’s dark in the hull—the baby is fast asleep in his crib in the cockpit, and the long-term terminal you’re parked in is quiet.  It would be a perfect time to sleep, if you could.  But here’s the thing—

It sucks that Mando’s gone for this long, absolutely.  It sucks that you slept on this awful fucking bed for three whole weeks when you could’ve done this ages ago.  But most of all, it sucks that you don’t have anything else to do.  Because that means you can’t occupy yourself, and when you can’t occupy yourself, your mind starts to wander.  And then you start to fixate on things you probably shouldn’t fixate on, for your own good.

Things like blood on your hands.  The baby limp in your arms.  A voice spitting, “pretty little bitch like you would sell for at least—”

Your eyes snap to the corner of the hull for the millionth time, the sight of where it happened, before you shake yourself out of it and hop down off the suspended cot.

“This’ll be good,” you whisper quietly in the darkness to yourself, pulling the blankets off and grabbing the pillow.  It’s… it’s something you’ve started to do when you need to instantly snap yourself out of a dreaded line of thinking but you don’t have anything stimulating around you to help.  Talk to yourself, talk about anything, just talk out loud and focus on the sound of your own voice.  If you listen hard enough, it’ll drown out your thoughts.  “The floor will be great.  The floor kicks ass.  I like the floor.”

You spread the fluffiest blanket down on the ground as far away from the offending corner as possible, and then close the much shittier metal bed into the hull wall before collapsing on your clearly superior one, never once ceasing your rambling nonsense about the floor.

Oh, this is nice.  This is fantastic.  Your back is still tight and achy from three awful weeks of sleeping on a “mattress” clearly made for someone with no concept of comfort, but being able to stretch out on a flat surface with a large shock blanket that feels like a fucking cloud under your body?  Your eyes are already starting to droop.

“The floor is better,” you whisper, yawning and snuggling deeper into the pillow.  The terminal is quiet.  The kid will be asleep for a while.  Mando won’t come back tonight.  Mando won’t come back tonight.  “The floor is better.  The floor… the floor…”

***

You jerk awake to something kicking your leg, hard.  

Gasping, you’re instantly pulling the blanket over your chest on reflex and bracing yourself for another impact, except then whatever kicked you is immediately toppling over your shins and stumbling to the floor with an unfamiliar grunt.

You and a man you don’t recognize blink at each other for a few seconds; him taking in the way you’re curled up on your makeshift bed, and you taking in the way he’s got his face squished against the metal ground, apparently not quick enough to use his arms to try and soften the abrupt tumble.

It’s like all your blood suddenly thickens and the adrenaline digs claws into your chest.  Your first instinct is to fucking bolt, but then your eyes instantly flick to the cockpit, where you know the kid is still sleeping.

Only—you can’t move.  You’re frozen in terror, quickly blinking your wide-eyed gaze back at the man on the ground.  You know you could’ve only been staring at each other for a few seconds at most, but with the way your mind is hurtling right now, it’s long enough for you to have just the briefest flicker of confusion as to why he hasn’t appeared to have moved either.

Except then another set of footsteps slowly begin clanking up the ramp.

Your heart is fucking slamming up against your ribcage at about the rate of four beats per footstep, but as soon as you catch a flash of beskar stepping onto the ship, you‘re reaching up to clutch your chest with your palm like you just finished a long-distance sprint and trying to take deep, calming breaths.

It’s just a quarry.  It’s just a quarry.  His hands are cuffed behind his back.  It’s a quarry.

The Mandalorian slowly comes to a stop right in front of your outstretched legs and the sharp angles of his chrome profile silently stare down at them, unmoving.  You swallow thickly and try not to blush as his helmet tilts towards you and follows your knees up to your hips, along your heaving abdomen and chest, before eventually coming to a rest on your face.

He holds there for a second, taking you in.  You bite down your lip and feel your heart thundering under your ribcage, blinking up at him as your cheeks flush in a boiling hot mixture of panic, embarrassment, and relief.

His metallic visor carefully follows the length of your body back down again, pausing once more at your feet.  

And then he sighs heavily through the modulator, loud enough to echo through the silent hull, before slowly stepping over them.

“Well, well,” the quarry says, stealing your attention with a sick smile creeping across half his face as it’s smushed against the floor.  “Who’s this, Mando?  She’s just darling, isn’t she?  Does Gideon know your crew has a lovely new addit—?”

The bounty abruptly cuts off with a strangled yelp when Mando bends down and grabs him by the collar, yanking him to his feet and then shoving him forward towards the carbonite chamber.  

You collapse back down onto the floor with a relieved breath and try not to tremble with the adrenaline comedown.  Maker, you woke up barely a minute ago but almost all of it was spent in fight or flight—or in your case, freeze—mode, and you’re already fucking exhausted again.

“I’ll tell him—” you can hear the quarry snarl just before Mando slams him into the metal frame.  As much as you try to just tune the confrontation out for the moment and focus on slowing your heart rate, you still manage to catch bits and pieces.  “See him again… be interested to know…”

You close your eyes and breathe deeply, counting to three during each inhale and exhale.  Fuck, that scared you.  You almost had a fucking heart attack, and it takes you a few seconds to get your body under control again.  But then you realize you haven’t heard anything from Mando’s side of the hub for an extended moment, and the carbonizing gas hasn’t yet filled the room.

Your head turns and if you squint from this distance, you can make out a leather glove clamped tight around the quarry’s throat, the man’s face a red-purple by this point as he sags weakly against the chamber.

“Mando!”  You bark quite suddenly, and beskar shoulders jerk straight at the sound as the bounty immediately takes in a giant, ragged breath from under a marginally loosened grip.  Mando quickly releases his neck altogether and punches in a few buttons on the control panel to the right, and then freezing gas soon solidifies the gasping quarry into solid carbonite.

He stays with his back to you for a moment, letting the cloud disappear completely before he moves a single muscle.  When he does eventually turn to look at you, he still doesn’t say anything.

He just stares.  The lights in the hull glint off his helmet, and you tug the blankets up your chest a little further on instinct.  Fuck, three weeks is a long time.  You’re defaulting in a way, finding it impossible to not reevaluate him after a long absence.  Before he left, you’d gotten a bit better at gauging his mood and countenance, been more relaxed and friendly around him, but now, after some time away from him, he’s still so… jarring.  Unpredictable, even when standing still.  Especially when standing still.  

You’re just trying to play it by ear, trying to respond to him the way he responds to you.  Only—it feels like he’s either not responding to you at all, or you’re just too rousing of a stimulus to show a response.

“You…” you breathe, and for some reason your heart rate is beginning to kick up again instead of decelerate.  You should be calmer now that he’s here, but he still hasn’t said a word.  “Y-You scared me.”

Mando stays rooted to the spot, just a motionless suit of armor, with the exception of his chest moving with breaths and his fists repeatedly clenching at his sides, and fuck.

Fuck, you’re wet.

You feel like prey right now.  You’re starting to gradually build into another fight or flight mode every second he’s staring you down, refusing to speak, but you also feel a stirring deep down in your floor muscles.  He’s so fucking tall from this angle, so broad and—

He steps a single foot forward.  You flinch at the abrupt movement, practically soaking your underwear now.  Mando takes another step forward, and you wet your lips and start to crawl back on the bed just a bit, staring at him with wide eyes.

Maker, the tension is making it hard to breathe.  You’re silently begging him to come take care of you after such an agonizing three weeks apart, and Mando’s body language looks like he’s more wound up than you’ve ever seen him.  He starts pacing directly to you, crossing the hull rapidly, and your heart thumps furiously with every step he takes.

But then he gets right to the edge of the blankets and suddenly stops short.  He looks down at the neatly made bed at his feet, and then down at his body.

You try not to make an audible huff of disappointment when he abruptly collapses down onto his back with a clatter right there on the floor, just a few inches shy of the blanket, immediately bringing the backs of both hands up to press against the face of his helmet.  It should look weird considering his knuckles are pushing hard against the visor, almost like he’s covering his eyes or has a headache but is rubbing the beskar instead of his forehead, but it doesn’t.  It just makes you want to rip that armor off his body even more and remind him again of what his skin feels like.

“What are you doing?”  You try not to make it sound like a breathless pout as you squirm impatiently under the blankets.  “Come over here.”

“I’m dirty,” is the first thing that comes through the modulator, gravelly and distorted but his voice burning a fucking hole through you after not hearing it for almost a month.  “I need to shower before I touch you.”

You don’t know why, but something about the way he says it makes you throb hard between your legs.

“Will you please just…” you bite your lip, stopping yourself short of saying take your clothes off and go with, “please, just—hurry.  I’m…”

Maker, you don’t know how to say it, and Mando soon rolls his helmet to the side to look at you when you don’t finish your sentence.  Desperate for it?  Hurting?  Feeling your clit pulse right now even though he hasn’t laid a finger on you yet?

“I missed you,” you eventually finish lamely, breathless as you fidget and bite your lip.

“Yeah?”  He breathes, suddenly turning the rest of his body on his side to face you.  “Tell me.”

“I… I want to show you,” you return quietly, scooting closer towards him.  “But you’re being withholding.”

Mando doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, but the front of his visor burns into you, steadily increasing your need for him the longer he silently stares at you.

“Show me, then,” he says after a moment, and the sentence rolls through you with a shudder.

You swallow thickly, and slowly start to pull the blanket down.  It’s unnerving that his helmet doesn’t move, even though you can literally feel his gaze lowering and searing hot along your newly revealed body.  You’re not even naked, not in the slightest, but with the way his shoulders tighten and his spine tenses just slightly, you would think you were completely exposing yourself to him right now.

“Do you want…”  Your fingers waver near your belly button, caught somewhere between wanting to pull the hem of your shirt up for him and wanting to pull the waistband of your pants down.  “What do you want to see?”

A breath comes through the helmet; slow, but shaky.

“I have to shower,” he grunts sharply, suddenly, his fist clenching at his side.  You don’t take offense to the stern tone.  He’s clearly repeating the sentence as a reminder to himself, not to you.

“You can get me dirty,” you breathe regardless.  “I don’t care.”

“I just spent three weeks on Coruscant’s surface,” Mando grits.  “I can’t touch you, I’ll infect you with someth—What are you doing?”

You bite your lip at him as an answer, bypassing your prior conflict altogether by slithering your hand down the front of your pants.

“What are you doing?”  He repeats through the modulator, just as your fingertips wedge underneath the hem of your panties.  

You shiver at the sensation, your eyes losing focus just slightly as you trail down the front of your pussy.  “I… I missed you.”

“Fuck,” Mando barks, and then he scrambles to stand up.  “Stop.  I’m taking a shower, just—just stop.”

You ignore him, turning on your back and widening your knees so he can still see the way your hand is still moving down between your legs, your finger just barely brushing the top of your slit.  “But it feels good.” “Take your hand out of your fucking pants,” he orders tightly.  “Right now.”

Your eyes flutter up at him as you do what he says, slowly bringing your hand out of your trousers.  “Hurry,” you murmur, biting your lip and blinking innocently up at him.  “Please.”

He doesn’t say a word, but his cape does make an audible sound with how quickly he whips around and shuts himself away in the tiny fresher.

***

You forget how long it takes to undo the beskar armor sometimes.  In fact, throughout the entire duration of Mando’s shower, you’re able to quietly sneak up to the cockpit and navigate the ship out of the terminal, pull up the coordinates for the next quarry on the navcomp while rising to a high enough altitude above the galactic capital, make a jump into hyperspace, return to the hull, shut off the lights, and slither back under the covers before the fresher actually turns off.

Soon, Mando raps his knuckles against the door separating the two of you, and you’ve completely wiggled out of your clothes by that point, the blanket resting just below your naked waist.  “Hey,” his unmodulated voice calls from behind the thick slab of metal.  “Eyes closed for a second.”

“I’m not looking,” you agree, draping your elbow across the bridge of your nose and waiting patiently.  He gives you a few seconds regardless before the door is sliding open.  You expect it to quickly shift shut again, plunge the room back into pitch blackness like before, but he hesitates.  It takes another moment for you to realize that he’s probably just staring at your naked chest while he stands there in the doorway, light spilling into the hull and illuminating you waiting for him with your eyes obediently shut.

“I thought I told you not to sleep on the floor anymore,” he murmurs after a quiet second, and you bite your lip and shuffle your shoulders impatiently against the floor, arching your chest out just slightly to entice him to come closer.

“Fuck that bed,” you breathe with your arm still pressed over your eyes, and your nipples feel tight in the cool air.  “Your armory is bigger than that bed, Mando.  Doesn’t that tell you something?”

“Yeah,” he returns, finally shutting the fresher light off and shifting the door shut behind him, beginning to make his way over to you.  “Tells me that there are more guns than people on this ship, as well it should be.”

“Maker, you’re impos—”

You’re cut off by Mando dropping to his knees and slowly crawling over your body, and fuck he’s as naked as you are, he’s naked and his skin is warm and damp from the shower and his hair is still dripping as you slither your arms up his chest and comb your fingers through it.

You can’t see a damn thing but you’re instantly thanking your lucky stars for that fact when his head drops down and a hot tongue drags up the curve of your neck.  Okay, this is better.  This is always better.  Even when you can’t see a damn thing, feeling the hollow of your jaw be caressed by a blazing wet furnace and tugging your fingers through his hair will always be better than when he keeps the helmet on.  Maker, you almost forgot how fucking good his mouth is, how soft and warm it is, and you can’t bite down a whimper when his lips finally trail up your chin and seal against yours.

You moan when his tongue gently slides into your mouth, unable to stop yourself as your cunt fucking throbs between your legs with arousal, and Mando even lets out a short huff of air through his nose and a low noise quietly slips through his vocal cords as he tastes you.  The barely audible sound is enough gasoline to your fire that you wrap your arms around his shoulders and your legs around his lower back before tugging, wanting his cock pressed against your cunt so you can rub yourself against it while he kisses you.

Only, something in the way Mando’s elbows immediately buckle and the hiss of air through his teeth before he unceremoniously collapses on top of you makes you instantly let him go.

“Hey,” you say, letting him bury his head into the crook of your neck and puff a short few breaths of hot air against your skin.  “What’s wrong?”

“Fuck,” he grunts, sounding somewhere between discomfort and legitimate pain, moving to prop his arms up next to your head again but taking a moment before trying to push himself up.  “Back.  Back hurts.  Too—” he winces when his shoulder moves a certain way, “—too old for this.”

“Here.”  There’s just enough space between you and Mando to wiggle out from underneath him, quickly turning around and swinging a leg over his back as he abruptly drops to the floor with the extra weight.  “Let me rub your back.”

“Shit—come on,” he groans against the blankets.  “I haven’t touched you in three fucking—”

Your hands trail up his spine, slow and gentle, and Mando cuts himself off.  He shudders under your palms as they carefully push and roll into the small of his back, and the muscles curving down under your touch gradually rise as he breathes in a lungful of air.  “Let me rub your back,” you repeat softly, letting your voice lull just a bit in a lower register, and all the air immediately releases from under your hands.

“Okay,” he relents, but his spine still holds straight and tight with tension.

“Okay?”  You repeat, dragging your palms back up until they’re roughly in the middle of his spine.  “Tell me if I go too hard.”

Mando barely huffs with a chuckle beneath you.  “Yeah, okay, I’ll tell you if—nghh—”

You dig your knuckles into the dip right beneath his shoulder blades and start kneading, and Mando makes a strangled noise and sags into the floor.  Your smile is almost impossible to hide, but the pitch black hull does the job just fine as you press and roll your knuckles into the hills and valleys of his back.  The noises he makes are a mixture of soft gasps and chokes, but it gives you the perfect opportunity to explore his body in ways you haven’t been able to before.

Your thumbs you dig in and follow the curve of his spine down, squeezing through the tightness in his lower back.  The skin under your hands is soft and giving, even though you can feel massive knots hidden underneath.  You take all the time in the galaxy with it, isolating each ache and pain and then grinding your knuckles into them steady and hard enough to make Mando groan brokenly under the pressure.  You work at it for a while, trailing your fingers up to his neck and massaging the base of his skull, not being able to imagine how much those muscles have to hurt after holding up a heavy beskar helmet every single day.  Your hands explore everything you can from this angle—you squeeze the tops of his shoulders, slide your palms down and squeeze his biceps, the muscles under his elbows, the ones wrapped around his forearms.

“This alright?”  You ask after a while, and you barely get a hoarse grunt from him in response.  His body is perfectly relaxed under yours, almost dead if he wasn’t still breathing, and you slowly walk your hands down the length of his back until you’re braced upright on him once more.  “You gonna make it?”

Eventually, he drags his forearms up so he can prop them against the blankets and slowly roll over underneath you.  You allow the lazy movement, lifting your hips up as he rotates, feeling his smooth skin shift under your palms until he finally comes to a rest on his back.

“My turn?”  He asks through the darkness.

“Your turn for wh—?”  You gasp as his grip instantly tightens, and then he’s abruptly switching your positions until he’s on top of you.  Almost all of your breath is knocked out of you when Mando grabs you and flips you over until you’re on your tummy, and then whatever remains suddenly whooshes out when he straddles you and plops down on your lower back.

“My turn to give you a massage,” he says, and you let out a quiet, “fuck—” when his palms land on your shoulders.

“Wait—” You pant, “—Wait, hang on, I don’t need a—”

Thank the fucking Maker you turn your head quick enough to muffle a loud moan when his fingers begin rubbing hard circles into your deltoids.  Stars, sleeping on hard metal for three weeks was truly a nightmare for your posture.  The knots in your upper back burn under the steady push and press of his touch, and it’s like your muscles can’t decide if they want to relax under the manipulation or tense up against it.

“Maker,” he murmurs, his thumbs frame either side of your spine and slowly drag downwards, and your voice almost cracks as you hide another groan in the pillow.  “Why does your back hurt?  What did you do to yourself?” “I slept—” you gasp when his knuckles roll up the length of your sides.  “Slept—on that piece of fucking scr-scrap metal—you call a—” his fingers press firmly against the valley below your shoulder blades, and then widen apart to start squeezing your arms, “—a bed for three weeks,” you manage to gasp, sparks of sensation shooting down to your fingertips as he rubs the muscles along the length of your biceps.

Soon, Mando’s hands come back down to rest on the small of your back, and he begins digging his thumbs into the base of your spine.  “Why did you do it for so long if it hurt?”

“You said—” You cut off with a moan into the pillow as he slowly scoots back until he’s sitting on your thighs, his hands moving downwards and kneading the soft flesh of your ass, pressing deep into the sore muscles while you struggle to remember what you were going to say.  “Said you wanted me to sleep in y—”

His thumbs start slowly moving inwards, his large hands butterflying out along both cheeks and squeezing.  He spends a second just grabbing and pulling your pillowy flesh, shamelessly spreading you and manipulating it until you’re throbbing between your legs again.  He’s being so brazen about it, too, gradually moving his thumbs closer and closer together until they’re digging into the crevice.

“Hey, uh,” you pant, starting to tense up a bit as his thumbs begin moving downwards.  “Ma—h-hey, you’re getting really… close to m-my…”

His hands keep steadily moving down, and you’re starting to squirm just a bit at the unfamiliar sensation of someone’s fingers pressing and kneading the unexplored skin between your cheeks.  

“Getting real close to your what?”  He drawls out from above you, low in his throat, and your cunt pulses with need.

Fuck, you’re gasping raggedly into the pillow, wondering if the absence would truly make him this bold.  You’re halfway caught between nervousness and being incredibly fucking turned on, and the way he pauses right above your asshole and just holds there makes your the muscles deep in your lower abdomen twist in anticipation and heat.  Fuck, you’re soaking the blankets beneath you, you can tell.  A thin sheen of sweat breaks out across your body and it’s all you can do to just lay there and wait for it with bated breath.

But then his weight is suddenly lifting from you and sliding down the length of your legs, settling at your feet.  You barely have enough time to let out a deep sigh—half of it relief and the other half… disappointment, maybe?—before he grabs hold of one of them, the size of it only slightly bigger than his hand, and firmly presses both thumbs into your arch.

A groan of approval slips through your vocal cords and you go practically boneless underneath him, not realizing how tense you just were a second ago.

“Fuck, that’s s-so good,” you murmur into the pillow, grabbing the blankets at your sides and fisting them subconsciously as he clamps his large hand around your heel and squeezes.

After spending just as much time and attention on the other foot, you feel him grip both your ankles and start working circles up the length of your calves with his thumbs.  His hands flex against the backs of your knees when they get there, and then your breathing kicks back up again when they gradually drag up your subtly clenching thighs.

But then they come to an immediate halt about halfway up, and you have to bite back a huff of distress when he just holds there.  Fuck, why did he stop?  Why did he stop?

“Sweet girl,” he eventually breathes out, sounding somewhere between chastising and shocked.  Your eyes flutter in the darkness at the tone, the endearment after nearly a month without it, and you wiggle slightly on the bed with arousal.  “Is this…?”  Mando brushes his fingers along the inside of your thighs, and you can feel the way his cock pulses as he presses it tight against your leg.  It’s not until he drags his hand down to your calves that you feel the slick heat coating the tips of his fingers, wiping it off on your relatively dry skin.

The pitch blackness makes it impossible to truly tell, but you’re sure your eyes roll back.  Stars, you are so wet for him, you’re leaking it halfway down your thighs.  It’s been too long since he’s touched you.  You can feel your lower muscles bearing down and coiling tight, your entire pelvic area now cramped up with need.

When his hand carefully moves up and a finger just barely ghosts over the soft flesh of your lips, you can’t stop yourself.

“Touch me,” you hear yourself suddenly beg, goosebumps breaking out along your skin while he begins to slowly trace the outside of your slit, up and down, up and down.  “Oh, fuck—please, Din, touch me, I—”

“Hush,” he tells you softly, and fuck, he’s on top of you and you physically can’t do anything to encourage him to hurry up.  The only thing you can do is kick one leg out as wide as possible and just shudder helplessly against the floor, trying to give his hands more room to work.

You feel desperate, your blood pounding through your ears as he takes all the time in the universe exploring you.  “Stars, don’t do this—I need you to—”

“Hush,” he murmurs once more, before moving both fingers to spread your lips apart ever so slightly, your slick heat seeping out to coat his fingers and the blanket below.  “Relax for me.”

Maker, your lower muscles are tightening down and throbbing in equal parts, and you just can’t relax, you can’t relax when you’re this close to cumming all over his hand even though he’s barely touched you.  You’ve been aching for it this whole time, but now there’s a bite to it, a slow burn that begins to engulf the lower half of you in simmering heat.  “Din, please, I missed you so m—”

You choke when you feel the slightest brush of a fingertip next to your clit, before he’s firmly pushing down and tracing a torturously strong semi-circle around the top of it.

Your toes curl and your body locks up and you gasp his name into the pillow, flexing every single muscle in your body in response to his touch until you’re impossibly rock hard with tension under him.

“Poor thing,” Din whispers, slowly tracing an arch back around the other way, and your entire body trembles with it.  Maker, you’re soaking his hand, slippery and hot and every nerve from the waist-down feels sharp and exquisite at the same time.  He leans down to press his lips to your shoulder blade while starting to rub strong circles around your clit.  “All alone for three weeks, nobody around to look after you.  Make sure you’re seen to.”

You’re not sure which way is up right now, and not being able to see anything isn’t fucking helping either.  You feel dizzy with sensation, shaky as his tongue slowly drags up your skin, and you actually feel water rush to your eyes in torment when he pulls his hand away.

You open your mouth to beg him not to stop, but then he’s already moving.  Grabbing your hips and slowly lifting them until your knees have to shuffle up to compensate.  He still keeps your head buried in the pillow, though, still keeps the upper half of your body firmly pressed against the floor.  You pant into the fabric half covering your face and fist the blanket underneath you, biting your lip and clenching your thighs as two hands carefully settle along the backs of them.

Fuck, he keeps you there for so long.  He drags out the anticipation until you’re downright hurting for it, waiting with your ass up in the air for him to do something—anything to help relieve your stress instead of continuing to build upon it.

“Fuck—” he whispers, “—missed you, too.”

When his hot, velvety tongue finally glides through your slit, something about it makes you moan brokenly into the pillow, spread your knees and arch your back even more in presentation.  Fuck, there’s just something about the mindblowing eroticism of your positioning right now, how you’re bent in half and letting him lick through your folds however is easiest for him, something about it hits just right and makes your orgasm suddenly pull up tight and fast.

“Din—” you breathe frantically, your knees shuffling apart and your hips pushing back against his mouth.  “Din, I’m gonna cum—”

His hands come up to clamp around your thighs and hold them steady.  And then he lowers his chin to seal his mouth over your clit, slowly dragging his slick tongue over it, again and again and again, and fuck, you can’t do anything to stop it.  Everything surges up, searing hot and wet as you go rigid and gasp his name, shuddering your way through the debilitating bliss as it arcs brilliantly up and down your spine.

By the time you’re finished, you’re slumped against the floor in exhaustion.  He pulls away and sits up, and you try to push yourself up too, but a large palm firmly flattening along your spine stops you.  The sound of him spitting and the subsequent slick glide of his hand around his cock makes you groan hoarsely against the pillow and relax back down again.

Din eases his way inside you and the thickness of him as he slowly breaks you open is fucking electrifying.  Your sensitive channel hugs tight to every fucking inch of him, lighting your nerves up from the inside and sending skittering shocks down your thighs.  You melt into the floor and take what he gives you until his hips touch your ass, sagging against the ground as he stands so tall and upright on his knees behind you.

When he slowly pulls back out, you can hear the wet sound it makes echo throughout the pitch black hull.  Maker, he just starts up a slow, steady rhythm, his steel grip on your ass holding you steady as he pushes in and out of you.  It’s blinding, making you writhe against the floor while he gives you his cock at a languid pace, dragging the pleasure out but snapping his hips against yours whenever he does reach the apex of his strong thrusts.

It’s as agonizing as it is blissful, and you moan softly into the pillow the entire way through it.  Except—you’re too full of mindless pleasure, too stimulated to want to remain stationary for this long.  You need to move, you need to show him how much you thought about him while he was gone.  

“Din—” you whimper, breathless and needy, turning your head back slightly to unmuffle your words.  “Turn over.”

“In a second,” he huffs, his cock continuing to steadily rock into you.  You’re bent in half, taking it the only way he’ll give it to you and not even being able to push back into him.  “No—l-later.  After.”

You whine, frustrated, clawing and pulling at the blankets under your arms.  “Please—”

“Fuck,” Din pants, “fuck, what do you need?  You need it faster?”  His speed kicks up the slightest bit, and stars, you have to bite the back of your hand to muffle the ragged noise you make in response.  “This what you need?  Tell me.”

There’s not a good way to phrase it.  Mostly, you just… feel the need to participate in this more directly.  You know from experience that he likes to finish when he’s on top, but after weeks apart, you… you need to be what makes him cum, not what he holds steady and uses to get himself there.  

Your voice comes out frantically, pleading gasps for him to grant you this one thing.  “Just turn over, please—pleasepleasepleaseplease—”

His thrusts falter, until they stop completely.  He sounds like he’s having as much trouble breathing as you are, but his hard grip on you gradually loosens.  “You—do you not—?”

You don’t let him finish.  As soon as he lets you go, you’re pushing yourself up and turning around, grabbing his shoulders and all but wrestling him down to the cushioned blanket.  Din grunts and lets you do it, dropping down onto his back and snaking his hands up your naked chest as you climb over him with weak, trembling limbs.  Once you get his cock into position and sink down though—fuck, you grab his wrists and yank them up until his palms are cupping your tits, and Din hisses below you.  Your hands are barely large enough to wrap around the backs of his, but you force him to squeeze them nonetheless, and then you begin to ride him in earnest.

He curses, bracing his feet against the floor and shifting his knees behind you, and then he starts pushing his hips up into yours in time with your downward rolls.  Maker, he hits something deep inside you at the angle, something that makes you gasp every time your hips meet.  Your palms drag down his wrists and forearms as he keeps groping your breasts, throwing your head back in ecstasy as another orgasm starts to stir somewhere low in your core.

“Stars, I—I think I m-might—” You barely have enough time to gasp it out before he’s releasing your breasts and anchoring his grip tight to your hips, beginning to angle and isolate in on that one spot that drives you fucking crazy.  The strong thrusts pull you forward until your palms are braced on the floor next to his head, and you just moan and push back against it as he fucks deep into you.

“Fuck, I missed you,” Din says again, his disembodied voice sounding tighter and more desperate in the darkness, like it’s coming out against his will.  “I—I missed you, t-too, sweet girl, I f-fucking—missed—”

You choke out a cry as another wave of euphoria all but fucking evicerates you.  Your elbows buckle and you fall into his chest, but Din wraps both arms around your back and keeps fucking you through it, gritting breathless curses at the ceiling as your cunt spasms around his cock.

“Tho—ught about you—” he groans, husky and low next to your ear, “every… fuck, every fucking day—thought about y—”

His body tenses and his thrusts stutter to a halt, and then he grinds up into you, gasping your name into the pitch black hull.  Your body is crushed into his chest when his hips jerk against yours, and you bite his shoulder in satisfaction, squeezing hard around his throbbing cock.

When Din finally settles back down to the floor again, both of you are spent.  Neither one of you fucking move.  You don’t say anything while you catch your breath against his chest, slumping down into him as his knees suddenly drop flat.

“Fuck,” he breathes.  “Fuck.  I’m.  I’m never taking a bounty on Coruscant again.”

You laugh lightly, swallowing and turning your head to settle in the crook of his neck.  Your knees shuffle up slightly until you’re resting all your weight on top of him, his cock still engulfed in your hot center.  As soon as you lift off him, you know you’re just going to dribble a mess all over these nice blankets, so you decide to put it off for as long as he allows it.

Din doesn’t seem to have a problem with it at all.  In fact, his chest shifts just slightly beneath you when he reaches down to catch one of the blankets and pull the fabric over the both of you, collapsing back into the pillow with an exhausted sigh and doing absolutely nothing to encourage you to move whatsoever.

“Corellia was worse,” you tell him instinctually, and he grunts and brings his hands up to trail his fingers along your lower back.

“Corellia was over within a day,” he points out, and.  Shit.  You know he’s just being diplomatic about it, but something in the way he casually brushes it off suddenly makes you go quiet.  He’s right, you probably weren’t on Corellia for more than a few hours total.  Not that you necessarily expected him to, but he clearly doesn’t realize the events that took place there have haunted you for weeks.

When you don’t immediately say something in response, Din stops dragging his fingers up your spine.  You can feel his chin lower slightly, his jaw brush against your forehead.  “You oka—?”

“I killed someone on Corellia,” you whisper, and your words hang heavy in the still air immediately afterwards.  “A man is dead because of me.”

He doesn’t speak.  For a long time, Din doesn’t speak.

By the time his voice eventually does come through the darkness, you’d almost convinced yourself he wasn’t going to say anything at all.

“You’re right,” he tells you bluntly, brushing your hair back from your shoulder.  And, for some reason, you’re not expecting it.  If you were able to get a verbal reply out of him at all, you… you hoped he’d argue with you even just a little bit, if only to make you feel even the slightest bit better.  “A man is dead, and you killed him.”

Though his voice is soft and you know he’s not being intentionally cruel, it’s like he reached through your ribcage and crushed your heart himself.  Your shoulders tense at the feeling, wanting to instinctively curl yourself inwards and make yourself smaller in response to it.  Only, Din’s broad chest prevents it.  All you can do is hide your face as best you can in his neck and let the unfiltered truth weigh heavy on you in the silent hull.

“But you’re wrong about one thing,” he eventually says.  “He’s not dead because of you.  That implies you had a choice.  You didn’t.  He’s dead because of him.  He gave you an ultimatum, and you did what you had to do.  Don’t feel bad that you won.”

“I didn’t win anything,” you whisper against his throat, uncomfortable with the implication.

“He initiated a confrontation, and you finished it,” he asserts.  “You did what you had to do, and you did great, so don’t—”

“Great?”  You close your eyes and try not to sound as upset as you currently feel, because you know this is just him being polite.  He does this for a living.  He’s probably lost count of how many people he’s killed in his lifetime, so what’s one body to him?  You shouldn’t have let the conversation lead here, especially after such a lovely moment.  “I… I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have brought it—”

“Listen to me,” Din suddenly says, curling the tips of his fingers against your shoulder blade.  “There’s something you need to understand, and I’m not trying to hurt your feelings by telling you this.  But the galaxy will never be as kind to you as you are to it.  You’re tenderhearted, and that’s not a bad thing.  Hang onto it, but recognize that it’s rare.  It’s not something that you’ll come by often.  You’ll never see as much of it in anyone else as I see in you.”

Maybe it’s because you know he’s not used to comforting people that the words actually manage to make you feel somewhat comforted.  They’re blunt and honest, but they also allow an unobstructed glimpse into his feelings for you, specifically because of that.

“I just…”  You bite your lip and snuggle your head deeper into the crook of his neck.  “I just wish I could… somehow…”

His chest expands fully with air underneath you, and then you can literally feel yourself slowly sink down a few inches with how deeply he sighs.  But… this isn’t the normal Mando sigh.  He doesn’t sound frustrated with you, exasperated, or impatient.  He sounds… empathetic.  Understanding.

His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head and comb his fingers through your hair, tugging at some of the tangles at your nape.  “What would you have done differently?”

You don’t answer him, because you immediately see what he’s getting at.  You’ve told yourself these things a million times over in the weeks he’s been gone.  Regardless, he goes on for you.

“Would you have chosen to land the ship in a different spot?  Risked a different person following you onto it?”  He asks, and though the overarching point to this line of questioning is already blatantly obvious, his voice is still kind.  “Would you have taken that vibroblade to a different part of his body?  Given him a slower death?  What else would you have done, sweet girl?”

You stay silent, fluttering your eyes shut.  His fingers lazily trail up and down the length of your spine, goosebumps breaking out on your skin once again.

“Even if there was something you could’ve done—even if his death had been your fault,” Din murmurs, “—listen, do you remember what you said to me?  When I told you my name—before that, do you remember what you said?  You said that some things just belong to people.  That there are certain things that people just own, right?  Fundamentally.  And you can do whatever you want with them.  You can choose whether or not to share them with others, you can hide them, or you can.  Change them.  Burn them away.  Remember?”

You nod as much as you can with your head buried into his neck like this.

“Well, you’re right,” he continues, his voice softening.  “Some things do belong to people.  But some things… some things you can’t change.  Some things you can’t hide, and you can’t just burn away forever.  But that doesn’t make them any less yours, understand?  You killed someone.  It doesn’t matter what I tell you, or what you tell yourself.  The end result won’t ever change.  It can't change.  You own that now, and you’ll carry his death with you.  Just like I carry every single one of mine.”

He’s… he’s right.  You don’t have to like it, but he’s right.

“I don’t like it when you quote me to me,” you eventually whisper, your lips brushing his throat.

“Too bad.  I got another one for you,” Din rumbles, and you can feel his gentle smile against your hairline as he tilts his head and presses his lips to your temple.  “The Way says no take-backs.”

You narrow your eyebrows into this perfect little corner of him, not liking how curt and unapologetic it sounds rolling off his tongue.  “Did I say that?”

“Yep,” he huffs at the ceiling.  “Half-asleep, yet observant enough to be annoying.”

Your mouth twists, trying to appear visibly offended in the pitch blackness for some reason but fighting back a smile.  “Would you rather I be oblivious and adorable?”

“No,” he says immediately, and then you blink a few times in the darkness at the sincerity in his tone.  “You’re smart.  Well—you’re an idiot sometimes, but you’re smart.  That’s good.  That’s your best weapon.  Use it.”

“Use it?”  You ask, your voice quiet but curious.  “For what?”

He takes a second before responding, his fingers continuing to trace gentle, subconscious shapes along the curve of your spine.  “What planet are we going to next?”

The abrupt change in subject is stark and immediately noticeable, but you wrack your memory for the coordinates you brought up earlier when he was in the fresher nonetheless.  “Naboo.”

“I was thinking,” Din says, shifting just the slightest bit under you.  You groan when you realize his cock is still inside you, soft but still gorgeously thick enough to not slip out.  “Might… might be a good idea to show you some things.  Give you a few self-defense tips before I head out again.  Naboo is one of the safest planets in the galaxy.  We can… take a few days.”

“Yeah?”  You breathe, a spark of excitement bringing an immediate smile to your face.

“Yeah,” he repeats softly, the scruff on his jaw rubbing against your temple as he nods.  “Been awhile.”

“Okay,” you bite your lip on a grin and try not to let him hear the happiness in your voice.  Fuck, a few days.  A few days he’s delaying his job to spend with you.  Maybe you’ll be able to sleep on an actual mattress at some point.  You truly can’t fucking wait.

You two stay like that for quite a long time, just resting and breathing with each other in the pitch black hull.

“We just wouldn’t have gone to Corellia, how about that?”  You find yourself saying after a moment of comfortable silence.  When Din doesn’t speak, you elaborate.  “You asked me what I would’ve done differently.  We just wouldn’t have gone to Corellia.  Avoided the whole fucking sector altogether, like I plan on doing for the rest of my life.”  

And then your whole body abruptly jerks up and down exactly once with his genuinely amused huff of laughter from underneath you.

Your expression immediately narrows.  This is the third time you’ve ever made him laugh in all the months you’ve known him, and somehow all three of them have been at your own expense.  “What’s funny?”

“Absolutely.  You could’ve—” he clears his throat, “—convinced me.  Not to hunt down a bounty.”

He doesn’t make a sound beyond that, and had you not been laying on top of his chest as it subtly vibrated with stifled chuckles, you wouldn’t have known at all that he found that to be so funny.

“I could’ve… wooed you,” you try after a second, and nope.  You feel like you’re on top of a silent, quaking faultline now, and you do your best to keep a frown on your face as you rock back and forth on top of him.  His cock almost slips out of you in the commotion.  Almost.

“Get some sleep, you sweet talker,” he eventually sighs when he calms his breathing, kissing your forehead and settling back down into the blankets.  “The kid will be up in a few hours, probably less.”

“He’s your son,” you grumble, still sulking somewhat at his blatant disregard of your seduction talents.  “Takes after you.  For all I know he looks just like you, too.”

“Sleep,” Din tells you, bringing a hand up to cup the back of your head and push it deeper into the crook of his neck.  “That’s enough talking.”

You stomp down the playful urge to bite him and settle into him instead, closing your eyes and breathing him in.  Fuck.  A few days on Naboo.  You’ve only heard nice things about the beautiful planet.  You wonder if it has an ocean.  Could a planet be called beautiful if it doesn’t have at least one?  You’ve seen rivers and lakes on planets Din has taken you to, but there was always land on the other side.  You’ve never seen an actual ocean before, you’ve only heard about them.  Water, as far as the eye can see.  There has to be an ocean on Naboo, right?

“Hey Din, are there any—”

“Stop.”

It’s alright, you’ll ask later.

[yuta-nakamots]

misfit - j.sc

Pairing - Sungchan x Reader

Genre - Horror/Thriller, Angst, Fluff

Warnings - serial killer, character death, violence, murder, implications of sex

Summary - A murderer is on the loose, killing with no regret and ending the lives of more than just a few people. No one knew who it was, turning against each other upon even the slightest bit of doubt. Maybe you should’ve been more careful with who you chose to trust. 

Word Count - 5.3k

A/N - this is inspired entirely from a dream I had a few days ago. I've added very little to what I saw in my dream aside from Sungchan as the male lead. yes, I am freaked out by this and yes, I am scared of writing for Sungchan bc I don’t know his personality all too well but as an ‘01 liner myself I have faith in us

Written for the #NeoHalloween writing festival hosted by @nct-writers​. Check out the masterlist here.

For five months now, your town has lived in fear. A serial killer was on the loose and he was known by the name of Hickleback Jack though no one knew where the name came from or who had started it. Each month, the population of your town voted on the local community board to have one person executed who they thought was Hickleback Jack. So far, not a single guess was right leaving five innocent people dead. Well, five plus an extra thirty, give or take.

See, the thing about Hickleback Jack, was that every time the votes came in at the end of the month, he could see just who voted for him and targeted them as his next victims. He killed six of those people over the following month, adding up to seven dead each time the town guessed incorrectly. It was getting to a point where no one trusted each other, no one dared to say anything against each other in fear of being accused or in fear of being the next to fall mercy to Hickleback Jack.

Not much was known about this killer other than his appearance. He’s male with a tall and broad figure though he always covers his face with some kind of mask. His common weapon is known to be an axe. People have claimed to have seen him late at night under the dim orange glow of the street lamps but he was never caught by the authorities, leaving everyone restless and waiting for the next kill.

The night was still young when you had gotten home from school and it was a Friday night which was basically an open invitation for you to call over your boyfriend, Sungchan. He had transferred in to your university at the start of the school year, and had ended up sitting next to you during your sophomore seminar class, leading to the start of your friendship with him.

A simple friendship soon blossomed into a relationship after Sungchan’s bright personality began shining through his somewhat intimidating exterior. You lived without fear when Sungchan was around, the love you had for him blocking out anything else in the world that wasn’t him.

You sat on your bed, your homework spread out in front of you while you held your phone up to your ear. “Do you want to come over tonight?” You ask as soon as he picks up your call.

You hear rustling on the other end of the call before Sungchan clears his throat and speaks, his voice husky from sleep. “Sorry, can you repeat that?”

“I said, do you want to come over tonight?” You paused and heard him yawn. “You fell asleep after class didn’t you?” You smiled to yourself thinking of your boyfriend’s handsome face as he napped after getting back to his apartment once he finished with his classes for the day, which was a common occurrence now that the semester was in full swing.

“Mmm,” he hummed in thought, “as much as I’d love to, I really shouldn’t have taken that nap because of how much homework I have.”

“Oh, that’s okay, do your homework first,” you reassure him, “maybe we can hang out some other time this weekend. It’s only Friday after all.”

“Definitely. Are you starting yours right now?” Sungchan asked.

“Yeah, I’d rather not wait and end up cramming on Sunday night.” You laughed, knowing that said event has happened more times that you’d like to admit.

Sungchan let out a noise of agreement. “I’ll let you know when I’m done with my homework though.”

“Same here.” You promised.

“Alright, let’s get to work and I’ll talk to you soon.” He told you.

“Sounds good, love you.”

“Love you too.”

With that you hung up, eager to start on your homework in hopes of getting to spend more time with your boyfriend. You actually had a lot of it this weekend thanks to molecular biology, and you figured that if you couldn’t talk to Sungchan, who had yet to take the course, you called up your study group discord instead. Luckily, many of them were in similar situations as you, faced with the daunting task of completing all the worksheets assigned during class earlier in the day.

“Okay so was anyone paying attention during the lecture today?” Your classmate Chenle asked.

“I know Yeji fell asleep so you’re in the same boat as her.” You interject, recalling the sight of both of them knocked out in their seats as the professor droned on about the functions of the structures inside cells.

Yeji let out a gasp of shock at how blatantly you called her out. “I may have fallen asleep but at least I still know that the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell.”

“Everyone knows that, Yeji.” Your other classmate Jaemin said, his voice void of enthusiasm.

“Okay, Jaemin, we get it, Mr. Serious.” You teased.

“Yeah, this is a biology study group, not a bible study group, lighten up a little.” Chenle jokes.

Jaemin scoffed, “sometimes I feel like I’m the only one who’s trying to do well in this class.”

“Well not all of us enjoy the taste of coffee with six shots of caffeine in them.” Yeji argued back.

“Guys,” you called out as Jaemin and Yeji started arguing, “guys!” They finally stopped to hear what you had to say. “Let’s just get this over with sooner rather than later because I know none of us want to be awake at 2am trying to figure this out alone.”

“Agreed,” Chenle said, “so question three, the one about the DNA mutation, how is missense different from nonsense?”

“Missense is where one of the bases mutates and changes to something else, therefore changing the protein level,” Jaemin explained, “nonsense is the same theoretical concept except it spells out one of the stop codes.”

Yeji let out a groan, “can you slow down, or like, I don’t know, use easier words or something?”

Most of your night passed by like this and before you knew it, it was already nearing midnight and you could tell your classmates were just as exhausted as you. “I think we should call it here.”

“Definitely,” Yeji confirmed, “tomorrow morning at 10?”

You all let out similar answers of acknowledgement before Chenle spoke up. “The poll closes on tomorrow night so make sure to vote if you haven’t already.”

Because of how long this has been going on for, everyone was already on the same page once someone mentioned the poll or voting. “There were only five kills this month so I wouldn’t be surprised if the last one is announced tomorrow or Sunday morning.” Jaemin chimed in.

“All the recent kills were related to the university so I know a lot of people are suspecting someone in our age range.” Yeji informed the group.

Jaemin let out a chuckle, “if the killer actually is a college student, I wouldn’t be surprised since it is getting close to the last wave of midterms and then finals so that would explain why the victims fall into the same category.” The chat fell silent at that. “I’m just saying that he’s getting a little lazy by grouping all his kills like this.”

“Jaemin, are you sure you’re not the killer?” Chenle asked with a laugh at the end.

“Guys, I can promise you that I’m not the killer, I swear on my life.” Jaemin promised.

“Alright, that’s enough detective work for tonight, I’ll start the call again around 10 tomorrow. Sounds good?” You conclude, wanting to curl up under your covers already, which is exactly what you do once everyone wishes each other a good night and hung up.  

Morning came a little too quickly for your liking, the bright sunlight flooding into your room through the window and forcing you awake. Checking your phone, you saw that it was 9:30am, meaning you had some time to spare before your next meeting with the bio study group, along with a notification from Sungchan that he had sent well after you had fallen asleep.

Sungchan > y/n

2:14am: Just got rescheduled to work opening shift tomorrow.

2:15am: Didn’t finish my homework but I can stop by at your house after work with my stuff and we can hang out and have fun once we’re both done?

Your heart warmed at how he stayed up late trying to finish his homework for you and that he suggested the idea of coming over after his shift at a small local restaurant finished just so the two of you could be together even if you’d be focusing on your own tasks for a while.

y/n > Sungchan

9:32am: Sorry I didn’t text back earlier, I just woke up!

9:32am: But of course you can come over, I might even be done with my work by then ;)

You plugged your phone to let it charge and left it on your nightstand as you made yourself breakfast downstairs. The house was quiet since your mom already left for work and you dad worked a night shift job and was probably sleeping at the moment. It was strangely serene as you prepared yourself a bowl of cereal though the calm was rudely interrupted by the sound of your ringtone coming from your room.

Deciding to get it after eating breakfast, you poured the cereal in first, thinking about the way Sungchan had told you before that he liked to pour the milk first and let the cereal soak up the milk. “It makes it super soggy and I like it.” He tried reasoning with you, to which you only raised an eyebrow at.

Just as you put the milk carton back into the refrigerator and was about to take a bit of your cereal, your phone started going off again. You placed your bowl onto the kitchen table and made your way back up to your bedroom to see what it was that was so important this early in the morning. Checking the notifications, it was Yeji who had been calling you so you shot her a message.

y/n > Yeji

9:39am: What’s up?

Yeji > y/n

9:40am: I just dreamt that it was Jaemin who was the killer

9:40am: please call me right now I feel like I’m going to go insane

You heeded her words and called her immediately. “So what happened in the dream?”

“I don’t know, I just remember being chased by a man with an axe and I was running to the school to try to see if I could get help but then I tripped and when I turned around, it was Jaemin.” Yeji blurted out without a single breath in between.

You paused, trying to take in all the information she just threw at you. “Do you have any reason as to why you think you dreamt this?”

“The way he was talking last night,” she stopped to catch her breath, “he spoke so in detail that I couldn’t help but overthink like, what if he is actually the killer? What if we’re next?”

“Well, you can vote for him in the poll if you want but personally, I don’t think it’s him.” You think of your next words carefully. “I’m not trying to invalidate your thoughts but Jaemin does come from a reputable family-”

“Y/n, it could be anyone. Family doesn’t matter. We have no information on the guy, we don’t know what economic class he’s in or anything.” Yeji interrupted.

You took a few seconds to gather your thoughts before speaking again. “That is true, but we all know Jaemin wants to be a surgeon right? He’s in all these difficult classes and he maintains such high grades-”

“Okay but how is that relevant?” Yeji interrupted yet again.

She was getting on your nerves but you held yourself back. “Listen, I’m just trying to say that with the amount of time and effort he puts into school, I don’t think he could be the killer. The killer plans his kills well enough that we just can’t find him and that probably takes just as much time as school does for us.”

Yeji took a while to respond though when she did, her words surprised you. “Now you’re starting to sound like the killer.”

“Yeji, I can promise you that it’s not me. I’m just as scared as you are in this whole situation,” you reasoned, “I’ll even vote for Jaemin if it makes you feel better.”

She let out a sigh across the line. “Okay fine. Maybe a kill will happen while we’re on the call and it’ll clear Jaemin’s name.”

“I think you’re letting it all get to you, just try not to think about it for a bit.” You advised.

“But am I really overreacting y/n? We live every day in fear of being the next victim. Tomorrow is not promised to any of us, so am I really overreacting?” You look over at the clock on your wall as she spoke, realizing that it’s already 9:55 and you should probably start the call already.

“No, I don’t think you’re overreacting, I’m just saying that constantly thinking about it to this extent isn’t good for you. We still have school to pay attention to,” you explain, “speaking of, I’m gonna start the call now.”

“I can’t just stop thinking about it that easily but whatever, let’s just hope that we’re not associating ourselves with a murderer by doing this.” You can only shake your head as you start the call.

Chenle joined immediately followed by Yeji. “Good morning ladies, President Zhong here. How are we doing on this fine day?”

You rolled your eyes even though a smile spread across your face. “I’m doing good, Mr. President. Ready to finish off these worksheets.”

“Good, good,” Chenle affirmed, sticking with his act, “and you, Miss Yeji?”

“Fine.” She shot out.

Chenle let out a quiet chuckle, “someone’s a little grumpy this morning. Maybe we should’ve met a bit later.”

“No, let’s just get this over with.” Yeji grumbled just as Jaemin joined.

“Great! Now that the head brain cell is here, let’s get this meeting started.” Chenle exclaimed.

Four hours into your meeting and eight out of ten worksheets later, your phone begins to ring with an incoming call from Sungchan. “Hold on guys, I gotta take this call. Hello?”

“I’m downstairs, come pick me up.” You couldn’t deny the butterflies that spread throughout your chest upon hearing your boyfriend’s voice. You got up to let him in though you certainly didn’t miss the teasing coming from your laptop as your classmates yelled about you and Sungchan.

As you made your way downstairs, you froze halfway down the stairs, seeing Sungchan already in the kitchen eating the bowl of cereal you forgot about. “I’m guessing you made this for yourself earlier and forgot to eat it.” He said through a mouthful of food.

“Babe, no, don’t eat that, it’s like five hours old. The milk is probably stale.” You exclaimed, worried about his health if it really did go bad.

Sungchan only shrugged as he took another spoonful into his mouth. “Tastes fine to me.”

You rolled your eyes before turning to head back upstairs. “Join me in my room once you’re ready, you cereal monster. Leave the dishes in the sink too.” As you returned to your room, you couldn’t help but wonder how Sungchan got in though you figure he’s probably seen you use the spare key under the doormat a couple times since you often were too lazy to get your own keys out of your bag most of the time.

When you sat down in front of your computer again, Jaemin had just finished explaining the answer to the problem you guys were working on earlier so you chimed in asking him to go over it again though he was quickly overrun by an excited Chenle. “Is Sungchan there?” He practically yelled.

“No, not yet, he’s eating some soggy cereal downstairs.” You inform him.

“Alright, let me know when he comes in.” Chenle says, unphased by your boyfriends’ odd preference of cereal.

Halfway through Jaemin’s explanation, Sungchan came into your room, placing his bag down at the foot of the bed before he took his jacket off and stripped out of his work uniform. “I heard a door open, is that Sungchan?” Chenle shouted over Jaemin once more.

“I never get to fucking speak in this group.” Jaemin huffed, at which Chenle muttered a quick ‘sorry’ back.

“Yes, Chenle, Sungchan is here,” you announce, looking over at the boy in question who had just finished pulling a shirt over his head and winked when he saw you staring at his body, “he seems very flirty today, must be because of you, Mr. Zhong.”

Sungchan sits down next to you and places a kiss on your cheek, smelling oddly of cleaning supplies, but you pay no mind to that, figuring he must have used them at work. “How’s it going Chenle?” He asks, though his attention is only on you and he places his hands on your cheeks and leaves a quick kiss on your lips.

“I’m gonna pretend I didn’t just hear the two of you kissing,” Chenle remarks, earning a laugh from Sungchan, “but anyways, you should come back to the basketball team. We miss our giant point guard, you know.”

“Nah, I’m too busy these days. I already have work and school plus I still want to spend time with y/n.” He commented as he shifted to lie on his stomach next to you.

“Man, who knew a girl would be all it took to make this dude throw his love for basketball out the window.” Chenle taunted.

“Love makes you do things, you know how it is.” Sungchan replied, resting his head on your thigh.

Running a hand through his hair, “anyways,” you divert, “back to what Jaemin was saying about meiosis.”

“Thank you, y/n, I thought I’d never be able to speak again.” Jaemin uttered pointedly. “As I was saying, the main difference between meiosis and mitosis is that it creates four daughter cells instead of two like mitosis does.”

“Hey guys, wait, did you see the article that just came out?” Yeji inquired. “It’s another death.”

There was a moment of silence before anyone said anything. “No but you can read it to us.” Chenle concluded.

“Okay,” you could hear the deep breath Yeji took before reading the article, “it says here that the body was found at around 1:20pm in an alley between the lower-income housing apartments, the cause of death is assumed to be by Hickleback Jack using his axe, and the estimated time of death is anywhere from 12 to 1pm.”

“Wow,” Jaemin began, “so he just killed out in broad daylight.”

“Not gonna lie Jaemin, but I thought you were the killer.” Yeji let out blatantly.

You were mildly shocked at her bluntness, but not surprised given how stressed everyone was. “Me?” Jaemin gasped, “Yeji, you know I’m pretty much Rapunzel with how much time I spend in my room studying. And when I’m not studying, I’m either editing pictures or playing video games.”

“It’s true,” Chenle confirms, “he really doesn’t leave his room. We had a sleepover once and I felt like I was becoming a hermit like him.” Sungchan slightly wheezed at that, sending Chenle over the moon. “Did you hear that? Did you guys hear that? Sungchan thinks I’m funny!”

“Yeah yeah, enough about me being a hermit. But Yeji,” Jaemin addressed, “why did you think it was me?”

Yeji hesitated before responding. “I just- the way you were talking the other night...I don’t know. It just sounded so specific and detailed that I couldn’t help but think that it could have been you.”

“I don’t think a murderer would simply reveal his plans like that, you know.” Sungchan proposed.

“Well yeah, but it’s just the way he spoke, it was like he had things organized...you know what? Let’s forget I said that, but I know the four of us are clear.” Yeji resigned.

Sungchan sat up, “wait, why am I not cleared?”

“Y/n, what time did he call you?”

“Like 2-ish.”

“Exactly. Sungchan, you don’t have an alibi, as far as we know, until 2 and the time of death is stated to be 12 to 1pm.”

“I was at work earlier in the day, though.”

“Can you prove it to us?” Yeji pressed on.

“Yeah, my coworkers can vouch for me.”

You were quite surprised at how aggressive Yeji was being towards your boyfriend but you didn’t see any reason to stop her since she had very valid arguments. “Send a screenshot of it to Chenle and we’ll verify you from there.” Yeji commanded.

Sungchan slouched down a little next to you. “I don’t have the numbers of my coworkers though.”

“Alright, then you’re still on the list of suspects.”

After finishing all the worksheets for microbio and ending the call around 3:30, Sungchan pulled out his laptop and started typing away at a half-finished lab report for his human A&P class. You fell asleep curled into his body, his warmth and the constant tapping of his keyboard lulling you to sleep.

When you woke again, you immediately noticed the absence of a large boy next to you and frowned to yourself. As you came to, you heard noise coming from the kitchen and identified your mother’s voice followed by Sungchan’s. Noticing the time on your phone, you guess that he was probably helping her prepare dinner since it was already past 6 and your family ate around 7 before your dad left for work.

By the time you made yourself presentable and came downstairs, your mom and Sungchan were already setting the table. “Looks like our sleepyhead finally woke up.” Your mother exclaimed, making you grimace. “You didn’t tell me Sungchan was staying over,” you were about to open your mouth to say that you didn’t know that either but you weren’t given the chance to do so, “it’s okay, especially with that killer still on the loose, it makes me feel better knowing there’s someone around to protect my baby.”

You looked at Sungchan as if asking him for answers though he seemed to only avoid your gaze, reluctantly taking the seat across from you at the dining table. Your father walked in, delighted to see your boyfriend. “Sungchan! Good to see you, how are things at school?” He asked as he joined you all at the table.

“Okay for the most part, I haven’t taken to my writing class all that much though I enjoy my other science classes.” Sungchan answers.

Your dad hums in approval while you stare down Sungchan, trying to get him to look at you. “Remind me again what you’re majoring in again?” Your mom asks, Sungchan whips his head around faster than you can make eye contact with him.

“I’m majoring in forensics.” He states.

“Interesting, interesting,” your father contemplates, “you know, y/n here wants to become a pediatrician. The two of you are practically opposites in the science field, one dealing with crime and the other dealing with children.”

Sungchan let out a laugh, “I guess opposites really do attract then.”

You hated how well he entertained your parents and you hated how much they liked him. For the rest of dinner you tried to pin him down through your stares and even played a game of footsie with him but nothing seemed to work. It was only once the two of you were back in your room getting ready for bed that you were able to talk to him.

“Look, I’m not mad at you or anything, I’d just appreciate it if you talked to me first before just telling my parents that you’re staying over.” You told him as you went through your skincare routine.

Sungchan jumped onto your bed as he apologized. “Sorry, I just thought that since both of us finished our homework and with the killing today, it would just make sense for me to stay over.” He opened his arms, inviting you in as you stood up after finishing your night routine.

You copied him, jumping into your bed straight onto Sungchan, effectively pushing the air out of his body. He grunted as your weight fell onto him though he still wrapped his arms around your waist and shifted you up the length of your body so your face was level with his. “Hi” you giggle, shy from the sudden close proximity.

“Hey.” He says back with a smile as you slide off him, leaving an arm and leg slung over his body. “Tired?”

“No, not really, I took a nap earlier since someone didn’t care to wake me up.”

“You looked too cute, besides, you need all the rest you can get.” Sungchan explained, using his free hand to squish your cheeks. “If you’re really not tired then I know a way to make you tired.” His hand found its way down to your butt to further emphasize his point.

“Ew, no, not now.” You quickly refused, moving his hand up to your waist. “Just go to sleep and I’ll probably fall asleep after you anyways.”

“Oh wait,” Sungchan said, reaching over you to the nightstand for his phone, “did you vote on the poll yet?”

“No, I almost forgot.” You groaned, lazily reaching for your phone as well.

You pull up the local community board and enter your information, looking at the list of all the citizens, pondering on who you’d give your vote to. “Who are you voting for?” Sungchan asks, looking over at your screen.

“I really don’t know.” You tell him, though truthfully, you had someone in mind.

Thanks to the nap you had, you really couldn’t fall asleep no matter how hard you tried. You ended up dozing off occasionally but you’d wake up half an hour later only more irritated than when you first fell asleep.

You don’t remember what time it was, but at some point, Sungchan had removed himself from your grasp, unaware that you were still awake, though you made no effort to stop him thinking that he was just going to use the restroom and come back. Five minutes passed, five minutes turned into ten, then twenty, and you decided to check on him once thirty minutes had passed.

The house was completely dark, not even the light from the bathroom was on. You checked inside in case Sungchan had maybe gotten hurt and passed out, but he was nowhere to be found. After searching almost all the rooms in your house, you had yet to find any sign of him. After a bit of thinking, you had wandered out to your mothers’ greenhouse thinking that maybe some time with the plants would help to calm your mind.

It did anything but that.

Not long after setting foot inside of the small shed, you heard screams coming from nearby, getting closer and closer. You watched from the inside of the tinted glass as three girls ran through your backyard and into the next property. You couldn’t help it that you were frozen to your core, knowing who was coming.

You saw his frame as he jumped over the fence from the other end of your yard, axe in hand, running through the open grass and you thought he might have noticed you until he stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes glued on you. You should’ve ducked down as soon as the girls ran past but it was too late now and there was no second way out of the greenhouse.

You knew you should have tried to run, maybe smash through the glass panelling but something in you told you that maybe, just maybe, you’d be able to stop him. Steeling your nerves as he crosses the threshold of the greenhouse, you call out to him. “I know who you are.”

“I’m well aware of that.”

It was as if your world was crumbling before you, the once so comfortable relationship you knew felt fake, even though Sungchan, your loving boyfriend stood right there. The only difference was that you knew who he really was.

“Why?” You start, “why did you kill all those innocent people?”

“It’s all for fun, y/n.”

“What do you mean ‘for fun’? Those are real people you know, people with families and friends who miss them dearly.” You nearly cry out as he continues to approach you.

“You see, life is a game.” He paused his words as he came to stand in front of you. “Laws are nothing but a social construct that us humans follow mindlessly until our own demise.”

He takes a step closer to you, but you stand your ground. “Laws are what keep us safe and keep us happy. They allow us to lead our lives peacefully with others-”

“They are nothing but limits.” He closes the distance between the two of you, an arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you towards him, and you allow him to do so. “My dear, sweet, y/n. If only you weren’t so smart, I wouldn’t be faced with this dilemma.”

“You wouldn’t kill me.” You were trying to persuade him just as much as you were to yourself. “You’d never.”

“Oh? And what makes you think that?”

“You love me.”

“I do, I love you so dearly, but now that you know who’s behind all the killings, there’s no way that I can let you go.” You felt his axe nudge the back of your leg as he brought both arms around you. To an outsider, it would look as if a couple were having a conversation, but for you, this was a fight for your life.

“Take off the mask.”

“Why should I?”

“So I can talk to you properly.”

He took off the mask without much more convincing, his normally handsome face now distorted by the crazed look in his eyes. People often say that the eyes are the windows to the soul, and if they really were, then Sungchan didn’t have a soul.

“I swear to you that I won’t ever tell anyone about this, about you.”

“I don’t believe that you’ll keep that promise, my dear.”

“You know how much I love you. As long as we can stay together, I will not say anything.”

“This is not a tale of beauty and the beast. I am no beast to be tamed and there is no happy ending to this story.”

“Sungchan, no. You don’t mean that.”

“Do I really not mean it, or is that what you would like to believe? Something tells me it’s the latter.” He held you tight against him with one arm, the other raising his axe. “It’s truly a shame that your beauty must go to waste, you were truly a wonderful person both inside and out but I’m afraid that your life must end here.”

Before he could prep his swing, you pulled away and grabbed the nearest pot, launching it at him, the ceramic breaking against his head making dirt rain down upon both of you.

Not even a second passed before his axe was flying at you, lodging itself into your neck, nearly severing your head from your shoulder. You should’ve been thankful really, thankful that Sungchan had given you a quick death, not his usual route since it was so painless and easy for both the victim and the assailant.

He liked a struggle, but for you he made an exception out of love so that the last thing you’d see was him, your lover, before everything stopped.

[rachelbethhines]

Tangled Salt Marathon - No Time Like the Past

While I wouldn’t call this the worst episode of the series, there are several others I dislike more, I would call this the most ill conceived story in the show. 

All the other bad episodes have potential but are let down by poor presentation, boring predictability, or sloppy planning. This one however, is fundamentally flawed in it’s very basic premise and so ranks in the bottom of most fans lists. Even people who are far more forgiving of season three and than I am, and are hardcore New Dream stans, still dislike this episode. That’s how bad it is. 

Summary: Rapunzel discovers Old Lady Crowley tossing out Cassandra's things. She is upset and demands that they be left alone. She then has Lance and Eugene help her save all of Cassandra's mementos and personal belongings, but she becomes saddened when Eugene reminds her that Cassandra turned her back on "her". Rapunzel takes a box of her things along with, unknowingly, a mysterious hourglass. As she examines it, she accidentally drops and smashes it and she and Pascal find themselves sent back into the past. They run into a teenage Eugene and Lance who keep calling Rapunzel "Sideburns". Rapunzel realizes that she and Pascal have inhabited the bodies of the Stabbington Brothers and decide to recruit the young thieves in getting the hourglass from the castle back.

Fun Fact! That Dummy is Rapunzel’s Doing 

Minor nitpick here, but Cass had nothing to do with putting Eugene’s face on her sparring dummy. Rapunzel voluntarily did that back in Under Raps. Cas never requested it nor even expressed any joy over receiving said ‘gift’. 

Basically the show is attributing one of Rapunzel’s mistakes/flaws to Cassandra in order to introduce a very nonsensical plot point later. So I need ya’ll to keep that in mind as we go along.  

Lets Talk About the Episode’s Ordering 

We don't have production codes for season three like we did for the previous two seasons. So we can’t know for sure what order everything was originally planned in, but I would argue that this episode should have came before Return of the King. 

For starters this is a “bottle” episode; it takes place mostly in the past and the only present day characters who show up are Eugene, Raps, Lance, and Crowely. As such you could potentially slot this episode in anywhere before Cassandra’s Revenge. You can’t really do that with most of the other episodes so it could have been easily moved around when airing. 

Therefore, I would argue that it should have been the first episode after Rapunzel’s Return for three key reasons. 

It would have given Edmund time to travel to Corona and give Raps time to start up big building projects like fixing Old Corona. In fact she’s already approving building plans for the capitol city at the start of the episode. Which could even explain why she took so long getting to the castle repairs if she was taking care of the stuff that the Saporians messed up else where.  

Rapunzel’s stance over wanting to keep Cassandra’s things makes more sense early on, both in universe and in a meta context. Raps would still have hope if Cass has only been gone for a month or two instead what would now be four or five months down the line. It also makes sense that Crowely wouldn’t wait around for that long. And from a meta standpoint, the audience would still be oblivious to what the heck Cass was up to and could theoretically side with Raps better; or at least empathize with her view point more, even while disagreeing with her. 

Events in this episode better explains Eugene’s decisions in Return of the King and gives the audience more context for certain stuff.  

So Why Is There a Random Magical Time Traveling Hourglass in the Storage Vault?

Slowly but surely the series has abandoned all pretense that there’s any logical world building in the show. Magical things just appear randomly now without any explanation whatsoever. Worse than that, things like the hourglass and map to the cursed tomb are treated as if they were always there, unlike the magical beings that they happened to run into in past seasons. 

The problem with this is a lack of consistency. You can’t have sceptics like Eugene and Varian if magic is so common and wide spread that anyone can run into it at anytime. Not to mention it diminishes the specialness and importance of the sundrop and moonstone if powerful magical items can be so easily found and stirred, undermining important plot points and the tension surrounding them. 

But most frustrating of all, is that this could have been easily fixed by just stating on screen at some point that magic attracts other magic. Meaning it’s only Rapunzel herself who routinely runs into these things and not just everybody and anybody. 

None of This Stuff Holds Any Meaning

Show don’t tell!

At several points through out season three, both Raps and Cass morn over Cassandra’s left behind things. They tell us constantly that these objects hold significant meaning to them, but I, the viewer, have no damn clue as to why. 

We were never shown on screen what was so special about these things other than the fact that it was junk Cass collected. There’s no story attacked to these assortment of objects nor any previous indication that Cassandra valued them beyond their usefulness. As such, any scenes involving her stuff fall emotionally flat. 

Eugene is the One in the Right Here. 

Eugene’s right. 

Any well adjust and mature adult will tell you he’s right. 

If someone doesn’t want a relationship with you, than that’s it. There is nothing you can do but to move on. It sucks, but its life. To ignore that is to ignore someone else’s boundaries and personal autonomy; while also devaluing yourself and you’re own needs. 

In a competent show this would be a set up for Rapunzel to learn something about letting go and taking care of oneself emotionally. 

But this isn’t a competent show. 

But Lobster is for Poor Folk

Food history time!

Lobster, and shellfish in general, have been considered low class food for centuries. Especially around costal areas like Corona. It’s easy to attain, cheap, and not regulated like hunting was in much of Europe. In America, specifically, lobster was fed to prisoners and there’s historical accounts of riots being started over it.  

Heck, less than forty years ago, no one lived on the coast but poor people. That’s why there’s historical communities of black people living on the southeastern islands in the US and why my father grew up in the swamps of Alabama during the 50s and 60s. 

The gentrification of coastal property and seafood, like lobster, is a very recent phenomenon in human history, starting in the late 70s early 80s with the booming tourism industry and increasing globalization.   

So while I understand that the joke here is meant to be reflective of our current understanding of lobster being a status symbol, in universe, it’s the equivalent of Eugene getting excited for chicken nuggets instead of his usual bowl of cereal because the story takes place before the 20th century.  

This means that these kids are so poor that fucking mcdonald’s fast food would be considered a rare treat compared to the slop they usually eat. Yet again what is meant to be a lighthearted joke turns suddenly dark when you stop to think about it for all of two seconds all because the writers are so flippant about their world and characters. 

This Wasn’t Planned Out, So the Timeline Doesn’t Add Up Anymore and Resources are Wasted

Remember the flashback in The Return of Strongbow?

Now I need you to remember that season three is two years later from season one and the movie. Eight years ago then, would be ten years ago now. 

The Eugene and Lance in the bottom picture is suppose to be roughly the same age as the Eugene and Lance in the top picture; give or take a few months. 

I know teenage boys can grow fast, but not that fast. 

Eugene at 16 looks the same as he does at 26. All because the writers were too lazy to preplan things out ahead of time. 

We should have seen the teen models with recasted voices back during that first flashback if they were going to tell this story later. Or the previous plot point should have been less than eight years ago. 

In fact the first flashback no longer makes any sense being so many years ago given Eugene’s engagement and recent breakup with Stalyan, and the later reveal that he was working for the Baron during the original movie. 

Sloppy planning like this not only makes for a confusing timeline but it also wastes limited resources. I like the new models, I like the actors cast for these younger roles, and I do like the concept of seeing more of Eugene’s past. But going through all of that trouble and money for what amounts to one throw away episode is mismanagement of the budget and work schedule.  

Baby Varian Is the Episode’s Only Saving Grace 

I know people are divided on the deign here. Some love it and some hate it, but that’s a personal taste thing. The actual scene itself is golden either way, because it’s such a funny eater egg. Fans on both sides made memes out of this for days. It’s legendary. 

Personally I’m more in the ‘love it’ camp, though I can see the issues people have with the design. My main defense of it is more the fact that we got kid designs for the other OCs in the show and it’s only fair Varian got one as well. The fact that he’s in smaller versions of the S1 clothes doesn’t bother me anymore than when Lance ran around for two seasons in the same outfit, including when he was a kid. 

So if I like it, then why am I talking about it a salt review? 

Cause the most memorable part of an episode shouldn’t be a throw away gag! 

People bring up baby Varian way more than they do about anything else in the episode, and no it’s not just because the character popular. It’s because most would like to forget what comes after this scene. 

Where is Quirin, by the Way?

Why is your six year old son running around the big city unsupervised?

This wouldn’t get talk about as much it wasn’t for the fact that Quirin being neglectful in season one was a motivating factor in his conflict with Varian. A conflict that was suppose to be resolved back in Rapunzel’s Return but we the audience have yet to visually see any difference in behavior since then.  

Quirin’s absence here in the past highlights his absence in the present day and reminds the audience aware that we’ve not been given a satisfying conclusion to one of the most important arcs in the series.  

Lets Talk About Wasted Potential 

Like I said, I like the idea of exploring Eugene’s past. But we should have gotten that back in season two when it was more relevant. Part of why this episode fails is because Eugene has reached the end of his original character development. He’s now on an identity crisis arc which has nothing to do with this episode.  

But you know who still hasn’t finished developing? Rapunzel. 

Rapunzel has lots to still learn and viewing her past through outside eyes could have turned this story into something really special. Especially with the ‘inhabiting another body’ plot point. 

You have no end of options here, 

Have Raps inhabit Cassandra’s body for a day and gain insight into what motivates her. It could have been either before or after they met, both offers up possibilities. 

Have Raps inhabit Eugene’s body and experience what he had to deal with growing up and come to see his point of view. (This could have also worked with the Sabbingtons set up had the writers not been stupid.) 

And my personal favorite, send her back to right after Queen for a Day and have her stuck in either Varian’s or Ruddiger’s bodies. Force her to see what she did to him and have her acknowledge she was wrong. 

And those are just the most obvious choices, there’s other more out of left field things you can do that would still work with good writing. Like exploring Lady Caine’s past, inhabiting Arianna’s body and learning how to be a real queen, get dumped into actual young Gothel and lay out clues to the future Zhan Tiri plot, or possess one of the Brotherhood and experience the final days of the Dark Kingdom; the list just goes on and on and on. 

But I Thought You Didn’t Put Kids in Jail Frederic?

Remember that Raps and Pascal are possessing the Stabbingtons who are still teenagers here. They can’t be much older than Varian. 

This means that Varian isn’t some special case. Teens have received harsh and deadly punishments in the past for non-violent crimes like theft. 

Also teens are called kids still by the majority of the cast. They’re aren’t considered adults with the same rights as someone in say their twenties, yet they can be punished the same as an adult would. Which is horrendous in any time period. 

So in conclusion, Frederic is a fucking liar! 

Tangled the Series can’t decide if it’s in the far past or a reflection of the modern day. As such it winds up supporting the worst of both worlds. Barbaric practices like hanging for minor crimes and prison slave labor are treated as the norm and never called out for the horrific things that they are; treated as a joke even, but we’re suppose to accept that this world also somehow views adolescence through the lens of late 20th century sensibilities even as it forces minors to go through such atrocities. 

Like what are you trying to say show? What is your message on the transition of adolescence to adulthood regarding rights and responsibilities? And don’t tell me ‘it’s not that deep’ because this is suppose to be a coming of age show! That’s the entire premise of the series! 

So How Old Are Stan and Pete Again?

I was always under the impression that Pete was a newbie guard, closer to Cass and Eugene’s age than say Cap or Frederic. That’s why he screws up so much because he’s inexperienced, why he seemed to be the closest thing to a equal colleague Cass had in the guard when she was also just starting out, and why I assumed those braided girls from the movie were his sisters. 

I mean there was nothing on screen previously that would necessarily contradict this reveal, it just doesn’t feel right, that’s all. I guess he could be like 20 here and be 30 in the show. That would make him only a few years older than Eugene, but still doesn’t explain why he’s so useless a decade later. 

I’m fine with Stan being here though. I always thought of him being the older of the two. In fact I headcannon Willow as his mysterious wife that he talked about back in Monty’s episode during season one. (She’s Stan and Pete’s beard, and they’re totally in a open poly relationship. That’s why they’re allowed to stay in the royal guard despite being so incompetent cause they’re technically Ferderic’s in-laws and Rapunzel’s uncles. Just no one ever talks about it cause it’s a minor sandal for a princess to marry lower class and Willow’s hardly ever there.) 

And Why Does Xavier Have All Those Plot McGuffins? 

I know we’ll never get an answer, but at this point Xavier’s exposition fairy powers border upon ridiculousness. It’s just lazy and a waste of character. 

So How Does Time Travel Work In This?

There are three types of time travel stories in fiction. 

First is the ‘Changeable Past, Changeable Future’. You see this in Back to the Future. What you do in the past will change the future, i.e. your present. You may or may not remember that you did it, but be warned you could change things too much and break stuff. Like erasing yourself from existence, or ruining your love life ect. The only way to fix it is to go back in time again and change stuff again. But beware of paradoxes or you may destroy the universe altogether.  

The second is the ‘Alternate Timeline’, where changing things creates new realties and it’s a matter of finding the right reality again. The tv show Sliders is a great example of this. Each new timeline is a different dimension. What you do in one won’t effect your original point of origin, only that particular world. The challenge if often getting home again because the probable diverging timelines are infinite and the changes of getting back are a zillion to one. 

Third is the ‘Closed Time Loop’. No matter what you do nothing will change. The future is inevitable and whatever you do in the past was always meant to happen anyways. Gargoyles handles this really well. You can also have ‘fix points’ where certain important things are set in stone but small things can be changed like in several Doctor Who episodes. Braking a fix point breaks the universe once again, while paradoxes are often the solution rather than the threat. 

So which type of time travel is Tangled dealing with here? 

Scenes like the conversation regarding Pete’s and Stan’s mustache or the ones involving Eugene working on his smolder suggest a closed time loop. Yet the ending to this episode reveals a changed future. Further still the grandfather paradox revolving around the hourglass would make you think an alternate timeline yet, we’ve no indication that anything else changed other then Eugene’s opinions on Cass, and Raps shows no concern about getting back to her original point in time indicating that it actually isn’t another dimension.... so what is it then? 

You don’t have to have a tightly plotted time travel story to have an entertaining piece of media. Endgame is riddled with plot holes and contradicts itself constantly, but what it lacks in coherent plot it makes for with fun characters, emotional story beats, and good pacing that manages to balance the action with the drama while hiding the cracks just enough that you don’t lose immersion. 

Tangled however fails at even this because it gets the character beats so fundamentally wrong.  Like you may dislike where the characters ended up in Endgame, but can’t say that those developments didn’t match the characters’ previous storylines and logical trajectory. Tony finally becomes the selfless hero by committing the ultimate sacrifice, Steve learns self care as a mirror to Tony’s arc as they were always parallels to each other, Bruce learns to accept himself, Thor processes his grief and lets go of the role he was assigned at birth but never truly fit into, and Nat becomes the leader she was destined to be rather than the sidekick.  

What happens to the characters in this episode however makes no sense. 

This is Another Missed Opportunity to Explore Eugene’s Past

The other problem behind the episode is that we don’t actually learn anything new. If you’re going to promise a story focusing on Eugene’s past then I expect to actually glean some new insights. 

We still don’t know why he’s working with Baron or how he fell in/fell out with him, what his relationship with Stalyan is like, how he became so cynical; not just the general basics, like the orphanage, but that point in his life where decided that survival meant giving up his morals and ethics; where did he first learn his better ethics that he originally suppressed (cause it sure as heck wasn’t Rapunzel), and when did he and Lance become separated? 

This are questions that series decides to raise by making allusions to them and building conflicts off of them but never wants to explain the details of where they originated from. It’s super frustrating and wholly unnecessary.  If you didn’t think the story of Eugene’s past worth telling then why did up repeatedly bring it up Chris? 

Why Are You Surprised by This Rapunzel?

Rapunzel you know Eugene’s past. You know what he used to be like. You were literally there in the movie and saw him being an ass before this. You didn’t start to like him until he dropped his guard down in the flooded cave back when you both where about to die. 

You fell in love with him when he showed you his real self and he fell in love with you when you proved that you were accepting of that. You earned each others’ trust. This here; angrily yelling at him and judging him, when you’re already hiding who you really are from him both literally and figuratively, is a breaking of that trust. 

Who the fuck are you any more, Rapunzel? 

Cause you’re not the same character from the movie. You’re not even the same character from season one. But whoever hell you are now, it’s not an improvement I can tell ya that. 

So How Did The Hourglass Go From the Treasury to the Basement Storage, and How Would Raps Know It Was There At This Point and Time?

I’m guessing the implication here is that Crowley put Cass’s stuff in the vault, but like why the fuck would she do that? We’re not talking about a family attic here, but the royal safe. The most heavily guarded room in the castle with the kingdom’s most priceless treasures and antiques. Nothing Cass owned was that valuable.  

Rapunzel Is Full of Shit

Oh let me count the numerous ways in which this whole lecture is stupid. 

Rapunzel left Varian behind. Rapunzel left Varian behind multiple times, including that time he was thrown in jail. She was not a good friend, and no, this is not a case of her learning from her past because not once has she ever admitted that she was wrong to do that. So this scene just makes Raps look like a hypocrite. 

Eugene does not need to relrean a lesson on being a better a person. He did that during the movie and has progressed beyond that point. This ‘lesson’ is a waste of time and a misuse of the characters.

This reframes Rapunzel as being in the right during her argument with older Eugene at the beginning of the episode, even though she’s not. In fact this is such a counterintuitive plot point that it boggles the mind. Who structures a narrative this way? Why so blatantly point out how the main character is wrong if not to have her learn something? Why frame the story to make the person who’s personal conflict isn’t even the episode’s focus, into the one who needs to learn something? Especially if that something is already a lesson that they’ve learned on screen beforehand.

And why, oh good heavens why, would you teach children such a toxic message? Like on the surface it sounds like something you’d hear in a children's show, but the context of it is justifying harmful behavior where you selfishly ignore other people’s wishes and boundaries just to satisfy you’re own personal desires.  

And finally, Eugene and Lance do not work as a parallel to Raps and Cass. Cassandra is an adult who left of own free will. Lance is a teenager who was arrested due to Rapunzel’s own actions. Eugene isn’t the one who is responsible here, its Rapunzel. Who also left them both behind in her carelessness. Secondly, Eugene’s decisions are spurned by years of trauma and a healthy fear of dying, while Rapunzel’s is wrapped up in her own need to always be right and to keep her immature and fanciful outlook of the world intact. As harsh as it seems, what Eugene did was based off a predetermine agreement and presumably Lance would have acted the same way or been pressured to act the same way by Eugene. In short, Eugene’s cynical world view as a teen is not the source of his disagreement with Rapunzel but an adult perspective back by common sense and a respect of others choices. It makes no sense for present day Eugene to ‘learn’ anything from this misadventure that he didn’t already know and for Rapunzel to not learn anything that would actually tie the parallel together. 

Locking Another Teen Inside a Jail Cell With Another Adult as a Joke, Does Not Erase the Inappropriateness of Varian’s Story

The episode tries to add another joke about Shorty sneaking into the prison without the guard knowing, but that still doesn’t excuse the fact someone had to have tossed Lance in there with him on purpose. Otherwise Lance wouldn’t have assumed Shorty was a fellow prisoner if he or the guard that locked him up saw Shorty sneak in before then. 

Furthermore Lance’s nonchalant response suggests this is not an out of the ordinary occurrence. Nor do any of the other guard comment upon the irregularly of teens being jailed with an adult. Now add in the fact that the show fails to clarify that previous ‘cellmate’ line from Rapunzel’s Return and now gives us more confirmation that Varian was underfed and malnourished for a year with that gruel joke and you have a horrifying picture. 

Shorty might be non-threating, but that doesn’t mean Andrew, a known attempted murderer and manipulator, is too. Nor any other adult who previously was housed with a teen before then. This is still very much not okay and no amount of ‘jokes’ will suddenly make it right.  

Raps, Who is an Adult, Just Physically Threatened Two Teenaged Boys and It’s Played as a Joke.... 

How many times do I have to say it? Humor does not fix bad writing. I’m not laughing when a heroine at age 20, threatens a couple of kids for merely annoying her. Especially when said heroine has a history of abusing children; because let me repeat once again, neglect is abuse!

This is a Lie

No you wont. 

Rapunzel never tells Eugene what happens on screen. I suspect that if she ever did, they would no longer be together, because what she wound up doing here was a violation of trust and boundaries in the worst possible way.  

And This is Now a Time Paradox 

A Grandfather Paradox to be specific. How can Rapunzel be here in the past to break the hourglass if the hourglass that sent her here is broken? 

In a competent series this would be the point of a future conflict and not the actual resolution. It’s not a closed time loop because of the paradox and the changes we’ll see in the future. 

So either she’s in an alternate timeline/dimension and just doesn’t gives a shit; leaving the real Eugene, Lance, Cass, ect. to go on without her; or she’s just broke the universe and everything is slowly unraveling around her; galaxies are dying as she whines about being dumped, people in the future are being eased from existence, and God is cursing her name for ruining his creation, all the while she carries on oblivious to the destruction in her wake, as usual. 

That’s it. Those are you’re only two options now. Is everyone from here on a fake copy or is Rapunzel the damned destroyer of worlds? You decide. 

So This Confirms That the Stabbingtons are Indeed “Family”

Another reason why I place this before Return of the King; it explains why Eugene considers the Stabbingtons ‘family’. Though if it was Rapunzel he actually bonded with and not the real Sideburns, then how much of his feelings are real and how much of them were fabricated by her? How much agency did this episode steal from him?

So What Exactly Did We All Change?

Well the dummy no longer has Eugene’s face, but Cass’s painting of the three of them still has him ripped out of the photo, soo... Keeping in mind that Raps painted the dummy anyways and considering that Moonandra tries to kill him later on; I’m going to guess that Cass’s feelings weren’t actually altered. If anything their relationship might actually be worse now, cause Cassandra keeps acting like she’s never had friends and Eugene has taken up Rapunzel’s blind devotion. 

All that development in season one is just, poof, gone. Also it’s quite possible that the first movie as well has now it has been erased from existence as Eugene got his needed character development eight years too early. How the hell that’s suppose to work, I don’t know. 

Outside of the that we get no confirmation how anybody else was effected, even though a more brainwashed Eugene running around would undoubtedly have caused a butterfly effect. Don’t expect that to be explored anytime soon. 

Though, it would explain why he’s suddenly such a doormat in season three, if this was the second episode as theorized. 

No! This is the Wrong Lesson!!!

Let me explain narrative promises. 

Everyone, on some basic fundamental level, understands how stories work. We hear them recounted to us over and over again from the day we're born to the day we die. It’s integral to how we communicate as human beings. Everyone knows innately how to tell a story even if that person couldn’t tell you how stories or structured or what certain literary terms mean, but they do it every day just through speaking. And while most audiences can’t always pin point what upsets them about a story they can for sure notice when things are off and not satisfying to experience. 

Now that doesn’t mean that everyone can write an awarding winning novel, that study of a craft isn’t important, nor that every amateurish critique thrown at any given media is valid. But it does mean that people have come to expect certain storytelling practices and can pick up on narrative cues. We’ve familiarized ourselves with the language of film, novels, comics, ect, into order to comprehend what’s going on. 

Rules of writing are just following that established language so that the audience can keep up. You can break these rules, sure, but unless you know what you’re doing and have a good narrative reason to do so, then you can easily lose you’re audience. And if you’re making money off said audience that’s something you want to avoid. 

A narrative promise is a cue; a set up that lets the audience know that ‘hey this is important, pay attention to this cause it’ll come back into play later’. Now that the audience has been alerted to the plot point they expect fulfillment of the promise. If you break that promise, either through poor set up, lack of follow through, or by breaking an established convention of writing for no other reason then because you just wanted to, your audience is going to walk away unsatisfied. 

The argument at the beginning of the episode was a narrative promise. It was a cue that set up the interpersonal conflict of the main character. For add context, I know that this is a coming of age story. Convention would dictate that the protagonist would resolve this conflict by learning they were wrong. 

That’s not what happened here. 

Convention was subverted. It wasn’t the protagonist who grew and change, it was the person they were in conflict with who did. And it wasn’t subverted because of any greater narrative reason, or future pay off, or even as effort to be shallowly ‘clever’; it was subverted because the author just didn’t want to hold the main character accountable for anything. Because said character has now become his avatar for his wish fulfillment fantasy and having the main character admit fault would be to admit fault in ones own self. Rapunzel doesn’t feel like Rapunzel this season because she’s just Chris in a wig. 

The episode broke a narrative promise to the audience; both within the episode and in the greater premise of the story, because of ego. 

I don’t claim this episode is bad just because of personal taste nor because I find it morally repulsive (even though both those things are true), I call it bad because it exhibits bad writing. Plain and simple. 

Way To Undermine The Entire Point of the Original Movie, Show

Speaking of breaking narrative promises.... 

TTS is suppose to be a squeal to the original movie. It’s even in the title of the show; both of them. In one fell swoop, the series has managed to sabotage it’s very reason for existing, as it erases Eugene’s motivation and the inciting incident that kick started the film. 

 Way to fucking go. 

To further twist the knife, it diminishes the duel protagonist of said film in order to prop up a series original character, who isn't even present in the episode itself. 

I don’t mind Cassandra’s existence. I don’t even mind her being the new deuteragonist and one of the main villains; even though she wouldn’t have been my first pick to fulfill those roles given her lack of set up. But I do fucking mind it if she upstages other characters and/or derails their character arcs in the process. 

This is the Death of New Dream 

I was still in denial when this episode first aired. I honestly believed that this and The Return of the King was build up to a third “betrayal” where Eugene finally became fed up with Rapunzel’s bullshit and joined forces with Zhan Tiri. I thought the end of the series would have Rapunzel apologize to everyone she did wrong, Varian, Cass, and Eugene, in order to break ZT’s hold on them, and that true love’s kiss would reunite the sundrop and the moonstone and that would just tie everything together into a neat little bow and give us a truly daring character study of a Disney hero. 

Oh dear merciful heavens, was I ever wrong.  

How did we go from season one’s challenging and mature storyline, complete with Disney’s first real anti-villian, to this?! 

What the hell happened!? 

Rapunzel not only disrespects Eugene’s opinions, violates his privacy and trust as she manipulates him as a teen, and then brainwashes him to think like her (even if accidentally), but doesn’t even have good grace to tell him. She instead has the audacity to look all happy and self congratulatory because she got want she wanted. She, and the show at large, doesn’t care what evil thing she does to get the desired outcome Rapunzel wants. 

Rapunzel in this show is a spoiled brat. And the image of her and her now lobotomized boyfriend staring dead eyed at a picture of the creator’s previous waifu OC with plastic smiles on their faces, sums up this series perfectly. 

Conclusion 

This isn’t even the worst episode of the series guys. I don’t know if it would even make it onto a bottom five list. That’s how much crap I have to wade through when it comes to this show. This is however the most damaging episode to the franchise as a whole. 

Not even the most hardcore of New Dream fans want to acknowledge the existence of that final scene, and Rapunzel stans won’t defend her beyond, ’well she didn’t mean too, it’s the writing that’s bad.’ Yeah, the writing is bad, that’s why the character can’t and shouldn’t be defended, not here and not in other badly written episodes where she also does bad things and never makes up for it. 

Anyways I’m finally caught up to where I left off, before the move, though sadly I don't think I’ll get this series done by the end of the month like I had originally hoped. But if you would like to help out I have a ko-fi you can drop a tip into if ya want. 

https://ko-fi.com/rachelbethhines

[uglymanchronicles]

Ugly Man Chronicles Reignition Book 2 Chapter 2: My Breakfast With Evan

Just a couple dudes getting to know each other.

“If you must know,” Evan sighed, spearing a glistening sausage on the end of a flimsy plastic fork, “my jackass older sister thought it would be hilarious to give me a cupcake she'd baked with about a dozen powdered viagra for my fifteenth birthday. I wound up passing out eventually. Burst a lot of blood vessels. Damaged the erectile tissue beyond usefulness.”

Titus froze mid-coffee-sip. “Seriously? What a bitch!”

“Buddy, you don't know the half of it.”

“So... no signs of life down there?”

“Nothing for twelve years.”

“I think I would literally kill myself.”

“It's not so bad, I guess. At least I don't have to drain the blood out of it any more.”

“Eugh! Fuck! Did not need to hear that!”

“Well, maybe you shouldn't ask questions you don't want the answer to.”

“Do you get, like, blue balls all the time, then?”

“That's basically my ground state of being.”

Titus whistled flatly, avoiding looking Evan in the eye. He settled for staring at the table. There wasn't a lot of Evan's face that he felt comfortable looking at; every part seemed to at least be adjacent to some unpleasantry or another. About the only safe area was his right eye, which, as luck would have it, was directly opposite Titus's 'good' eye. Titus rallied and met Evan's gaze again. “Alright, your turn.”

They'd agreed on a sort of mutual interview process, taking turns asking questions to suss out what the other was capable or if he was worth having around. Evan took a bite out of the sausage and chewed thoughtfully for a moment.

“Who's Moreno?”

Titus hissed through his teeth. “A real piece of shit.”

“I'm going to need more than that.”

“I'm getting to it. He's basically, like... a freelance henchman? Like, sort of a mercenary criminal. Sells his services to the highest bidder.”

“And why's he matter?”

“That's another question.”

“No, it is not,” Evan said, quiet and serious. “Do not argue with me in bad faith, Titus. I have very little patience for it in the best of times.”

Titus regarded him for a long moment. The man across from him was wider than the table they sat at. His muscles were so pronounced in some points that Titus could tell when he was about to move by the way they bulged and contracted. Yet he gave the impression that he was constantly trying to pull himself inward, to make himself smaller. He spoke quietly and with a simple formality, but only hours before Titus had watched him single-handedly beat down some of the nastiest people he'd met in the past month.

Hmm.

“Fine. Moreno matters because I'm after the guy he's working for. You see, Moreno isn't just a normal scumbag. He works for people who need nasty things done. Not like regular nasty, either. How much do you actually know about magic?”

“I've got some... notes. So far I'm not able to find a lot of coherent rules. It mostly seems like it relies on things that nobody would normally do.”

Titus snapped his fingers and pointed at Evan. “Hit it right on the head. Rituals, reagents, that kind of thing... the reason—well, one of the reasons—magic doesn't just happen all the time by accident is that it's all weird little things. A lot of the more heavy magic relies on some pretty elaborate and obtuse shit to get it going.”

Evan momentarily thought back to the Book of Fate and his ritual in the woods. “So Moreno does these things for people?”

“Yeah. Thing is, though...” Titus stopped raising a forkful of eggs halfway to his mouth and set it down again, as if he'd momentarily lost his appetite. “The people who use his services generally practice some pretty vile magic. Real depraved shit. And to empower depraved magic, you need depraved rituals. Moreno is the guy you go to when...”

“I think I get it,” Evan interjected, since Titus seemed to be struggling with deciding whether to continue. “Your turn.”

Titus tapped his fingers on the table for a moment, then looked Evan in the eye. “How smart are you?”

The scars on Evan's face squirmed around as he actually smirked. “What kind of question is that?”

“Hey, we agreed no 'whys'.”

“Alright, alright. Well, there's really no objective metric for it, but... I have Master's degrees in computer science and theoretical physics, Bachelor's in those in addition to mathematics and electrical engineering, and associate's degrees and certificates in everything from EMT training to ballet. I should have my doctorate in physics, but...” he said, with a bitterness that Titus made a note of, then changed gears. “Oh, and I also speak Mandarin, Spanish, Japanese, French, and Arabic pretty fluently. I also know ASL. I can get by in German and Russian, too. I don't know if any of that is what you meant but--”

“Jesus, I get it,” Titus muttered, rubbing the side of his head. “How the fuck do you make money?”

“Software consulting, mostly. I specialize in security and processing efficiency. People pay me to break into their systems and then patch the holes, or to make their code run quicker or make their programs smaller. I've got a few patents I've licensed that bring in most of my income nowadays, though.”

“Anything I would have heard of?”

“If you've used a computer made in the last four years it probably has something I wrote integrated somewhere into it. I also helped develop a protein-sequencing program that helped develop a vaccine for this nasty SARS variant that broke out in China last year. They say if they hadn’t nipped it in the bud it could’ve spread worldwide and we’d be looking at millions of deaths by now.”

Titus scrunched up his face. “Oh yeah, just say that like it’s no big deal.”

“I’m just glad it turned out not to be one. What I'd really like to do is get my compression algorithm out there, but if I do that, somebody's going to try to hoard it all for themselves.”

“Are you talking to yourself or me?”

“Look, I... a few years ago I figured out a way to compress memory down by a exponential factor of six with zero loss. All it takes is a couple software plugins that don't take up much room themselves. Essentially, I could make a gigabyte fit in a kilobyte with very little trouble, now that the math's figured out.”

“Holy fuck, that's insane! Why haven't I heard anything about this?”

“Mainly because I don't tell people. If I put it up on the market, some ISP would buy it and bury it. If you make information smaller, you make it faster. Can you imagine what it'd do to internet access if dial-up and barebones cellular networks suddenly had the bandwidth of fiber optics? It would... maybe not revolutionize our society, but it would level a lot of playing fields. Bring a lot of underdeveloped areas of the world—hell, this country—up to modern levels with no extra cost. The telecomms would crash and burn so hard. But I don't have the means to get it out there without going through someone else. Yet,” Evan added. “So I basically work watered-down versions of the compressor into the software I make. Nothing that can be duplicated, and nowhere near its full potential, but enough to get me hailed as some kind of genius and pay the bills.”

“So why aren't you on your own private island or something somewhere instead of puttering around God's Ashtray in a shitty old Bug?”

“Hey, the Beetle is not shitty,” Evan said, defensively. “And I'm just waiting for the AC in my RV to get fixed or I'd be driving that.”

“Oh hot damn! Now that's the way to live!”

“Not the one I'd choose voluntarily, but it could be worse.”

“How come you're doing it, then?”

“I think it's my turn to ask,” Evan said, mildly.

“Fine,” Titus said grumpily, crossing his arms.

“How do you make money?”

“That's easy. I'm basically a freelance bailbondsman. I just roam around, drop my advertising around bars and courthouses.”

“You get many clients that way?” Evan asked, cocking his remaining eyebrow.

“Oh, you'd be amazed how desperate people can get,” Titus said, shrugging. “Of course, they're usually not the most responsible people, so when they bounce, I track 'em down myself, drag ‘em back to jail, get the money back. My eye usually makes it super easy. Sometimes they don't even see me before I get the cuffs on 'em.”

“Why did you feel the need to rob a bunch of drug dealers, then? The thrill of it?”

“I had a pressing need for a large amount of cash that my normal work doesn't bring in. That got me enough to hold it off for a while. My turn.”

Evan waved down a waitress for a refill of his coffee, trying not to take it personally when she gasped upon seeing his face. “Go ahead…”

“No, no, hang on.” Titus waved a hand dismissively. “I want to try something. Take your hair out of the ponytail.”

“What? Why?”

“Humor me.”

Evan groaned and reached back, removing his hair tie. After shaking his head, his hair fell over his face, obscuring everything but his nose and mouth. Titus pursed his lips and regarded him seriously for a moment.

“Can you see?”

“Yeah, I guess. Well enough to not walk into things, I think, and I could probably read if I had to.”

Titus snapped his fingers. “Good. Go with that from now on.”

“Why?”

“Because now you don’t look like God’s mistake. Now you look like a big, dumb-but-lovable goon. Like Jack Black would voice you in a cartoon.”

“And that’s a good thing?”

“Do you like seeing people contemplating their own mortality and the general cruel absurdity of the tragic farce that is human existence when they get a glimpse of your face?”

Evan felt his cheeks burn and was actually grateful his hair was covering most of his face. “…not particularly, no.”

“Then there you go. You’re welcome. Okay, question time. Uh… how did you get your powers?”

“Which one?”

“Oh, now who’s arguing in bad faith? Fucking all of them, you thick-lipped gargoyle.”

Evan had the feeling he hit a sore spot. Titus's easy-going, jocular tone had bled away from him, leaving behind the hard-edged razor-blade of a man that had ambushed him the night before. He decided not to belabor the point.

“I don't know why I can rege—why I heal so quickly. No, I'm serious, as far as I know, it just started happening sometime in the past few months. I can't remember. Don't look at me like that, I'll get to that in a minute. When I was younger I recovered from a lot of injuries a lot quicker than the doctors thought I would, so maybe it's something I was born with and it just got stronger recently for some reason.”

Evan took a sip of coffee, mainly to buy a few seconds to think of how much to explain for the next part.

“The ability to shut off powers... that's part of, well, I guess you'd call it a magic ritual, because I don't know what else to call it. I found a weird old book that said it contained the key to making someone an instrument of universal justice, or something of the sort. Since then I can see... I guess they're souls? Maybe? I can sort of move mine and when I run it into someone else's it seems like I can shut off their powers. Or... take them entirely, if they're dying.”

“Horseshit!” Titus scoffed. “That's... that's like meta-magic. I don't even know if that's real.”

“No, seriously! I don't think it's just magic powers, I think it... 'normalizes' things.” He briefly recounted his encounter with the pain monster.

“Are you kidding me? That...” Titus took off his hat and ran his hand through his hair, exhaling slowly and loudly. “Look, I don't know much, but the fact that you even ran into something like that, let alone survived... those odds are astronomical. And you say you negated not just its powers, but its whole form?”

“Yeah. Once I... reached into it, like I did with you—oh don't make that face. Grow up—I kind of disrupted what made it... different, I guess? Like I cut it off from its special qualities. Like it was...”

“Disjuncted,” Titus cut in.

“Yeah, that's a good word for it. Like the old Mordenkainen spell?”

“Fucking nerd.”

“Eat my ass. Anyway, after I killed it, I was able to reach into its... soul? Animating force? Aura? I don't know what to call it. I was able to grab something and pull it out and it just got pulled into me.”

“Not aura.”

“What?”

“Aura's a different thing,” Titus said, dismissively. “So what did you get from doing that?”

“I.. I feel pain differently. I don't flinch or get adrenaline rushes from injuries that don't actually impede my ability to function. I think I have a better sense of what is actually dangerous to my body now. It still hurts, but I don't react to pain like people normally do. It's like...hmm.” Evan drummed his fingers on the table. “Do you know anything about video games? Fighting games, specifically?”

“I used to fuck around on an old Alpha 3rd Strike cabinet when I was a kid. Why?”

“Do you know what 'super armor' is?”

“Isn't that where a move can't get stopped by being hit when you're doing it?”

“Right. I'm kind of like that now. Pain doesn't interrupt me.”

“Fucking nerd.”

Evan's fist involuntarily clenched. “I'm trying to put this in terms you can understand, you stupid reprobate. My experience with your judgment thus far hasn't given me much faith in your intellect.”

Titus burst out laughing. “So he does know how to banter! I thought you might be one of those Rainman types.”

“Oh sure, call it 'banter' to try to excuse the fact that you've been insulting me for the past half hour. Do you say you're ‘just joking’ when people get mad at you for saying stupid shit, too?”

“C'mon, lighten up! We're partners now! Tell me more about this soul thing. I still think you're full of shit.”

Evan sighed through his nose, then held up his left hand, forming his fingers into a circle and peering through them.

“Yours is... a sort of cross between a sea green and an oil slick. The tendrils of it keep reaching out and snapping back, going all over the place. It seems to keep expanding and contracting. It's almost flickering, like... it's indecisive. Very chaotic. The tendrils that aren't snapping around seem to be kept pretty close to your body, wrapping around you like... I can't tell if it's protective or restrictive.”

Titus's expression slowly became serious. “What does that mean?”

“I don't know. I have a lot of theories, but nothing solid to go on. I'm not sure if it's allegorical or a literal representation of a person's... power, maybe? Yours definitely looks a lot different than most people's.”

“I don't believe this for a second. Let me see.”

“How would I do tha—hey!”

Titus grabbed Evan's wrist and held his hand up to his eye. “Ho-lee...”

He pulled back from Evan's hand, staring at him. Then he looked around the room, mouth slack as he took in the diner's other occupants.

“Huh. Did you know it keeps working until you blink?” He said after a moment, a faraway tone to his voice.

“I didn't even know other people could do it,” Evan said, awe in his voice. “Hey, wow, you're right!”

“Jesus, yours is, like, really blue. It looks like... a bunch of steel cables. It's weird, I felt like I both could and couldn't see the edges of it...”

“I can kind of move it, but I'm not sure if I can do anything with it beyond interfering with people's powers. It's like learning to use a muscle you didn't know you had.”

“Huh.” Titus was again silent for a long moment. “Your turn.”

“Can you do anything else supernatural? Besides your time-eye?”

“Don't call it that, it sounds stupid. And... sorta. I seem to have whatever innate talent you need to actually do magic, but it's not like it's easy to find instructions. Most of the people I know who can use it just dabble with half-broken magic items—wands, amulets, charms,” he pulled the silence charm out from under his coat and bounced it at the end of its chain. “I guess I'm sort of a dabbler. I know a few tricks, I can use a lot of magic tools, I can sense magic pretty well, I can dowse... Most of the time I really never have to use anything besides the eye, though.”

“Is the eye all-or-nothing?”

“Yeah. It's not nearly as useful as you'd think, but any edge is an edge.”

“When I turned off your power and it was coming back, though, you started speeding up—or, I guess, everything else was slowing down? You were moving faster, one way or the other. You were able to touch me, and those punches hurt.”

“Huh, yeah, you're right.”

“Do you think there's a way you could learn to only partially activate it?”

“That'd be great, wouldn't it? Thing is, just using it is a huge strain, and that time spend outside of time adds up. Going by normal calendar time I'm only 26.”

“Fuck, I'm 27!” Evan laughed.

“Yeah, well, I'd rather be prematurely gray than what you've got going on. My turn. Uh... huh, I can't really think of anything else. Uh... are you gay?”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“No, but the question still counts.”

“I'm bi,” Evan mumbled, crossing his arms across his prodigious chest. “Not that it matters. And before you ask, no, you are not my type. We're done talking about this.”

“Huh. You ever sucked--”

“We. Are. Done. Talking about this.”

“Fine, God. Go.”

Evan mentally circled back to an earlier question he felt hadn't been properly answered. “Why are you after Moreno?”

To Evan's surprise, Titus didn't hesitate. “I'm actually after his current boss. He's just the best lead I have to go on.” He took a deep breath, then started talking with a rushed, deadpan pace, as if he was eager to get the words out as quickly as possible so they wouldn't be in his mouth very long.

“Moreno is working for a guy only known as the Soultaker. He has an innate supernatural ability to pull a person's soul out of their body. When that happens, the person just... shuts down, usually. No motive force behind them. Eventually they just die of dehydration, usually. I've seen some people so set in routine that they keep going without a soul, but... it's not really life.

“It seems like the extraction process takes a while, so he can't just walk past you on the street and pickpocket your entire essence. So he needs people rounded up for him, held until he can do his nasty juju. So that's where a degenerate like Moreno comes in.

“So when he pulls out a soul, it, well, it looks like this.”

Titus pulled a battered, faded Crown Royale bag out of his jacket. It bulged strangely and made a quiet clacking when he set it on the table. He pulled out what looked like a large marble, or maybe a dull pearl, and handed it to Evan.

Evan brushed his hair out of his eyes and peered into the milky depths of the sphere. After a few moments of staring, the murky clouds inside the thing seemed to clear and a face floated to the surface. A black man, maybe in his late 40s, going thin on top. His eyes were closed and he appeared to be sleeping, but his expression had a look of discomfort to it, as if he was having a bad dream.

“Jesus Christ,” Evan whispered, “I've seen this guy... Martell Calloway? I saw some news article about how his family found him tied up in his apartment and completely comatose! But he didn't have any injuries beyond being a black eye... so he's dead?”

“Life support,” Titus said, taking Mr. Calloway's soul back from Evan's unresisting fingers, “technically, he's one of the lucky ones. They found his body before it wasted away to nothing, and I was able to intercept his soul before it got to a buyer.”

“Why would someone buy something like this? What use is it? Can you fix him?”

“A human soul is a damn near exhaustible arcane battery,” Titus said gravely. In the split second between sentences, Evan noticed something—after he'd put the bag back into his jacket, Titus surreptitiously touched a pocket on the other side of his jacket, as if he was making sure something was still there.

“If you know what you're doing, you can power a lot of magic using a soul. And you can reuse them as long as you don't overdo it. If you know what you're doing, you can wring all but the last drops of essence out of a soul and let it heal or recover or whatever, and it'll eventually be back to full strength. Very resilient things,” Titus continued. “I don't think they're conscious in there, but... anyway, it's supposed to be really hard to extract a soul. But this guy was born with or spontaneously developed or somehow figured out a shortcut to the whole process. So the market is getting flooded with torture-batteries and ECUs are getting flooded with vegetables. And families are winding up with loved ones who are as good as dead, without having any idea why this happened to them. Dozens of them have been taken off life support in the past few months. Half these souls have no body to return to. And no, I can't fix it. At least not yet,” he sighed again. “I was hoping once I found him, I could somehow get the secret out of him or force him to put them back, or... maybe I thought if I killed him it'd reverse the effect. He needs killing, either way.”

Titus's eye widened as a thought struck him and he looked Evan in the eye for the first time since he'd started the story. Evan realized what he was thinking and looked down at the tattoo on his left arm, flexing his fingers.

“If you can take people's powers after they die...”

“...then we can save these people.”

Titus put a hand over his mouth and for a moment Evan thought he saw his eye well up.

“I'm in,” Evan said, a sense of righteous purpose welling in his heart. “I don't really know what the universe wants, but I doubt... I know it's not this. We'll find him, we'll stop him, and we'll save as many of these people as we can.”

“...thanks,” Titus mumbled behind his hand. He swallowed hard, then seemed to come back to himself. “We're back to square one, though.”

“You said you could dowse? Like, for real?”

“Yes, for real. I can find things and people with the pendulum method. It's handy for tracking down bounties.”

“Why don't you dowse Moreno?”

“Why didn't I think of that?!” Titus said incredulously, smacking his forehead. “Because he's warded. He's not magic himself, but he's collected enough gear through his career that my normal methods don't work.”

Evan rubbed his chin. “What if we used an abnormal method?”

-------------------

An hour later, they were in the RV. Titus was poring over the collection of Evan's notes and the strange papers he'd bought from Delmann's shop. Evan was very carefully slicing a strip of skin from his own ankle up all the way up his leg. The Guiding Light—the Finder's Follysat on the table between them, filled with fresh blood.

“Even if this works, he's going to know we're coming,” Titus muttered, engrossed in the pages. “Remember what I said?”

“That's why we're not going to look for him,” Evan said, adjusting his grip on the potato peeler. “I don't know how we'd even write his name. Can you read that, by the way?”

“Kind of. This is... most of this is written in, like, arcane pidgin. Who compiled these notes?”

“I did, I think.”

“You think?”

“Oh yeah, I forgot to clarify on that. Apparently a couple months ago, before the ritual, I drilled a hole in my own brain to erase some kind of very dangerous memory.”

“You what.”

“That's not a metaphor or anything. Really did it. I could show you the video.”

“I'll pass. So you don't remember where this came from?” Titus shook the Book of Fate at him.

“Nope.”

“Jesus shit, do you have any idea--”

“How reckless that was? Yeah, yeah, I'm still here and I'm the answer to your fuckin' prayers, aren't I?” Evan gave a whoop as the peeling skin reached his thigh. “Got it this time!” he said cheerfully, snipping the flesh-ribbon off with scissors.

“God, that's so fucking gross. Anyway, you haven't explained how we're going to use that thing to find Moreno.”

“We don't set it to look for him. We look for somewhere he's been. Maybe the last place he slept. Do you think you can describe him well enough in that language for it to work?”

Titus looked like he might actually be impressed, but he hid it well. “Yeah, probably.”

“Good. I've got a dictionary I've put together on that tablet next to you, but I'm not sure how accurate it is. Maybe it'll help?”

---------------------

Two hours later, they had it.

Find where a man born between the 27th and 28th north parallels during a new moon under the sign of capricorn with black hair and green eyes who has killed at least 10 people slept in the past week.

They really had to squeeze the letters in, but when Evan put a flame to the wick, it sprung to life, wavered for a moment, and then pointed east. Both men cheered. Evan threw Titus the keys.

“Drive! Drive north until I tell you otherwise!”

While Titus started the engine, Evan spread a map of the United States on the table in front of the lamp, then produced a protractor and a notebook from a drawer. “Okay, you bastard... let's see where you've been hiding...”

It took three days—one spent driving north, one spent driving back to where they'd started, and one spent driving south. While Titus drove, Evan made meticulous notes of the flame's direction, marking angles on the map. Finally he threw the pencil down triumphantly.

“He's in Salt Lake City.”

“Well, that narrows it down a little, I guess. So what, do we just go there and hope this thing points us in the right direction?”

“Too slow,” Evan called, stepping back into what used to be his bedroom and sitting at his computer. “Now I work my magic.”

After parking, Titus walked back to look over Evan's shoulder. The half-dozen monitors on the wall were flickering between rapidly-changing pictures of faces and what appeared to be CCTV footage.

“What is this?”

“This,” Evan said with dramatic pride, “is Blaccat. Facial recognition algorithms that the CIA wishesit had. I actually started working on it years ago before I thought about the implications of it, but I shelved it. I figured since I may be needing to, uh...”

“Be Batman?”

“...yeah...that I should get back to work on it. Right now it's comparing faces to the description you gave me and cycling through every damn security camera in the city looking for it.”

“How illegal is this?”

“Soooooo illegal.”

“Oh, hey, can you get into police department records?”

“Does the Pope shit in the woods?”

“See if you can get into the Las Vegas mugshots from... February 2019. Run your face-recognition thingy there.”

“Alright.... and... is that our boy?”

A handsome Latino man in his early 30s with shoulder-length jet-black hair and piercing green eyes stared at them from over a booking clipboard.

“That's him,” Titus breathed.

“Perfect! Now I just have to feed that into... wow.” Evan made a gesture and a black and white video popped up on the biggest monitor. The man in the mugshot was walking along the street, flanked by a short stocky man in bandanna and a lanky man with the ugliest white-boy dreads Evan had ever seen.

“That's him! Where is that? When is that?”

Evan grinned up at Titus. “That's live. I can track him and put us at the nearest intersection.”

Titus smiled, eye overbright, and began breathing heavily through his nose. “We got him.”

Evan met his eye and nodded. “Let's get him.”

[vidavalor]

The Tiger Code, you guys...

*Contains spoilers for episodes 1 through 3 of The Falcon and the Winter Soldier*

TFATWS, Ep.1: 

Bucky tests out his newfound modern world possibilities for openness by telling Leah, a woman he’s theoretically on a date with, that he’s bisexual. He does so euphemistically but that’s still pretty wild for a guy who last danced (and likely “danced”) in 1943. He chooses to say he likes men by commenting about on how he tried online dating but found it overwhelming because what was with all the “tiger pictures”? As we know, tiger pictures are more often than not found on profiles of men, heavily suggesting that Bucky was looking to match with men while attempting online dating. That’s all fun and all but now cut to Ep 3...

TFATWS, Ep 3: 

Our dynamic duo goes undercover with Zemo in Madripoor and what is Sam’s cover identity? Conrad Mack, a man nicknamed... 

“The Smiling Tiger.” 

The odds of that being a coincidental choice on the part of the writers is zero percent. So, what could it really mean? 

If Bucky creates in the context of the show the use of the word “tiger” as parlance meaning “men who aren’t straight” and the show then gives Sam a role with the word “tiger” in it, it is making that direct connection and saying that Sam isn’t straight-- something that many viewers of his role in previous MCU movies could see as having been suggested subtly all along. But wait, you might say... wasn’t Sam playing a role? Is the nod really that Sam can only play act at being a tiger? Nope, it’s not that...

While Sam gets the slightly lighter story in Ep 3 in that more of his undercover role is played for comedy, it contrasts Bucky’s foray back into playing at being The Winter Soldier. The point of the episode is to illustrate how Bucky cannot fully separate himself from what he’s done as The Winter Soldier. It wasn’t his fault and shouldn’t be seen as such-- by him or by anyone else-- but it is a part of his own personal history and is the root of much of the trauma he is dealing with in the present. The idea is that going undercover and playing a role of what he used to be more overtly brings to the surface Bucky’s trauma-- because now he has to act out The Winter Soldier, even if he is under his own control. ln a way, the mission gives Bucky the first chance he’s ever had to act like The Winter Soldier while under control of his own mind. Sure, it’s going to mess him up but, in the long run, it probably will be weirdly healthy because he is proving to himself that he can control himself. He is disabusing himself of the notion that The Winter Soldier can take him back over against his will. He hasn’t had the opportunity to really do that before. What does this have to do with his Smiling Tiger? 

Sam is then paralleling that. Sam is an upbeat guy, a confident guy, though he’s going to have insecurities like anyone else. He’s played as sort of the inverse of Bucky-- he jokes, he laughs, he’s not stoic, he is more sociable and more in control of his own trauma responses. They have a lot more in common than they might think and a lot more than just Steve but they often take the opposite approaches to it-- which makes them somewhat invaluable to one another. While I don’t see Sam as being enormously tortured about his sexuality, I can’t imagine he’s not had his share of struggles over it. What’s important about it in terms of his role so far in the MCU and on TFATWS is that it’s in the backseat, entirely. Sam is one of the few fairly major MCU characters to not have a formal love interest and instead, is coded as heavily as Bucky has been. Both Sam and Bucky are going through dealing with the expectations of the past and how they inform their present choices and the lives they want to build. Bucky has to reckon with The Winter Soldier and Sam is reckoning with why he chose not to become Captain America. We have so far seen Sam’s reasoning very clearly and in great storytelling-- we can understand why. Sam’s is a story of understandably feeling like the country he loves doesn’t truly love people who look like him in return and how America isn’t ready for a black Captain America. Underscoring his decision is the reveal when he learns that there *was* a black Captain America-- and he has a terribly tragic story. But what if there is another component to this for Sam as well? The Sam we first met, before he was on the run with Steve, was a guy working through the traumas of war-- a nice, seemingly single guy who worked as a counselor at the VA. He seems like a man open and friendly to those who need his help but who likes to live his own private life (making him, really, perhaps, not that fundamentally different from Bucky, if a less extreme case). Being Captain America would throw literal spotlights on Sam, even more so than being Falcon has. ‘Good Morning, America’-level spotlights. Steve Rogers-level spotlights. This is all assuming he’d get even a third of what John Walker did but even that would be a lot to deal with. Is it really maybe that not only does Sam think that America isn’t ready for the first (to their knowledge) black Captain America but not ready for the first *black and gay* Captain America? Does Sam maybe want to meet somebody at some point, to have that freedom to be who he is and control over that part of his life without someone telling him that Captain America needs a pretty girl at his side? 

The whole ‘Smiling Tiger’ thing might suggest this is the case and could be, should Marvel really make good on that promise to have more LGBTIA characters thing, something that is revealed throughout the season. If the undercover operation was about making these characters a little uncomfortable with the parts of themselves they don’t always put on display and don’t know how to reconcile with in their present lives-- if it was about Bucky getting an opportunity to, ultimately, learn he can control The Winter Soldier (even if he’d really have preferred not to go through this whole thing), what was it for Sam? What’s the point of The Smiling Tiger? Did you notice how people in the bar were watching by the dozens, some probably with phones, and Sam didn’t hesitate, even in the middle of a mission, to reach out to comfort Bucky? As it turns out, Sam is basically terrible at undercover work. It’s impossible for him to not be himself because he’s that genuine so even if he’s playing somebody else, it’s really all him there, in a parallel to the idea that Bucky is only playing The Winter Soldier in this moment and isn’t really and never really has been him. So, Sam really *is*, in essence, The Smiling Tiger (this version of the guy, anyway.) A guy who will go the extra mile to see a mission through, no matter the danger (see: drinking that snake drink) but who cannot fully check himself at the door and become someone else for anything (see: forgot to shut his phone off so that Sarah winds up becoming part of his cover, blending together Sam Wilson and The Smiling Tiger into basically the same person.) 

The irony of this is that while Sam is more equipped at managing trauma than Bucky is-- not to say that Sam doesn’t have his own share of personal hells he has been through and doesn’t still likely have nightmares and the like, he’s just become more acclimated with strategies for mitigating their effects on his life-- Bucky, ironically, might be better equipped to handle the idea of a more modern take on the crossroads of masculinity and sexuality. While The Winter Soldier has Bucky a mess that Sam can help pick up, it’s ironically going to be the guy who has basically admitted he hasn’t had sex since 1943 who is going to help Sam get beyond the issues he might have with being a gay black man with a ton of expectations on him. Somehow, even though he’s not used to this world, I think Bucky’s bemusement that this is still a thing for men decades after he was last young is the perfect counterpoint to Sam’s more advanced therapeutic strategies for managing Bucky’s PTSD. After all, which one of them was insecure about what he was wearing (saying he looked like a pimp when it also could be read as saying he worried he looked too gay) and which one of them casually outed himself to a woman he’d only recently met? 

[chasseurdeloup-retired]

Same Time, Same Place || Mina and Kaden

TIMING: Current LOCATION: The woods PARTIES: @drowningisinevitable​ and @chasseurdeloup​ SUMMARY: You can’t hunt here, I hunt here.

The one constant in Kaden’s life was hunting. It was his childhood, it was what he had when he lost his family, and it was what had carried him through life. It was the one thing he could always come back to when nothing made sense. That seemed to be less and less his current truth. Hunting had gotten confusing. His black and white rules no longer felt so clear. It was like someone had spilled something on his hunter’s code, his father’s journals and texts, and the writing was bleeding into one another, making it illegible and fuzzy, crisp black text turning to grey. Maybe if he returned to the familiar, he could find his balance again. He had to go back to training, make sure he knew what his reflexes were meant to do, keep them in check while everything else about his legacy fell apart around him.

Kaden picked through the woods to the clearing he’d taken Blanche to a few times now. It was the best for firearm and ranged weapons practice, no doubt. He heard something before he saw it. Kaden pulled out his pistol from his holster as he carefully stepped through the trees to the more open space in the middle of the woods. He kept the gun ready as he peaked through, trying to see what was causing the sound. No mistaking, there was another human there, smaller, female if he had to guess. Was it… “Pipsqueak?” he called out. Maybe Blanche had come here without him. But as soon as he had her attention and got a better look at her, it was clear he was wrong. “Sorry, not who I-- Didn’t expect to see anyone out here.” He kept the gun lowered, but he didn’t put it away just yet. “What are you doing out here?”

Growing up, Mina had always fought so desperately to be human, to be a hunter. All she ever wanted was to shed her scales forever, to never go in the water again, if it meant that she wouldn’t be a monster. Because her father’s teachings were clear: humans mattered, and monsters did not, and anyone that wasn’t human was a monster. He taught her about hunting for people and for prize (prize, in his eyes, always meaning a little more than the people), and she always believed that she’d grow into the desire to hunt. Her father’s genes, his human genes, would win out in that aspect, and she’d be useful, not a monster. Well, after being in White Crest for almost a year, she was beginning to see that she was a pitiful excuse for a hunter, and she’d never be human. There was a small but steadily growing part of her that wondered if that was such a bad thing. That part of her made Mina a terrible hunter’s daughter.

It wasn’t like it mattered much, anyway, Mina thought bitterly, if the promise killed her. She had no intention of fulfilling it. At this point, days were about going through motions, waiting with baited breath to see what would happen. She was consumed with nervous energy, but, instead of going to the lake, she’d decided to go to a small clearing where she’d taken to throwing knives. The steady thunk thunk thunk of blades hitting tree trunks was soothing. She hadn’t even been paying attention to any incoming sounds until the man was right upon her. Mina’s heart stuttered a bit in her chest, and she clenched one of the knives she was holding. “Not, ah, a pipsqueak, I don’t think. I’m averagely tall. At least I assume.” She tucked a bit of hair behind her ear and rocked on her heels. “I’m, well, throwing knives?” She looked at the knife in her hand; yes, that’s exactly what she’d been doing. “I was, I mean, I can... what are you doing out here?”

“Yeah, I know. I thought you were someone else.” Kaden wasn’t sure if he’d almost hoped that it was Blanche out there, doing target practice. Maybe he wanted a moment to redeem himself. Or maybe he wanted to continue to pretend to be normal, wasn’t sure. Didn’t matter, wasn’t her either way. He decided to just sheath his gun at this point, the girl there looked like she wasn’t a monster waiting to attack him. Plus, he was pretty sure he could take her if she tried. “I can see that. Why are you throwing knives?” He tried to take a peek around her to see how many were poking out of the tree. It was a decent amount, most stuck. And they seemed to be embedded in the trunk pretty deep, too. If he had to guess… “I came out here for target practice. Looks like you beat me to it.” He sighed. Of course. He couldn’t even get training right. “You plan on being here much longer?” He considered asking if the was a hunter but maybe he’d wait and see. For once, he’d like to be the one not showing his entire hand. Granted, the arsenal strapped to his back might have done that for him already.

As the man holstered his gun, Mina let her knife hang loosely in her hand. “Sorry,” she said, softly. “That I’m not who you were expecting.” She hadn’t realized this clearing was so popular. It was almost always empty when she came around, though that had become a bit sporadic over the last few months. Perhaps, if she came more often, she’d encounter more people, since this guy apparently had a friend that came sometimes, too. Perhaps… it was better that she didn’t come so often. “Funny, that. Target practice. I thought it’d be relaxing for a bit.” Which it had been, for a bit. Though, eventually, going through the motions of throwing a pointy object at a tree left a lot of time for thinking, and thinking, and thinking far too much. Mina cocked her head to the side for a bit, taking in the man, his equipment. “I could let you have a go, if you’d like. Ah, leave, even.” She was focused on his gun. The words fell out of her mouth before she could really stop them. “Use that often? The gun?”

“Don’t be,” Kaden told her. “It’s probably for the best that she wasn’t out here trying to be a badass in a sling.” If he was going to teach Blanche anything, he was pretty sure he should start with cooking and save the one handed shooting for later. If ever. Still, strange how she’d found the same spot he had. It was a big forest after all. Maybe he’d been away trying to be normal for too long, he’d lost the claim to his training spot. Served him right. “Relaxing, huh? So you just throw those for fun? That it?” It was a bit of a challenge, though not meant to be too harsh. He wanted to nudge her in the right direction, if she was a hunter, that was. Guess he’d wait and see. “You were here first. I can wait. Or something,” he said with a shrug. It was possible there was somewhere nicer, even. Better. But wandering around looking for it seemed fucking annoying. His brow raised at her question and he leaned against one of the trees nearby in the meantime. “Sure do,” he said with a wry smile. He looked down to pull it out, show her if she was curious. Is it too late to fake my death and skip town? His brow furrowed as his hand hovered over his weapon. “Fake your death and skip town? Over what? This? Sounds a little dramatic.”

“A badass in a sling?” Mina asked, just a bit confused. “Does your friend often do target practice injured?” That sounded a bit familiar, training even when you probably shouldn’t because of an injury. Long nights soaking in whatever lake or stream or river she called home to take out some of the aches of overused muscles, to mend broken bones. She wondered about this man, his friend. Perhaps they were among the many hunters around here. Perhaps they were people like Morgan who just wanted to protect themselves. “It’s very fun,” Mina said lightly, expertly throwing the knife up and catching it. She felt comfortable calling herself that, an expert. She had a good aim, and her dad made sure she could fight with a blade, even if she didn’t want to. She looked closely at the man, making a note of his confidence. He definitely seemed like a hunter. “My dad likes handguns. He has a Glock.” At his question, she furrowed her own brow, expression mirroring his a bit. “What? I didn’t, ah, I have no intentions to skip town? Or fake my death, for the matter. That seems a bit silly.”

“She does a lot of stupid shit while injured. So yeah, target practice was on the list.” Kaden shook his head. It was probably for the best that Blanche wasn’t a hunter, she’d run into even more danger faster. And the enhanced healing would just mean she’d do it all over again sooner. Sure, that’s what he did, but he was trained for this shit. Theoretically. As much as he loathed his mother’s ghost, she had a point back then, his training was slipping, falling by the wayside. This wasn’t helping much. Kaden left his gun where it was and crossed his arms in front of his chest instead. “You definitely look like you know what you're doing. You learn that from your dad? Or is he a guns only kind of guy?” He was so close to asking outright, perhaps she was, too. The song and dance was necessary, though, kept him safe. Just in case the answer wasn’t what he expected. “Okay, guess that’s good. But why did you say it, then?” Was he going crazy? She had said that, right? He definitely heard it and it didn't sound like his thoughts. It had to be her speaking. Maybe she had said it softly, didn’t think he could hear her. If that was the case, maybe she wasn't a hunter. At least not a beast hunter.

This man’s friend definitely sounded like a hunter. Doing stupid things while injured was a staple for every single one Mina had ever met, especially younger ones. Though, hunters didn’t live to be that old. “I’m glad she’s not doing this stupid thing, then,” she said. She messed with the knife, no longer as a way to show off but just because it was something in her hands, something to do. “He likes knives, too. Anything, really. He’s big into all kinds of weaponry. What about you? That’s quite an arsenal you have.” They’re beating around the bush in a way that seemed a bit silly, but it was best to be cautious in these things. At least this was close to getting an outright answer. There were quite a few people in town that Mina simply had assumptions about, not actual answers. “I… didn’t say anything. Not about faking deaths and running away, at least. You brought that up first.” Then, she started to second guess herself. Did she? Did he? “Right? I don’t think I did?”

“Does he?” Kaden said. He had come out there with a few guns, the crossbow, and he always had a good number of knives on him. “He sounds like someone who enjoys a good hunt.” Alright, it wasn’t subtle. But they were reaching a point where someone had to toe the line a little more, see how it landed. “Oh, these?” he said, looking back at the weapons he’d carried with him out to the woods. “Small portion of the collection. Couldn’t decide what I wanted to work on, so I brought a variety.” He reached back and pulled the crossbow of his back and stared fiddling with it. It really had been too long since he held a weapon, since he’d trained and perfected his craft. If only he could get to doing just that. “You have any experience with one of these?” he asked, holding out the weapon. “Or are you one to stick with knives?” He wasn’t sure what he could suss out from comparing weapon choices, but it was a place to start, see how trained she was perhaps. “Are you sure?” His brow furrowed at her response. “I could have sworn…” Could not hunting make him crazy? Maybe it was the nightmares he was having recently messing with his mind. Fucking teenagers. “Okay, this time I definitely heard you say something about teeangers.” Only this time he had been looking right at her and her lips never moved. Was he reading her thoughts or something? What the fuck was this?

“He’s an avid hunter,” Mina said, relaxing a bit more. There. It was good to get that out in the open, or as open as they were allowing it without actually saying I hunt supernatural creatures for a living. Not that Mina did. She had no idea about this man, his lifestyle, especially when he carried a small armory on his back. “It’s a nice collection. Plenty of options to choose from.” For all she knew, he might turn on her as quickly as Montgomery had when they first met. “I can shoot it,” she said easily, looking the crossbow over. “I do better with close combat. Ah, defensive styles, though I do pretty well with blades.” Luring Fae in required her to get close to them. The idea had always been for her to provide them a false sense of security and a knife in the back. However, she’d never-- would never-- quite gotten around to the killing part. “I promise I didn’t say anything to you about faking my death just now,” Mina said, dropping the word and waiting for it to sink in her stomach if she was lying. Nothing. She definitely didn’t say anything about it. “Or anything about teenagers? I… am afraid I don’t know where teenagers would come up in the conversation?” This man was perplexing. Was this some new hunting tactic? Was he actually a hunter? But he seemed to think she was a hunter. She tapped her finger on her knife blade, feeling a bit anxious. Something was off about this.

“Nice. I am, too.” Was he? Avid, that was? Putain, he was. Kaden still was an avid hunter. Most of the time. He missed two fucking full moons, was that fucking avid? He didn’t know anymore. “Thanks,” he said as he let the crossbow rest at his side. “I tend to go for silver weapons. You know, they have a nice advantage. Either you or your dad have any preference?” Too on the nose? Possibly. But it seemed like an easy way to sort out what kind of hunting she did, learn where the cards fell. “I’m alright with close combat if I’ve got a good knife but ranged is easier when hunting we--” Kaden caught himself. “Things. You know. Anyway, your dad live in town, too?” For all he knew, they were already well acquainted, maybe went on a few hunts together. Though it depended on what kind of hunter he was. And he had a guess as to what kind after what she said next. He froze, eyes going wide at her use of the word “promise.” He nearly dropped the damn crossbow. “You…” he started, tentatively. It felt like a dangerous word to say after everything. And he felt safer knowing that he couldn’t say it to Regan but that didn’t keep him from using it now. “You should probably be careful with words, you know. But uh, good to know you didn’t, uh…” He wasn’t sure what was happening anymore. So much for coming out here to try and relieve some of his confusion. “Sorry, think I must be hearing things. You haven’t, right? Heard anything? Weird?”

Taking in this man, his stance, his equipment, yes, Mina could believe that he, too, was an avid hunter. She nodded. “My dad likes silver weapons. They’re his favorite. That’s what I use, mostly. Kind of flashy, but they do their job.” Easier to practice with, too, without risk of iron burns. She hadn’t used a knife in an actual hunt in… a very, very long time. “I work a bit with iron, too, though,” she added, as much as it pained her. Better to be truthful with this man, this hunter. If he was an actual beast hunter, he’d pick up pretty quick that she wasn’t one. “Ranged is certainly better when hunting… animals,” Mina said. “My dad’s working, travelling, actually. I’m here for college.” And to hunt, which she was doing a piss poor job of. “He’ll, ah, be in town soon, though.” The man’s reaction to the word “promise” was interesting. Usually, it was wardens that were mostly concerned about promises. Unless, perhaps, this werewolf hunter had some negative experiences with Fae. In which case… it would most likely be best if Mina didn’t let him know what she was. Most hunters had prejudices against all supernaturals, anyway. It wouldn’t be surprising to add one more to the list. “Don’t worry, I’m quite careful with my words. I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t sure.” That lie brought a wave of nausea to her stomach, but she did her best not to let it show. It was a good day, at least, for all that her night had been filled with thoughts of blood and death and horrible, undead beasts. No nose bleeds, no outbreaks of scales or claws when she didn’t want them. His question was strange, though. “Heard… what kinds of weird things?”

Kaden’s shoulders dropped and he relaxed to hear that both her and her father were just beast hunters. Good. There was no danger of her going after anyone he car-- The tension in his muscles instantly returned and he stood up straight, no longer leaning on the tree. “Iron?” He asked, trying to wipe any look of pure panic off his face. “I mean, iron. Yeah. Not really my thing. Uh, good for you, though.” That was normal, right? Shit, he was pretty sure this kid couldn’t take down Regan. Right? His eyes drifted back to the knives stuck out of the tree across the way. Putain. He snapped back to look at her when she mentioned her dad would be in town soon. “Is that so?” Shit. He could just as easily be a warden as a beast hunter given that specialties were usually genetic. Maybe they were like Walker and unspecialized. Meaning they were an equal threat to people he cared about. Shit. “You’re pretty confident that I wouldn’t bind you with words, then. Seems a little brazen. But hey, that’s your issue not mine.” Maybe he was overreacting. No way a warden would throw around the word “promise,” right? And she really hadn’t heard anything weird, had she? Fuck, maybe he was just going crazy after all. “Uh, it’s hard to explain. I think it might be in my head. But I was sort of thinking it might just be a whisper. A shocking amount of thoughts about dead bodies.” It was entirely possible he just spent too much time around Regan. But sharing thoughts was a little fucking much.

Mina watched the other hunter, perplexed at his reaction. He seemed to revolve between being relaxed and tense without warning. “Iron, yes. Though, I’m not, I mean, I’m not good. With iron. Or being, you know, in general.” He could probably see right through her. She felt a bit less confident than she had before, looking at the knives sticking out of the tree. Mina always felt less confident around real hunters, seasoned hunters, ones like this one that looked and walked and breathed like hunters. Somehow, she just knew that they could tell she was a fraud. “Yes, though I don’t know when he’s coming in. I’d like to see him,” she said, though it would kill her. Every passing day without him here increased her anxiety. He’d told Q that he’d be in White Crest soon, but “soon” was such an arbitrary word. Soon could be months from now. Soon could be tomorrow. She had no way to tell. “A human cannot promise bind another,” she said carefully, scrutinizing him. What did this man know of promise binds? “And I was careful with my words. I did not, in that moment, tell you that I intended to fake my death. Making such a promise wouldn’t hurt because it was true, and it was only for the moment. Promises are only as dangerous as their wording makes them.” This man was baffling. “You’re hearing things in your head? About dead bodies? Do… do the voices… want you to create more dead bodies, or do they just talk about dead bodies?” Perhaps not, since the voices had told him they were considering faking their own death, but, still. A homicidal hunter was not someone Mina wanted to be around if he snapped.

Was she saying she was a bad warden? Is that why she was bad with iron? Kaden was certainly more confused than he had been a moment ago but he definitely wasn’t more relaxed. A bad warden was still a warden all the same. “Well if he comes into town, make sure you tell him about the Silver Bullet. I’ll buy him a drink if I see him. What’s his name, if you don’t mind me asking?” Oh, right. Guess they didn’t know each other’s names either. Huh. Either way, getting a drink with a warden while dating a fae sounded like the worst fucking idea he’d had in a long damn time. Then again, friends close, enemies closer, all that. “Guess you must be really positive I’m human, then.” Which meant either she was a warden who could sense fae. Or… No. There was no way she could be fae. That woudln’t make any fucking sense, not after the whole conversation they’d had. She had to be a warden. “I mean, I am. Still, have to be careful with it. It’s pretty easy to twist words, even if the words hold true in your mind.” Though surely that wasn’t something he needed to explain to any warden. “Uh, yeah I am-- I mean no! No they’re not telling me anything just, uh…” Kaden reached up to rub the back of his neck as he trailed off. Fuck, he didn’t know how to explain this. And then, with no fucking warning, his hand moved in a punching motion. A weird one he’d never done before. He was decent at a bar brawl but this was martial arts shit that he definitely did not know. “What the fuck?” Kaden shook it out and tried to make it look natural or intended. Something other than what it was which was a punch he hadn’t controlled. “Uh, there was, ah, uh bee. Hate them. Sorry. I, uh, yeah. You want to stay? I can come back later. Unless you want to spot each other or something. I’m good either way.” Putain, he should probably leave while he was being this fucking weird. But it felt wrong not to offer help to another hunter. Even if she was potentially a warden.

“I’ll be sure to tell him should it come up,” Mina said, though she left out that the likelihood of her and her dad having that conversation was pretty slim. “Ah, his name is Eric. Eric Fitzroy. My name is Mina.” She felt a bit awkward, realizing how long they’d been talking without even getting to some sort of introduction. However, this whole encounter had been a bit awkward and strange, even by White Crest standards. Though, at least there were no monsters lurking about, waiting to attack. Perhaps that would make things less awkward. “If you’re not human, then you do a very good job at playing hunter. Crossbow? Gun? The Silver Bullet?” She wasn’t allowed there, though she knew about it, too scared for someone to get the wrong impression of her and too unnerved by the way some hunters bragged about their trophies to even want to know. “It’s very important to be careful, yes. But I grew up learning to be very careful with my words. I can safely say that I try not to make promises without meaning them.” Of course, it was for the benefit of those around her, not herself. She nodded her head as he talked about the voices, though she had absolutely no idea what he meant. When he began punching at the air despite the fact that he claimed his voices were nonviolent, Mina began to nod a bit more emphatically. “RIght! Of course! A bee!” She looked down at her bag and gave a small sigh. “Truthfully? I wasn’t getting much accomplished. I haven’t been training much, these days, and this was hardly anything strenuous. I might just pack up for the night and head home.”

“Good. Nice to meet you. Kaden, by the way.” He made a serious mental note to ask around the Bullet about Fitzroys, see what kind of hunters they were. As much as she had indicated warden, he couldn’t be completely sure. And if there was a threat to Regan, well, he hated that he’d have to try and shepherd them away from her but apparently that was the case. She’d never know what to look for and even if she did, he doubt she’d be prepared to deal with things in the way they had to be. “Yeah, yeah, I gave it away. Figured it was safe enough to. You know, unless you’re just as good at playing hunter.” He nodded at her response, continuing to try and act like the whole weird shit with his hand was completely intentional. Clearly it wasn’t working too well. “Alright, that works for me. Whatever you want. But if ever want some tips or something, let me know. Backup too, if you need it. I’m always up for helping another hunter.” Not that he’d given her a whole lot of reason to trust him just now, but the offer stood all the same.

[bluerosesburnblue]

This is, like, 80% a joke, but in all honesty I do legitimately think that Seren would have a really good shot at pulling a Bill Weasley and managing to pass all twelve O.W.L.s while simultaneously trying to break a Cursed Vault

Potions and History of Magic would probably be her worst subjects because if there’s one thing she just flat out sucks at, it’s remembering numbers. So recalling dates or potions ingredients? Not gonna happen easily. But the game has also given me the ability to actually take those, so getting a good grade on them isn’t going to be a problem

The rest of the O.W.L.s that we take shouldn’t really be a problem. MC in general just shouldn’t have a problem with Transfiguration, Charms, or Defense Against the Dark Arts just by virtue of constantly practicing the material from those classes during the search for the Vaults, so those should just be a matter of a quick review and we’re good. And Seren really loves magical creatures and happens to like taking care of plants quite a bit, so Care of Magical Creatures and Herbology are just a simple review for her and she’s guaranteed an O in both of those

That just leaves the five we don’t take in the game, and I have good reason to believe that she’d be capable of passing all of them

Muggle Studies is practically a guaranteed O even though I’m certain she has never taken a Muggle Studies class. The girl was pretty much raised Muggle and attended Muggle schools until she was 11. She’s good. The only hiccup I can see is that the material might be “Muggles from a wizard perspective” but again, her mom’s a Muggleborn and her dad’s a Squib. I think she’s got her bases covered

Ancient Runes may be tricky, but also fairly easy. I’ve had a headcanon since playing Year 1 that Jacob liked writing coded messages using runes. A lot. Of course he would. He was a bit of a mama’s boy and his mom’s Faroese. Her native language is derived from Ancient Norse where those freaking runes came from and Jacob’s a nerd who probably studied them to try and get in touch with his mother’s heritage. Seren would have grown up learning to recognize and read those runes just to decode the notes he’d leave everywhere

Divination is mostly a theoretical practice, which Seren “Studies Magical Theory on the Regular” Dwyn would probably excel at. At worst I’ve had the idea that Seren skirts through Divination class on the “Inconvenience Principle.” Essentially, every time she has to make a prediction, she just says whatever the most inconvenient things that could possibly happen to her that week would be. Trelawney loves it because it fits her “doom and gloom” predictions stuff and since Seren’s a trouble magnet she ends up being right 90% of the time. In any case, the wiki notes that since MC clearly takes Divination in their sixth year that they most likely had to pass that O.W.L. offscreen to even continue on to sixth year level Divination classes, so this one might actually be canon

Astronomy, too, is a confirmed Year 6 class, so it’s highly probably that MC at least got an A on that O.W.L. offscreen. That one’s not that hard, it’s just a matter of memorizing star and moon names and pictures. Again, a thing that Seren is Very Good At. Not much to say about that one, really. If it can be assumed that MC has been taking the classes and we just haven’t been playing them, then I think my girl’s set

That just leaves Arithmancy, which as far as I understand it is basically just Divination but with math? And I have made the occasional “Seren is bad at math” joke but she’s... not, really? She can be slow at it, but as long as she’s got some scrap paper she’s notably very accurate. She just can’t do math on the fly. Which isn’t great, because from what the Wiki says a passing Arithmancy O.W.L. is mandatory for aspiring Curse-Breakers, most likely for probability calculations, so if you can’t do that fast you’re not gonna make the best Curse-Breaker. Not that Seren cares, because she doesn’t want to be one. But given that it is mandatory and everyone assumes that MC wants to be a Curse-Breaker, I can only assume that they’re either taking the class or else expected to pass the O.W.L. in some way. And since it’s just a test, Seren will probably be fine. At worst she’ll have to ask Bill to tutor her or just sit in on his Arithmancy N.E.W.T. study sessions. Or steal his old notes

Now, would she really want to take all twelve O.W.L.s? Hell, no. We’ve got a portrait Vault to finally solve and a horrible plan involving jinxed boomerangs and a troll to enact. But believe me, she would if it meant proving Dumbledore wrong. Saying that she should focus on her studies is insulting her competence and all of the hard work it took to get that competent and such comments will not stand. Even if it means completely waylaying all Vault plans for two to three weeks while she studies her ass off to earn those O.W.L.s legitimately because let’s not forget: Hufflepuff. And one of Seren’s biggest flaws is getting herself into shit because someone insulted her pride and then doubling down because well damn. She’s a person of her word. She said she’d do it and now she’s obligated to. Even if it’s so much more work than it’s worth. And she’s also a perfectionist and really, the O.W.L.s are just the perfect storm of bringing out the worst in Seren Dwyn

[tisfan]

Excuse me, I think you have my Suitcase

With @27dragons Square: @tisfan T3 - sharing clothes @27dragons A1 Occupational Hazard Warning: lingerie, oral, anal, condom use  Pairing: Tony Stark/Bucky Barnes Summary: Problem one: Tony and Bucky get their luggage mixed up. Problem 2: Tony’s suitcase is full of lingerie. Hijinks ensue. or... the one where Bucky exhibits extremely poor impulse control. Link: A03 Word Count: 7,354 

Credits to: Fast Food Drive Thru - by Stevens and Grdnic Code Monkey - By Jonathon Coulton

Bucky threw his suitcase onto the bed, listlessly watching it bounce on the too-firm mattress. If he never saw another hotel room in his life, it would be too goddamn soon. Along with “fulfilling in creative ways,” minimal travel had been just another lie that Hammer Tech had sold him.

He’d been back in his own apartment a total of three days in the last month. His plants were dead, and thank Christ he’d never gotten around to getting a pet.

He picked up the phone and placed the least thought-process involving order to room service he could think of -- cheeseburger, onion rings, and a large orange soda -- and kicked off his shoes. Tomorrow would start a week-long seminar with Stark Industries (theoretically to brainstorm and resource share, but that was probably code for “get me something I can use” and he’d have to report up to Vanko that SI was decades ahead of the competition.) and all Bucky wanted to do was change into some comfy sweats and sleep for the next two days straight.

He fell onto the bed, his keys digging into his thigh. He shifted a little until he was mostly comfortable, and drowsed, waiting for dinner to arrive.

When it did, the waiter handed him a tray that contained:

One cheesesteak with onions and a bowl of those little orange slices that people gave to kindergarteners.

Bucky looked at his food. Looked at the hotel staffer. Sighed. Whatever. Why people couldn’t understand Cheeseburger, Onion Rings, and a Large Orange Drink… Bucky didn’t know. Maybe he was so tired he was speaking something other than English and hadn’t noticed. Sleep-absorbed Romanian or something.

Wasn’t that the idea of osmosis? Stuff moved from a high concentration to a place of low concentration. He was sure he’d read that somewhere. Which meant just about anything could have moved into his brain, since as far as Bucky could tell, everything else had leaked out recently.

He didn’t bother to correct the order.

Which he totally should have, because who the fuck put mayo on a cheesesteak? That was an affront is what that was.

Dinner finished, Bucky opened his suitcase to grab his sleep pants--

--and just about had a fucking heart attack.

(more below the cut)

Tony grumbled as he lugged his suitcase into the hotel room. Why couldn’t they have hosted this stupid conference at Stark Tower? Then he wouldn’t have had to travel, and he could sleep in his own bed, and the food would be better for everyone involved.

Instead, he was stuffed into a hotel room, with the dismal prospect of lukewarm meals and unevenly-heated showers and scratchy hotel towels. And worse, he’d have to “collaboratively innovate” with his competitors, all of whom would be sniffing around and hoping to steal Stark Industries’ ideas. He could only hope that Hammer’s representative wasn’t that creepy Vanko guy again this year.

Like, who came to a business conference and wanted to make small talk about whips? Ug.

Ah, well. Travel and all its foibles were occupational hazards that Tony knew well. But he was going to change into something comfortable and then he was going to call Pepper to report in and make her listen to him whine about the accommodations.

He heaved his suitcase up onto the bed. Damn it, the TSA assholes had stolen his lock again. He sighed and threw back the lid--

--and stopped.

That... was not his suit. Or his dress shoes. Or his sweatpants, or his t-shirts, or his underwear, and oh fuck, he had gotten the wrong god damned suitcase at the baggage claim.

Which -- oh fuck -- meant that someone else had his suitcase. And everything inside it.

Unable to drag his eyes off the neatly-folded stack of underwear, Tony fished his phone out of his pocket. “Call the airport baggage claims.”

Okay, okay, Bucky thought. Call baggage claim. Someone probably was looking for their honeymoon suitcase, or whatever the hell this was. A collection of silk and lacy-- things. Along with a few changes of men’s clothing, but no women’s dresses or blouses.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Barnes, we’re so sorry about the mix up--” the woman on the phone said, after Bucky hastily explained that he had somehow ended up with the wrong suitcase. “We’ve already been contacted by the other owner-- where are you now, we can send a courier over to retrieve the bag, and make arrangements to get your own things back.”

“Uh, sure, I’m at the Hilton on East Londontown Street, but what am I supposed to wear tomorrow?” He found himself reaching for the contents of the suitcase again and snapped his hand back as if the clothing inside were on fire.

“Oh, well, that’s easy, then,” the woman said brightly. “You’re both staying in the same hotel! Why don’t you just take the suitcase down to the lobby and I’ll let the staff know. You can have your own things back this evening, probably. I know the other man was concerned for his belongings.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Bucky said. A man’s suitcase. Not a couple. Not the woman was concerned. He reached for one of the pieces of lingerie, a lacy black number. Looking at it more closely, he realized it was styled for a man, little silky things that resembled boxer briefs. Huh.

He shivered. “Yeah, yeah, okay, I’ll do that. Take this right downstairs, and you’ll, uh, you’ll call me--”

“We’ll get the hotel to let you know when they have your suitcase,” the woman said. “Thanks for flying Southwest.”

Click.

Bucky put the phone down, and then fingered the slippery material. Couldn’t quite resist-- he brought it up to his cheek and rubbed the fabric against his face. Smelled clean and like men’s cologne. What would that be like, Bucky wondered, that soft material against his cock?

He shivered again. He was going to put it all back and take the suitcase down to the lobby. That’s exactly what he was going to do.

He rubbed the fabric again. There was so much of it-- teddies and underwear and a little frilly robe. Silk stockings and a garter belt.

Shit. He probably shouldn’t have rummaged through the guy’s stuff; there was no way he was going to be able to fold that up to anything remotely resembling tidy again. He tossed the one piece on his bed and started folding anyway. Closed the suitcase and headed down to turn it in.

The suitcase really did look like his, it did. Down to the scuffed handle and the broken lock. Huh. He thumbed the ID tag.

You Know Who I am

“No, no I don’t,” Bucky muttered. Out the door and down the elevator, he went up to the desk clerk and explained-- “I don’t know, Southwest was supposed to call you, I don’t know whose suitcase this is.”

The clerk finally found the note. “We’ll call up when we have your luggage.”

“Right,” Bucky said. He started back toward the elevator, then paused. Wondered what the guy looked like who owned the case.

Without quite consciously deciding he was going to do it, Bucky grabbed a seat in the lobby, picked up a magazine and pretended to thumb through it. The clerk had gone back to their duties, the guy would never need to know--

The room phone rang, and Tony snatched it up before it had even finished the first ring. “Yes, hello?”

“Mr. Stark, your luggage has been turned in. If you could bring the incorrect bag down to the front desk, we’ll be happy to return it to you.”

Christ, why couldn’t they just bring it up? Tony suppressed a sigh and made a note to tell Pepper to make sure he only stayed in hotels with concierge service, from now on. “Right, I’ll be down shortly.”

He ran a hand through his hair and looked at himself in the mirror. No chance, really, that whoever had gotten his luggage by mistake had realized it before they’d opened it. He could hope they’d only gotten a glimpse, and were assuming it was luggage for a couple. Not that he was ashamed of his lingerie -- he’d lost all sense of shame years ago -- but it got tiresome, having people raise their eyebrows and sneer about things that didn’t even concern them.

Well, whatever. Whoever it was wouldn’t know it was Tony unless they saw him with the luggage, and the front desk clerk probably hadn’t looked in the bag. (And hotel clerks probably saw much stranger things anyway.) He stuffed his phone in one pocket and the hotel key in the other, and headed down to the lobby.

There were a few people milling around in the lobby, a tired-looking businessman checking in at the desk, a young couple by the bank of tourism brochures trying to decide what to do on their vacation, another man slumped in one of the chairs reading a magazine. Tony took a second look at him; he had a rather appealing five o’clock shadow and a gorgeously rugged jawline, and broad shoulders that suggested he’d probably be making his way down to the hotel gym at some point, because damn.

Tony was so busy surreptitiously eyeing the guy that he didn’t notice when the businessman finished checking in and walked away, dragging his suitcase and briefcase and garment bag along with him.

“Sir?” the clerk prompted.

“Oh!” Tony turned back around and stepped up to the counter. “I’m here for my suitcase.”

“Oh, yes sir,” the clerk said briskly. “If I could just see your ID?”

Tony leveled the guy with a look. “You know who I am,” he said drily.

“It’s procedure, Mr. Stark,” the clerk apologized.

Tony rolled his eyes and fished out his wallet. “There. Good? We’re all good here? Can I please have my bag now?”

The clerk looked at the ID carefully, as if Tony might actually be some sort of imposter, and then nodded. “Yes sir, thank you sir.” He pulled the suitcase out from under the desk and wheeled it around to Tony’s side of the wall. “Please call the desk if you have any other issues we can help with.”

“Yuh-huh,” Tony muttered. He left the other suitcase where it was, grabbed the handle of his own bag, and turned to head back to the elevators.

The hot guy with the magazine glanced up as he passed. Tony tossed out a jaunty wave and kept heading toward the elevator. Now he really wanted to change into something nice, and possibly spend some quality time thinking about the guy’s mouth, because holy shit.

As soon as the elevator closed behind the guy who returned his bag, Bucky scrambled for his phone. “Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit,” Bucky muttered. “That was Tony Stark.” He was pretty sure, at least. Thumbed up his web browser and clicked up a bio for the CTO of Stark Industries.

Yeah, probably. More than likely. Why hadn’t anyone ever waxed poetic about what a great ass the guy had, because really--

Bucky had a sudden image of that ass in those little silk nothings and all the blood in his body rushed south in a hell of a hurry. “Oh, god,” he said, swallowing hard. Not the only thing that was hard around here, Jesus Christ.

He almost threw the phone across the room in sudden shock when it rang.

“Mr. Barnes? Your suitcase has been returned.”

Why he’d thought they’d call the room -- well, honestly, they probably had called the room first -- he wasn’t sure.

Bucky got up and walked away, awkwardly aware of his erection as he headed toward the lobby’s restrooms. “Yeah? Great.” That sounded mostly normal. “I’m just gonna finish this drink and I’ll pick it up.”

“Of course.”

He hung up.

He was in the bathroom. Sporting a very firm erection.

Bucky sighed. Splashed water on his face a few times and tried to think about something unsexy. His high school Government teacher. Steve’s bad habit of leaving a half inch of milk in the jug and putting it back in the fridge, back when they used to live together. His mom’s corned beef hash on toast.

That did it.

Okay. Okay, he was fine. He was going to go get his bag and get some sleep.

It wasn’t until he got upstairs with his bag that he realized that he’d left one piece of the lingerie on his bed; the little black silky thing that had felt so soft against his cheek.

His neglected erection came back, full force.

Shit. Shit shit shit. There was no good way to give it back now.

Was there?

“Guess it’s mine now,” Bucky said, and that was a shivery little bit of kinky thought there. Like a prize, or a trophy. Look at this, I have Tony Stark’s underwear.

Bucky went weak in the knees, practically collapsing on the bed.

Finally. Tony opened his suitcase and -- yeah, this was the right one, thank Tesla. He pulled open a drawer of the dresser and opened the closet, and started to put things away so they wouldn’t get wrinkled.

Except the first thing he pulled out -- his gauzy, soft robe -- wasn’t so much folded as mangled into a more or less rectangular shape. Frowning, Tony hung it up and reached for the next piece. Which was similarly rumpled. As was the next.

Whoever had opened his bag hadn’t just looked in it and closed it up again. They’d looked through it. Damn it.

Well. Nothing for it, really. He didn’t have time to have everything laundered tonight. He’d just have to deal with it for now.

He put everything away and then stopped, unsettled. He opened the drawer again and counted the underwear. He was one short. He was absolutely certain he’d packed enough for the whole trip -- he’d double-checked -- but now there was one missing.

He checked the suitcase again, making sure it hadn’t slipped under the lining, or gotten tucked into one of the pockets. No dice.

Someone had taken his goddamn underwear.

Great.

Tony dropped into the chair and massaged his forehead a little to try to stave off the headache he felt coming on. It wasn’t like it was that big a deal, was it, really? Even if the person knew whose it was, there was no way to prove it. So he was out a pair of underwear. He’d just run out after tomorrow’s meeting -- the first day was always short, just introductions and business bluster -- and buy some more.

Right. Yes.

He put the incident out of his mind. Well, tried. He changed into a satin teddy and pulled on his robe, and laid back on the bed, feeling the soothing caress of the fabric against his skin, and tried to think of something else. That guy from the lobby with the pouty mouth and the shoulders, that was a hell of a combination.

Tony wondered what he’d look like in Tony’s underwear. Mmm, nice. That scruff would probably feel amazing, dragged over Tony’s stomach, the satin only barely softening the scratchy feel of it. Yeah. Yeah, that was very nice.

“Probably the dumbest thing you’ve ever done, Barnes,” Bucky told himself, threading the belt through his loops. The soft pair of lacy boxer briefs cradled him like a lover, under his pants.

No one will ever know.

There was no reason, even, to think that anyone would figure it out.

And even if they did--

That had occurred to Bucky after he’d jerked off, the little shorts held in his free hand against his throat.

Bucky looked at himself in the mirror. He didn’t look any different -- well, maybe his color was up a bit. There was an awareness. Something. He wasn’t sure.

“Take ‘em off and stop acting like a complete creep,” Bucky told himself. He got his hand on the buckle, except he remembered how nice they’d looked, against his skin, the way the fabric clung to his ass. Fuck it. One day of deviating from his normal habits of being as unremarkable as possible wasn’t going to kill him.

No one had to know. And he’d probably never see any of these people again, anyway.

He turned around and checked his ass. He couldn’t see the outline. Hell, he couldn’t see any outline, not the normal wrunkle where his boxers sometimes showed. It was all smooth and perfect.

Tony checked his ass in the mirror -- perfectly smooth, as it should be -- and then pulled on his suit jacket and adjusted his Day One Power Tie. He slipped on the matching sunglasses and checked the mirror again. Yeah, he was going to own the conference.

As usual.

He double-checked that his important shit was in his pocket or his briefcase, then headed down to the conference room.

Where he nearly ran over the hot guy from the lobby, now sharply dressed. In a suit that looked... familiar.

Tony blinked and took half a step back, and offered the guy a sharp smile and a hand to shake. “Hi. You’re here for the tech consortium?”

“Hmm?” The guy blinked a few times as if he’d accidentally looked straight into the sun. “Oh, yeah, right. James Barnes, Hammer Tech.”

Well, well, well. The conference was looking up already. “Yeah?” Tony let his grip linger just a couple of seconds longer than necessary. “Looking forward to hearing what Hammer’s pulled out of his ass for this year’s show. No offense to you, just your boss.” He grinned, not quite making it a joke.

“I’m sure Mr. Hammer will be delighted to hear you remember him,” Barnes said. He looked down at their clasped hands. “Not to gossip, but he has like the biggest man crush on you.”

“Well, who doesn’t?” Tony said. “Too bad for him it’s not mutual. My taste is a little more refined.” He gave Barnes a quick wink, then turned to help himself to the coffee.

Barnes selected a seat, and, either still half asleep, or absent-minded, he dropped his stuff on the table. A pen rattled, rolled, and fell on the floor. “Damn it,” Barnes muttered and bent over to retrieve it. His suit slacks -- not very slack at all -- clung to impressive thighs as he moved and Tony couldn’t help but follow the line down.

Barnes’ thighs and butt were… utterly smooth. Flawless.

Tony’s gaze lingered, and then realized he was looking at shoes that he’d seen before, too.

Shit. Shit shit shit, Barnes was the guy who had the matching suitcase.

The guy who’d swiped Tony’s underwear. Tony took another look at Barnes’ ass, and was about 80% certain Barnes was wearing Tony’s underwear, because Tony had seen the stuff Barnes had packed, and there should be a line.

About twenty percent of Tony’s brain was annoyed and indignant. The other eighty percent was rapidly falling down the hole of imagining (again) what Barnes would look like, stripped out of that suit.

Fuuuuck, other people were beginning to filter into the room and Tony did not have time for an inconvenient erection right now. He willed it down and set his briefcase down on the table, claiming a seat directly across from Barnes, before pasting on his meet-and-greet smile and turning on the charm for the other attendees.

This was going to be the longest day ever.

Bucky couldn’t have felt more naked than if he’d actually shown up to the meeting like he was in some horrible dream about high school.   

This had been a huge mistake.

He was positive that most of the room could sense there was something just a little off about him.

The very first person he’d met at the confabulation was Tony Stark, who’d gripped his hand a little too long and had eyed Bucky like something he wanted to stuff and mount on his wall.

He knows.

Why hadn’t it occurred to him that Stark was going to be at the damn conference? He knew that Stark was supposed to be there, it just… hadn’t really dawned on him that he’d have to make conversation with the man while wearing Stark’s damn underwear.

The table was narrower than he wanted it to be, too.

Bucky had long damn legs and there never seemed to be a setting on the adjustable chairs that was comfortable, so his legs stuck out further than the safe, halfway point.

And of course Stark sat down right across from him.

The first time Stark bumped Bucky’s ankle under the table, Bucky jerked back as if he’d been electrified. The talk and introductions and five minute elevator pitches went over Bucky’s head; if he heard one word in twenty, that was being generous. Bucky muttered his own intro and the carefully memorized scriptette, talking to the table.

And Tony had winked at him.

What. The Hell? Was Tony flirting with him?

Bucky went hot all over, his body flushing. He raised a hand to loosen his tie, and exhibiting more bravery than he’d ever managed in his life, glanced up to catch Tony’s gaze. He lifted an eyebrow, didn’t look away.

Tony didn’t stop talking about... whatever it was, carefully-worded hints about SI’s new proprietary coding engine or something, but the corner of his mouth ticked up, just a bit, and his eyes drifted down to Bucky’s mouth, and then lower, to Bucky’s throat, before sliding slowly, unhurriedly, back up to meet Bucky’s gaze again.

Bucky let his leg slide over until it bumped against Tony’s calf.

And didn’t pull back.

Tony didn’t pay much attention to the conference. He wouldn’t have anyway -- his tech could run rings around most of these clowns even if he slept through the whole thing. And with Barnes -- James -- playing along with Tony’s game, he had more important things to concentrate on.

That light flush that had crawled up James’ face stayed put, but he kept bumping his leg up against Tony’s under the table, kept giving Tony those steamy looks from under his lashes, kept biting and licking his lip and trailing lazy spirals on his notepad with his fingertip.

When they broke for lunch, Tony pretended to be checking and answering texts on his phone as he watched people filing out of the conference room one by one, chatting and shaking hands and exchanging business cards. Tony watched until James actually left the room, counted to ten, and then got up to follow at a leisurely, unhurried stroll.

He walked into the men’s room just in time to watch James realize that if he unzipped at the urinal, everyone would be able to see that underwear.

Tony met James’ eyes in the mirror, smiled knowingly, and pushed into a stall to wait for the few other people to leave.

Tony could hear James splashing water on his face.

“Heh,” one of the other guys said. “it'll be less boring tomorrow. Don't fall asleep.”

The guy left and James said to no one (or maybe to Tony), “Bored ain't even half the problem.”

Tony checked the floor under the stalls and saw no other feet. “No? And what is the problem, James?” He came out of the stall and leaned one hip against the sink counter, close enough to James to feel the heat baking off the man’s body.

“Super busted,” James muttered. “About thirty percent bad luck, thirty percent bad timing, and forty percent lack of forethought.” He glanced up to meet Tony's gaze in the mirror. “Took a calculated risk, but man am I bad at math.”

Tony grinned, sharp and toothy. “I rather doubt that. You strike me as a man who appreciates a good curvilinear function. Not to mention the thrill of discovery.”

James chewed on that lucious lower lip again. “In my, rather minimal, admittedly, defense, I didn’t notice that it was on the bed, before I took your suitcase down. And then, what? I couldn’t--” His gaze wobbled a little, nervous. “--couldn’t figure out how to give it back without making a mess of it. Reckon I did that, anyway.”

Tony slid just a little closer, until he had to cant his head back a bit to keep meeting James’ gaze. “So you thought, as long as you had them, you’d try it out? See how it felt?” He cocked his head, studying that gorgeous flush on James’ skin. “So tell me. How does it feel?”

“Nice,” James said, and his voice squeaked a little, like it was a question. He rumbled a cough, then, “it’s nice. Soft. Kinda… decadent. Like, oh, I ain’t s’posed to, but God, I want to.”

“Well, good. I’d hate to think of you sitting through all those tedious presentations all day wearing something that scratched and chafed, and you not even able to scratch that itch.” Tony let his gaze drop, let James see it as he took in the flutter of pulse at James’ throat, the heaviness of James’ breath. “Speaking of things you’re not supposed to do, but want anyway...”

Those blue eyes went wide and dark. “Yeah, you got somethin’ tender that needs attendin’? An itch to scratch?” Whole constellations spun out and died in space in the seconds it took James to move, his hand moving almost in slow motion, until it rested on Tony’s wrist.

Tony didn’t bother with any more words, just tipped his head and leaned in to slot their mouths together, teasing at the seam of James’ lips with his tongue until they opened to let him in. Tony curled his hand around the back of James’ neck and plundered that sweet mouth, tasting every bit of it, stealing the breath out of James’ mouth.

For a long moment, James met him, kiss for kiss and lick for lick, but barely moving, as if he was frozen in place, and then suddenly Tony found himself backed up against the wall, cool tiles against his back. James laced their fingers together, pinned Tony’s hand to the wall. The other roamed down Tony’s arm, to his hip, then down his thigh, urging Tony to hook his leg around James’s hip.

The space between them disappeared, and Tony could almost hear the soft whish of the silk under James’s trousers.

Tony dragged his free hand down James’ chest, teased at the waistband of his trousers, dipping a finger inside just far enough to feel the soft lace of the underwear. “Come up to my room for lunch,” he growled softly. “I’m sure we can find something tasty there.”

James was dazed, eyes a little glassy, and he nodded. “Yeah, probably this is not the best place--” He blinked, then gave Tony a slow, creampot smile. “Yes. I want--” He left it generally unspoken, but the hard line of him pressed against Tony’s thigh was clear enough.

Tony tugged his hand free, then left the bathroom, not really looking to see if James would follow, but feeling the man’s presence behind him palpably anyway. They didn’t speak as they waited for the elevator, but once they were inside, Tony let himself examine James’ reflection in the mirrored wall. That sweet blush was something special.

James ran his thumb wonderingly over his lip, soft and swollen, as if he was checking to see if it was real, as if he’d been somehow changed by a few minutes of frantic making out in a public bathroom. He caught Tony watching him, and while his flush grew a little darker, it seemed more of arousal and less embarrassed.

When the elevator opened to an empty hall, he let his fingers slip into Tony’s hand and followed him down the hall.

Bucky supposed it could be a trap, an elaborate set-up slash revenge. Or even angry hate sex, meant to punish him for his thievery. He didn’t think so, but even if it was, he was pretty sure he’d follow Tony’s mouth anywhere-- that man could kiss like setting the world on fire.

They’d barely gotten inside the door of Tony’s hotel room -- several pay grades above Bucky’s own -- when he got another taste of that mouth. Tony pushed him against the door and kissed him like a starving man.

And each time Bucky’s hips moved, he could feel the lace, the silk under his trousers, like some erotic torture.

The silk stretched to cup him as he swelled, the material breathing easily. He was convinced he might die if Tony didn’t touch him, and then was positive that he would die, as soon as it actually happened. “Shit, that’s-- okay, okay, that’s…” He wasn’t even sure what he was saying, and his hands explored Tony’s body, lithe, lean, the muscles hard and wiry. Down Tony’s back and slid under the man’s belt to--

Why hadn’t it occurred to him that Tony was also wearing the fancy drawers? His fingers encountered more of that slippery, cool stuff and the entire rest of him burst into flames.

He let himself sink to his knees in front of Tony and rubbed his cheek against that bulge that was tenting up Tony’s slacks.

Tony’s hands slipped through his hair, surprisingly gentle given the urgency of their kissing and groping. “Oh, yeah, that’s nice, that’s-- Hang on, let me...” He tugged at the belt and opened his trousers, pushing them down to the middle of his thighs, revealing elegant lace stretched over a gorgeous cock, the faintest dark patch over the tip where he’d leaked a little precome. “You can lick right through them,” he told Bucky in a conversational tone only just touched with a hint of unsteady wobble. “Go on, give it a try for me.” His hand was back in Bucky’s hair, stroking and petting.

It took him probably longer than he meant to actually try it, too busy staring and admiring and trying not to shoot off like he was a fourteen year old kid dry humping someone under the bleachers during school pep-rally. He let his fingertips graze down the fabric, not quite touching Tony’s dick. Just enough to notice how slippery, almost frictionless, the material was. More of a tease, maybe, than he meant. Until Tony’s knees unlocked and his thighs were quaking.

“Oh, can I?” Bucky asked, finally getting with the program. He closed his mouth a moment, just breathing warm air over the thin material. He darted his tongue out to taste, and the underwear was slick against his tongue. Not rough or lint-y, but like the next best thing to skin. Curious, he pulled back just a little and blew cool air over the wet stripe. “Reckon I can.”

Tony hissed and shuddered and his hand tightened in Bucky’s hair for a moment. “You certainly can,” he agreed. “Please do.” He shifted a little, making the trousers fall all the way to the floor and stepping out of one leg to widen his stance.

“Holy hell, look at you--” Tony was wearing black stockings; dark enough that they looked like men’s dress-socks at his ankles, but they went all the way to halfway up his thigh, a patch of lace and elastic holding them up. Bucky’d played around a little with dressing up -- everyone he knew had been in the Rocky Horror cast at one time or another -- but he’d always taken it as an illicit joke, a bit of a thrill. Acceptable, but only under certain circumstances.

And here was Tony goddamn Stark wearing the most elegant, obviously made for him as his --

“You wear this all th’ time? Or just special?” Bucky hoped that came out as curious, and not accusatory, because god, he could spend his whole life on his knees, looking at Tony looking like that, and not have one single goddamn problem with it.

Tony wobbled the hand that wasn’t still in Bucky’s hair, so-so. “Sometimes,” he said. “Half the time, maybe sixty percent? Not when I’m in the workshop -- too easy to get runs in the stockings -- and not when I’m flying, because all it would take is one TSA agent willing to dump confidentiality for a big payout. But definitely when I’m going to high-level meetings and shows. It’s a real power boost.”

“I can see that,” Bucky said. He reached up, very slowly, and unbuttoned Tony’s shirt. One at a time. Accompanied, or perhaps punctuated by, darting little licks at the fabric stretched around Tony’s cock. Each patch of wet made the silk more see-through, made it cling to him obscene and gorgeous.

Bucky wore simple, thin white tees under his dress shirts.

Tony wore a dark silky camisole that would have been even less visible under his blue business shirt than Bucky’s tank. His nipples were hard, under the camisole, poking at the fabric, and Bucky rewarded them with a tweak. Tony’s shirt spread open, the tie still around his neck, pants around his ankles… “You are the most fucking beautiful thing I ever saw.” He wanted to take a picture, to keep it, even if this moment was going to be seared in his memory for the rest of his goddamn life.

Tony smirked a little. “Likewise, hot stuff.” He brushed his thumb along Bucky’s lip, eyes dark with wanting. “Christ, you’ve got me wound tight already. Feel like a damn kid again. Can I-- Let me see?”

“What-- Oh, yeah, hang on.” Bucky gave Tony’s cock one long lick, as if he was saying goodbye, feeling a smug sense of satisfaction when Tony moaned and quivered under it.

Bucky tugged off his shoes, dumped the jacket and tugged his tie loose, but left it threaded through his collar. Tony watched him avidly, and Bucky felt the heat at the back of his neck, the way his ears burned. There was something erotic and very intimate about taking off his clothes while Tony gazed at him with those doe-eyes.

He shucked the shirt and undershirt, knowing they were going to be horridly rumpled, and didn’t care. The sound Tony made once Bucky’s chest was bare was worth it.

Finally, he dropped his trousers and stood there a little awkwardly, wearing the lacy panties and his business socks. He wasn’t quite sure what to do next; his arms felt strange, like he should be able to take one off or something, hang it on a hook. Without pockets, without touching Tony, he wasn’t sure what the hell his body language was saying.

Tony didn’t seem too concerned about Bucky’s hands, at least. He eyed Bucky up and down, hungry. “Oh, honey, just look at you.” His hands ran down Bucky’s hips, thumbs caressing the soft fabric, then dropped to one knee as he continued on down Bucky’s thighs. “God, you’re gorgeous, and I can’t even imagine how amazing you’d look dressed up in pretty things. These thighs... Nng.”

He leaned back to look up at Bucky, admiring, and cupped Bucky’s cock through the panties, making the soft lace drag over the sensitive skin. Bucky shivered and Tony did it again. “Yeah, just like that.”

Bucky was about to offer Tony anything he wanted; he’d wear anything Tony gave him, do anything, give Tony his soul on a fucking platter, as long as Tony didn’t stop touching him. He wondered what it would feel like to rub his dick against Tony’s through the layers of fabric. Shuddered all over, and then realized he could just fucking find out. The bed was huge, covered with a white, soft comforter. It would look a hell of a lot more inviting with Tony spread out over it, needy and desperate and rising to meet Bucky’s touches.

He nudged and brought Tony up for a quick kiss -- and then again, because he couldn’t seem to resist that tempting mouth -- before walking him backward across the room. Tony went over easily enough, squirming to fucking crawl into the center of the bed.

Holy hell, the back of Tony’s drawers were even more tempting than the front, sheer enough for Bucky to see everything. Before Bucky could even think to pounce, Tony rolled over, lazily sprawling his limbs out spread eagle like an offering.

Bucky took him up on that invitation, crawling up between Tony’s knees and covering him like a blanket. Rained kisses down along the planes of Tony’s cheeks, against that jaw, along his throat, and with each kiss, Bucky stroked himself against Tony, rutting them together. “Jesus,” Bucky swore, nipping at Tony’s throat lightly, then lower, licking his clavicle.

Tony rocked his head back, exposing his throat for better access. His hips rolled, his spine arched, he looked utterly lost to pleasure and entirely unselfconscious and unashamed for it. “God,” he groaned. “James... I want... I want more, I want--” He lifted his head to look at Bucky again. “You like to top, honey?”

Bucky tucked his face against Tony’s throat, weak with wanting. He would take whatever Tony was willing to give him, but letting himself sink into that hot, lean body would be-- could be… “Yeah, anything you want.” He licked at Tony’s neck again, slid down to nuzzle at Tony’s belly, soft and fluttering under Bucky’s questing mouth. “You-- uh, you got a condom an’, I mean. I didn’t expect--” They weren’t even in his room, where he had a bit of lube just for jerking off.

“I always travel prepared,” Tony said smugly. He squirmed out from under Bucky and walked to the closet where he’d stashed his suitcase, letting Bucky get a good look at the way the lingerie framed that stunning ass. He came out with a strip of condoms, a bottle of lube, and a cat-in-the-cream smile. He tossed his finds onto the bed and climbed up, straddling Bucky’s hips and leaning in to suck at Bucky’s neck, leaving a mark just barely low enough to be covered with the shirt collar.

Bucky ran his hand down Tony’s chest, ending with a loving stroke and squeeze at that gorgeous cock. “If I wake up from a wet dream, I am gonna be so disappointed,” Bucky said. He kept stroking Tony through those obscene little panties, until Tony was rocking into Bucky’s touch, practically riding him.

He slid his hand lower, then between Tony’s legs, teasing at his balls, and that flat, sensitive patch behind them before reaching all the way back. The lingerie didn’t leave anything to chance, each curve and wrinkle in Tony’s skin perfectly outlined. Bucky rubbed at Tony’s hole, using that frictionless fabric to smooth the way.

Tony moaned wantonly, pushing into Bucky’s touch like a cat for a minute, before stripping the panties off entirely and crawling onto the bed, pushing that ass up into the air, begging shamelessly. “Come on, gorgeous, want to feel you filling me up. You’re going to give it to me so good, I can tell.”

“You keep talkin’ filthy like that,” Bucky said, getting himself upright, “an’ what I’m gonna do is come untouched, and then where will you be? Hmmm?” He stroked Tony’s bare ass. The man’s skin was almost as soft and smooth as the drawers. Bucky couldn’t quite help himself, he leaned over and rubbed his cheek and chin against the firm curve of Tony’s ass, the same way he’d rubbed his cheek against those drawers.

“Mm, I bet we could get you up again,” Tony said, almost purring. “Could be fun to try it, really.” He hummed again thoughtfully, as if actually considering it, then sighed. “Not enough time. Maybe later.”

Later? Bucky swallowed hard. He hadn’t thought any further than this one afternoon, but-- “We got all week,” Bucky offered, and then he wet his fingers with the lube and blew on them to warm it up. Slippery stuff, like it was supposed to be, and it smelled nice. Like ritzy skin cream or something, instead of cheap bathroom coin-op lube. “Gonna touch you now.” He put one hand on the base of Tony’s spine and let the other tease at Tony’s hole, fingering the opening to Tony’s body.

Tony groaned like it was the best thing he’d ever felt. He barely resisted Bucky’s tentative probing, relaxing quickly to let Bucky in, and then drawing him even further in, hungry. “Yeah, that’s, that’s perfect, that’s-- Keep going, just like that, honey, that’s just right.” He pushed back as Bucky sank into him, eager and needy.

Bucky had to count backward from a hundred, and then again, to keep from just diving right in as soon as he’d gotten out of the drawers. Condom first, he told himself, and then had to struggle with it awkwardly, his fingers slick with lube, to get it open and on. Tony whined and wriggled, as if urging him to get a fucking move on. Nothing Bucky wanted more, but he wanted, oh, he wanted it to be good. To be… sublime and perfect and everything Tony deserved.

He was on his knees, bent over, those stockings still clinging to his thighs, a little red circle around each where the elastic had slipped a little. It was the most erotic thing Bucky’d ever seen. Making love in the middle of the damn day, sun bright in the hotel room, and Tony on his knees.

Fuck.

“That’s the idea,” Bucky told himself, just loud enough to get a hazy “hmmm?” out of Tony. “I gotcha, gonna take care of you,” Bucky promised, rubbing Tony’s hips as he lined himself up. He nudged the head of his cock against Tony’s hole. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Tony said. He reached back with one hand and pulled on his hip, spreading himself open. “Want you in me, want to feel you in me, c’mon, now...”

Bucky nodded, even if Tony couldn’t see it. Pushed in, slow and steady. Tony was warm and slick and inviting, and Bucky had to run through a whole handful of unpleasant things in his head to keep from just slamming home. “Don’t move,” he said, panting as he felt Tony unclench around him, and then squeeze again, until he was confident he wouldn’t go off like a bottle rocket. “There, there you are.” He rocked back, and then in again, short strokes, but deep. Tony was all around him, an eager clutch.

Tony sighed and rocked in counterpoint, trying to pull Bucky even deeper inside. “Yeah, oh, god, James, yes, more, harder, harder, make me feel you all day.”

It didn’t take long before Tony’s encouragement and eagerness had Bucky moving; harder, faster, deeper. Each slick slide, each desperate clench, drew him closer and closer, but Bucky kept his eyes on the prize, waiting -- even though he wanted so much his thighs ached from the strain -- wanting Tony to get there first.

He reached around, curled his fingers around Tony’s cock, gave him something to rub against. “Yeah, you feel so good, baby, I-- yeah, that’s sweet, like that.”

Tony cried out, his body jerking in Bucky’s grasp, thrusting into Bucky’s fist at a near-brutal pace. “Yes, yes, yes, I-- Oh, fuck, that’s-- Oh!” He went rigid, shaking all over, and wet warmth flooded over Bucky’s hand. “Oh, god, yes.” Tony slumped a little bit, shoulders going lax in the wake of his orgasm.

Bucky swore fervently as Tony clenched around him. It wasn’t much longer, no more than a dozen more strokes through that heat and squeeze, before Bucky went over the edge after Tony. They were both panting for air, sticky with cooling sweat. “Holy christ.” Bucky grimaced and gripped the edge of the condom as he pulled out. “You a cuddler, or more of a ‘thanks, go away now’ kinda a guy?”

Tony slumped out flat on the bed and threw one leg over Bucky’s. “Shh,” he mumbled. “Time for a fifteen-minute nap.”

“‘Kay,” Bucky agreed. He struggled with the comforter for a moment, then got it, pulling it over them like a burrito, letting his nose find the dip in Tony’s throat. “Jus’ wake me up.” He nuzzled Tony once, twice, and… fell asleep before he could do it a third time.

[ironstrange-is-the-endgame]

who will wipe this blood off us? what water is there for us to clean ourselves?

tw blood, tw panic attack

I don’t know how this happened but it did. Title thanks to Friedrich Nietzsche. 

sidepair: brucestine 

rating: t/m (I don’t know, I never understand this shit)

Stephen looked at his awful, destroyed, dirty hands. It was the only thing he could do, looking at them and desire they could disappear, turn into something else, just not being any longer.

He wished for that long time ago, too. But he wanted them to be pretty and steady, he wanted for his hands to go back at what they used to be: hands made for the operation theatre. That was what brought him to Kamar-Taj. That was a life before.

Now he wanted for those hands just not to be his. He wanted to get rid of them and the sin they had just committed. No, it wasn’t his hands fault; it was his, Stephen’s. He killed that man; he looked at the man in the eyes and hit him with a shining red sword. He did it. And while he did it, he liked that. And that was the reason why he wished to be able to rip his hands off, to erase that memory from his mind. A memory he knew it won’t ever abandon him.

It was that man’s life, the man who learnt magic in the very same halls of Kamar-Taj, but tried to use it to bring the Sorcerers down and to rule over the Sanctums, or Stephen’s. He did it to protect his order. He did it to protect the world and the gates to other dimensions closed, but he killed him. He voluntarily ended a life without even thinking if there was a second option.

He bolted away the moment he realized what he did, deaf to Wong’s voice. In Stephen’s mind, it was clear that the librarian was calling him a monster. It was what he was, at the end of the day. He killed a man. He decided his own life was worthier. Did this make him better than that man? The fact that his victim killed more than he could even imagine, didn’t make Stephen less guilty. He was a murderer; he killed a man in cold blood just because it was the easier thing to do.

He was sweating, and every bone in his body was shaking when he walked out of the portal he opened. He didn’t even think about where he wanted to go, letting adrenaline and instinct to drive him. He knew the place which opened in front of his eyes, but he couldn’t stay there. He couldn’t be at the Compound: Tony was probably there, around that time, and if he wasn’t, Steve most certainly was. And he couldn’t let them see him like that. They would have understood. His hands were still dirty in blood, and he knew that he couldn’t simply wash it off. The point was that he didn’t have any place where to go. He couldn’t go back to the Sanctum because that was the place where Wong would have looked for him, and he couldn’t risk for someone to see him there. Especially not Tony.

He loved the man too much and while he knew sooner or later the genius would have dumped him for somebody who was a better deal than Stephen, he didn't want Stark to know the monster he was. But the moment he rose his right hand to opened another portal — still without knowing for where — he saw dried blood on his fingers again and this time, felt hot tears down his cheeks. He did it, that wasn’t his blood, it was another person’s.

Trying to breathe become harder and harder while his vision turned blurred. Maybe he could just close his eyes for a while and hoping for the man’s face to disappear from in front of his eyes. But no, the moment he did it, everything became too much and that face turned its dark and empty eyes at Stephen and its mouth opened in a silent scream.

Strange was only half sure that the yell didn’t belong to him when he heard steps coming closer. That was what convinced him to open his eyes just to see Tony looking at him, whiskey brown surprised and worried eyes. Stephen didn’t let the man’s inspection go further than his pale face and pictured in his mind the first safe place he could think of. He didn’t want to involve her in this mess, but Christine’s was the last place everyone would have looked for him.

Stephen stumbled out of the portal, his panic attack still running through his system, his breath short, images of the fight and from the now and then flashing back and forward in front of his steel-blue eyes. He knew he shouldn’t show up uninvited to Christine’s, even if she told him he can seek for her if he needed help. He shouldn’t be there: he was a murderer who can use magic and she was just human, just Christine, his Christine, his best friend, the only person who stayed by his side while his life was trembling down.

And he had been already such a shit with her. She didn’t deserve this; she deserved so much better than Stephen. And she found better. She found Bruce, and their relationship was actually healthier than hers and Stephen’s had ever been, they worked better as friends. And now he was walking into her house, uninvited, unannounced, asking her to - Stephen didn’t even know what he wanted from Christine. She just looked like the safest option. Maybe he just knew nobody would have searched for him there. Nobody would have judged him, there, nobody would have kicked him out or call him a murderer, or call the police. Because it didn’t matter what, Christine seemed to be the only person crazy enough to stick around with him.

“Steph…” Her voice was worried. Great! She should be worried because of him, not for him. Rushed steps on the floor, a soft hand against his arm, warm, comforting. It shifted on his face. “Hey, look at me. You are at my place. You are safe,” She whispered, and everything was even worse. He was a threat, for her, and she shouldn’t try to calm him, she should run away. She would if she knew at whom the blood on his hands belonged. “Bruce, can you bring me a glass of water, please?”

Bruce? Stephen’s brain short-circuited. Of course, Bruce was there if that was Christine’s day off. He needed to go away before Banner saw him like that. But it was too late. A glass of water was gently pressed against his lips and Christine waited for him to take a sip. It helped, the coldness of it broke a way into his thoughts long enough for Stephen to accept it as a rope throw at someone who was drowning.

Stephen’s sight went back on focus, even if his body was still shaking. “Don’t… Don’t tell the others…” He said, to Bruce, returning his eyes on Christine’s a moment later. “I had to kill him… I was his life of the safety of the Sanctums,” His best friend nodded, even if she probably couldn’t understand a thing of what was going on. “But there must have been another way. I just valued my life more than his and…”

“Steph,” Christine’s voice was soft, while she tentatively moved her hand on Stephen’s neck, dragging him closer into a hug. “Sometimes, people do things they don’t want to do because is what they have to.”

“It’s not your fault,” That came from Bruce, and Stephen could feel Christine relaxing into the hug, despite everything. It was clear that she wasn’t prepared for that kind of conversation. She was great, but those heroes’ matters weren’t her thing, after all. “I don’t want to know what happened until you’ll be ready to speak about that, but I know how you are feeling right now,” A soft smile crossed his lips, and Stephen could say that a memory followed that words as well. “But it was that man or the Earth and while, theoretically, you could have found another way which didn’t imply to kill him, at the moment was the only way. I felt the same, after Ultron. Because it was my fault because we could have reviewed the code once more, because we could have done things differently, because I killed people. Not the other guy, me, Bruce Banner, the Doctor, creating Ultron. Because even if people blamed Tony for that, it was my fault as well,” Stephen knew Bruce was right, and he also knew that trying to tell him it wasn’t was pointless. “And you know the rest of the story, I guess.”

Stephen nodded. “Those victims were on Ultron, not on you,” He said those words over and over again to Tony, every time he woke up after a Sokovia nightmare. “It’s different, you never…”

“I did, Stephen. But, at the end of the day, was the right thing to do. Contain casualties, destroy Ultron,” His voice was sad, and it was clear that he didn’t approve that choice. None of the Avengers did, but it was the best way to put an end on Ultron. “You acted before. You ended a life so that billions could be spared. It doesn't make you a killer.”

“I swore an oath,” He said. He broke it once, in the London Sanctum, and then again. He killed again, and this time blood was on his hands.

“So did I,” Bruce answered. “It won’t be easier, with time, but if you think one of us will think less than you because you had to make a call that ended in killing a man who was trying to take over the Sanctums, well you’re wrong.”

Stephen had no idea why, but he believed Bruce. “And if you think Tony will look at you differently, well, he’ll probably be worried as hell that you could have get hurt in the fight,” Christine intervened again. “Believe me, I’d prefer a fast death that the one Tony Stark reserve to whoever tries to hurt his beloved ones.”

Stephen tried to crack a smile but he felt it still off from his face. Though he nodded and thanked Christine and Bruce, leaving them alone a moment later.

He portalled himself back at the Compound. Christine had given him a washcloth before he left to wipe the blood off of his hands and he tried not to stare at the red on the pristine white before throwing it away while looking for Tony.

The man was in his workshop.

“Hey,” Stephen said, walking him. Tony’s eyes were still worried, and Stephen was frightened of what Tony’s reaction could have been. “Can we speak?”

Tony nodded, rushing over to encircle Stephen in his arms. And Stephen told him all. Crying and panicking all over again, explaining to his boyfriend why he felt so ashamed, he told him everything. Between Tony’s kisses and gentle strokes at his hair and encouragements. Because Tony was the love of his life, and he deserved to know.

[sillyfudgemonkeys]

Also how does Shadow Futaba break the game?

(sorry for taking so long btw, took awhile to type) Oh geez where to begin… Ok I think I should note I did talk about my issues with Shadow Futaba (or at least how I think saying she’s “P4 dungeons but better” is a vast insult to P4 cause no she is not, as well as what I’m about to go in here too but screw it might as well try to restructure my issue on her as a Shadow Self). And I’m only going to talk about the Shadow Self, not the….wholeass issue with how cognition is kind of inconsistent in her dungeon compared to the rest of the game (nor the fact we 100% didn’t need to face the Spinx, the biggest BS fight we are forced to endure when we didn’t have to, second only all the mid bosses in Shido’s dungeon :/).

So like….S!Futaba makes no sense, not sure if I remember saying “break the game” (I probably did), but she does create issues (in both P5 and other games).

So let’s get some points established. Shadows are usually stuff we reject (usually dark/bad but sometimes light/good, S!Futaba is the latter). S!Futaba is the manifestation of Futaba’s will to live, she wants Futaba to live, she also has the positive memories of her mother in her (this isn’t important tho, we’re gonna just focus on the living part cause that’s where the issues are). S!Futaba has no control of her dungeon (due to Futaba’s unstable state I guess). Other Shadow Selves in P5 are shown to be on the same page as their hosts and to be running the show/dungeon (aka they are acting on their desires).

Ok we got it? Good, so where’s the issue. So Futaba’s suppose to be special, not just cause she has a positive Shadow (but that is one thing), but because she has no control over her Palace. Right? So her not having control, would mean she wouldn’t have any influence on Futaba like the other antagonists (for example: Kamoshida, Kamo is def letting his Shadow run wild, Shadow Kamo thinks he’s a king and can do whatever he wants, Kamo irl does the exact same thing irl albeit it in a way he doesn’t get caught outright).

So explain…..why in the every loving fudge does Futaba’s interest line up with S!Futaba? Both don’t want Futaba to really die, that’s why Futaba got in touch with the PT! To keep her from killing herself! If her Shadow was not in control, why would Futaba do something her Shadow would probably want her to do (aka find some sort of help/activate some kind of living instinct)? And we can’t say “oh she was really in control” cause she states she is not. (Cause I mean, if Shadow Futaba embodies Futaba’s will to live, and if she was in control of the Palace, I don’t think Futaba being suicidal would be the issue. If anything the issue would then be that Futaba wants to live so bad, she doesn’t care who might get in her way and will harm other’s to do it…..not sure how without trying to think up unrelated scenarios, tho Suzaku from Code Geass comes to mind, but that’s probably how the extreme desire to live might manifest in a negative-distorted way).

So basically there’s a big issue with no explanation.

We have a character who is rejecting their will to live, and thus a positive shadow self is created to embody it. But that shadow self can’t control the palace, and thus the will of the host and shadow self shouldn’t align…..but some how they do. But how does that make sense? “I don’t want to live and I want to kill myself….but I’ll somehow have enough self preservation to want to still live?” Like……it’s weird. Chie was jealous of Yukiko, but she denied it, and pushed it down, down down down so that she couldn’t wouldn’t acknowledge it, she rejected it, and did things to try to hide the jealousy she didn’t want to acknowledge herself. And was only confronted with it when she was forced to via P4 means. Futaba doesn’t show the same form of rejection to her own life, which makes it really weird she wants to still live, when we’re suppose to believe she doesn’t and her Shadow is the true embodiment of her will/want to live. Cause then were’s the rejecting going on?

There’s also the fact Futaba believes she killed her mom, and the Shadow is supposed to be a rejection of that falsehood (as Futaba didn’t, and representing the truth instead). But for a good portion of the dungeon Shadow Futaba is like “I killed her, I should die, I must die.” And then later she’s like “Lol jk, you totes didn’t kill your mom.” Like pick a thing gdi. Are you being misleading on purpose? Or did the writers just change what you represented half way through? Or did they not realize the implications of their own dialogue? It’s kind a stupid to mislead tbh (and she’s def not helpful, I get you have no control of your palace but you aren’t exactly helping Futaba when we are legit the people who are trying to help Futaba, and Futaba asked and you know this and WHY DO YOU SUCK SO MUCH??? just be more helpful! freaking Metis had more of a reason, no she stated her reason for not trusting SEES, because technically they were going to screw the world over with their guilt/depression. But there’s no reason to distrust the PT, or at least not at least help them more while keeping an eye on them just…..if you had Futaba’s best interests in mind, you’d take the help that was being given a bit more seriously), anyway, it’d make more sense if Shadow Futaba was like “Futaba thinks she killed her mother” instead of “I killed my mom”.

There’s also the fact we have another character who is suicidal in P5 and the way their shadow acts is…..very….very different. While we never see it, it’s heavily implied by the game that Shiho’s shadow is what drove her to attempted suicide in the beginning. But that’s…..strange….. We have Futaba, who has no will to live (at this point theoretically cause the game’s not backing it up what it’s stating anymore, cause again, her Shadow IS her will to live and Shadows are made by rejecting shit so *flips table*). But Shiho’s seems to be embodied by her rejection to her want for death as a means for escape her pain/prison (as Shiho also stated, she didn’t wish to die she wanted to live but also wanted to escape and rejected the idea of killing herself as a means until it became too much). As she said, it felt like someone was whispering in her ear to just do it. And…..that feels more logical as a Shadow Self tbh, she rejects it, but soon succumbs to the shadow (similar to other Palace owners and Mementos bosses do, they succumb to their desire for something, in this case it was probably Shiho’s desire for escape). But why is it so different? Shiho wants to live and rejects death as a means of escape before giving into that desire like so many other Metaverse Shadows and Hosts (aka their desires line up). But Futaba, who apparently rejects living and has a Palace her Shadow can’t control (and thus doesn’t seem to be able to influence Futaba), yet somehow they are on enough of a page to seek help….despite so much apparently working against them…..and there’s no explanation.

Now if Futaba was similar to Shiho, and she was rejecting the idea of killing herself, but her Shadow was the embodiment of her suicidal tendencies she was ignoring. That’d be one thing. Sure she wouldn’t be a Positive Shadow, but it’d at least make sense without trying to bend itself over backwards at the very best, and at the very worst bending over backwards to just fail and create issues and never fix them (which seems to be the case imo). Or you know, just focus on her mom issues and just……nothing to do with the suicidal bs? That part is a bit cleaner, well on Futaba’s end, Shadow Futaba is being wishy washy with her fudging dialogue so who the fudge knows. Or you know, if they wanted to full lean into the positive shadow thing, have Futaba actually not reaching out for help but someone else (maybe Sojiro, or maybe Tae might even know about her) and asking on the Phansite for help with a suicidal girl. That would mean S!Futaba can still be positive, and it doesn’t cause issues with irl Futaba (and they can keep the rest in the dungeon relatively the same, I mean make S!Futaba not be wishy washy with some of the stuff she says but other than that it’d work out better lore/world building wise).

There’s also the fact she sucks as a positive shadow self. She’s emotionless compared to Metis, and sucks at trying to protect her host unlike Metis. For a Shadow that’s really concerned for her host, she doesn’t really show it, nor does she make too much of an attempt. This isn’t so much game breaking as much of a disappointment character/writing wise she is (as both a positive Shadow Self, and just a Shadow Self in general). Like, shit, tbh Metis is basically Aigis’ will to live too (as well as emotions), since Aigis was basically just going to off herself (well basically, she’s gonna turn herself off) at the end of the day too, with Metis being like “Hell no *ties a bunch of pillows and bubble wrap around Aigis* YOU ARE GONNA LIVE, I’M GONNA PROTECT YOU! AND IF ANYTHING HAPPENS TO YOU, LIKE IF YOU DIE, I’M GOING TO KILL EVERYONE IN THIS ROOM AND THEN  MYSELF! BUT THAT’S NOT GOING TO HAPPEN BECAUSE YOU ARE GONNA LIVE TOASTER-ONEE-CHAN!” Like writing wise, S!Futaba is such a downgrade from Metis, like I’m sure some might find Metis annoying, but god DAMN did that Shadow have conviction. And like while I think it’s just bad character writing on S!Futaba’s end, you could very well make the argument that it might be a world building issue too. Aka, “They’re basically the same kind of shadow but they don’t…….act or react in the same way…” And like when I mean same, I don’t mean they need to be exactly the same beat for beat. S!Futaba could totally be a bit more chill than Metis, but having similar consistency to Metis would….just make more sense than not having similar consistency.

[worryinglyinnocent]

Fic: A Beginning, Of Sorts

Summary: You know, I can’t even remember where this prompt came from but it cropped up in conversation after this fic involving Nick and Gloria roleplaying an escort and client. Some of us were talking about how terrible Rush would be as an escort, and someone else ( @woodelf68 perhaps?) said that they could actually see it working as a method for him to fund himself through college – minimal investment of time for maximum financial return.

Anyway, wherever it came from, this is the finished product. Nicholas Rush meets Gloria when she hires him as to escort her to a fancy party one evening…

Rated: M – fade to black, but adult themes.

=====

A Beginning, Of Sorts

Nick sighs, pushes his glasses down his nose to be able to rub the bridge, and readjusts them before looking again at the paperwork spread out in front of him, trying to make sense of it all.

PhD’s are fucking hard work. He loves maths, he loves physics, he honestly does, but right now there are numbers swimming in front of his eyes and he really doesn’t think that he’s going to get anything vaguely useful out of it tonight. With a grunt of pain from the ache in his neck, he leans back in his chair and closes his eyes, wondering whether to get some more coffee and try and plough on with it, or give it up as a bad job. He’s worked twice this week already so he thinks that he’s allowed to be knackered.

The phone, shrill and urgent and unrelenting, bursts into angry life and Nick rolls his shoulders before going to answer it. There’s only one person who’d be calling this number at this time, and he’s not entirely sure he wants to answer. Maybe he should let it go to answerphone and he’ll pick it up in the morning when he’s less tired. Maybe he should just pretend to be out, but unfortunately he’s not exactly known for being a social butterfly. Pushing these other welcome notions aside, he grabs the receiver.

“Rush.”

“Hey Nick, it’s Liz.”

He knew that it was going to be Liz. She sounds even more tired than he does. Liz isn’t her real name, he knows that much, but he’s never pried into what her name actually is.

“Hi Liz.”

“Diary says you’re available Saturday night, is that still the case?”

Nick looks down at his paperwork. Of course he’s available Saturday night, it’s not like he has a hot date with anyone except these equations, and they’re not exactly the best company. True, they’re quiet and they share all his own interests, as far as theoretical physics is concerned, but they don’t really make small talk and you can’t really wine and dine a sheaf of papers. On the other hand… He rolls his neck again, feeling the catch. He’s just so damned tired at the moment.

Still, any work is good work, and even scholarship students need to eat and sleep.

“Yeah, I’m still available.”

“Great. I’ve got a job for you.”

“When, where, who.” He doesn’t really waste on small talk with Liz. She’s calling to give him an appointment, and anything else in their interaction is somewhat awkward.

“Saturday night at seven-thirty, a young lady by the name of Gloria Miller. She wants to meet you at the Palace Hotel bar for a chat but then you’ll be going elsewhere, she wants an escort to a fancy family party out of town. Play at being the boyfriend, you know.”

Nick raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t usually get escorting jobs that involve actual escorting. He’s really not the most social person in the world, and he’s really not the most social person on Liz’s books. Sex he can do – very well even if he does say so himself. Interacting with other people… Not so great.

“Are you sure I’m the right person for this one?” he asks.

“Well, the only other guy I have available on Saturday is Danny and he’s even more of a no-go for social events than you are. Besides, she sounded nervous and he’d send her running for the hills.”

Nick has to give a snort at that. Danny caters for rather more specialised tastes.

“I can trust you with this one, can’t I? I think she just needs someone to prop her up for an evening in the face of disapproving relatives. Just be polite and attentive and keep her drink topped up, and neatly deflect any questions about when the two of you are getting married and having kids.”

“Yeah, ok.” Well, that shouldn’t be too difficult. He wonders why Miss Miller has felt the need to hire company for the evening, but decides that it’s really none of his business and he’s not paid to think about those kind of things. “I’ll be there. Dress code?”

“Smart, but not super formal. Suit and tie.”

Nick wrinkles his nose. He hates wearing ties and tries to get away without one as much as humanly possible. He only ever wears them when he’s working and even then, if he can go without he will. Unfortunately, Liz can read his silence.

“You’re wearing a damn tie, Rush.”

“All right, all right. Saturday, half-seven at the Palace. How long?”

“She’s paid up till midnight, thinks the party will be breaking up by then.” There’s a long pause at the other end of the line. “I know I don’t have to tell you this but take condoms and lube just in case. You never know.”

“Of course, Liz.”

“Payment like usual. Have fun.”

“Thanks, Liz.”

They say their goodbyes and Nick puts down the phone, staring at it for a few minutes before getting up and padding through to the kitchenette to make a fresh mug of coffee. If he’s sacrificing Saturday night to the tune of getting paid, he’ll need to keep working on these equations tonight.

X

The Palace Hotel isn’t the most expensive place his client could have chosen, but it’s certainly not the cheapest, and he wonders how old she is and how she came to be blowing her savings on hiring an escort and buying ridiculously priced cocktails in this bar. Nick readjusts his tie and takes a good look around the room, eyeing up the possible clients. He picks her out straight away. She’s sitting at the bar with a Margarita that she’s not drinking, and she meets his eyes as soon as he walks in. She’s the only one here alone, and Nick takes a moment to study her from afar before he goes over.

She’s fairly young, mid-twenties at most; his own age. That’ll make selling the fake relationship a bit easier. Long legs and soft curves encased in a classy, well-fitting little black dress. Honey-blonde hair pinned up, and pale skin. She’s very pretty, and Nick wonders again why she needs an escort for the evening.

Still, nothing to be gained by staring at her from the doorway, so he goes over.

“Miss Miller?”

She nods. “Please, call me Gloria. You must be Hamish. Thanks for coming.”

Nick admits that Hamish probably isn’t the best professional alias he could have chosen for himself, but since he’s so obviously Scottish, as Liz reminds him frequently, he thought that the best thing to do would be to play up that Scottishness. As long as none of his clients ask him to wear a kilt because he doesn’t actually own one and the last time he wore one, he was told that he looked terrible in it. When he first started in the job he had a terrible fear of being asked to wear a kilt and nothing else, because romantic fiction and ridiculous novel covers have a lot to answer for when it comes to the unnecessary objectification of Scotsmen.

“My pleasure,” he replies. He really hates parties. He hates most social occasions in general, but since this pays the bills and is earning him his PhD, he’s going to have to give in with good grace and be on his best behaviour during this one. Unless, of course, Gloria wants him to play at being an absolute arse in order to get her family off her back, the objective being that after him they’ll be happy with whoever she ends up with. Some of the more experienced escorts have had that kind of a job before, with clients who aren’t out to their parents. On the other hand, that might well backfire and lead to the awkward situation of her being put under even more pressure to replace the highly inappropriate ‘boyfriend’ and take up with someone better.

“Can I get you a drink?” Gloria asks.

Nick shakes his head. He doesn’t like drinking too much when he’s working because he likes to be fully alert and aware of his surroundings, and although he’s not been to all that many swanky parties in his time, he knows that there’s likely to be a lot of alcohol once they get there.

“Did the woman at the agency tell you what I wanted?” Gloria continues. “About the party, I mean.”

“She told me that there was going to be a party, but she didn’t give me any details.”

“It’s my grandparents,” Gloria elucidates. “They live about seven miles out of the city. They have a big pre-Christmas party every year, loads of family, friends, influential business people.” Her voice hardens on the last few words. “And every year so far since I moved out, I’ve turned up without a date, and my grandmother tries to set me up with any number of godawful would-be suitors, as if I only exist to be married off and continue the family line, and…” She breaks off. “Sorry. I shouldn’t be saying all this.”

Nick just shrugs. “You can say whatever you like, it makes no difference to me. I’m here for you, not any of your relations.”

“At any rate, this year I was determined not to turn up on my own and that’s where you come in.” She pauses. “I wanted to meet you here before so we could work out a reasonable cover story. I’m doing my Education Masters at the university, we met there.”

Nick nods. “Yes, that’s easy enough.” He wonders if their paths have ever crossed before. “What was your Bachelor?”

“Music. I play the violin; my aim is to get into an orchestra. Teaching’s a backup in case that dream falls through. You? I don’t mean in real life, obviously.”

“PhD,” Nick replies. “Which is technically the truth. You can pick the subject. Just nothing involving foreign languages, or I’ll be fucked,” he adds.

There’s a lot less nervousness in Gloria’s features now, and as she smiles, taking a sip of her margarita, her face lights up.

“Maths,” she says eventually. “You look like the mathematical sort.” She cocks her head on one side and smiles. “Am I even close to being right?”

Nick quirks an eyebrow. “That would be telling. Anything else I need to know?”

“My grandpa made his money in antiques, my dad carried on from him, and all the women in my family are professional wives.” She snorts. “They really want me to settle down, so there’ll probably be a bunch of questions about when we’re going to get married and how many kids we’ll have. If I can say one thing for my family, they’re very… eager.”

Nick just laughs. He thinks he’s going to get on with Gloria. They’re more alike than he thought would be possible, considering their vastly disparate backgrounds, but despite her obvious privilege, she seems grounded enough. He’s met enough of the other sort during the course of his ‘career’. Burning Daddy’s money away and coasting along through their classes.

“We should probably get going,” Gloria says, draining the last of her drink. “They’ll be expecting us soon.” She pauses. “I think you should know, before we go, that a bit of me is just doing this to spite my dad. He gave me a ‘dress allowance’ and told me to go and get ‘something pretty for the party’. So I did.” She pauses. “Sorry, that’s horribly insensitive.”

Nick shrugs. “It’s true, in the most brutal sense of the word.” Her frankness is refreshing, and so is her apology.

“Yes, but it’s still not a very nice thing for me to have said.”

“We’ll say no more about it. I’m flattered that you think I’m pretty.”

“Oh, you’re very pretty.” She slips her arm through his and they leave the hotel bar; there’s a taxi waiting. The drive to her grandparents’ house is quiet and awkward, but Nick’s sure that once they’re there, the uncomfortable atmosphere will dissipate a little as it will no longer be just the two of them. He’s going to be completely out of his depth, of course, but that’s par for the course, and as the newcomer to the family, no-one’s going to expect him to be the life and soul of the party in a hurry. At least, he really hopes not. As they pull up to the drive, Gloria begins to speak again and with the taxi idling outside the door, they work out a few last minute details so that they don’t end up giving all the relatives two subtly different versions of the same story. They don’t need to know everything about each other, this fake relationship doesn’t have to have been going on very long. There’s no need to fake true love and wedding bells on the horizon, just enough of a familiarity not to be suspicious. Although, Nick thinks as they walk in through the front door and he sees the vast amounts of alcohol around the place, he doesn’t think that anyone’s going to be in a position to call attention to anything suspicious any time soon.

“I’ll try and keep you close as much as possible,” Gloria says. “It would be unfair to leave you to be mobbed by all my relatives.”

She introduces him to everyone in short order, and Nick knows that he hasn’t got a cat in hell’s chance of remembering any names, so he just decides to be the arm candy that he was hired to be, keeping his mouth shut as much as possible and listening politely to all the conversations going on that he really doesn’t understand. People are talking about investments and banking on one side and probing Gloria for information about her future plans on the other side, and Nick can quite see why she needed an ally for the evening. It must be incredibly daunting for anyone to come here alone and be met with such a barrage of information and questioning from well-meaning family members who don’t really mean all that well. The main person that he has to fend off is Gloria’s grandmother, who seems to have taken quite a shine to him. Then again, from what Gloria’s told him, she would probably take a shine to any man that Gloria turned up with for the simple reason that he has the ability to get her granddaughter pregnant and produce some great-grandchildren.

“I’ve tried telling her at least sixty times that I don’t want kids, at least not until I’m thirty,” she mutters once they finally manage to extricate themselves from Grandma Miller’s grasp and are hiding out of the way of everyone behind the grandfather clock in the hall. Gloria’s on her third glass of champagne already and she knocks back the dregs. “I really hate these things. But I’m very glad you’re here.”

“I haven’t exactly done much,” Nick points out. “I’m just quiet and respectable boyfriend Hamish.”

“I know, but you exist tangibly which is the main thing, and I can always talk to you and block out everyone else. And I can complain about all my relatives to you and you won’t be offended.”

Nick laughs. “No, although you might be if I share my opinions of some of them to you. It’s all right when you’re complaining about your own family but it’s a different thing if it’s someone else doing it. It’s a bit like Scotland, I suppose. We all make disparaging remarks about various bits of our culture but as soon as someone south of the border makes those same comments, well…”

Gloria smiles. “Yeah, I know what you mean.” She glances back towards the living room where most of the party is gathered, and she sags in her high heels a little. “Do we have to go back in?”

Nick shrugs. “It’s your party and your time,” he reminds her. “I’ll just go along with whatever you do.”

Gloria looks at him sideways, twirling the stem of her champagne flute between her fingers.

“You don’t like these events, do you?”

“Honestly? No. I’m not usually first choice for this kind of thing. But I’m here.”

“Yeah, we’re both here and we’re both miserable. Come on, let’s hide. We’re both consenting adults and apparently in love, I don’t think anyone’s going to come looking for us.”

Gloria grabs his hand and leads him up the stairs; from some of the noises coming from behind closed doors, they’re not the only ones who have decided to leave the party and get up to no good. Although, Nick reasons, he doesn’t know what this particular little excursion with Gloria is going to lead to. She takes him into a small bedroom, a little bleak and sparse, no personal touches in it.

“It’s my room when I stay over,” she explains, opening the window to let some cool night air in and sitting on the windowsill, rummaging around in her little clutch bag and taking out cigarettes and a fancy lighter. “Do you mind?”

Nick shakes his head. “Not at all. I brought my own.”

Gloria laughs and pats the windowsill across from her, offering her lighter, and Nick takes it. The first drag is just what he needs after the tension in the party downstairs.

“Your name’s not really Hamish, is it?” Gloria asks presently.

“No. But I’d rather not tell you what it really is.”

“Fair enough.”

This moment here, sitting smoking in a room lit only by moonlight, is the most comfortable and relaxed that Nick’s been with Gloria all evening, and the silence that settles between them isn’t awkward like it had been before. There’s an unspoken understanding between them; he’s not really sure where it came from but it’s there and it’s nice. It’ll make the rest of the time go easily.

Gloria finishes her cigarette and leans back in the window, looking out over the vast garden beyond, and occasionally glancing back at him, her head on one side, considering him. Nick raises an eyebrow.

“What’s up?”

“I’m wondering whether it would be bad form to kiss you,” Gloria says frankly, and whilst Nick wasn’t sure what he was expecting, he’s fairly certain it wasn’t that. “Because you’re not at all how I was expecting and you’re very handsome, and I’d like to kiss you.”

Nick certainly wouldn’t mind if she kissed him. She’s certainly very lovely and his feelings towards her are positive, rather than the usual neutrality he tends to maintain with clients. He likes her.

“I’d be up for that,” he admits.

“I’m glad.”

She’s firm in her kiss, she knows what she wants, and she tastes of smoke and alcohol like so many women do. She smells expensive, like so many women do. But she’s different somehow. There’s a realness to her, which is ironic considering that the entire time he’s been with her he’s been playing a role. But there’s no pretence to her now, not like the bright, smiling, perfect daughter she had been downstairs. He likes her, it’s as simple as that, and that makes this experience so much more enjoyable for all the many, many times he has done it.

So he keeps kissing her, and she keeps kissing him back, and there’s a champagne brightness in her eyes when she pulls away, a brightness that Nick recognises all too well. It’s a good job that Liz warned him to bring condoms just in case.

X

“We should probably get back to the party.”

They’re sitting in Gloria’s four-foot single bed, Nick at the head and Gloria leaning against the wall, propped up on pillows, the ashtray on the covers between them. He doesn’t really have any desire to move, and he knows that whatever time they get back to the party, people are going to be giving them looks that immediately say that they know what they got up to whilst they were absent, but Nick really couldn’t care less about that, and to all intents and purposes, Gloria doesn’t seem to care too much about it either. But the clock is ticking down, and soon he’ll have to leave because her payment will have run out.

“Aye, we probably should.”

It’s with obvious reluctance that Gloria gets out of the bed and puts her clothes back on without self-consciousness and Nick follows her lead. Once they get back down into the main party room, it’s clear that a lot of the guests have already left. They get the usual looks, a mixture of disapproval from some of the elderly relatives and indulgent ‘they’re hot-blooded young things’ sentiment from the others. Gloria’s mother chastises her for skipping out on so much of the party and Nick listens to her deflect the veiled barbs in a wonderful display of passive aggression that he couldn’t have bettered himself. Finally, she manages to get him out of the door and into a taxi that’ll take him back to the Palace.

“Thank you,” she says as they part. “For everything. I’ve had fun tonight. Well, the bits when we weren’t at the party were fun. And the party was less awful than usual. So thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

The taxi slides quietly into the night, and Nick glances back over his shoulder through the rear window at Gloria standing in the driveway, and he wonders if he’ll ever bump into her again.

X

It’s a new year and a new term and a couple of months have passed with Nick trying very much not to think about Gloria when he sees her suddenly, and suddenly, everything changes and he has no idea what to do with himself because he’s walking in one direction with his coffee and she’s walking in the other direction with her violin case and it’s inevitable that they’re going to meet in the middle of the street. She recognises him just before they collide with each other and smiles.

“Hello. How are you?”

Nick’s still somewhat stunned but manages to answer.

“Fine, thanks. You?”

“I’m good. It’s been a little while, hasn’t it?”

No-one would know that they were talking about an escorting appointment, but either way, it’s clear that they remember each other and they have been thinking about each other in the interim. Nick’s not the best at small talk, something that Liz has despaired of in the past, but they chat for a couple of minutes.

“Do you maybe want to get a coffee later?” she asks presently.

“I…” He really doesn’t know what to say to that because he does want to, but at the same time… “You know what I do in my spare time,” he warns her.

Gloria nods. “I do. It’s how we met, remember.” She shrugs. “It’s just coffee.”

Just coffee. He can do just coffee. God, he spends so much of his working life around the opposite sex that one would think that he’d know what to say to them when he meets one he knows in the street. He nods.

“All right then. That sounds good. Tuesday night?”

“Great. Although there’s one thing. I know you’re not called Hamish, but can I maybe get your actual name before we meet again?”

Nick gives a snort of laughter. “It’s Nick.”

“Pleased to meet you, Nick. I’ll see you Tuesday.”

It’s a beginning of something, Nick’s pretty sure of that as they continue down the road on their separate ways. It’s a pretty strange beginning, and he’s not sure what it’s the beginning of yet, but it’s definitely a beginning.

[no-droids]

A Show of Good Faith

Part Six of the Rough Day Series

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 7.1k what i fuckin tell yall

Warnings: SMUT, rough sex, dirty talk, creampie, canon-typical violence, slight description of blood/injury

***

Isn’t it weird that nobody really ever talks about what happens immediately after you have a dead body in front of you?

It’s the part leading up to it that’s usually the most crucial, obviously.  The adrenaline of the actual moment is overwhelming—you react without thinking, danger pumping through your veins alongside your blood and sharpening your survival instincts until they’re deadly.  You do what you have to do to stay alive, nothing more.  So it’s not really until you have a still moment with the evidence of your actions right there in front of you, glassy-eyed and staring lifelessly up at the ceiling, that you suddenly don’t know what to do.

Shocking is a word.

Debilitating is another.

Things… things come in flashes.  You have blood on your hands; it’s thick and cold and electric blue in color, not dark or warm or crimson.  One of them is vibrating violently, clutched around something heavy and clunky and unfamiliar, something with a handle made to fit a six-fingered grip.  The kid is passed out in your other arm after expelling all his energy helping you take down the brutal assailant, choking him with… with some unknown baby shaman toad powers and holding him in place so you could grab this knife and you could… and you could…

The body of the man you just stabbed lays in a bloody pile on the floor in front of you.  It was self-defense, but the reasoning behind it doesn’t take anything away from the gore, the blank state of shock rendering you motionless for Maker knows how long.

Corellia is a fucking shithole, you knew that coming in.  If it was a sewer even with the Empire’s shipbuilding industry boosting the economy, it’s even worse after its collapse.  To circumvent any unnecessary danger or attention, you chose to land the ship in one of the dense forest areas on the outskirts of the tracking fob’s radius.  But unluckily for you, rats like forests just as much as they like sewers, and one of them apparently crawled his way onto the vessel a few minutes ago.

You drop the vibroblade to the floor with a clatter and slide down the hull wall, clutching the baby to your chest and trying to calm your breathing.  There could be more of his friends close by.  What you should do is climb into the cockpit and find somewhere else to lay low, send Mando a coded message with word of your new location.

But there’s a dead body in front of you.

And it’s… it’s dead.

Strangely, you default to something you’ve never actually done before.  Something you probably shouldn’t ever do, in case your companion is in stealth mode or trying to hide from something, because it’ll immediately give away his position.  You could theoretically get him killed, but you’re not thinking straight.

Your wrist trembles as you hold it in front of your lips.  “Uh… M-Man-Mando?”

The sound of blaster fire and grunting crackles through your emergency comm link, before you hear a quick, breathless, “What’s wrong?” come through the speaker.

“It, uh—” you stare down at the oddly-colored blood on your fingers, wondering how you voice is able to come out so calmly, “it s-sounds like you’re busy, I’ll—I’ll just—”

More grunting.  A thud.  “Tell me what’s wrong.”

You’re at a loss for words.  You take a second to look down at the dead body, before lifting your wrist back up to your mouth.  “I’m o-okay now, but I… but someone followed me into the Crest and he tried to… I-I mean he’s—he’s dead now, but—”

“Are you hurt?”  He suddenly sounds urgent.  It’s ridiculous that he didn’t actually sound urgent until now.  “Is the kid hurt?”

“We’re—we’re both fine, but…”  You look down at the child in your arms.  “But the baby did something I—I c-can’t explain—and now he’s… I-I think he's asleep…”

“Good,” he replies shortly.  You can hear him running now, pounding footsteps and heavy, quick breaths.  Another blaster shot.  “We need to get out of here.  Rendezvous Sector-15, soon as you can.  You’ll see me.”

“Do I…”  Maker, you sound like an absolute idiot.  “Do I just… just leave the body here, or…?”

“I’ll take care of it when you get here.”  He doesn’t sound frustrated with you, but for some reason you feel incredibly frustrated with yourself.  You should be able to pull yourself together, but your hands are all tingly and you can’t actually feel your fingers unless you really work for it.  Stars, when’s the last time you actually blinked?  “Can you fly?”  

You don’t respond.  You don’t even feel like you can stand up right now.  The blaster shots scream through the crackling comm link for a second, and then you jump when he barks your name even louder than the gunfire.

“—Listen to me,” he urges, and you blink rapidly, the seriousness of his low growl hitting you right in the chest.  “You can fly.  Understand?  Get the kid, get in the cockpit, put your seatbelt on.  Fly out to me, right now.  We’re leaving.”

His voice doesn’t call for argument.  It’s abrasive and rough and unquestionable enough to get through to you.  Of course you can fly, you can fly with your fucking eyes closed.  Coming that firmly and doubtlessly from him, it’s a universal truth.

“Copy.  Sec-Sector-15.”  You say, adrenaline beginning to pump blood through your veins again.  Just.  Just don’t look at the body, okay?  Don’t look at the body, you can do this if you don’t look at the body.  “I’ll see you?”

“You’ll see me,” he repeats.  And then the noise cuts off with a click.

You struggle up to your feet, heart pounding.  You can do this.  You can totally do this.  You can walk, because you can fly.  Duh.  Mando said so.

You admittedly almost fall a couple steps down the latter while trying to climb up it one-handed, the baby held tightly to your chest, but you’re eventually able to get the both of you into the cockpit.  The kid is carefully buckled into his little booster seat before you’re collapsing shakily into the pilot’s chair and swiveling forward.

Okay.  Flight check.  Now.  To your left, flip down these few switches here—one two three four five—okay, good.  To your right, press those two buttons sitting just above the nav console.  Yep, got it.  Up top now, those two red ones overhead.  Good.  Good, you can do this.  Type coordinates into the nav comp.  Sector-15, locked.  Easy.  This is easy.  That big, knobless lever to your right—yes, the one with the exposed threading at the end, push that long metal stick forward and set thrusters to full.  Okay.  Left thruster, looks good.  Right looks good, too.  Okay.  Seatbelt… seatbelt is… Seatbelt: on.  Hatch: sealed.  Shields: engaged.  Flight check complete.  Now all you have to do is take off.

Now all you have to do is take off.

All you have to do… is…

You stare down at the joystick in front of you blankly.

And then you shake your head back and forth frantically, hoping the rapid movement will jar some sense into you.  Maker, get it the fuck together.  What did Mando hire you for?  You told him you were useful, didn’t you?  This is what you do.  You fly.  So fucking fly, yeah?

You lift the ship off the ground and immediately take her around southeast, taking deep breaths and feeling the powerful rumble beneath your chair.  Yeah, you can do this.  Don’t think about the blood on your hands, the dark streaks of sickly purple now smudged all over the controls.  Don’t think about the dead body in the hull.  Don’t think about how you’re the reason it’s dead.  Just fly the ship.  This is something you can do.

You coast over the thick treetops and into the industrial sector, carefully scanning the gritty streets below.  You don’t know what he meant when he said you’ll see him—until you suddenly see him.  Smack in the middle of the airspace, rising phoenix strapped to his back and hovering a few hundred feet above absolute chaos wreaking havoc in the slums below.  Blaster flares light up the night sky, though the sparks and flash grenades illuminating the dirty Corellian streets have nothing on the beauty of seeing those small twin jets in the darkness, the ones beginning to fly towards the ship.

“Got eyes,” his voice says through the comm link.  Relief pounds through you.  Stars, relief shouldn’t feel like this much of a struggle for your cardiovascular system, should it?

“Beginning deceleration,” you confirm breathlessly, slowing down and pressing a few buttons to open the hatch with your free hand.  You bring both of them back down to swing her around until he’s got a clear path, feeling the ship dip just slightly with the sudden weight of him dropping in.

“Landed,” he grunts.  “Set course for Nevarro.”

You floor it and elevate the Crest up through Corellia’s smoggy atmosphere, punching in coordinates in the meantime.  The ship dips just a touch once more while the computer takes a few seconds to calculate a hyperspace path, and your eyebrows narrow before it quickly pulls back up again.  It’s not until you see the manual hatch override indicator light blink next to the nav console that you realize he must’ve dumped the body before closing the door himself.

Well, that’s one way to handle that, you suppose.

The computer beeps quietly when it’s finished.  “Standby for jump,” you tell your wrist.

“Copy.”

You triple-check the positive seal integrity readings before your hand is reaching for the double-reinforced hyperjump control, still trembling slightly.  You lean all your weight forward into it, trying to keep your arm from buckling as the stars slowly shift across the observation shield for a split second, before you’re being hurled into the interdimensional wormhole.

Quiet.  Hyperspace is fucking quiet.  You forget, sometimes.  Not how quiet it is—but how loud everything else is, not until you’re hurtling through the closest thing to purgatory you’ll ever experience in life.  It looks… indescribable, even after the thousandth time.  Empty space collapsing in front of you and expanding behind you simultaneously.  Starlight streaking across the windows, space-time curving around the ship faster than the ship itself is moving through it.  You take a moment to consider it as you unbuckle yourself shakily, before standing up and checking the seat behind you.

The kid is still knocked out cold, but you press the button to close the shield to his crib just in case, setting an alarm protocol to Mando’s remote arm brace should it open.  

And then you slowly make your way around bulky cockpit chairs and down into the hull, shakily climbing down the ladder one step at a time.  As soon as you turn around, there’s a caped wall of beskar rummaging through something with his back to you.

“Did you…”  You announce yourself while looking around, trying not to sound as small as you feel.  This is a such stupid question, you already know what he did with the body.  But you… you should make sure, right?  “You already took care of… of the…”

“Yeah.”  Mando spins around and pulls out the cot from the wall at the same time, and you jump when the bed rattles loudly on its track and ricochets a few inches backwards after reaching its full extension.  He quickly makes his way around it and over to you.  “It’s gone.  Come here, you’re hurt.”

“I’m f-fine,” you insist, feeling your hands shake when he abruptly grabs the left one and turns it over, pulling your wrist out towards him and up to the light so you both can see.  “What about the qua—oh.”

There’s a long, ragged slice decorating the inside of your forearm, dried blood staining the ripped fabric along your sleeve.  You blink down at it, not able to recognize its pain even with the evidence of the injury in front of you.  It doesn’t look deep, but its edges are a little nasty and it’s still bleeding.  Why can’t you feel it?  Shouldn’t you be able to feel that?

He makes a noise through his helmet—something you can’t quite figure it out.  Something between a short growl and a low huff of breath, before he’s grabbing your hips and steering you over towards the bed, lifting you up and setting you on its suspended platform when you’re close enough.

“Didn’t find the quarry,” the Mandalorian says quietly, turning around and looking through the first aid kit once more.

“You didn’t find the…”  You blink down at your injury.  He didn’t even find the quarry?  But then what was all that ruckus about?  And why are you going back to Nevarro to collect payment?  Shouldn’t you be turning around and… and…?

He’s suddenly in front of you again, and this time he’s got a… a syringe in his hands?  An E-bacta shot, you realize with an uncomfortable jolt.  He pulls the cap off and sets it down on the bed next to you before holding out his gloved hand for you, waiting patiently but expectantly.

“No,” you immediately tell him, heart beginning to pump faster as you bring your arm up and hug it to your chest.  You didn’t even know those things were street legal—they heal incredibly quickly but people have been known to abuse them because… well, because they’re supposed to give you a wicked fucking high.  Bacta isn’t addictive and there’s no possibility of overdose, but this shit is concentrated.  You can’t imagine how expensive it was.  “Don’t b-be ridiculous, Mando—you—you almost bled out from a knife wound and we didn’t use one of those.”

“What do you think that is?”  He looks down at your arm.

“It’s a scratch!”  You exclaim, starting to feel a bit hysterical now from the adrenaline comedown.  Maker, that needle is big.  You knew bacta injections were thick but holy fucking stars.  “It doesn’t even h-hurt!  I could’ve… I could’ve done this to myself on accident for all I—”

“This has boosted antibiotics, too,” he cuts you off, quickly losing his patience and grabbing your wrist when you still don’t hand it over to him.  He levers your forearm down, holding it parallel to the floor on your lap.  “We don’t have any bacta kits left, I looked.  This’ll work fast and it won’t scar.  Hold still.”

“No—” you try to pull your hand away, hating the way your voice jumps when you’re aiming for calm and reasonable.  “—I’ll be fine, w-we shouldn’t waste th—”

He tightens his grip.  “Listen.  This isn’t a scratch.  It’s a torn laceration from a dirty Corellian vibroblade.  Now I’m giving you at least a quarter dose, so hold,” he tugs your wrist forward, “still.”

You see the large needle heading towards your arm with determination and you’re instantly going rigid with panic, whipping your head away from him and squeezing your eyes shut as you suck in a terrified breath.

You wait like a statue for the pain, frozen in anticipation and fright, but it never comes.  Slowly peeking one eye open, you look back to find a chrome visor staring intently at you, unmoving.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” you eventually gasp when he doesn’t say anything, and Maker, are your eyes actually starting to water?  “I-I’m sorry, I’m just—that’s a b-big needle and—and I actually just k-k-killed someone and it’s just—” oh stars, here come the sniffles, “—I’m s-so sorry, I’m trying t-to keep it—keep it togeth—”

He carefully places the syringe down on the bed next to you as you turn your head away from him and try to stifle your short, panicked breaths with the back of your hand.  But then you’re being caught and pulled forward, hauled into an iron chest without a single word.

It should be uncomfortable, you think.  You should want to take the armor off and feel the muscles of his arms wrap themselves tight around you instead of cold metal, but for some reason, you don’t.  He feels… right like this.  Like the beskar is a natural extension of his body, like it holds just as much comfort as his bare chest does.

The Mandalorian stands there between your knees and silently embraces you, holding stoic and steady for you, tilting his head so you can calm your breathing into the crook of his neck.  It’s covered in fabric but it smells like him, warm and soft and damp with sweat.  You breathe him in, clutching him tight with your uninjured arm and feeling your heartbeat gradually begin to slow as it’s pressed against cool metal.

“E-bacta has calming properties,” he says quietly after a moment.  “It’ll help more than this.”

“Shut up.”  You mutter against his throat, doing everything you can to drown yourself in him.  Maker, he smells good.  He just got finished bringing down an entire Corellian sector, why the fuck does he smell so good?  “I'm not—not letting you stick that thing in me.”

“Yeah?”  He returns softly, dragging a hand up your back.  “Bet I can make you want it.”

“Not happening,” you grunt, tightening your hold on him.  “You’ll put regular bandages on my arm until we can resupply on Nevarro and save that torture device for another poor soul who needs it.”

“This isn’t over,” he eventually warns you, gently pulling away.  He turns around and starts picking out gauze and tape from the first aid kit regardless.  “I was just blindsided.  Tears don’t work on me, but.  Don’t ever do that to me again.”

You relax, smiley and dopey-eyed and happily sticking your arm out for him for whenever he comes back, so fucking glad he gave in.  You’ll get bacta on Nevarro, that sounds perfect.  “So… so all that fuss and you didn’t actually find the quarry?”

“Someone tried to take off my helmet,” Mando replies shortly, starting to rip open a few packets of sterile gauze strips without looking at you.  And then he doesn’t say anything more, like that should be explanation enough.

“Ah.”  You remark after a second, thinking about how many blaster fires you saw.  Maker.  “I see.”

What a pair you two make.  Someone who went into shock from hurting another person in defense of your life, and someone who brought an entire block down because another person tried to take his helmet off.  

Something he’s done with you twice now.  Without ever being prompted.

Stars, you’re both so different, aren’t you?  Such massively different problems, different ways of life.  You’re suddenly struck with how much you could learn from him, if he was ever willing to share.  How much the both of you could probably learn from each other.  His assertiveness; your humanity.  His decisiveness; your consideration.  His secrets; your honesty.  None of them are true opposites, not in the way people normally think.  They’re not polarizing, they’re… complimentary.  Filling in the gaps neither one of you can fill in yourself.

“Does that scare you?”  He finally asks, when you’ve been quiet for too long.

“No,” you tell him blankly, watching his hands work.  “Just… no.  Not really.  I mean.  It makes sense.  Was just thinking about how different life must be for you.”  You tilt your head thoughtfully.  “Showing my face, telling people my name.  Things I take for granted, I think.”

Maker, maybe you’re getting a little too honest here.

“Is that why you never ask about those things?”  He’s quiet.  You both stare purposefully down at your arm as he begins laying down the strips of white cotton over your cut.  “Because you recognize what it means to give them up?”

“What—like your name?”

“Anything,” he says, and though he keeps working, his hands start to slow down.  “You never ask me about anything.  My name, my past… why I don’t take the helmet off.  Everyone always asks, but.  You never have.”

You shrug a shoulder.  “Figured you get tired of telling people no, don’t you?”

His fingers still, hovering over your injury.  He doesn’t move, so you elaborate.

“I mean… yeah, I’ve thought about those things, but…” you speak slowly, choosing your words very carefully.  Your eyes narrow with the effort, trying to pinpoint and voice your exact opinion without making assumptions.  “But I respect you.  And your creed.  I call you Mando because that’s what you told me to call you.  And if you don’t take the helmet off, then you don’t take it off.”  You shrug once more.  “Some things don’t need explanations.  They just are, and I’m okay with that.”

It’s a while before he goes back to dressing your wound, and even longer before he speaks again.  When he does, he’s almost completely finished securing the bandages and it’s barely above a murmur.  “Nobody usually thinks that simply about it.”

“Well.  Fuck ‘em.”  You blurt.  “I think it’s the simplest thing in the galaxy.  You should be the one who gets to decide who you are and what’s important to you, right?  No one else.”

He stops again, this time tilting his visor up to look you in your eyes.  You blink up at your own warped reflection.

“I think that shit is yours.  Fundamentally.  Doesn’t matter if you want to share it, change it, hide it, or burn it away forever.  It’s your decision, and you’ll tell people what you want them to know.  So fuck ‘em if they don’t respect that,” you tell him bluntly.  “They obviously don’t know anything about you at all.  Else they wouldn’t be asking.”

He doesn’t move.  He just stares silently at you for a few seconds, and Maker, for some reason you wish now more than ever you could see his face.  Even though it contradicts everything you just said, you wish you could see his face.  What color are his eyes?  You bet they’re brown.  You bet they’re a warm, deep brown—expressive and soft and lovely behind such hard, unforgiving steel.  His features are probably just as warm as the rest of him.  Dark hair, wavy hair.  Plush, gentle lips.

His hand comes up slowly.  Gives you ample time to pull away before he’s softly cupping your cheek, tilting his helmet to the side as he studies you.

“Would you.”  He’s quiet for a moment.  And then he clears his throat through the modulator, before he tries again.  “Would you like to know my name?”

You go shock-still, blinking at him and barely breathing.  Why?  Why is he asking this?  He wants to give you his name?  Immediately after you just told him why you don’t need it?

Your throat is a desert.  “Only… only if you want to give it to me.”

He tilts his head the other way and takes a moment to consider you, gently trailing the leather of his thumb along your bottom lip.  Your eyes dip down the length of his body, heat suddenly filling you when you realize how close and well he’s positioned right now, how his hips are at the perfect height standing right between your legs like this.

Mando slowly lowers his helmet to look down at your parted thighs, too.  And then he’s shifting the visor to the side just a bit, eyes catching on something on the bed next to you.  “Want to give you a few things,” he says lowly.

You probably would’ve melted into a puddle if he didn’t immediately hold up the E-bacta shot in front of you in both hands.

Your heart starts pounding though, all the same.  “No—”

“Listen to me,” he tells you calmly, as if you could do much of anything else right now with how much space he’s taking up in front of you.  His size and proximity gave you a thrill just a second ago, but now he’s nothing more than a giant fucking metal wall armed with a needle and blocking your escape.  “I want to give you a few things, but only if you say yes to all of them.  Are you going to listen?”

Maker, your heart is racing, rapid calculations going off in your head as your eyes flick between the syringe and his visor.  Where the fuck is he going with this?  “Y-yes.  I’ll—I’ll listen.”

He holds the shot up between the two of you, as if you didn’t see it the first fifty fucking times.  “First.  I’ll give you a quarter dose of this.  I’ll be gentle and I’ll give it to you somewhere where it won’t hurt, where you won’t even be able to see it, and it’ll make you feel better.  Even good.  Okay?”

You narrow your eyebrows at him.  “You’re not doing a great job at selling me h—”

“Second.  I’ll give you my name.”

Your breath catches.  He continues on casually with the terms of the deal, as if he didn’t just set your whole world on fire with five words.

“You can’t ever use it around other people,” he tells you.  “Only here.  With me, on this ship.  In front of the kid is fine.  But if anyone else ever asks, you don’t know it.  Okay?”

“Okay…” you whisper after a second, your chest filling with flames.

“Third.”  He slowly catches your uninjured wrist in a gentle grip and begins to guide it forward.  “If you… if you want, I’ll… I’ll give you this,” he murmurs, bringing it down to cup his cock.  “I… won’t be gentle.  But I will make you feel good.”

Maker, he’s already rock hard under your palm, throbbing and swollen for you.  Almost as quickly as the urge first came on, you suddenly don’t want to escape anymore.  Instead, maybe you can just… appeal.

“What if we…”  You carefully reach down into his pants, holding his hips still between your knees and beginning to caress his cock.  His skin is like silk under your hand, as hard as the beskar he straps to his body but so warm, and pulsing with life.  “What if we reverse the order, maybe?”

“No,” he grunts immediately.  “You’ll take the shot first, it’ll be a—” his breath catches when you give him a good, rough squeeze.  “—a-a show of—of good faith.”

“That’s literally the only thing I don’t want from this all-or-nothing deal,” you reason, wrapping your legs around him to bring him closer.  He acquiesces cautiously, slowly moving forward.  “I’d be an idiot to give it up first.  Ideally it should go second if there are three terms.”

“I know what you’re d-doing,” he tells you flat out, though he makes no attempt to stop it at all.  He just growls low in his throat when he’s close enough for you to lean up and bite down onto his neck, one of his hands landing on your thigh and locking down onto it tight.  “It won’t… won’t work.  You’re—you’re t-taking the shot first, that’s the deal.”

“I could try crying again,” you proposition breathlessly, squeezing his cock once more and feeling him shudder.

“Ngh—meant it when I—” he gasps when you brush your thumb over his head, dampening the fabric covering his neck with your hot breaths.  “When I-I said that you—you need to w-work on your… your negoti—tiating—”

“What if I just ask you really, really nicely?”  You whisper, slowly starting to jerk him off.  Your grip is tight and strong, and he practically sags and grabs the metal bedframe on either side of you.  “Will it work if I ask you to please fuck me?  Please?  And then I’ll take your shot?”  But then you’re struck by a sudden thought, and maneuver your head away just enough to look up at where his eyes should be.  “But we don’t… we don’t actually have to… y’know, do the other thing, though, if you don’t want to.  It’s okay.”

Mando abruptly pulls back, pinning you with a blank chrome stare.  “W-what?”

“If you…”  You want to find some way to word this to get the correct sentiment across, but it’s difficult with him looking at you so hard.  The last thing you want to do is sound ungrateful.  Your hands stop moving, carefully letting him go and resting on his hips instead, so he knows this isn’t you just trying to find some way out of this.  “You don’t have to tell me your name, y’know.  It’s okay, I’ll—I’ll take the shot, it’s fine.  We don’t need to… to turn something like that into a.  A deal, or anything.  You can still tell me if you want, of course, I just… I don’t want it to be part of like, some sort of… agreement between us, or something.”  You tap a thumb over his hipbone, tilting your head.  “So I’m taking it off the table.  Even if you were the one who put it on there.  No pressure.  I’ll take the shot.  And then you can tell me whatever it is you want to tell me after that.  Apart from that.  A… a show of good faith.”

Mando holds still as a fucking statue in front of you.  If you couldn’t feel the warmth of his skin under your hands, you’d say he looks like a droid in sleep mode almost.  He stays like that for so long, you actually start to worry a little bit.  Was that a thankless, bitchy thing to say to him after he offered to reveal such a big secret about himself?  Should you have just kept your mouth shut?

You suppose he was right, your negotiation skills could use a bit more work.  You did technically just… willingly give up something incredibly valuable in exchange for absolutely nothing in return, didn’t you?  Actually not absolutely nothing, you just agreed to have an actual fucking needle shoved into your body just so he wouldn’t feel any sort of obligation to reveal himself to you whatsoever.  That’s like… rule number one of what not to do when negotiating, isn’t it?  Fuck, what have you done?  Is it too late to take half of that shit back?  Can you start this whole thing over real quick?  How much pressure do you think that glass syringe can handle?  You know you can’t outrun or overpower him, but do you think you’d be able to smash it with your foot before he can stop you?  No.  No fucking way, you would.  Don’t be stupid, don’t be fucking stupid.

And Maker, he’s… he’s still not moving.  You actually start to squirm a little bit under his unreadable gaze, before he eventually brings both hands up to your face and gently cradles your jaw in his gloved palms, bringing you to a still.

“Unbelievable,” the Mandalorian says softly, tilting his helmet at you and carefully brushing his thumbs along your cheekbones.  He doesn’t sound upset.  He sounds truly mystified by you.  Stumped.  Reverent.

You blink at him.  “What?”

“Nobody w-would… but you’re…”  He seems like he’s trying to find the words to describe what he’s thinking, but he can’t.  “You can’t—you… t—?  Not just.  But be—because of.  On—on… pr-prin…”

“I… I do still want you to fuck me, though,” you eventually whisper when he never finishes his sentence.  He’s not the best with words, but that’s okay.  You’re perfectly willing to entertain other mediums.  “First.  Even if it is part of a deal, I don’t give a shit.”

You bring your hand back to wrap tight around him, beginning to pull up and down in strong, steady strokes once more.  The tips of his fingers tighten just slightly on your jaw.

“Please,” you whisper, turning your head to kiss one of his palms.  “Just show me, it’s okay.”

He stays like that for just a split second more.

And then he’s suddenly whipping one of his hands down to grab your wrist.  The other wraps itself more fully around your jaw in its absence and firmly holds your head in place in front of him.

“I won’t be gentle,” he tells you once more, voice coming out hoarse and shaky.  “I—I c-can’t—”

You nod in affirmation as much as you can with his iron grip wrapped tight over your chin like this.  “Th—”

You can’t even get a single word out before Mando shoots both hands down to grab your hips, abruptly yanking your ass off the bed.  Your legs have just enough time to buckle once they hit the ground, but then he’s spinning you around and practically shoving you right back on top of the metal platform, facedown with half your upper-body and both arms hanging over the edge.

Your pants are being snatched over your ass and down your legs as you still work to adjust yourself to the chaotic shift in position.  Holy fuck, he wasn’t ki—

Something blunt presses up against the apex of your thighs, pushes forward, and oh, holy fu—

—oh—holy fuck—

You’re surprised you have enough breath to shout as loud as you do when he slams full-force into you, rattling the bed as he sheathes himself in your slick warmth to the hilt, fully armored behind you and pressing cold beskar tight up against your ass and thighs.  You claw your fingers over the smooth metal surface under the cot and try to brace yourself on something, but there’s nothing to hold onto.  Fuck, he’s so fucking thick.  Forcing you to yield to his hardness, tightening his grip on your hips and keeping you locked in position.

And then he pulls out and then slams back in—starts pounding into you, using your body as a counterweight to thrust himself into and Maker, you would probably be screaming if you could even breathe right.  The inability to inhale just means you can hear him groan through the modulator, shuffle up closer to you and start to drill into you harder.

“Sweet, sweet girl,” he murmurs, and fuck, you would think he was suffocating you if it weren’t for both of his hands being anchored to your hips.  It blazes through you like wildfire, burning your lungs and setting your body alight with flames.  He leans over you and clamps a hand down over your shoulder, and your eyes roll back when he moves up and adjusts his angle just the slightest bit, pounding down into you instead of just into you, and—

“Maker, h-how did I deserve this?”  He whispers quietly to himself, delirious and tight as stars explode behind your vision.  His helmet rests on your shoulder blade, the beskar as heavy and unyielding as his thrusts are as he pummels into that one blinding, heavenly spot, over and over and over again.  “What did I d—where were you when I was—when I was—?”

You finally gasp a ragged, desperate breath in like you’ve been underwater for the last minute instead of under him, taking his cock the way he needs to give it to you.  And then you’re writhing, grinding your body back against his as much as you can, choking on the burning air and trying to put your needs together into a coherent sentence.

“T-take your helmet off,” you finally manage to lift your head up and beg, “please—please, I-I won’t—I won’t look, I sw-swea—” and then your cunt clamps down hard when he shoots up from you and practically rips the thing off his shoulders without another word, the sound of steel clanging loudly on the floor by your feet.

His hand comes around your throat and yanks you to the side before his teeth are sinking into your neck, not a single break in his hard, pounding rhythm.

He probably gets about ten good thrusts in like that before you’re going rigid under him and cumming—hard.

Everything below your waist locks down tighter around him than a fucking vice, and then you explode wet and hot around his cock with a hoarse shout, squeezing him and spasming through each rough, steady thrust as it launches you higher, and higher—

“Fuck—” he snarls into your neck, and then he suddenly kicks up from the rapid slapslapslapslap that got you over the edge to a surging, brutal bam—bam—bam that wrings a sharp, ragged cries from your throat.  Your face screws up and you try not to scream at the sensation, wondering how it was possible that he could make the bliss even more debilitating.  “Fuck, th—your cunt gets… s-so fucking tight when you cum—”

You just whimper for him helplessly, listening to the vulgar sounds of him fucking into you, the loud squelching as he keeps rocking mercilessly deep.

“You hear that?”  He murmurs next to your ear, and the slick sound of it echoes obscenely through the silent hull.  His voice is soft, contrasting blindingly with the way he’s holding you down and fucking you so strong and steady through the aftershocks.  “Fuck—you get fucking wet after you cum, too, don’t you?”

You try to move, try to adjust yourself just slightly, but he locks down around you and holds fast to his rhythm.  Fuck, it feels like he’s fucking the air out of you faster than you can breathe it in, grip like iron and tightening the more you struggle.

“‘M never leaving this,” he slurs, dropping his head to rest between your shoulder blades.  “Never.  Fuck, I’m—you’re—you’re never getting rid of me, sweet girl, I’m—I’m never—never f-fucking leaving—”

“Fuck, I’m—” you gasp, closing your eyes and trying to focus on the spark of a feeling deep inside you.  “Stars, I think I-I might—”

And then Mando licks a slow, warm line up the curve of your spine and a second orgasm is suddenly burning a fucking hole through you, tearing another broken wail from your throat.  You spasm and arch under him, bearing down on his thick cock and trying not to sob.

“Fuck, there we g-go—” he grits against your skin, picking up his speed and fucking hammering into you, completely deaf to your hoarse squeal at the change in tempo.  “Good.  Ngh, fuck—you—y-you want me to cum now?”

“Please,” you beg.  “Please cum, p-please—”

“Where?”  His voice is tight, breathless and shaky.  “Tell me where—quick—”

“Fuck—inside,” you moan, eyes rolling back at the thought of taking his load deep inside you.

Mando’s hips stutter.  For the first time in what feels like an eternity, they jerk back in before they could fully extend all the way out, and your abused lower muscles start to squeeze him in anticipation.

“I can’t—” he rasps, “—I’ve—I-I’ve never—and y-you’ll—”

“Safe,” you wheeze, because you don’t have enough air in your lungs or composure in your thoughts to tell him you have an implant contraceptive.  All you can manage is a shameless, breathless, “Cum deep,” half-tossed over your shoulder.

Your hair is gathered and locked in a tight fist behind your head and if you thought he was fucking you full force, you soon realize he was only at about an eight.  He flattens you against the bed and yanks your head up, arm coming around to brace across your chest and starting to just fucking wreck you from behind.

The change in angle forces his cock to spear up against something that blinds you, something so raw and impairing that you can’t speak anymore, even if you could find the air to.

“Fuck—m’gonna cum,” the Mandalorian grits, the bed rattling on its tracks as his head drops to your shoulder, “f-fuck, s’too fucking good, sweet girl—m’gonna f-fucking cum, I—”

He plows his hips into you just like that once, twice, three—

You lock down and everything goes blurs and goes out of focus, white hot pleasure ripping you apart from the inside as you do scream this time, clamping down and straightening your spine and convulsing in ecstasy.

He snarls and bites down on your neck, grrriiinndding his cock as deep inside you as it’ll go and shuddering above you.  You can feel him pulsing, throbbing as he growls his way through it, breathing heavy and giving you his load just how you asked.

Mando pulls out of you much quicker than you want him to and stumbles backwards, suddenly dropping to his knees on the floor behind you with a metallic clang.  He doesn’t do anything more than that, though; he just stares at your fluttering hole as you slowly start to leak his cum, one of his hands coming up to brace itself on the back of your thigh as he catches his breath and watches.

Fuck, you’re spent.  Panting and exhausted in the same position he left you.  You try to move, but you can’t.  You just sprawl there on your tummy and slowly wait for the feeling to return to your body.

But then he says something.  It’s too quiet—a soft, one syllable word you can’t quite make out.

“Wh—?”  Your muscles feel like lead.  “I couldn’t hear y—”

Gloved hands trail gently over your ass.  And then you feel a small, sharp little prick on the swell of one of your cheeks, but it’s gone after a split second.

And then… fucking bliss.

You sag into the metal bed, feeling the room begin to spin.  Fuck.  He gave you the shot.  The fucker just gave you the shot.  How dare he?  Before you could even work yourself up to the point of tears again?  While you’re still… still fucking dripping with cum right in front of his face?

Until—

“Din,” he says softly.  “It’s Din.”

Din.

How perfectly appropriate, you think.

Short, simple, and to the point.  No flourishes.  A quick, one-syllable punch of air.  One singular, closed I vowel sitting quietly between two consonants, guarded on all sides.  Hard at first, but then tapering off to a soft sound if you let it.  Din.

“Din,” you whisper, fighting the overwhelming high with every last fiber of your gradually depleting consciousness, wanting so desperately to hear the word out loud with your own voice before you’re pulled under, trying to make sure it’s real.  It comes out sounding that way, too; weak and quiet and straining for these last few precious moments with him.

Both of his hands wrap around the back of your knees and you feel his plush lips press gently against your upper-thigh, just below the curve of your ass.  He opens his mouth and licks hot and warm along your damp skin, pulls both your knees apart just slightly and then starts to drag his tongue to the side a bit, and then—

And then everything goes dark.

[sincerely-chaos]

Inconsequential, part VIII (ficlet) - ‘underestimation’

Earlier parts on ao3.

During his years at uni, Sherlock quickly learned to deduce who had been sleeping with who - much to his fellow students’ dismay and amusement - and while the mindless sharing of bodily fluids that people seemed almost obsessive about engaging in didn't surprise him, the amount of young men that once or twice experimented with another man and then continued to date women as if nothing has changed, as if that didn't redefine their whole sexuality, did surprise him.

For some reason, Sherlock never found himself deducing any of those encounters out loud.

*

Sherlock's not an expert on the nuances of interpersonal communication.

He is, however, fairly certain that what had been said and done yesterday did not fall under any kind of ‘platonic’ category.

Which is the problem, in fact, because what he knows about John Watson does not fit in with the actions and words used last night. And Sherlock does so need things to add up.

Standing in front of his wardrobe, Sherlock hesitates, eyeing the garments hanging in neat rows.

It would seem redundant to keep up the new dress code given recent events, but not continuing would mean admitting, if indirectly, what it had been all about.

There's only so much humiliation he's willing to expose himself to.

With a sigh, he puts on one of his new shirts, followed by the trousers that goes with it. The result that looks back on him through the mirror doesn't quite look like him. Not like he's used to looking.

A lot of things are not what they used to anymore.  

*

“Right, right then,” John mumbled just below his ear the night before, after the silence had stretched out between them for long enough to be unambiguous. “Good.”

With that, John pulled back, and Sherlock imagined how his friend must have nodded to himself, processing and settling into whatever it was that had just been agreed upon, a determined look on his face.

Below Sherlock's ear, the skin was still tingling, and it was a novel experience, so Sherlock remained where he was, not moving a muscle, simply cataloguing every sensation that their brief interactions had left him with.

If this was actually about to happen, then Sherlock would not stop it, regardless of any reservations he might have about… the potential of this causing more than a bit of mess. It’s plausible, perhaps even likely, that John will not follow through with any of this, and even more likely that if he did follow through, he wouldn’t know how to go about it.

While he can’t always make the correct deductions about people’s emotions or their more complex motives, Sherlock’s more than capable to tell when someone might be in over their head.

The bathroom lock clicked as John closed the door behind him. A single click, then Sherlock was alone with his thoughts and his doubts and everything else he wanted to avoid. Everything he'd never wanted to want.

John has no experience in these kind of things, that much is clear, and while Sherlock too lacked any practical experience, at least he had a fair bit of theoretical knowledge.

More than that, Sherlock had a great deal of experience of dealing with John, knowing what buttons to push to either encourage or discourage certain behaviours.

He had, after all, cured a psychosomatic limp on their first evening together. This would likely prove almost as easy to navigate a bit if need be.

Later, when John left the bathroom, clean from the shower and dressed in pyjamas and the terrycloth robe, Sherlock was on the sofa, attempting to read an article on pharmacology. The anticipation made his skin crawl, and the ambivalence came in waves, washing over him and leaving him with different half-formed decisions each time it subsided.

Their movements around each other were an echo of normality for the rest of the night.

*

John lifts an eyebrow at Sherlock’s clothes as Sherlock sits down at the table, but he withholds any comment.

Eyeing the toast and the fry up with disinterest, Sherlock pushes his plate away before pulling out his phone from his dressing gown pocket. Wearing the tartan dressing gown had seemed like a compromise in terms of his recent efforts to come across as less… queer.

“About last night,” John says, clearing his throat.

He’s wearing his striped jumper, and he looks tired, like he hasn’t been sleeping much. Still, there’s no signs of him having had nightmares.

Sherlock looks up, meeting his gaze over the messy desk in the sitting room where they eat their breakfast whenever Sherlock’s experiments take up too much of the kitchen table for them to sit there.

“I’m going to… ask you a few questions. Later. And I want you to think about them very carefully before giving me an answer. A sensible answer. I need to know… some of your limits.”

This is… to be expected, Sherlock supposes. John is, his anger issues aside, very thorough. Still, even considering another conversation on the topic is less than enticing.

It would be so much easier if John would just grab his wrist again, hold it, pin it and refuse to let go. Easier if John just stepped into his space and--

No. Now is not the time for that kind of thoughts. Maybe there never would be any time for that. There were still so many things left unanswered.

Sherlock has more than a fair share of questions of his own, but he’ll keep them to himself, having decided last night that the most manageable way to go about it would be to observe and deduce as they went, unless John changed his mind during the night. The more additional research Sherlock had done on the subject, the more extensive his own mental list of things he did not want to be part of grew, and at the end of the night, he’d begun questioning the whole thing, despite his initially positive outlook on his ability to steer this in a rather desirable direction.

He doesn’t even know if this is meant to have any sexual aspects at all, or if John just wants to see him in pain, or simply to order him to do various of domestic tasks. Given their relationship, Sherlock can certainly picture both the latter scenarios, but his interest in one of them is well below zero.

“Who decides what’s ‘sensible’?” he hazards to ask, trying to keep the any emotion out of his voice.

“I do,” John says, staring him down. “Sensible means that you’ve actually thought things through and can present me with some actual limits. I don’t want any crap about you being open to anything.”

“What if I am?”

John simply gives Sherlock that look, the one that means that John isn’t as stupid as Sherlock might think, and that he also knows Sherlock well enough to call him on any and all bullshit he might try to pull.

Sherlock slowly nods.

*

It’s seems a bad idea to continue to read up on the subject at hand, and so Sherlock attempts to distract himself from any thoughts of his own homosexuality, John’s lack thereof, the inevitable mess this will turn out to be and why this will sooner or later come to prove all of his previous conclusions on why he shouldn’t do… this.

His violin resting between his chin and shoulder, Sherlock tries to focus on the music and on the way his fingers move to transcribe the notes into actual tones, vibrations that move through the flat and fill every corner of it.

John is reading in his chair, and Sherlock is aware of his every shift and move.

It’s not anticipation. It’s more the feeling of willingly throwing oneself in front of a car and hoping that you’ll not be hit by it.

“Sherlock?”

Realising that he must have finished playing some minutes ago, Sherlock turns around to face John.

John doesn’t look any different, and yet there’s something in his eyes that--

“Put your violin away.”

Oh.

There’s a hint of John’s professional voice - his commanding voice - and yes, that’s certainly… adequate. More than adequate.

“Or what?”

Looking at John with his bow demonstratively raised, Sherlock ventures a challenging half-smile, hoping that John is confident enough in his military persona to allow himself to simply--

“Or we’ll just forget about this whole thing, as you’re clearly not interested,” John counters in a deceivingly calm voice, the edge beneath it barely audible.

It’s neat, John’s way of using Sherlock’s own curiosity against him. Not bad at all for a first move.

He could push the issue further, but John should have some positive reinforcement for having made sure to have an effective argument at hand, and so Sherlock just lets a few moments pass by before he slowly starts to put down his violin, taking his time with every part of the procedure.

In the silence that follows, Sherlock turns back towards the window, eyeing the street outside, waiting for John’s next move.

It’s hardly imaginative, resuming their positions from last night, and yet that’s what John does. Moving towards him in the same unhurried way that Sherlock had just used to put away his violin, John comes to stand behind Sherlock once again, and there’s a waspish comment on the tip of Sherlock’s tongue, but before he gets around to voicing it, the sudden sensation of fingers on his shoulder almost causes him to startle.

Fingers. A steady pressure, shifting slowly over his shoulder, moving over his collar and then… skin. Skin on skin as John’s fingers come into contact with his neck, drifting towards his tendons as a thumb strokes along the vertebrae of his neck.

Sherlock inhales.

Exhales.

He’s used to John’s casual touches the way John’s used to his own haphazard invasions of personal space, but this touch is all new sensation to him.

Unexpected. Distractive.

Warmth is radiating from where his skin is being stroked, and when John speaks again, Sherlock feels the fingers shifting from their stroking into an almost-grip on his nape.

Suppressing a shiver, Sherlock notes that he had not accurately accounted for the effect of another person’s deliberate touch might have on him.

An underestimation. A rare thing.

“That wasn’t so hard now, was it?”

(With a special thanks to those of you who offered me suggestions or brainstormed with me a bit today; @synteis, @simpleanddestructivechemistry, @hubblegleeflower, @holmesianpose, @pennypaperbrain, @brilliantlyburning and @isitandwonder)

[sheepydraws]

And So They Lived (6/6)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 

Ulrich pretty much just dropped into bed by the time they got back to their room, but after his mid-freak out nap earlier and the late dinner that Jeremie had squirreled away for him Odd was too wired for sleep. He sat down at his desk and rummaged around for his favorite pen and a fresh notebook. It was spiral bound with a flimsy cardboard cover. Odd dicked around for a few minutes, scratching his name into the purple cover and then the eye of XANA under it, but he was stalling. He knew where he had to begin.

I brought my dog to school with me because I was afraid that I wouldn’t have any friends here. I have plenty now, but only because I brought Kiwi and Ulrich had the balls to dognap him.

Odd wrote all night. He kept expecting to reach a stopping point, but the words kept coming. Perhaps it was because he didn’t just include XANA attacks. He wrote what the world thought really happened, too. He wrote about Sissi, and the shitty things she did to them, and the shitty things they did to her. He spent more ink than he would care to admit on Yumi and Ulrich’s ‘let’s fight-let’s fuck’ relationship. He wrote about William and his betrayal. He wrote right through Lyoko’s final summer as they took everything apart piece by piece.

Something strange happened. A narrative emerged. Events took on a shape. Days didn’t just end, arcs did. Things didn’t just change, they grew. When he stopped to explain what he thought were simple things to someone who might not understand, stuff he had never stopped to think about finally made sense to him. He knew it all sounded crazy, but as a story it was a pretty cool one. He remembered that it had been an adventure.

He finished the dismantling of the supercomputer and the scanners sometime around one in the morning. Then he kept going. He wrote about school, and Elizabeth, and trying to live without Lyoko, and how it should have been easy. He got a bit disgusting and sappy, and may have made some terrible metaphors about Elizabeth’s eyes and the night sky, and he might have cried a bit about how it was never going to be the same between him and his best friends, but they were always going to be his best friends, whether anyone else remembered all they had done for him or not.

Ulrich woke him at seven. He was hunched over his desk, drooling on his own hand.

“I have to give this to Elizabeth.” He said before he had even sat up, although it probably came out more like, “I hafta givisss t’Lizze.”

“What?” Ulrich said as his head popped out the neck of the sweater he was pulling on.

“I said, ‘I love you’.”

Ulrich had just kicked off his pajama pants and stood there in his boxers for a minute, staring at Odd. Then he smiled. “Yeah. I love you, too.”

In the cafeteria Odd wolfed down two bowls of cereal and a hot chocolate before Elizabeth arrived. He got up and caught her before she had even gotten in the food line.

“Here.” He said, and he placed the notebook in her hands. “It’s everything.”

She idly flipped through the first few pages and then kept flipping. “Whoa.” She said. “It-“ She stopped on a certain page. “Am I in this?”

“Of course.” Odd said.

She closed the notebook and clasped it to her chest for a minute. She had this little smile that Odd though was going to turn into a laugh, but it became a kiss instead. Not a long kiss, not when Elizabeth was blocking the cafeteria door, and Ulrich, Jeremie, and Aelita needed to be kept from cardiac arrest, but a good one.

“Is that why you’ve been so crazy?” Ulrich said the second Odd was sitting down again. “You’ve been falling for Sissi?”

Odd gave him a mysterious smile. Then, because he hated that kind of bullshit, he said, “It’s why I wasn’t in our room last night.”

Ulrich’s eyes bugged out while Jeremie and Aelita laughed.

“You realize,” Jeremie said, “That once Yumi gets here, you’re going to have to tell us everything.”

“Yeah. I think I can manage that.”

It is impossible to separate this movie from the chaos caused by its trailers. Last year instead of the laughably bad slew of christmas movies everyone seemed to be talking about a trailer that had premiered along side “To The Top” (a movie whose only discerning feature is having ten percent on rotten tomatoes). It was rather tricky to discuss, though, since the trailer did not reveal a plot, title, or release date. It seemed like an advertisement for a boarding school, complete with bored student volunteers, bad lighting, and bland pop songs. The camera recording this waste of tuition runs low on battery and is shuffled around before being plugged in, at which point the screen slowly goes white and a symbol flickers across it before disappearing. Aside from a slide with the words ‘coming soon’ that was the trailer in it’s entirety.

People started talking, but thanks to hefty non-disclosure agreements, no one came forward to explain what was going on. The second and third trailers appeared almost simultaneously a month later, and caused even more confusion. One looked like a sci-fi thriller, the other a young adult romance. However, they shared the same title, Code Lyoko, and the setting and symbol from the first trailer.

Finally, writer and director Odd Della Robbia casually mentioned that he was behind the project while doing an interview with Teen Vouge. The director is best known for his work on Buried in Stars the sleeper hit of the summer movie season two years ago, best described as the surrealist, most vividly technicolor rom-com to ever grace the big screen. When the interviewer asked about the discrepancy between all three trailers, as well as the secrecy that surrounded filming, Della Robbia responded with,

“When I pitched Code Lyoko the first thing they said was, ‘How are we gonna market this? Is it a heartwarming coming of age story or a YA sci-fi thriller?’ and I said, ‘If I can’t convince you it’s both by the end of this, then we might as well scrap the whole project.’ I guess audacity still counts for something.”

‘Genre defying’ is a greatly overused compliment, and in my opinion, it dismisses the importance of genre. There’s something to be said for going into a horror movie and getting a horror. Of course playing too tightly to a genre’s guidelines without shaking something up can be dull, but so can a movie that tries too hard to include many different elements without properly following through on any of them. Code Lyoko, however, does manage to step outside genre lines without over-burdening itself trying to be three stories at once.

Della Robbia deftly mixes over the top action and teenage drama with the keen eyes of someone who has been there before. Though the movie follows several different threads, the core of the story is the small group of friends it follows, and Della Robbia never forgets that. Unlike Della Robbia’s work so far the style is simple and sharp, the colors muted and the lighting high contrast. Even the virtual world of Lyoko, which is a bit brighter and more cartoony, has graphics simplified to the point where they are almost cubist in feel.

This serves the plot well. The main conflict at the beginning of the movie is that Walter (played by John Beck) finds an abandoned computer, which contains a virtual world and Gemma (Gina Pedroza), a young girl who claims that she is a real person who is unable to devirtualize. Walter makes it his mission to fix this, and accidentally begins recruiting people to help his cause. Unfortunately, keeping the computer on so that Walter can attempt to understand the code that will free Gemma allows another program in the computer known as ZENAT to wreak havoc on the outside world. While this could be a movie all on it’s own, the group’s interactions with each other, as well as their parents and other students, along with several satisfying twists, completely fill out the story and make it unforgettable.

Interestingly, the technology examined in Code Lyoko bears a striking resemblance to advances in virtual reality being proposed by Nintendo that are currently being developed in a team with Aelita Schiffer and Jeremie Belpois [Article Here], and though the technology isn’t the  showcase here, it is rather shocking to think that this film could theoretically happen in five years time. Although that is not the only element that lends Code Lyoko uncanny realism.

The mixture of high school drama and thwarting an evil invasion shouldn’t work this well outside of an after school cartoon, and it’s not just the depth that Della Robbia gives all the story lines, as well as the fantastic acting, which allows these seemingly dissonant themes to gel. In a subsequent interview with The New Yorker after the film’s release Della Robbia said, “I remember when I first asked my wife to read a draft of the story. As soon as I gave it to her I started to overthink. She told me she liked it, but I said, ‘There’s kids fighting giant robots!…Are you sure I shouldn’t take it out? Or make it a metaphor for standardized testing or something?’ and she said, ‘When I think about high school I don’t think about taking standardized tests, I think about fighting monsters.’ so she saved the monsters.”

By injecting it with sci-fi terror Della Robbia has stripped the fantasy from teenage coming of age stories, allowing it to resonate long after you leave the theater. Five stars.