#smiling critters space trio | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

himbodjarin · 3 years

Text

LUNAR; CH12

18+ EXPLICIT Content: Unprotective sex, vaginal sex, oral sex (female receiving), cum eating, DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE UNDER 18. MANDO'A TRANSLATIONS AT THE END Chapter Word Count: 14,704 aah im sorry no im not Pairing: Din Djarin/F!Reader - no y/n

The Mandalorian is a driven warrior — traversing the galaxy in search of the ancient Jedi — but everyone has their weaknesses, and he’s no different. The Bounty Hunter possessed three in fact. One he’s discovered—The Child. The remaining two, though, he wasn’t aware of their existence. At least, not until he meets a valorous Sharpshooter underneath a moonless night sky; then he’s plummeting down a dark mission of self-discovery, questioning his morals and his Creed while the moon taunts him, the phases of the satellite corresponding to his personal revelations. However, the Girl has a dark past that may come to inflict hardships on the Mandalorian and the Child; it's up to the Bounty Hunter to decide her fate. Read on AO3 / Series Masterlist

CHAPTER TWELVE: LET ME SHOW YOU

“So about that break…”

One simple sentence is all it took for the two of them to silently agree to their departure of Tatooine and to seek refuge somewhere quiet, secluded and undisturbed by baleful bolts of shimmering reds. It escorts them to the moss-green planet bedecked by marshland and chirpy fauna—its atmosphere crisp and welcoming to that of Tatooine’s sand-choking airspace.

“So you’ve been here before?”

“Yes. There’s a village nearby. They took me in for some time.”

“So you’re thinking they’ll let us crash there for a while?”

There’s a click on the vambrace and the Razor Crest’s hatch closes behind the trio. “If all goes well. Are you sure you have everything? It’s a bit of a walk.”

A tap on a blaster holstered to her thigh, a finger trailing across a wrinkly green forehead, the faint touch on a steel pauldron. “Blaster, kid, Mandalorian. Check, check, and check.”

The Mandalorian chuckles and takes the lead through the woods, heading towards the unnamed village of Sorgan—its inhabitants surely awaiting his emergence the moment the Crest snapped through the atmosphere and swooped low among their needle-point rooftops. It’s selfish, he knows this, returning to the haven he once envisioned himself hunkering down at—having the opportunity of a joyful life, a family, a love—with a different woman matching his stride is destined for failure; for tension. It’s wishful thinking to pretend it’ll produce anything but, to pretend this could be normal.

Sorgan hadn’t changed one bit, except for the lack of invasive Klatoonations, thanks to yours truly. It’s still so green, so wet, so clean and fresh. Its air could regenerate the deflated lungs in his chest from decades-worth of smoke, dust, and discipline, its waters purify his blood, its pacifying ambience replace the void he reserved for quiet nights in space, its company fill

the vacancy between his arms—that last one wasn’t entirely Sorgan’s doing and he gazes at his companion treading alongside him, feet generously lifting over an undisturbed one-eyed aqua frog in her path.

He sighs and places the flat of his leather against the back of her shoulder. “I trust them, they’re good people, but my name can’t be spoken here.”

She twists her neck to look at him and dips her head in a nod. “I know that, Mando.”

Mando. A name that once sounded like shiny credits falling from the clouds now so bleak and rusted. It’s mere corroding steel in comparison to her moaning his name in such a broken voice it heats his abdomen and increases his blood flow. The Girl is like a spice, a strong dose of alluring desires that he’s incapable of acting upon—the inquisitive little alien in his care interfering with his white-knuckled primal impulses.

Idling in hyperspace, confined and carnal, with a toddler and the woman who made his knees weak, heart leap, fingers itch, was dangerous. There he was thinking the atmosphere back on Tatooine was tense; how wrong he was. If that was tense, this had been downright torturous. He could cut the tension with his vibroknife; reduce it to tiny physical pieces he could chew on and grind his enamel down to the gums.

Sorgan is their opportunity to explore their unspoken relationship further—to disassemble the barricade of panels in place and analyse the circuitry underneath. Mando downplays the increased pumping of his organ to himself, masquerading his excitement with faulty breathwork.

“I can take him,” Mando gently tugs on the rucksack strap situated across her shoulder, the child cooing at her hip. “Those slashes haven’t healed.”

“They’ve healed enough.”

He insists, “They reopened, you’re going to strain them with the weight. Let me carry him.”

The Girl grumbles under her breath and picks up her pace, tenacious to prove she’s more than capable to carry the toddler despite the ache the satchel strap is producing; burrowing its residency in the pads of her shoulders. The Mandalorian remains at his tempo, allowing her the distance she incessantly pursues. “Atin,” he breathes.

Their shared moment back in the abandoned cantina seemingly sectors away—so out of reach and untouched it almost never occurred.

All though there had been times, dead in the middle of hyperspace when the kid was napping in his hammock, where the Girl would join him in the cockpit to share a few soft spoken words and purposeful touches he couldn’t begin to dissect. The sensations of her hands running along his shoulders still so crystal in his mind, her knuckles brushing against his cowl as he’d tip the helmet back against the headrest simply to get a little glimpse of her. She knew what she was doing when she’d administer feathery kisses against the surface of his visor—sheer seduction on her part—and it took all of his fizzling restraint not to bend her over the controls and fuck her until her thighs are burning, calves trembling, her skin star-kissed.

Believe him, he’d imagined it. On many occasions in fact. He’s pictured taking her anywhere and everywhere—against the walls, on the floor, in his bunk—but nothing, nothing, was more appealing than the thought of having her in his lap in the pilot’s seat, her back smooshing the buttons of the navigational controls until the Crest whined in agony.

Needless to say, the circumstances didn’t allow the rise for many opportunities; the kid often waking the moment his glove makes contact with her. Mando had to settle for small glances here-and-there, the occasional stroke of her arm as she passed.

But he needs more—needs her.

The Girl is an additive through and through—functioning as a pricey flask of spotchka sedating his muscles and justification and in exchange stimulating his appetite for her; flesh, muscle, tissue, whatever his nails could dig themselves into he wanted.

Mando’s teeth grit together and his eyes scan her back ahead of him, nursing the heavy eyelids on the curve below. The cockpit had been too electric, the recycled air too thick with his desperation; the projection of the Girl naked—because he knew what that looked like now—never far from his mind. But he hadn’t seen her bare from behind; a view he can only imagine - for now.

A throaty grunt slips past his lips as he stumbles on a grounded root in his trance. She doesn’t notice, thankfully, but the Child’s peering eyes stare straight past the visor as though he could sense the disgrace radiating off his guardian, his eyes squinting. He tenses his shoulders in embarrassment and joins the Girl as she slows to a halt on the village’s border outskirts.

“This it?” she asks, shifting the satchel to the opposite hip between herself and Mando, shielding the kid from potential threats.

“It is,” he confirms.

Their heads twist in unison, observing the environment laid out before them; high-spirited and brimming with energy. In the distance children run through riskless fields playing a game of tag, adults conversing and labouring the krill ponds, the croaking of frogs echoing around their feet. Subdued and isolated from all the destruction—preserved from everything they are down to their cores.

The Girl hums and fiddles with the strap slung across her chest. “I don’t want to intrude. They look…”

“Happy.”

She’s concerned for the villager’s safety, as is he—jeopardy seemingly overhanging them like an aura; tethered and indestructible. Returning without a notice felt deplorable to the Mandalorian’s morals as though he was trespassing on their sanctuary and sabotaging their chance at true tranquillity.

Shuffling beside him reminds him why he’s here, why he chose Sorgan rather than any other planet in the Outer Rim with a half-decent field. Mando wags a gloved digit ahead of the Child and anticipates his claws to latch onto the leather, tug and whine until he’s content in his beskar, but not even a grunt of acknowledgement slips through his lips.

Mando huffs a deep exhale and returns his hand to his belt, hooking his thumb in the centre and taking the lead. “Let’s go,” he directs.

The Girl adheres to his side, elbows brushing with each swing of their arm, their footwork synchronised as they cross a narrow mound of land between two krill ponds—the vibrant blue critters easily perceptible with his visor’s enhanced vision. She shrinks her shoulders inwards as the path withers to his wingspan—too binary to admit defeat against Sorgan’s elements and saunter behind—her feet sliding against the bank, but Mando’s reflexes are sharp and he snakes a hand around her waist before she tumbles off the edge.

She straightens herself out, checks on the baby, and exudes an embarrassed smile. “Thank you.”

Mando grins and shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly. “Couldn’t let the kid fall in.”

“Oh, that’s how it is, is it?” Her eyebrow cocks and eyes squint. “What about me, huh?”

“Wouldn’t want him stirring up a disturbance, would we? We need to make a good impression,” he teases. “Besides, you’re a big girl, you’d be fine.”

“Sleemo,” she insults lightheartedly, placing a firm palm against his pauldron and shoves—not so lightheartedly. Mando’s smile falters as his boots lose their traction in the slippery, squelching mud. Descent incoming, he reaches out for the Girl’s arm but stops himself at the reminder of the baby attached to her hip; her own personal lifeboat.

If he wasn’t so cautious for the Child’s current state he’d clasp her wrist and force her to take the brunt of her actions, instead, he accepts his fate and collapses into the krill pond—the water soars higher than the village’s roofings with the added weight of beskar, the sloshing reverberating and drawing the inhabitants attention their way.

Mando finds his footing in the waist-deep waters, hands on his hips as droplets streak down his armour, the over-absorbed fabric of his flight suit clinging to his muscles. There’s dark brown coagulated mud muting his shiny beskar, plastering the warring steel with Sorgan’s serene elements.

“Think you’re so funny, don’t you?” he questions, head tilting.

She bellows just as loud as the initial crash, her gasped amusement echoing among the hushed quiet; the villagers watching from afar. “You’re a big boy, you’ll be fine,” she mocks. “Funny. I don’t hear much commentary coming from you now.”

“I could’ve drowned.”

She jabs an eyebrow upwards and gestures to the water level. “That’d be very embarrassing.”

He grumbles with feigned anger, splashing her lower-half with a mischievous thrust of his hand.

“Oi, watch the kid!”

The Child’s ears perk down at his guardian submerged in the filthy waters, a soft tight-lipped grin donning his face in replacement of the frown he’d been suiting prior—Mando’s muscles lax, his stoic demeanour withering away.

This was good. Right. Both the kid and the Girl deserve to reside in a haven like this, somewhere they don’t need to look over their shoulders—somewhere blasters can retire from holsters.

Miniscule cobalt crustaceans summon up the courage to investigate the intrusive limbs in their occupancy, grasping against the fabric of his flight suit and scrambling underneath the rim of his beskar cuisses. Mando attempts to shake off the meddlesome critters but they’re persistent in driving him away; the Girl steps forwards to aid him out of the waters—after she’d finished laughing so hard tears were brewing in the corners of her eyes—but stammers in her footing as a shadow casts over him from beside her.

She instinctively reaches for her blaster’s hilt and shields the Child, but a delicate hand outstretches for Mando below and she carefully drops her hand, clenches it beside her in doubt. Mando inclines his helmet to follow the hand, travelling up the grey fabric of their tunic and settling on the familiar kind hearted brown eyes welcoming him to the village without needing to speak the words.

He nods as thanks and slips his leather into her hand, hoisting himself to the ground with a boot in the bank for stability. Mando humorously nudges the Girl enough for her to panic and seize his elbow for safety—his vocoders unable to catch the light chuckle in his throat but she feels the tremors in his limb and playfully slaps his bicep.

“It’s good to see you again,” Omera says, a bright smile as she eyes him up and down. “I see you’ve made yourself a friend.”

“Yes.” Mando glances at the Girl beside him, tucked into his side plenty that she looked tiny. “I hope we’re not intruding, we-”

She interrupts him, shaking her head and gesturing behind her to the gathering inhabitants. “The community will forever be grateful for your endeavours. Stay as long as you like—we’ve established additional lodges since you were here. Take your pick.”

“That’s very thoughtful. Thank you.” Mando follows after Omera, irrigating the grass in his wake, and the Girl stealths behind him so she’s unseen from the watching eyes; his beskar performing as her protection. She engrosses herself with the ball of abrupt energy fighting against the confines of his satchel, his claws eagerly tearing at the fabric to rid himself.

The villagers have queued themselves along the banks of the krill ponds, distanced enough for their visitors to pass through without bumping shoulders but close to exchange friendly greetings—welcome back’s and thank you’s—their proximity allowing them the opportunity to examine the Mandalorian’s new partner on the heels of his boots, her eyes cast down in an attempt to stave off unwanted attention though it does very little.

Omera stops short of the newly-installed structures, three identical huts to match with the theme of the others strewn throughout their lands and Mando, not being one to concern himself with impractical decisions, chooses the first one his eyes lay on; his hand vaguely gesturing to the open door of the middle hut.

Omera nods her head and orders a flock of children to prepare their quarters. “We can organise your friend next door.” She flicks her attention past his shoulder and he follows, acknowledging how stiff the Girl looked as though she could be blown over with a docile breeze; her eyes silently pleading to him through his visor.

It’s unusual looking at her this way, as though he’s violating her with just his eyes. She’s typically so snarky and talkative, but her lips are bonded together and her eyes bounce from his visor to the speculative crowd; nervous and uncomfortable.

She assures, “You’ll only be a few metres away from each other.”

Mando has no intentions of letting her occupy a separate hut, not after he’s been so distanced from her all this time. “That’s okay. We don’t want to take up more space than necessary.” The Girl relaxes somewhat, shoulders flaccid, and her hands return to fight against the Child’s tantrum.

He notes how the villagers share some questioning glances towards each other, their prying prompting an unsettling weight on his shoulders—Omera shares a hasty gander between the two of her visitors as if assembling a deconstructed blaster from scratch, gears turning in her head.

It’s too much attention for him—too much visibility for a Mandalorian clad in ancient shiny Beskar steel.

His shoulders tense, his fingers flex into fists; they know, they have to know.

His throat bobs underneath his cowl, mouth dry and cheeks warm, though he’s learnt to conceal it through his mannerisms—the constant tension between him and the Girl training him over time—he remains stoic, statuelike, displaying no visible signs of confirmation to their silent queries.

It’s none of their business; nobody’s other than him and the Girl’s.

“If that’s what you wish,” Omera breaks the silence. “I’ll leave you to situate yourselves.”

Mando inhales sharply and nods his head, walking past her to their new residency. The cluster of children straighten upon his arrival, organising themselves in a single file to allow their guest to investigate their work. It’s a small cabin, less spacious than the barn he occupied last time but more secluded—the windows sturdy and the door possessing a lock—with a bed fit for three in the far-end of the walls; it’s been too long since he’s slept on a mattress, too long since he’s been allowed the privilege of stretching his limbs rather than compact them.

Alongside a comfortable mattress comes the Girl’s warmth as they’ll indeed be sharing a bed. Mando will make certain of that.

There’s hushed whispers behind him, helm capturing some of their words—baby, ask, play—and he redirects his vision to the rucksack resting among the Girl’s hip, the children bursting with excitement at the sight of their playmate. He’s just as psyched as they are, his little claws outstretching for Winta in the middle of the group.

“It’s okay.” Mando nods his head towards the children. “He can play.”

The Girl nods and transfers the kid to the floorboards carefully, stepping out of the stampede of children excitedly taking themselves outside.

Tarrying presences now gone, the Girl joins him in the examination of their cabin. “Good thing the Crest isn’t far,” she jokes.

“It’s not that bad.” Mando twists his body to follow her, pauldrons clashing into her harshly. “I suppose it could be a little bigger.”

“Or you could be a little smaller, tin-man.”

He cocks his head to the side, visor leering. “You’re looking for trouble today.”

“Oh, am I?”

“Yes,” he grumbles in his throat, sweeping his vambraces around her to hug her arms against her sides. “You are.”

She struggles against his grip, well aware of her impending justice, but he’s too sturdy—too determined to seek revenge. “Don’t,” she warns.

Mando simply smiles, a large toothy grin that makes his eyes crinkle.

What little gap remained between them abruptly narrows as Mando compresses his build into her, squeezing out the krill water from his flight suit and into her garments. Beskar wipes itself clean on her shirt, caking the textile with heavy mounds of sludge.

“Mando!” she gasps and rolls her shoulders back in false hope it’ll aid her escape. “I don’t have a change of clothes!”

He chuckles, deep and throaty that makes his shoulders bounce. “Neither do I, but you didn’t think of that when you pushed me in,” he growls, the vocoder filtering the sound as a crackle that reverberates in the structure and through her bones; she shudders, her shoulders and chest twitching against him—his blood pumps hot.

“I was doing you a favour. When was the last time you hit the ‘fresher?”

“Need I remind you I have you trapped, mesh’la?” Mando presses the curvature of his helmet against her cheek and rubs the excess droplets onto any surface area he can manage, her cheeks, forehead, jaw, staining the pretty skin she’d been blessed with.

She tries to disguise her laughter with anger, but it comes out through her voice—light and airy; Mando hums at the delightful sound, like a lullaby to his ears. “Okay, okay. You win!”

Unwilling to wrench his grip from around her, he continues pressing himself against her and inches forwards until her back is flat against a pillar—his vambraces slipping around sandwich her between two sturdy foundations, one of splintered log and the other a living, breathing tower of a man coated head to toe in steel.

He’s breathing hard, filters whistling with each exhale.

“Mando--” she purrs, teeth nibbling at the soft insides of her lips.

Eyes bore into the cushiony flesh, his tongue swiping across his own in the thought of them against him. Soft and warm—he knew that much when they were around him—but that’s as far as his understanding reached; were they gentle and sweet or rough and hungry?

Would they be addicting, like every other part of her, or simply satisfying; something to pluck as a treat here-and-there?

He grunts and squeezes his vambraces against the wood, his chest following suit against her. “We’re alone,” he murmurs, head tilting to the side as if to silently voice his thoughts.

She’s not as convinced, searching the cabin for eyes infused into the walls, the floors.

“Mesh’la, it’s safe.”

Her head twists to the entrance, a rush of heat tagging her cheeks in soft hues of pinks. She quietly squeaks, “The doors open.”

“Nobody is looking.”

He’s pushing boundaries he put in place decades ago; parading around a relationship—or whatever this is—like some big achievement, which, to be frank, was pretty extraordinary for the Mandalorian. Flings and casual partners—sure—they weren’t feats but this...He’s never encountered someone so remarkable, so special, so necessary; she’s squirmed herself into his life and now she won’t ever be able to leave without causing a disturbance in his lifestyle. He needs her.

She composes herself at his odd comment and brashly collects a batch of his cowl between her teeth to tug him closer—arms still inoperable against her—and uses the newfound angle to assault his neck with a tauntingly hot breath.

“Clean yourself up first,” she tempts. “You’re grimy.”

“To be fair,” he grumbles, “I don’t recall you having a chance at the refresher in a while.”

She pulls away, eyes squinting at him. “Tread on your words very carefully here, Mando.”

He chuckles and loosens his grip moderately. “I mean—you could join me.”

Mando’s growing confident—too confident, it’s the first signs he’s setting himself up for disappointment—and he slides his hands from the pillar to the curves of her hips, his leathers slipping underneath the oversized shirt to explore the bare flesh; her torso being the only place he hadn’t been given the pleasure of researching—all the chalky scar tissue, the slopes of her abdomen, the contours of her chest.

Pair that with the suds of soap cloaking her skin, her hair, it’s every man’s dream to be the one to apply it to a woman, to feel and pull on slippery skin in such a personal way—to scrub her spic-and-span only to ruin her until she needs another.

“Join you,” she repeats mulling for a moment but she shakes her head with rejection. “That’s too conspicuous.”

She doesn’t voice her concerns regarding his helmet—how in the hell do you clean yourself with me there?—and he himself is uncertain, he just knows he wants to be the one to wash the grime off her. He’ll fix himself up after he’s tended to her, if need be.

“Everybody already has their suspicions.”

She sighs. “Guess I wasn’t very discreet earlier, huh?”

“No,” he confirms, his digits stroking leisurely lines to-and-fro. “you weren’t. What happened? I’ve never seen you look so uncomfortable.”

“I...don’t do well with crowds.” She casts her eyes between their feet, examining the size difference of their boots. Mando removes himself from her to allow her to breathe, to continue without feeling pressured. “That face mask I wore… It was a layer of me. It helped me deal with spying eyes. When Tika destroyed it, I dunno, I guess a piece of myself died with it. It-it doesn’t make sense.”

You’re talking to the expert of masks, he thinks.

“I understand.” he says. “It mustn’t be easy having to deal with the lack of something so integral.”

Mando has yet to experience that fear—that overwhelming sensation of uneasiness; people’s eyes so effortlessly studying him without the disguise of his armour to protect him—it’s something he’s appreciative of everyday.

She sighs, hot and heavy and laced with exhaustion. “Well, life continues either way and I can’t exactly hide away here forever.” She initiates a stare-down with the ajar door, scanning the wilderness that reached her vision; a couple of women standing among the pond waters scooping for krill, a pair of children on the banks assisting with their catch. “I’m not one for fishing but I guess I should help out a little, as thanks.”

He grunts as a reply, lacking the confidence to trust his voice—stay here, stay with me—and lamely takes a few steps back, assigning his amban rifle to a nearby flat surface, some storage units, and sinks to a rustic chair.

She considers him, eyes bouncing from his helmet to his lap where his cloak is pulled between his hands. Mando rings out the sopped material, murky water seeking refuge in the crevices of floorboards.

“You’re making a mess.”

“I need to dry,” he retorts.

“Take it off,” she says.

Mando’s shoulders stiffen, his back straightens. “I can’t.”

“I won’t look.” The Girl turns on the heels of her feet and shuts the door ahead of her, casting the room into darkness except for the timid rays of sunlight shining through the narrow gaps of the window—not enough for somebody outside to see, but plenty for him to undress himself without a hassle. “Just put in my hand when you’re done. I’ll find somewhere sunny to hang it up - shouldn’t take too long to dry in this heat.”

There’s no movement on either of their sides, their hut as though it was in suspended animation or the Crest on one it’s many malfunctions just idling in the vastness. She shifts on her feet restlessly in wait for the sodden garments to weigh her hand down.

“What, so I just sit here until it’s dry?”

She shrugs her shoulders. “Unless you want to walk around the village naked with a helmet on, yeah.”

Mando grumbles under his breath. It’s not really a choice. It’s not as though he can just remain drenched all day until the air inevitably dries him off. Still, it’s not easy to remove himself from his armour somewhere other than the Crest; it provided security, a reassurance that nobody will see him so exposed.

Both boots are dismissed from their positions and come to lay rest beside the chair while he works on the beskar platings riddling his body—the steel branded to protect him now nothing more than a nuisance as it resists against his efforts and continues to cling to the suit against his wishes. They’re slippery and contain no traction on behalf of the clumpy muck, his leathers sliding out from underneath each time. It’s like a suction seal against his chest, inconceivable of success, but he’s just as stubborn and lures the rim underneath a stitch of his glove and plucks the guard off harshly.

One down, too many more to go.

The other platings put up just as much of a fight as the first but, with a few tugs, they withdraw from his body and reside on the ground alongside his boots. He’s practically naked without his beskar—the air light and crisp as he breathes without the weight—practically naked in front of the Girl. It’s the most he’s been so revealing and, even though she’s not looking at him, his cheeks grow warm, his stomach pulled taut.

He dabbles in intolerable concepts—thoughts he shouldn’t act on for the sake of his Honour, his Creed—the overwhelming suggestion of standing behind her and letting her feel his bare heat radiate off in potent waves; like a strong glass of spotchka, irresistible but ultimately an unhealthy decision.

There’s a deep shudder that runs through the base of his neck down to his coccyx, goosebumps brandishing him and refrigerating him far greater than the krill waters could. Underneath his helmet, he casts his eyes low to devour the curves and slopes of the Girl’s body, his teeth grinding against each other until there’s an ache in his temples.

His Beskar is gone, solely a clump of shiny steel that serves as a warning of what he could be throwing away—everything he’s risked his life for, everything he’s spent decades consuming, altering his physical attributes to suit that of a stoic, emotionless pillar of flesh and bone fortified with not just his armour but his code. His faith.

The Girl precariously shifts between either foot and cocks her hip out, sighing dramatically that pulls his thoughts back into the present.

“Patience,” he instructs.

The air is thick, hot, or maybe it was just him—his filters rendering inoperable when confronted with the foreign bashfulness; it’s not often he encounters such a outlandish emotion, so unknown and disorienting, and it’s quite possibly the worst fucking issue he’s faced with. There’s no shooting or piloting his way out of it and his brain only works in a handful of matters at a time—none of which included addressing the electricity in his chest, the bubbling in his stomach, the clenched muscles throughout his anatomy.

The Mandalorian—if he could still be considered a Mandalorian without his armour, his essence—stands, prompting a squelch from the pool of water he formed underneath, and reaches around his neck to unclasp the heap of his cloak; it’s nothing new, she’s seen him without it before. The shirt is a different story. That’s new. That’s untouched boundaries. His build is infrequently subjected to the perched star in the clouds let alone another lifeform.

Fingers dip underneath the hem of his shirt and bundles the material, his second knuckles sweeping against his abdomen that leaves his jaw tight. That famished growling in his chest is utterly pathetic—his own touches manage to provoke such a humiliating reaction, he could only fathom what the Girl would do to him with those soft hands of hers, her gentleness as she nurses the bruises with her thumbs.

Mando hoists the shirt over his head and slips free from the sleeves and drops it to the floor with a displeasing schlup and neglects the choking in his throat, the rise of his heart rate. Are your eyes closed, he seeks answers to voiceless questions, or are you staring at wood, counting the twigs? Why aren’t you looking at me? There’s another sigh that fills the quiet, whether it’s from her or himself is uncertain; his heart is pleading for a moment’s break.

It doesn’t come.

Next is his trousers—something she had seen before, but under different circumstances, totally contrasting. Perhaps it was all that Tatooine heat that got to them or the severity of the events catching up—Mando nearly dying, nearly stranding her and the kid—that caused them to collide with desperation, their hands working at whatever little article of clothing they could eliminate from the equation to feel each others warmth; the indication they were both alive, safe.

Mando takes pity on her restlessness and forces his reflections to the dark recesses of his mind for later, stripping out of the trousers adhered to his thighs, his calves, noting how the temperate air licks his legs dry. It’s too exposing, too public for his comfort, and he swiftly bundles the cot’s blanket around his shoulders to conceal himself from eyes that weren’t even aimed at him. She wouldn’t go undermining the trust they’ve built, but it’s his Honour, his code—at least that’s what he tells himself.

The Mandalorian tells himself he’s weary because that’s how he was brought up, he was trained to be cautious. To prohibit connections that’d tie him down and crush what little valour remained within him.

He ignores the pestering inkling at the back of his brain telling him that’s not why he’s so high-strung.

There’s scars tainting his flesh, painting the tan skin in slithers of off-whites, bruises on his knees and shins, thick callus paddings on his fingertips. He can’t help but imagine what the Girl might say if she saw him so bruised, so broken. Would she still want to touch him, or is it the shiny beskar that allures her—a mere status symbol.

Securing the blanket around his frame, Mando shimmys a hand out between the folds and grabs the pile of drenched cloth, striding across the room in three steps and gingerly placing it in the Girl’s outstretched palm.

“Is that all?” she asks, her fingers tightening around the stack of black. “I won’t be able to come back for more.”

Mando swallows, his throat bobbing against the air rather than his cowl; it’s such a bizarre situation, being so bare before the woman he struggles to contain himself around, his thoughts jumbled in his head—turn around, please don’t turn around—and he finds the strength to back away from her. “That’s all.”

She won’t—turn, that is—it’s too overbearing, too unlike her. No matter how easy it could be for her to witness him so vulnerable, so human-like, she won’t fiddle with the bindings of their mutual loyalties. Won’t stick her hand in the wet duracrete because she knows it’ll leave a permanent mark, a stamp of her backstabbery.

“All right.” She inches backwards so she can open the door ahead of her. “You out of sight?”

“Yes.”

She nods, her fingers wrapping around the handle and twisting but it stays firmly against the frame. “Get some rest. I know you didn’t sleep on the way here. I’ll get these tended to and then you can hit the ‘fresher.” She opens the door and takes a step outside. “Don’t forget to lock it.”

He watches her leave, observes how the sun swallows her in a breathtaking glow, watches the room be cast into darkness once more—isolating him from the outside; if it’s not beskar or the Crest, there’s always something between him and the natural beauty of the planets he frequents.

The sonic detectors pick up her departing footsteps, light and reluctant, until her boots make contact with the grass, dulling their resonance until he’s left with the laughter of children and hushed gossip concerning himself. He sighs, clicks the lock into place and precariously removes his helmet—cold, dirty with mud and silence leering through him. It’s insides are comforting, a shelter he’s incomplete without, but it’s exterior is the polar opposite; sinister, an insignia for his kind to instill fear into their enemies—the Girl never displaying that trepidation he’s so accustomed to.

Mando is endowed with the sight of the Girl’s beauty, how her eyes crinkle when she smiles or how she chews on her lower lip when in thought, her hands never static for more than a minute at a time, there’s not a detail in his sight he hasn’t engraved into the forefront of his mind.

She’s not as fortunate as him, stranded in the cold surrounded by steel rather than warm skin, unable to pursue the comfort of another without the constant reminder that he can never provide her with anything more than a slab of metal servicing as her shield. And yet, despite those factors, she remains beside him—voluntarily puts herself between him and danger—looking past the visor, all the walls he put in place, and into his eyes.

The helmet expires atop of the chair he’d been seated on, positioned away from him as he sinks his weight onto the mattress—bouncy and cottony, feeding his aching muscles with some much needed attention. For the first time ever, the bed is too large, too empty—she should be here.

Mando’s head stoops against the bundle of organised pillows, cushioning the healing wound underneath the thick of his curls. Curls her fingers nursed. He groans, deep that resonates through his chest, and distorts his head towards the door in wait for her return, his eyelids heavy as they fall shut.

Sleep doesn’t come to him easily in territories he’s been deprived of conquering; the nooks and crannies of each aisle between the huts unaccounted for, the instability of wooden walls establishing minimal security. It’s not optimal in contrast to his Crest but it works enough to achieve a couple hours of sleep. When he wakes, the orange tint leaking through the cabin has evolved into a blend of soft pinks and purples that blush against his tan skin as he paces the room, the blanket wrapped around his build dragging along the flooring with each lengthy stride.

He’d discovered a small refresher deposit in the shack and decided to clean himself up best he could—despite his hormones advocating against the idea, begging for him to wait it out until the Girl returns and he can share the space with her—which now leaves him stranded with his thoughts. A dangerous game he’s not prepared to dabble in presently. Fortuitously enough, he doesn’t need to—a steady knock on the hut’s door pulls him from his thoughts.

“I’ve brought your clothes,” Omera says from the outside, Mando quietly hums to himself and slips his helmet on before speaking.

“Thank you,” the vocoder crackles to life.

“I’ll leave it at the door for you to recollect.”

Mando enables his thermal vision, outlining her body through the door as she bends down to place the garments at the foot of the entrance and turns away for him to steal them. He does so, swiftly and with such minimal sound she doesn’t hear the door open or close behind her.

She’s unmoving, her hands clasped behind her back in patience for him to dress himself.

Assuming she wishes to commune about their sudden arrival, Mando doesn’t leave her waiting long—the flight suit smelling of soap and hugging his muscles with a pleasant residual warmth from the sunshine, his beskar, boots, gloves, and cloak following suit; electing to disregard his bandolier and holsters.

He’s not as hesitant to make noise now that he’s back to donning his layers and widely swings the door open indicating his decency. Omera turns to face him, her eyes casting over his clean clothes and offering a smile. “I was wondering if you’d like to take a walk before nightfall,” she asks, gesturing to the stairs below. “It would be nice to catch up with you. It’s been a while.”

“Where’s-”

“She’s out in the ponds with our finest catchers and your boy is with Winta and the other children.”

Mando doesn’t object against her proposal. Perhaps it’ll do him some good to get some fresh air, to clear his thoughts of the Girl, the wavering uneasiness of his Creed.

They leisurely stroll beside each other following the gravel paths of the village, the sinking sun ricocheting off the front of his helmet as they draw nearer.

“The ponds, huh?” Mando thinks aloud.

She chuckles. “Quite talented at fishing at that. She’s made a name for herself. We can swing by on our way, if you’d like.”

He faintly nods, his helmet inclining to the path as he walks. “Has the village encountered any issues recently?”

“You mean the raiders? They’ve kept their distance and the villagers know how to fight if that changes.”

“And what of you?” Mando asks. “How have you been? Winta?”

“Better, because of you, thank you,” she says, her feet coming to a halt among a cluster of krill ponds. They’re all empty, the inhabitants packing up for the remainder of the night, though his eyes land on the Girl in the distance. She’s switched her tarnished trousers and shirt for a village dress, hitched up to her mid-thigh as she dries the limbs coated in krill water.

The Mandalorian’s stomach contracts, his throat narrowing as he rakes in the image—the fluidity of the material in the wind, her skin lambent from the sunrays, the unclothed legs tormenting his self control. She hasn’t detected his prying, too concentrated on communing with a flock of women thanking her for the assistance.

It’s almost...domestic; Mando can imagine them settling down in a place like this, rough hands that manipulate blasters and spacecraft dedicating themselves to lenient chores like a regular townsman. Gummy blood that sticks to his leathers washing away in a tranquil stream. Their nights spent witnessing the stars emerge from the vastness of the sky above.

The weight on his vambrace suffocates his daydreaming with grungy splotches of soil and he reluctantly returns his attention to Omera, who’s studying his inattentive stance.

“The offer still stands.”

“Offer?” he asks.

“To settle down here with your boy.” The bothersome weight snakes along his beskar and to the thick of his flight suit, her fingers working their way into the strained bicep. She lowers her voice to a dainty murmur, “There must be a reason for your return.”

The weight on his arm is unnatural, forced—so unlike the unfiltered gentleness of the Girl’s—he refrains from shrugging her off, not wanting to appear ungrateful for her hospitality, but it’s like venom seeping into his veins and numbing him from the inside.

Their little game of tooka-and-womp-rat from the last time he was here starting to catch up with him; this is what he was afraid of. She’s a kind woman, she’s great with kids and can handle her own, but she’s not the Girl. She’s not who he wants to see right now.

“You like it here, don’t you?”

“It’s-it’s not an option. We can’t stay still for long.”

“It’s safe here.” Fingers dig in, feet inch closer, eyes dusky.

Mando finally pulls away, unsettled, and shakes his head. “The Child is still being hunted by the Guild. We may only last a few days here before needing to move on. They need a break, is all.” He shies from mentioning he requires a break as much as them; the Girl’s initial idea stimulating the selfish desires that influenced his return. “We’ll be out of your hair before you know it.”

Omera’s eyes stall downwards, her hands clasping together ahead of her. “I understand,” she says. “Since you’re on a break, how about I take in your boy for the night? It’ll allow you some rest and I’m not sure if I can separate Winta from him.”

“I don’t think-”

“We’re only a few huts down from you,” she reassures.

It’s not that he doesn’t trust Omera, she’s demonstrated her loyalties before, but they’ve spent so much time apart since Tatooine. What happens if the kid latches onto someone and Mando can’t stomach meddling with their bonding? What happens if he no longer wishes to journey with him? The Mandalorian is responsible for him—he can’t just abandon him, but who’s he to insert himself in places he doesn’t belong?

Then again, devoting time to other children his age—well, about as close they’ll reach to his age—could be beneficial; it’s one of the reasons why he had chosen Sorgan.

Mando exhales and seats his hands on his hips. “Okay, but if he’s too much to handle let me know.”

“Of course,” she whispers, clasping a hand on his tricep as she passes him, the burden slinking down his elbow until he’s too far from her reach and it falls away. He cranes his head to look behind as she strides back towards the village, his eyebrows crinkling as he studies her.

“You two are real chummy,” the Girl says from ahead of him, brushing her shoulder against his pauldron as she continues towards their shared hut. He releases a grunt as he’s pushed out of her way, the confusion inscribed into his brows only multiplying—what the fuck is happening?

“Hey.” Mando stalks her, towering and threatening that induces the locals to pitiful onlookers, silently wishing the Girl her best as she enters the hut with him not far behind, the door slapping closed. “What’s gotten into you?”

The Girl scoffs and shakes her head with disbelief, her hands working at the fastenings of her dress to loosen it from around her thighs, framing her legs in wrinkled tapestry. “Me? You’re the one changing around all your little rules you put in place. Should’ve seen the two of you out there. What happened to privacy?”

His legs don’t operate with his wishes, the boots cemented in a debating stance with his arms crossed against his chest. “What are you talking about?” the vocoders buzz.

Baring her teeth like a tooka, she hisses, “She likes you.”

She likes you—he mulls it over, sifting through the dust for the underlying meaning—do you like her?

Mando’s muscles sag and his feet bound across the room to near her, needing her warmth; needing her. He can’t believe she’s skeptical of their connection. He can’t believe she’s doubting how he feels. It burns him. Leaves a searing scar where his heart belongs.

He wants to reach out for her, feel her pliable tissue underneath his gloves, but there’s a meek hesitance; a miniscule drops-worth of concern he’ll incur further stings that eat at his flesh.

“I--”

“Turn around.”

He tilts his head. “Why?”

“Need to get out of this stupid dress.”

Does she not realise what it’s doing to him?

How his fingers are clenched into fists against his sides. How his breathing is heavier. How his shoulders are hunched and his head is preoccupied with images of that blasted skirt hitched up to her thighs with him between them. Does she not see that?

“Keep it on.”

It’s almost an order. Almost.

“It’s hers,” she spits.

Oh. That makes sense.

“I get it, all right. I don’t...have you, Mando. I’m not allowed to-to be jealous when another woman touches you, but—” She unzips the top unconcerned of his peeping, furious and desperate to rid herself of the confining garment. “I won’t wear her clothes. I won’t dress up as another one of your flings. That’s - that’s…”

Mando’s features soften, his fists unclenching, shoulders slacking, and—wait. Back up. Is she that clueless?

He carries his feet towards her, heavy and laden with purpose.

“You’re wrong.”

“What?”

“You’re wrong, mesh’la,” he repeats. Another step.

She’s no longer concerned with the dress, the fabric that once felt like acid against her skin now nothing more than the means of coverage. The Mandalorian isn’t radiating any expressions that she’s learnt to pick up on—he’s completely unreadable.

“About what?”

“I don’t have you,” he recites. “That’s what you said.”

The Girl’s quiet, too quiet, as she stares him down. There’s a falter in her movements as she recedes from her own nerves reflecting off beskar. Finally, ever so slowly, she breathes out another, “What?”

His modulator thrums, his boots clink, his flight suit rustles. Their radius is shortened, Mando’s beskar brushing against the material of her dress as he closes her in like he did before. His leathers stroke against her cheek, bulky and unsatisfying; preventing him from the intimacy he seeks. It’s not fair. He can’t remain like this—so quarantined from her, so fucking removed.

There’s no thinking, no self-interrogating, as his hands fumble against the beskar plate strapped to his chest in haste—concerned that if he slows down even a second he’ll lose the confidence building up inside him—his fingers curl underneath the boundary and tears the steel off his build, clanking to the flooring beside them. The impact causes her to jump, her eyes widen as she inspects the vacant space of his torso.

“Your Creed,” she whispers.

Seizing her hand in his, he compresses it against his pectoral and breathes in deep—lungs inflating against the appendage, his heart stammering at the unacquainted sensations of her nails digging into the flesh underneath. Inconsistent palpitating of his organ travels from the surface of his chest, through her fingertips and to her core, tightening and coiling as her own beating soars to unhealthy speeds.

It’s an adrenaline rush in itself, her fingers so temperate and alive abutting his dense suit—he conceptualises them slithering underneath to nurse the ache of his organ.

He’s not afraid of being burned. He told her that back on Tatooine and he fucking meant it.

Mando is durable; he can take a few burns if need be.

“You make me do foolish things, mesh’la.” The beskar slides across the room with a kick of his boot and he takes another step closer, her back forced against the walls of their dinky cabin. A gloved forefinger hooks the thread perched among her neck and lifts, the steel pendant revealing itself from beneath the top of her dress and he rubs a comforting stroke on the face of the skull. “This is the only part of me I never removed.”

Her face is hot, her lungs heavy. She’s listening, though she makes no effort in concealing how her fingers insistently grasp at his shirt to develop an understanding of the unfamiliar territory.There’s a gentle squeeze across the back of her hand and she tears her eyes away to glance at the visor, tilted and lenient. “This-” He absentmindedly fidgets with the necklace. “-means more to me than my beskar. It was a...beacon of light, hope. It was my compass when I lost myself in my commissions—reminded me of why I chose this life, why I chose to isolate myself—I’m not sure if I need it anymore.” He hopes he’s exhibiting the connotation inside his head as successfully as he believes—I don’t need it when I have you and you have me.

“Mando…” she exhales.

He chews on the gums of his cheeks, his lips, until they’re sore and tender.

“Not -- not good with words,” he confesses, his thumb massaging circles into her cheekbones. “Let me show you.”

Her head angles to the side in consideration. “Show me?”

It’s not an exact approval of his request but it’s enough for him to act—enough for him to demonstrate his devotion to the Girl—and he sinks his hands behind her thighs and hoists them around his waist, pressing his chest into her for stability against the wall. Her hands find their place on his pauldrons, quizzing eyes searching his visor for assurance. Baffling, how she’s so precarious for his Honour’s sake despite him being the initiator; his toes absorb his weight as he lifts himself to insert the face of his helmet into the crook of her neck, his modulator eliciting a grunt as his arousal awakens and rubs against the bottom of her thighs.

“Tell me to stop and I will.”

She doesn’t—Thank the Force, as Peli would say—and he transitions them to the cot, her legs tightening around him with each step he takes. He deposits her onto the mattress on her back with his body hunched over hers, though his feet refuse to tear from the floor, either hand on the cushions beside her head.

“Take it off.”

She doesn’t need a stupid dress for him to look at her that way.

The Girl whirs melodically like a comforting warble from his Crest welcoming him home and she carefully slips her limbs from his shoulders down his chest and out from their sleeves, the dress supported by nothing but gravity and her fingers bundle the skirt, impishly stripping the garment inch by slow inch.

Mando rids himself of his gloves, hell-bent on pursuing the pillowy flesh and engraving his fingerprints. Her stripping wavers at her abdomen and he takes the opportunity to slip the rough pads of his hands along the tops of her thighs to beneath the cloth, fingers blindly studying the miniscule scars puncturing the smooth skin. They find the most recent one, still tender but glossed over with rough tissue, and he circles it like a tooka with its prey.

She’s otherworldly, all soft curves and smooth skin in contrast to the dead of steel.

The weight on his chest, or lack of, evokes shameful thoughts.

“Come here,” he whispers, catching her hands and placing them on either of his pauldrons, her fingertips hooking underneath the rim. “Drag it down and then up.”

“I can’t.”

“You can, pretty girl.”

The nickname pulls a shudder out of her bones and her fingers tighten around the steel, heeding his instructions until the layers unclasp from their fastenings—protection he’s bonded with now nothing more than inanimate alloy in her hands. It’s a physical weight off his shoulders but it reaches so much deeper than that, as though he could finally breathe for the first time in years even with the blockade of a helmet.

He repositions her hands to his vambraces. “Curl your finger underneath-” She follows, either forefinger arching beneath the rim and finding a small shrouded dial, the plates slackening around his wrists and she carefully peels either off. “That’s it.”

That ugly trepidation from before isn’t even a consideration—his eyes glowing and fingers stiff as she shucks him from his beskar piece by piece, her own garb partially removed and covering the last portion of her body he’s yet to see bare. He won’t undress her further, not until they’re equal and she’s more comfortable.

Mando slips free of his boots, nudging them to the side, and ascends to the surface of the cot to sit on his knees between her legs. Their hands shift to his tassets resting among his hips and he aids in her attempt to dislodge them from their joints, tossing them to join the growing pile of steel below the bed. She stops with her hands sprawled across his cuisses, the last of his armour; the last physical manifestations of his essence.

“Is this what you want, Mando?” she asks, the tips of her fingers caressing small strokes into his thighs above the steel.

“Say my name,” he pleads. “No one will hear.”

She repeats, “Is this what you want, Din?”

Dank Farrik. He’s no longer The Mandalorian, Mando, but instead reclaiming a long lost name and wearing it with pride, ingraining the sound of it slipping through her lips into his bones. Din. A name he’ll only ever hear come from her. His name.

And the Girl was no longer just the Girl—she’s His Girl; all his and he’ll brand her body to prove it, label her skin with his crescent nails if he has to. They deliberately dig into the meat of her thighs, skin raking underneath his fingernails, and he nods his head in response to her question - this is all he wants. To be suspended in time right here and now; triumphing buried insecurities with her unwavering support.

Her fingers progress independently, hitching underneath the borders and tugging the final two pieces of pesky beskar from his body, sans helmet of course, and languidly drops them to the flooring with a clank.

She stifles her breathing, reducing it to a slow wisp that flees her mouth and circles around them dragging them against each other. “You-you can touch me, mesh’la.” He expresses his covet for her touch by depressing his hips into hers, rocking once and twice rhythmically until she wads a fistful of flight suit to draw him in—her breath fogging the visor as she analyses his build with her hands; trailing along the front of his chest and around his sides, the featherweight touches tickling the body parts scarcely disturbed.

“Smell so good,” she moans and tucks her face into his cowl. “Much better than before.”

Din chortles. “Should’ve joined me.”

“Next time.”

He’ll take her up on that.

There’s a hand on either hip and he observes from the clouds as she aligns their pelvises together, her heat bucking against the emerging bulge.

“Show me,” she alludes to his previous proposal, eyes swallowed with inky lust.

Din fucking growls—the modulator contributing very little to the deep crackle—and his hands return to soft flesh, shoving the galling dress up, up, up and over.

“S’pretty.”

The garment is discarded across the hut, finding its home somewhere among the clutter of beskar trailings. She’s faultless, something he already had an impression on but seeing her so bare, so unguarded and trusting beneath him, is record-breaking.

Trauma lesions encompass her skin, little choppy lines of faded tones splotched across her abdomen, her chest, shoulders, waist—mimicking his own—and he returns to the healing wound on her abdomen to brush a tender stroke along the surface; an injury he was there to witness, the blade tucked into her flesh still so fresh in his mind.

“Din.”

The vermillion slipping through his gloves as she faded out of consciousness. Those dreadful cries of pain each time he touched her. The unyielding environment of Tatooine attacking his muscles and composure as she bled out in the arms of a stranger.

A prodding at his back plucks him from reliving the memory, crumbling it into miniscule debris fragments upon the revelation that she’s here with him, breathing and safe and alive. She’s poking at the wound he garnered all those days ago, when she took the first step to progressing this little thing they have going—all of their intimate milestones triggered by one or the other inflicting a wound of sorts; Din seemingly the culprit in both instances.

But not this time.

This time is different. Spurred on by passion and a necessary need to show each other themselves defenceless.

“Sorry,” he whispers and compensates for lost time with a gentle grind of his bulge into her sex, her feet digging into the matress behind him and holding him stationary against her.

She raises to her elbows, seizing a clump of his cowl in one hand to stabilise herself and uses the newfound leverage to rut against his lap. “Shit, Din,” she moans.

It’s so fucking lewd; she’s just using him to get herself off and fuck if he doesn’t like it—the pressure around his neck with each tug, the warmth against his lap, how light and freeing each movement is compared to last time.

“Supposed-” He’s cut off with a tumbling grunt, fleeing out of his throat and into the silent cabin as she quickens her pace; stroking the underside of his length raw. “I’m-I’m supposed to...fuck.”

“Taking-” she breathes, “-too long. Fucking--taking off your beskar, what’re you thinking? I need you, Din.”

She’s forced back onto her back beneath him with a hand flat against her abdomen, his figure looming over her exuding lust and desire and pure dusky thoughts he’d be ashamed of admitting. “Wasn’t done,” he declares, a hand grasping at the hem of his shirt to eradicate the article from the equation. Din needs to feel his skin against hers, more than just roughened hands, he wants her nails in the muscles lining his back, her teeth retreating to the skin above his collarbone, lips and tongue labouring at his neck.

The weight around his neck and shoulders commands him to cease his stripping—fuck. Why’s he got so many fucking layers for? Din rips the cloak from around his neck, bundling it into a tattered ball and tossing it across the room impatiently.

His hands return to his shirt’s hem, elevating the fabric until a sliver of his abdomen is assaulted by frigid air. The downwards dragging is unexpected, quaint, and he stops to heed her interruption, “Only if you want to, Din. Don’t - don’t force yourself for me.”

“Sweet girl,” he muses and removes his hands so she’s left clutching the fabric alone. “Take it off for me.”

It’s too intimate, too liberating; so much more than just sex and a means to receive relief from each other’s bodies. This is something they’ve both been denied for far too long—the meek touches of another to lull each other, reassure themselves events that have yet to unfold will be okay so long as they’re together.

She discards the shirt beside them and runs her nails along his spine gingerly, recording the bumps of bone buried underneath the flesh and muscles. His front is in her face, on direct display for her eyes to collect the slithers of off-whites; her lips brushing his pectorals.

“Been through so much,” she whispers against his skin, her breath prompting a layer of goosebumps in its radius. “Too much.”

“As have you, mesh’la.” His fingers trail a slash across her shoulder.

The time she contributes to identifying each scar, memorising the feeling and positions, is staggering—as though she’d be content with just studying his body for the next week alone—those impressions of her only wanting him for his armour and protection, not for what else he can bring to the table, are lit in unforgiving flames.

She’s not in it for the reputation he withholds, but simply for him.

There’s a tightness in his chest, an ache, something new and terrifying—a word to an emotion he’s not acquainted with circling his mind, bouncing along his tongue in jest towards his confusion and uncertainty.

He doesn’t entertain the thought; the thought that maybe, possibly Din is having his initial encounter with something bigger and more dangerous than any commission he’s dealt with before. It’s not possible. He’s not that fortunate. He can’t process those emotions—he’s not built for that.

Din needs a distraction, pronto, otherwise his head will be so clouded with the thought that—

She banks a wet stripe across the front of his throat, the groan oscillating through his flesh and onto her tongue and she rewards him with a benign kiss—his throat bobs and he ruts against her pelvis unquestionably eager.

Yeah, that’ll do.

Din’s hands surrender behind her back and blindly unclasp the hooks of her undergarment and yanks the blasted barrier off, his hands working the soft mounts before his eyes gain a chance to rake in their appearance.

“So soft,” he murmurs, palming the tissue vigorously. “How’re you so soft?”

The Girl opens her mouth to utter something snarky—he’s beginning to sense her incoming sass—and he devilishly clips a nipple between two fingers to disrupt her train of thought, her fingernails raking against his shoulder blades in an attempt to stifle the rising noises in her throat. It’s hypnotic, like watching electricity react against metal, her back arching as he flicks a thumb over the hardening peak sparking her nails to bare down into the meat of his slackened deltoids.

A hand trails down to his abdomen, digits soaking through the hairs of his happy trail but she doesn’t stop in her endeavours and sinks lower, past his bulge and buries her hand underneath her undergarments so that he can only see the outline of her hand working away at her crotch.

Din exhales, one of his hands fleeing from her breasts to remove the garment so he can watch her. She plunges three fingers inside of herself, stiffly pumping her hand in and out—preparing herself for him; it’s so fucking vulgar.

“Gods,” he groans. His final piece of clothing retires to his ankles, too overzealous to put in that extra effort to be completely free, and instructs her hand to his cock, using the slick on her fingers to lubricate himself. “Flip over for me, pretty girl. Let me take care of you.”

She enthusiastically obliges and squirms underneath his weight to lay on her stomach, he uses the pillows to prop her ass up to avoid her overstraining herself and reserves a moment to consider the view—far greater than his mind would conjure up. There’s additional scar tissue across her back, lengthy slashes and the remnants of blaster bolts, but those only highlight her features; the dip between her shoulder blades, the arch of her lower back joining the curves of her ass perfectly.

“Beautiful.” He adjusts himself between her folds, rubbing the tip to amass more of her slick, and eases inside her gradually; his hands never leaving her waist, eyes refusing to tear from the scenic sight.

“Shit--”

“So beautiful.”

“--Din, please-”

Din hums and thrusts inside her, pulling moans and gasps from her lips like music to his ears. “Beautiful...mesh’la.” It doesn’t require further explanation, the connotation straightforward with two simple words.

She asks, nonetheless, words muffled with bedspread and moaning, “That’s what you’ve been calling me all this time?”

“Do you like it?”

“Do I like it—you’re… you -- Maker. Shut up and fuck me.”

Fucking her, that he can do. Shutting up, on the other hand, was a little more difficult. It’s worthy of a comedic performance, how contrasting Din is in bed to in his armour; usually so stoic, a Mandalorian-of-few-words, now so whiny and talkative underneath the Girl’s charm.

Even if he wanted to stop murmuring dulcet words—and he really fucking doesn’t want to; the pent-up statements flowing from his throat so smoothly compared to earlier, like a tender creek current—he can’t stop.

Din applies his weight onto her back, uses his knees to continue his thrusts, and dips his helmet to mutter filth into her ear, “Gar jatnese be te jatnese-” He grunts, a hand squirming it’s way underneath her body to snatch a breast - just to have his hands against parts of her reserved for him. “Gar ani ni, vaabir gar suvarir?”

Of course she doesn’t understand—-Mando’a isn’t a well-known language, with few aruetii capable of articulating the speech. It’s no surprise when she doesn’t respond to his comments but the quiver reaching her shoulders and toes is a clear indication she’s savouring the sound of his voice manipulating a foreign language—whispering endearments only he can understand.

He’s touching her everywhere, running along her sides and across her shoulders, fingers dipping to draw lines across her cheeks and forehead where sweat is beginning to accumulate. Din’s inquisitive, it goes against his nature—habitually so cautious and attentive—and he sweeps two fingers across the cushioning of her lips, tapping against the flesh until she parts and immerses the digits within the pocket of her mouth.

There’s no sense of direction, no suggestion for what she should do cause he’s fucking splintered like a log; he’s had her fingers in his mouth before but he’s never felt the warmth of her saliva without a leather barrier. The helmet tucks into the crevice of her neck and shoulder as she bobs her head on the fingers, performing identically to how she had at Tatooine on his cock—sultry and slow, simply exploring the body he’s honoured her with sharing.

It’s an overload of sensations. Being rooted so deeply within her it’d be best to pitch his residence to refrain from laborious movement, their lungs synchronised against each other, his bareness, his withering Honour, so apparent and she’s focused on serving him with anything he desires; fingers in her mouth, weight crushing her, a hand grabbing at her chest, she doesn’t care so long as he’s satisfied and touching her.

Din can’t handle it. He’s a fucking Mandalorian. A warrior. He’s killed thousands of lifeforms in his lifetime. He’s survived wars. None of those even came close to shattering him like she does—a pretty girl is the cause of his skeptical questioning of his Code. A pretty girl is the sole motivation for his fingers to dip underneath the beskar rim, floundering for the feel of a fastener -- click!

There’s a hiss that interrupts her pace, the gears in her head turning, and she pulls away from his fingers to stare off into oblivion. Her body’s tense, the cushiony flesh abruptly hard and taut underneath him. “What’s the matter, Cyar’ika?” he mulls, stopping his movements to console the change of attitude.

“Din—you can’t.”

She doesn’t need to explain herself. Doesn’t need to clarify she understands that sound, having heard it twice before now. She understands the reality of the situation he’s pushing themselves into; quite possibly more than Din himself.

She inhales and inclines her head, sealing off any possibility of catching a glimpse of something unforgivable. She murmurs, “You’ve shown me, I get it -- I understand. The pendant, the beskar, the flight suit... It’s too much—I can’t reciprocate. You can’t give all of this to me, Din.”

The beskar is slack, mobile, as he shifts so he’s directly behind her. “Oh, Cyar’ika, you’ve given me plenty.” he hums, the vocoder continuing to operate. It modulates his vocals into staticy droid-like sounds; it provokes a rise in his chest, a tightness in his abdomen, and he rips the steel from his face—as though he’s submerged in krill water, drowning and in dire need of the Girl—and his mouth latches onto the back of her shoulder in one foul swoop. There’s no time to consider it, his actions overcoming his rationality and faith to his Creed.

It’s all teeth and tongue. Biting and tugging, licking and lapping.

The Girl springs at the sensation, the contact so heavenly she’s uncertain whether it’s real.

“Din, you...fuck, shouldn’t-shouldn’t…” She struggles for a deep inhale with the weight on her back, her face swallowed by blankets for his Honour’s sake.

The enamel works out the knots in her muscles, his warm tongue lulling the skin to relaxation after he’s finished abusing it. It’s fucking surreal. Dreamlike. Who knew something so small could elicit such a primal feeling inside of him. She’s even softer in his mouth than his hands—how is she so fucking soft—all warm and salty from sweat that attacks his tastebuds, leaves him thirsty for more.

He marvels whether the beating in her chest is as fast as his, whether he’s spurring on some deepened arousal like she’s doing to him; his cock hardens like that of his beskar, tight and sturdy to the point of ache and he’s compelled to grind his pelvis against her ass to relieve some of the pressure.

“Pretty girl,” he coos, voice rounded and deep and alive; goosebumps rise to the surface of her skin, which he nurses with delicate pecks. “Should take a look at yourself.”

She bites back, “Should listen to yourself.”

It encourages him, welcomes the husky tone from the depths of his throat as he nears her ear and deliberately exudes a hot sigh to assault the cartlidge, “Kaab jate, Cyar’ika? Is that what you like? My voice?” He pokes his tongue at the base of the side of her neck and slides upwards to the bottom of her ear. “Or—ner uram—my mouth?”

It’s not a question needed to answer; she makes it apparent that yes, his mouth, his voice, his vulnerability, his sacrifice, is what she likes—she likes him.

“Ke-ep talking like that and I’m gonna-”

“We’re not done,” he rumbles. “I wanna-wanna taste.”

“Ta-st-e…” she stumbles. He can’t see her face from this angle but he imagines a tint of pink across her cheeks, her teeth chomping away at the bottom lip.

Din buzzes against her ear in confirmation. “Want you in my mouth. Is that okay?”

“Oh fuck. Yes. Where - how do you want me?”

So fucking eager—he swallows the opportunity to assuage her appetite for his tongue by flattening the organ against her spine unloading a thick stripe of saliva in substitute for the sweat that nestles its way down his throat. “Not yet, sweet thing, let me take care of you first.”

Din lacks experience utilising his mouth to get someone off, isolating yourself in a layer of steel tends to do that to a man, and he’d be unable to reveal himself from his beskar again if he humiliates himself like that—he’ll just exploit what he can and swoop in to lap up the remnants between her thighs.

It’s greedy wanting to experience the flavour not for her pleasure but his own. That aftertaste that’s so highly spoken about so unidentifiable on his taste buds; he can’t continue living not knowing what that’s like.

But first; he’ll make her scream his name and come on his cock until she’s leaking down her thighs.

His helmet idles beside them, lopsided visor leering at him from it’s position—he scowls at the heinous thought jostling around his mind and repositions it ahead of the Girl, the steel weighing down the blankets. He verifies it’s perspective and slithers a hand around her throat to pry her face from the depths of the blankets and mattress.

She’s rigid as she finds herself in the reflection of the visor, sweaty and flushed and practically drooling with thirst for his thrusts. “Fucking——look at yourself,” Din moans.

“Shit, your face-”

“S’okay,” he slurs, “can’t see me from your position.”

The Girl relaxes somewhat, her shoulders still taut but her neck melting into his hand and moulding her flesh around his digits as he continues to incline her head—look how gorgeous you are—and his teeth latches onto the skin of her throat, twisting and pulling to leave a mark for later.

His hair is thick and unkempt, subsequently flat and jungly from the helmet, and his wild curls wash against the bays of her jaw; strands peering into her field of view even though her eyes are almost at the back of her head. She obliges with her eyelids requests, respecting his Creed, and seals themselves together to submerge her vision with black—it’s all sensory, all touches and gentle kisses against her neck to counterbalance the unforgiving thrusts he’s gifting.

Din labels her with his teeth indentations, breaking the blood vessels in splotches across her throat, painting crescents into her shoulders with his nails. He mouths her name but the word refuses to vocalise, latching onto the tonsils and taking residence there; in his mouth, where it belongs.

“Din--”

His response is nothing short of filth; muffled moaning pressed against the back of her ear as his hand captures the swelling nub of her clit to draw eager circles.

“--Din, fuck. Din, Din, Din...”

“That’s it,” Din croons, his lips curling at the over abundance of his name spewing from her gullet. “Let go.”

There’s a quaint delay, her body working overtime to comprehend all the sensations without overloading her brain, then she’s writhing and twitching underneath him; his hand and thrusts never-ending as he pulls every single quake out of her involuntarily. Her walls tighten around his cock, that unmistakable warmth engulfing his length to attract his own undoing like a magnet—he could keep going for hours if not for that fucking warmth.

“Din! Di-”

“Shh,” he advises, setting his palm against her mouth to blunt the ecstasy cascading from her vocals like a waterfall—a downside to being so close-quartered to others; he wants to hear those whines, the unstoppable call of his name at her peak, but he’ll settle for rewarding muffles.

Din works her down from her orgasm, pecking soft kisses against her healing slashes and softening the fingers against her clit until she’s no longer twitching underneath his weight. She lays there for a moment, simply memorising the tingling between her thighs and how his pelvis compresses against her ass with every delicate thrust.

Energy recovering, rather quickly, she meets with his lunges, sloppy and trembling on her knees but he appreciates the effort—not that he needs it. She doesn’t need to do anything special to aid his high; Din could just come if she asked him to.

He’s reaching deep, the tip of his cock nudging against her cervix, and they stagger in unison. “Fuck. Vaii, Cyar’ika. Where-where do you want-”

“In,” she mewls between his fingers. “Don’t stop.”

“In.” Din fights his conscious for a breath, his windpipes narrow and clogged. “Dank Farrik. You’re sure?”

“Definitely.”

In, it is.

Din’s cock anchors in her warmth, his pelvis rocking back-and-forth lightly, and he savours how her walls contract with each flick of her sensitive nub—edging on his orgasm by the inch starting from the tip and sliding down to the base like vine tendrils wrapping around him and encouraging him to just fucking let go.

He heeds his own advice and relaxes, allowing the overwhelming pulsations to pump strings of softening whites inside of her, her name falling out his mouth in broken moans. Their warmths mix together within her walls and stick to his length with vengeance as he numbly extracts himself until only the tip is concealed. Cock still semi-hard, Din irresistibly thrusts into her one final time—pathetic ego reaching new heights when she mutters a final bleat.

Din runs rough fingers up the backs of her thighs and to her shoulders, palming the flesh tenderly until she’s nothing but a pool of lax muscles beneath him. His mouth delivers delicate kisses across the back of her neck to provide a break for her to regain her breathing.

“Can you continue?”

She nods her head, a simple response he holds close to his heart as he carefully readjusts himself behind her.

She’s poetic from this view, a body crafted with wise hands the greatest bards would struggle to write about, but there’s nothing that comes within range of outstanding like her face does.

He needs to see her.

“Think you can hold your eyes shut while I go down on you?” Din groans in desperation while she mulls the question over. “Please, Cyar’ika, I need a taste.”

It’s a big ask and if she can’t ultimately gather up that courage to comply he won’t pressure her, no matter how much his mouth salivates from the thought of finally consuming a piece of her.

It’s the greatest test of trust; she’d easily be able to slip open those pretty eyes and pulverise his Creed to molecules—he wouldn’t trust himself if he was in her position.

It should terrify him; should render him into a solid beam of sturdy beskar.

It doesn’t. Din’s paralleled to that of the Girl, soft and warm, not an inch of him cold and solid.

His Mandalorian helmet contains a blackout setting and, if it comes to it, he can slip it over her head so he can sate his cravings without the paranoia in either of their heads—no.That picturesque face of hers shouldn’t ever be covered up again; that stupid face mask stole too many moments from his vision.

There’s enough concealment behind beskar to provide for both of them. Too much concealment.

The Girl gasps, “Okay. Okay.”

The stretched lips across his face is disgraceful; finding pleasure in something so filthy. Din couldn’t give a fuck. Who wouldn’t be smiling in his position?

They silently reorganise themselves with her on her back, eyes firmly shut, and Din planted between her thighs, quite possibly his favourite place in all of the galaxy.

Din doesn’t rush things; he’s not that kind of man. He works her up with ribbing kisses across her sternum and tooka-licks on either nipple simply to hear her breathing hitch and her hands fist the blankets underneath them. She white-knuckles the fabric when his teeth collect the sensitive skin and brutally sucks his markings into her, red and blemished that’ll welt nicely by morning—the only form of bruisings her body should be subjected to.

The hand assaulting the blankets transfers into the thick lock atop of his head with his guide, the digits snaking through the curls for leverage and tugging as he makes sloppy open-mouthed kisses around the pendant resting between her breasts.

“Cyar’ika.” The newly-adopted nickname floats through the air and into her core. “What’d I do to deserve all this?”

There’s no sarcastic comeback this time, not even an attempt, though he knows what she would say—destroyed my rifle—and he makes route lower and lower and fucking lower.

She’s straining to keep her hand in the mess of hair, his head lowered between her thighs where she can feel his breathing against her heat.

There’s a trail of translucent along the insides of her thighs and he follows the streak with his lips, digits digging into the meat while he collects it onto the cushiony brims. His tongue doesn’t delve out for a taste—not yet—until he’s made a path directly to her sex to place a final kiss against the peak of her clit triggering a miniscule buck that nudges against his nose.

“Tell me to stop,” Din pleads; fucking pleads because he knows if she doesn’t he won’t be able to stop himself.

His scalp burns as she stiffens her grip. “Please.”

There’s an experimental lick at first, nothing short of the tip of his tongue running through her folds, but once he’s obtained a taste of her there’s no end in sight—the finish line sprinting so far away from him he doesn’t even want to make an attempt to reach a conclusion. He’s happy to sit there and lap up everything until she’s dried out.

The Girl was spot-on. They’re a combination of sweet and salty—sweet on the account of her, salty because of him—and its so fucking addictive. His tongue flattens against her to collect as much slick onto the muscle and retracts, swallows, and repeats.

The bump of his nose stimulates her oversensitive clit for a second round, his fingers deviously slipping inside her canals to accumulate what his tongue can’t reach, his eyes spying on her face for every reaction he plucks.

Din can’t prevent the famished growl that slips out of him when his fingers plop into his mouth, shiny whites blending with his salvia to slide down his throat and lay rest in his stomach.

“Sweet girl, you really are sweet.”

For someone so inexperienced, Din sure knows what he’s doing. His tongue is in hyperdrive, working at her clit and suctioning every last drop of her out from within.

“O-o-h,” she moans and writhes on the mattress. “Gods, Din... Right there. Sh-it.”

The mewling words of encouragement boost his ego, as though he’d been replaced with his younger self; overly-enthusiastic and mindless, but possessing far more maturity—nurturing quirks that go against his amour propre youth.

Din heeds her commands, unrelenting licks jerking against her clit while his fingers get to work pumping in and out of her.

He’s not trying to make her come again, he didn’t think he had it in him, but fuck she’s right on the edge—he can feel it. Maybe it’s the over-sensitive nub collapsing into her core prompting her to tremble and twitch, or maybe he’s not giving himself enough credit; regardless, he’s working overtime to quench her needs.

When her thighs pinch the sides of his head, he really loses the plot—a heavy grunt expelling from his throat as he angles his head to the side and quickens his pace, poking and prodding at the spot she likes best.

“Din, Din-fuck.”

Thrumming journeys through his mouth and onto her clit, stimulating it just that extra mile to cross the finishing line. Her thighs stabilise his head in place while she violently bucks into his mouth, her second orgasm much stronger than her first.

There’s a surge of slick coating his fingers and he sinks to hoard it in his mouth, tongue-fucking her up till she’s a whimpering mess beneath him. It’s all her—his saltiness long gone—and he revels in the warmth; focusing on it slipping down his throat and sheeting his taste buds with a sweet syrup that immediately destroys the memory of those pitiful pancakes.

“So fucking delicious, Cyar’ika. You deserve a taste. You want some?”

Her head nods faintly, the exhaustion catching up to her; thighs trembling and fingertips taut in his curls.

Din accumulates a mass of her slick on his fingers and reroutes himself for her mouth, but stops himself. It’s glistening at him, taunting and just begging to slip into his mouth—he fulfills it’s wishes and plunges his digits inside for his tongue to lap up the remnants before hastily ramming his lips against hers.

It’s too authentic, too nerve wracking, as though he’s being initiated into the Creed for a second time; all butterflies in his stomach and outpaced blood flow through his veins. His hands quiver as they find her face, cupping her jaw as he deepens the kiss with a flick of his tongue across her gums.

The Girl’s eyes nearly slip open from the initial shock but she’s mastered her self-control, slinking into the mattress and pulling him with her.

It’s not like the kisses you’d see in holoplays, where it’s all soft and delicate but rather hungry and needy, a lot of teeth clashing against each other as they attempt to find themselves.

They exchange flavours, Din offering up her slick on his tongue in return for her saliva; tasteless in itself but it’s hers—his favourite flavour.

It’s all over him. In his mouth, on his chin, his fingers, his cock. It’s where it belongs.

Breathing is essential to life: they’re reminded as they reluctantly pull from each other's seals. Din’s not done just yet, then again, he’ll never truly be quenched of her. There’s just not enough of her. His lips disturb every speck of visible skin on her face, pecking her chin and across her cheeks all the way up to her eyes and back around the opposite side.

He’s much more gentle now, having gorged himself on her lips and taste, and is mindful of the scratchiness of the scruff along his jaw as he runs the pillows down her throat to come to rest in the cavern between her shoulder and neck.

She’s so bouncy, so padded, Din could rest his head on the bare tissue and sleep for centuries; recuperate for all the decades of blood and sweat he’s put his body through, replenish the colour underneath his eyes, permit his muscles and bones to be reborn.

His eyelashes brush against his cheekbones as he rests his eyes and evens out his breathing.

“Din,” she breathes, hands sketching idle lines across his back. “Hate to ruin the mood but your helm-”

“Don’t worry about it. Just rest,” he mumbles against her flesh, a hand blindly reaching out for the blanket to cover themselves; he doesn’t plan on moving from this position. She’ll have to pry him off herself. The beskar pendant is wedged between their chests, the skull's tusks digging into his muscles but it’s somehow fitting, comforting.

She is worried, though. There’s a crinkle between her eyebrows that he heals with the padding of his thumb. “What if I wake up-”

“I’ll be awake before you.”

“But--”

“I promise.” It’s not a pledge Din should initiate. She’s too comforting and he might never wake if he remains in her arms. His stubble pricks against her collarbone as he finds an abode among her chest, the beat of her heart against his eardrum.

“Please, Cyar’ika, don’t make me put it back on.”

How can she oppose that?

“Oh——okay.”

This is bliss.

This is his Manda, his paradise.

Her, not the location, though Sorgan will always sit somewhere special within his heart.

His Girl is all he needs.

If Din didn’t have a mission, a green mischievous baby, to tend to he would spend the rest of his days nestled into her body, pampering precious skin made of the elements themselves with sentimental kisses and delightful touches.

If she was to ask him to retire his blasters to their weapons unit, he would do it in an instant.

“Din?” He placidly drones in feedback. “Thank you.”

“Hmm? For what?”

A hand lazes on his head, tufts of ungroomed curls separating through the gaps of her fingers considerably slow as to not lug a knot. “Believing in me. I don’t ask much about Mandalorian culture ‘cause I figured you get asked a lot; I only know of that from Legends, but I can see it’s a part of you. Trusting me with your Creed...after everything I’ve done… Thank you.”

She’s still beating herself up about previous events. He could just wedge open her eyelids so she can look into his eyes; maybe then she’ll realise he’s already forgiven her. Instead, Din exhales a low-toned sigh and pecks what skin his lips can reach from his position.

“We agreed to a cin vhetin, remember?”

“Yes, but-”

“Sweet girl,” he shushes her. “In Mandalorian culture we use that term in initiation; it’s to clear all previous debts. Everything that occurred before is erased. Only what will happen in the future will be considered.”

Their cabin falls silent as she mulls the significance over. Din can hear a fire crackling somewhere nearby, children laughing, and adults toasting each other to another successful day; lively and euphoric-sounding but he’s content laying atop of his euphoria, to feel each expansion of her lungs, each tardy investigative stroke on his bare form.

“Does that mean I’m not getting your rifle?” she jests.

Din laughs, a full-on throaty bellow that resonates through her. It’s so humanlike it shocks him, leaves him wiping at the corners of his eyes from the onslaught of tears he’s producing.

The Girl’s hand runs from his head to the back of his neck, her thumb and forefinger massaging out the taut stone into flexible cloth. She quietly murmurs, “Wasn’t that funny.”

Laughing gradually subsiding, he basks in the comfortable silence between them. The Girl was never overbearing, even before all the tension arised, never stepped her foot out of line purely out of respect for his wishes and now she’s breached obstacles that’d make him hang his head in shame in the presence of his elders.

“Didn’t you propose a challenge or have you already forgotten?”

She smirks with cocky confidence. “Gambling with your weapons, huh? That’s so unlike you.”

“As I said; foolish, foolish things, Cyar’ika.”

___________________

"atin" - stubborn "sleemo" - slimeball "mesh'la" - beautiful "gar jatnese be te jatnese" - you're the best of the best "gar ani ni, vaabir gar suvarir?" - you complete me, do you understand? "auretii" - outsider "cyar'ika" - sweetheart/darling "kaab jate?" - sound good? "ner uram" - my mouth "vaii" - where

A/N: Sorry this one took longer than the others, it lowkey beat my ass up. In other news, I am currently planning my next series that'll be a Mandalorian!Reader if any of you are interested in that. If you wish to be added to either the LUNAR taglist or the upcoming series tags, please send an ask or a message!

tags: @ohhersheybars, @greatcircle79, @northernpunk, @tanzthompson, @djarrex

75 notes · View notes

ghost-at-the-masquerade · 3 years

Text

Friends in Low Places

Part 2: Tourist Trap

Rating: PG

Count: 2666

Summary: A few days after the events of Tremors, the trio stops for a bite and tour of a roadside attraction. Or: Juliette makes an excellent choice, and Zeke makes a bad one.

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

“Afraid she’s never gonna be the same after a shock to her suspension like that.” Zeke sighed, patting the side of the truck as he came around. Juliette and Roscoe sat on the tailgate, boxes and bags of their belongings pressed against their backs.

“Is it real bad?” Juliette said through a mouthful of cheese-steak, brows creased.

“Well, it’s not good, but we’ll get by.” He shrugged and leaned past her to grab his own sandwich.

Juliette swung her feet, marveling at the sweeping height of the pines around them. The smell of ceders heavy in the air. They were parked in a gravel lot with nothing but half-rotted blocks of wood to mark the spaces. Back around the bend, toward where they came in, was the little food stand where they had grabbed their lunch; a weather-stained building with just two windows to order from and three friendly, stocky folk tending it. In the other direction was their next destination.

A building made of logs almost black in color, with a steep roof and its name up in gaudy, blood-orange lettering; Twinkle Cove’s House of Terrors. ‘Terrors’ had a dripping effect that had clearly been added later. It might have been a home once, but the windows and doors had since been replaced with dark frosted glass. The inside of the door was plastered with fliers for other local businesses.

Once they were done eating, Zeke led the group to join just one other small party in the lobby, ditching their trash in the can outside. A gust from the AC swept over them at the threshold, making way for the faint smell of dust and taxidermy. Lights over each display cast heavy shadows to hide the seams on the tackier fakes. Floor vents rattled in the corners.

Zeke removed his sunglasses and let them hang from his shirt collar, grinning all the while. Usually he tried not to make comments about Juliette’s stops, not wanting to influence her choices, but he loved this hokey shit and could make no secret of it.

The counter to their left was manned by a spindly fellow who reminded Zeke of a harvestman; those tiny, long-legged spiders. Dressed in a clean black suit and cloak, gloves and bowtie a rich sanguine, topped off with too-big silver cufflinks and a swirl in his hair. He acknowledged them with a nod and a flash of pearly-whites.

The three of them split across the room. Juliette went for the counter, its glass case holding an array of trinkets. Gems inset in gargoyle claws, decently realistic rats, wands and supposedly cursed objects.

Zeke himself made a round of the room, looking over the displays that you got for free. A passable piece of taxidermy claiming to be a were-badger, crafted, as far as he could tell, from a honey badger and a red fox. A tuft of brown hair that almost looked burnt, kept behind glass; the plaque described it as a trophy from an encounter with the local woodland witch. Several unsettling mannequins he couldn’t get a good look at, since they were occupying the small family also in the lobby.

Roscoe went to peep down the hallway to the right, which was cornered off with a single strip of velvet rope. When they went to lay a hand on it, the man at the counter tutted and called out in what was surely his stage voice, “Folks if you would just gather here, I’d be glad to sign you up for our grand tour!”

Juliette side-stepped over in front of the register to be first in line, a cheeky smile on her face. The man returned her a smile that crinkled his eyes. Zeke joined her shortly, and it took no time at all the register both parties.

Thus the lot of them gathered in front of the rope divide, the man in charge standing before them with his shoulders braced and hands twisted together. It was hard to tell if the posture was part of the bit, or genuine nerves.

“Hello, hello, I’m your host and owner of all these terrible delights, Terry!” He stumbled over his script with an appreciative laugh when a couple of them cheered. Moving the rope aside, he gathered himself and continued, “Stay close behind me and don’t touch anything you aren’t willing to… get attached to.”

With that and a menacing laugh the tour began. Through the first narrow hallway, with concerningly real cobwebs in its crooks and crannies, past an alcove leading to a bathroom and an office, they took a left-hand turn into a room even darker than the lobby.

As their host briefly explained; “Certain items can be damaged over time in bright lights. No flash photography, of course.”

There were the staples of places like this; traces of Bigfoot and hair of the moth-man, hooves of unicorns even. More interesting was a purple checked hood, dropped by the flatwoods monster - the holes in front lightly singed from the intense light of the creature’s eyes. Surprisingly life-like stone statues of woodland critters, victims of a basilisk. The basilisk itself, even, or a depiction of it.

“Even the corpse is dangerous!” Terry proclaimed, a finger held sternly in the air, “Not suitable for display.”

To his credit, Terry seemed genuinely enthused about each and every piece. But his clear favorite, in the final room, was most impressive of all.

This room was smaller than the others they had passed through, holding only one display. Hidden behind a heavy satin curtain, deep red and lightly dusty. Terry crossed the room with a twirl of his cape, his hands almost seemed to tremble as he reached for the thick braided cord that would pull back the curtain.

“Parents, please hold on to your children.” The party of strangers obliged for the hell of it. Juliette made a point of scooting away from both Zeke and Roscoe.

Terry yanked the cord and revealed a dark, hairy, humanoid figure. Vaguely canine in the face, with great black horns that scraped the ceiling. Hands that weren’t quite hands, but not quite paws either, with jagged, broken claws. Roscoe leaned closer, mouth open slightly. The thing’s fur was as black and fluid as ink, eyes shimmering unnaturally bright for the dimness of the room. Surely, it had to be a sort of projection, but search as the eye might, they could not find the subtle tells.

“The grand prize that no doubt drew you to this place, the lesser demon slain by our very own local monster hunter, Paul Anderson!” Terry shook like an excitable dog.

The younger of the two children there reached out. When their fingertips brushed its bent knee, a single second shattered into a thousand. The beast’s head snapped down, teeth barred in a growl. It staggered forward, knocking over the rope divide. The children shrieked and all seven of the guests scrambled backwards.

Zeke’s hand snapped to his side automatically, instinctively going for his revolver. Thankfully, it was still in the car, so the situation would escalate no further. Terry was absolutely howling with laughter.

He crowed after the little family, who were already back in the previous room, “All in good fun, all in good fun, that’s the one that keeps them coming back!”

Roscoe clutched their heart, despite being blank-faced as ever, aside the raised eyebrows. Juliette tugged at her braid.

Zeke spat out the scare and laughed. “Aw, okay, you got us. That’s pretty damn good. What’s that, animatronic-?”

Terry didn’t even let him finish, moving out of the room, “I’m afraid that’s all there is to see for now! But we always have more attractions coming, if you’d come see us again in the fall…!” His spiel continuing as they returned to the lobby.

With a little distance, everyone was in good spirits about it, though the younger child was a bit huffy in denying that they’d been scared. The family argued briefly over whether to buy anything before ultimately leaving empty-handed. Juliette gently bullied Roscoe into buying her one of the cursed spoons from the display case. Roscoe cast a meaningful glance back at Zeke before taking her outside.

Business concluded, the register rung - an old fashioned thing - and Terry came around the register again. He cast a wary, sideways look at Zeke as he went to set the rope barrier back in place. “Something I can help you with?”

Zeke sidled up next to him with a few casual, swinging steps, put on a sloppy, side-ways kind of smile and a bit of concern on his brow. He clicked his tongue and looked around the lobby as he spoke, “Awfully bold of you to be flauntin’ it like that these days. Pretty neat setup you got going on, though. How’s the monster-hunter involved?”

When he actually turned to look at him, Terry was frozen stiff, breathing in quick, shallow breaths. Zeke held up his hands, any humor dropping from his expression.

“Whoa, whoa, hey, I’m not-” the rest of his words were forced out in a gasp as Zeke threw himself aside. He turned back to find a comically large axe splitting the floor where he had just been standing. His gaze shot up to Terry’s face, wide-eyed, unreadable.

“I didn’t mean it like that!” He held out a hand even as he crawled backwards toward the hall. Terry shook his head rapidly, fists clenched in his cape.

“That’s what they all say!” Shadows shot up to swallow the light from outside, crept up the walls like thousands of spiders to dim the overhead lights. Terry jerked his arm out dramatically, “That’s what all of them said!”

The weight of those words came into focus quickly; the three grotesque mannequins, their horrified faces looking as though they’d been covered in clay, came to flank Terry. Their bases scratched the floorboards, following as he moved into the hall after Zeke.

Zeke did all he could do; scramble to his feet and try to put distance between them. The options for where he could get it were severely limited; continue on down the hall, into the bathroom, or the office. Zeke didn’t fancy being cornered that quickly. He backed away, still holding up a single pacifying hand. The walls cracked and splintered on either side of him, oozing viscous void from their wounds. Lightbulbs screamed, formless things flitted through the edges of his vision.

“Listen, I’m not here to start anything,” Steady words that simply bounced off his pursuer as they made it into the main display room, “It’s not like that, I’m not with those bastards.”

“I won’t be lied to. I won’t be taken that easy.” Terry spat. The jackalope in the case to his left sprung to life, flailing and trying to bite through the glass, dead eyes flashing. Zeke’s eyes flitted around the room for his next move.

The room dimmed further and suddenly silver flashed in Terry’s hand. A simple, smooth blade. Something clicked together in Zeke’s head, but there wasn’t even time for it to form as a whole thought before Terry threw.

Zeke’s arm shot up in defense, but to no avail. A glass display teetered as he staggered back against the wall. Pain coursed through his ribs - far less than it seemed like there should be. Ragged breaths drew through his teeth as he saw but couldn’t feel the blood pooling up under his fingers. Something that sounded like stomping was lost at the edge of his perception, overtaken by static.

Everything in the room distorted and flickered, twisted and turned sickeningly, lights searing bright before settling back into normalcy. And then it was gone; the knife was gone, both flesh and fabric mended. He palpated the spot just to be sure.

His gaze shot back up to where Terry stood shaking, eyes glistening. The mannequins were gone. And over Terry’s shoulder, he could see Roscoe, an indecipherable mess of guilt and pain and concern on their face, their hands laid on his shoulders.

“I’m sorry - I don’t like to do it so quickly.”

“He stabbed me!” Zeke objected to the apology, hand still on the spot where the knife had been.

They couldn’t really disagree, so they just grimaced and tilted their head.

Zeke pushed himself upright. “Can we please just talk now?!”

“Are you going to take me in, then?” Terry’s voice was small. Frightened. He swallowed and said more insistently, “All I can do is scare people, I’m no good to you. Just parlor tricks.”

Zeke did his best to steady his voice, “No, I tried to tell you, it’s not like that.”

But with his only defense disabled, the fear split him anyway. “Then what?! What do you want?!”

Something like guilt made Zeke’s temper flare, “I just - wanted you to know you got fucking caught! That somebody who knows something about conduits is going to see through you if you keep this up!” Zeke turned on his heel, away from the palpable tension in the room.

Terry did nothing to cut it; he stayed stock still, looking at the ground until he finally slipped to his knees. Roscoe backed away a step.

Zeke put a hand over his mouth and sighed through his nose, trying to ignore the tiny adrenaline tremors still coursing through his arms. He turned back with a suspicious squint.

“If it’s all just tricks of light then how did it hurt?”

Terry looked over to the jackalope display, conspicuously fingering the hole where his cuff-link had been, “I mean, objects can be disguised…”

Zeke’s face felt hot. Had he really reacted so dramatically to something so small? Fear had a power all its own.

“The hunter - you asked about the hunter, Anderson,” Terry twisted his hands together, “He- he caught me. And said… said I could use him as part of the story…”

The subtext settled neatly beneath the silence, like dust beneath a sheet.

“You wanted to talk, that’s where I am. He hasn’t imposed much and it’s been good for business. So what do I do?”

Many questions compounded into one. None that Zeke had the answers to.

“What do I do?” He repeated, shoulders drawn in.

Zeke opened his mouth, but all that came out at first was another sigh. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I can’t-” He walked past them into the hall on autopilot. He needed out of this suffocating place.

Roscoe picked up for him, knelt down next to Terry and produced from their vest a light purple business card. “The best we can offer is somewhere to run, if it comes to that.”

Terry took the card like it might come alive and snap at him.

Zeke heard the two continue to talk, softer now, but didn’t tune in to what else was said. Then Roscoe’s hand was on his back, leading him outside.

The light of day was blinding after the all-consuming dark Terry imposed, every bit of metal or particularly bright rock boring into him. Zeke breathed deep the smell of ceder and hot stone as he put his sunglasses back on.

“Coulda gone better.”

Roscoe laughed and put their hands on their knees. “It was not one of your better showings… I’m glad you’re in one piece.”

“Two pieces, but yeah.”

They laughed again as they straightened up, letting their arms hang loose. “But are you okay?”

“Okay as I’m gonna be. Feel kinda stupid.”

“Normal, then.”

Zeke punched their arm, smirking anyway, “Asshole…”

Across the lot, Juliette was hanging out the window, arms crossed on the edge.

Zeke looked to Roscoe, but from the corner of his eye, he could see movement in the lobby. Inside, Terry quickly looked away, the card still in both hands, face drawn. Zeke sighed. “Put it in the Rolodex… I think we’ll be back.”

#Infamous #Infamous 2 #Zeke Dunbar #that's a dumb trans joke toward the end. because I'm trans and dumb

4 notes · View notes

nataliedanovelist · 4 years

Text

GF - Where the Crop Circles Grow ch.4

Summary: When things get out of hand at the Pines’ family farm, Ford asks an old college buddy to assist investigating anomalies and Stan hires a farmhand. Who knew asking for help would actually get you somewhere?

For @lemonfodrizzleart. Part of her Farmer AU and featuring her OC, Jackie Asante.

Special shout-out to Mystery Trio Animated’s old video for inspiring me on how to get the ball rolling. (I’m trying a healthy combination of Mystery Trio shit and canon shit.) Thank you so so much for reading and I hope you enjoy it!!!

Ao3 link here.

ch.3 - ch.5

~~~~~~~~~~

“Are we there yet? Are we there yet?”

“Yes, son,” Fiddleford sighed with a smile. “As I’ve told you for the last fifteen minutes, we’re finally here.”

“Yay!” Tate cheered and grinned as the beautiful woods fell out of sight and the four-year-old’s hidden eyes widened at all the open space to play in. He grinned at the sheep and horse and cow and he saw that sign shaped like a pinetree that read “Pines’ Farm” and thought that was funny. The road was made of dirt and rocks and made weird noises under Daddy’s blue truck.

The road led up to a big house with a triangle roof and a porch. On the porch, two men Tate had never seen before sat in chairs and stood, waiting. Suddenly Tate was nervous and shrunk back into his car seat.

Fiddleford noticed this and smiled at his son. Tate was a kind and intelligent boy, but was often quiet, except when he was alone with Fiddleford. It was like he saved all of his words for him. Fiddleford parked and got out, deciding to let Tate move at his own space.

“Fiddleford, glad to see you’ve made it safely!”

“Howdy there, Stanford, good t’see ya!” What started as a handshake turned into a manly hug with smiles and pats on the back. When it was over, Stanford patted his old roommate’s shoulder and said, “Fiddleford, this is my twin brother, Stanley. Stanley, well, you already know who this is.”

It didn’t take a genius to know who Stanley was either, not just considering the fact he did in fact look like Ford’s twin without being identical, but Fiddleford had heard enough stories and seen enough pictures to recognize this guy from a mile away. “Pleased t’finally meet ya, Stanley.” And he held out a hand to shake.

Stan laughed, took it, and shook him possibly slightly too rough. “Ha! Just Stan’ll do, Fiddleford… Jeez, that’s a mouth full. Mind McGucket or Fiddler or Fidds.”

Fiddleford winced. “Anythang but Fiddler since I ain’t one.”

Stan snapped his fingers and said sarcastically. “Darn. N’ here I was thinkin’ we could put a band together, with Ford’s piano skills n’ my beautiful voice.”

Ford snorted while Fiddleford smiled unsurely. “Well, I do play the banjo…”

“Great! We’ll call ourselves the Three Cowboys! I’ll get to writin’ our first song later.” Stan peered over Fiddleford’s shoulder and at the truck. “But first, did you even brin’ the squirt with you?”

Fiddleford looked back at the trunk and could barely see the top of his son’s head in the front passenger’s seat. “Nah, he’s there. He’s just shy.”

“Ah, well he’ll join us when he’s ready.” Ford said and moved to the trunk. “Here, let me help you with your things and show you to your room, buddy.”

“Well, thank ya kindly, Stanford, I reckon you can get this one. Oh, here, I’ll take that one, it mighty heavy.”

Ford and Fiddleford were chatting away like a pair of school girls as they went into the house, arms full of luggage. The McGuckets sure did bring a lot of crap. Stan shook his head with a smile and moved to the trunk, but on the way he swore he saw a little boy with bangs over his eyes looking at him, but then ducking under the car’s window again. Stan smiled and softly knocked on the glass. “Y’ello?”

The boy didn’t appear, but he did crank the window down. “Hi.”

“I’m Stan.”

“Tate.”

“Nice to meet you.” Stan said. “You know, your daddy n’ my brother are close friends.”

“I know.” The boy said quietly. “Daddy says we’re gonna live here a bit.”

“Yup.” Stan said happily, and then asked, “You reckon you’re okay with that?”

“Uh, huh.”

Stan had no idea what it was like to be shy as a kid. Ford might have, which is why he was inclined to let the boy get out of the truck whenever he pleased, but Stan wondered if maybe all it took was someone to show that they were happy he was here and would be even happier to see him happy. He went to the trunk, grabbed a big suitcase with Tate’s name on the tag, and then went back to the window. “C’mon, kid. I got a surprise for you in your new room.”

That got the boy to perk up. He poked his little head up, just enough to look at Stan’s soft smile and outstretched hand, and Tate grinned. “Okay.” He hopped out and closed the door behind him and took Stan’s hand.

Stan squeezed his little hand reassuringly and led the boy into the house. They crossed the living room together to get to the back hallway and Stan led him to the other bedroom, the one connected to Jackie’s Jack and Jill bathroom. Tate gasped with joy to find a bunk bed by the door with a new knitted blanket at the foot. He climbed up the ladder and jumped into the fluffy feather-stuffed mattress and laughed. “Wowie, Zowie! I get a bunk bed?!”

Stan barked a laugh and sat his suitcase on the bottom bunk. As a kid he had no idea that a lot of other kids in the world thought this was the coolest thing to have in a bedroom, it was just convenient for the Pines twins, but now they were grown and perfectly happy with two full beds in their attic bedroom so Tate could have a twin-sized bed in his new room. “You sure do. Don’t tell Ford I told you this, but he knitted you that blanket and if you’ll look in that chest there’s some more surprises for you.”

Tate scurried down to the floor and t the toy chest under the window. He gasped as he found it half-full with brand new toys. There was a jump-rope, some chalk, a wooden train, complete with engine, cars, and a caboose, and a football and a baseball with a bat. Tate’s voice was caught in his throat, leaving his mouth to open and close like a fish. He knew he should say thank you, but he was left speechless due to all of the nice new things.

“So, whatcha think, squirt?” Stan asked, and when Tate looked at him the farmer knew what the boy was trying to say.

~~~~~~~~~~

In Ford’s favorite workspace, the thinking parlor, there was a desk that used to be filled to the brim with Pa’s work-papers, but with the deed tightly secure in the family’s safe and after a furlough cleansing, there was now only one drawer dedicated to important old documents and the rest of the ancient desk was free to use for Ford’s investigations and ideas. Ford and Fiddleford stood there now, the Southern engineer watching his best friend pull things out from here and there, as if preparing for a school presentation. Fiddleford smiled as he saw how little his friend had changed.

Ford had suggested to leave Fiddleford to unpack once he showed him his room, assuming he wanted to rest after the trip, but Fiddleford had insisted that Ford show him the plans and Ford understood on a personal level; he was sure Fiddleford wanted to forget his problems for a moment and be distracted with an issue he can actually solve. So Ford laid out a map of Gravity Falls with little red xs sprinkled here and there and he pulled out a red marker and uncapped it.

“Right,” Ford started as he smiled at his old roommate. “As I said over the phone, Gravity Falls is a friendly enough town, but it has got to be one of the strangest towns there are. I hadn’t realized how strange it was until leaving for Backupsmore and I realized that some things weren’t normal. Not to mention, if you look at the map, a lot of anomalies I’ve noticed occur away from our farm, so as children it’s not like we were fully exposed to them.”

Fiddleford did in fact notice that there were no red xs on the Pines’ farm, or close to the barrier. There were one or two in the actual town itself, but most of the xs were in the woods and in the mountains. Probably whatever creatures were out there purposely stayed in the woods, like any other wildlife, to avoid mankind. Fiddleford nodded and said, “Alright, but what sort of anomalies have ya noticed?”

Ford pulled out a journal with a golden six-fingered hand on it and opened it to showcase some very well drawn sketches. Fiddleford stared to find unicorns, eye bats, two-headed snakes, dark vague shadows, and possibly a werewolf? Fiddleford blinked and muttered, “Uh… ya… ya sure it’s…”

“I swear on my life,” Ford said seriously. “I’ve seen some strange things out there, Fiddleford. I haven’t had a chance to get a proper look at any of it, but I’m hoping with your help I may finally be able to catch something, or at least some solid evidence, that proves I’m not crazy.”

Fiddleford detected a hint of bitterness by the end of it. He wouldn’t be surprised if anyone else Ford had explained this to had written him off as a whack-job. Fiddleford smiled and patted his shoulder. “Hey, I believe ya. Reckon somebody’s gotta catalog these critters. Why not it be us, right? So, suppose tomorrow mornin’ we just get on out there n’ explore the woods for some weird critters?”

Ford smiled back with determination and excitement gleaming in his eyes. “That’s the idea.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Tate was watching TV in the living room while Jackie was in the kitchen with Stan by her side. Yes, Jackie did all the cooking and was good at it, but Stan knew how to make some stuff edible and it seemed like a fair trade; if Stan was going to teach Jackie how to run a farm, she might as well teach him a thing or two about cooking.

“So, what can you cook, Stanley?” Jackie asked while she seasoned some flour that was already in a big paper bag.

“Besides Stancakes?” He clarified. “Uh, I can do grits. That’s about it, missy.”

Jackie giggled good-naturedly and said, “Well, first thang you gotta know ‘bout cooking is this fellow right here.” And she held up a big container of Crisco. “The best thang they did since put mayonnaise in a jar.” Jackie spooned some of the thick white stuff out and put it on the hot skillet to melt like butter. “Gum in your hair? Squeaky door hinge? Crisco.”

When Jackie’s back was turned to work on the chicken, Stan stuck his finger in some of the Crisco; it looked pretty, almost like frosting for a cake. To hide what he did, Stan stuck his finger in his mouth; the taste wasn’t great.

“Bags under your eyes? Wanna soften some scaly feet? Crisco.” Jackie added as she dipped a breast in the egg wash then put it in the bag, then did the process again with another piece of chicken. “But it’s best for frying chicken. Mm! I love fried chicken! Gotta be my favorite! It takes a lot of work to make, but it tastes so good and it’s always worth it! Well, worth it to me, anyways.” Jackie rolled up the bag tight and held it out to Stan. “Shake that.”

“Oh, sure.” Stan took the bag filled with chicken and flour. He shook it and found that once he got a rhythm for it it was actually kind of fun. With a stupid grin on his face he rattled the bag really heavy, making Jackie laugh.

“Alright alright, Stan, the chicken’s already dead.” Jackie took the bag and opened it to see how well seasoned it was. “Yup, she dead. And well dressed for the funeral, too.”

Stan laughed and the timer dinged. “Oh, will you take out the cornbread, please?” Jackie asked as she stirred the green beans, the Crisco not quite fully melted yet, but almost.

“You got it.” Stan slipped on some oven mitts and opened the oven. There sat a beautiful skillet full of Mexican cornbread. This wasn’t just cornbread, this was cornbread with spices and bits of corn. The smell made Stan’s mouth water like a dog and he happily put it on a folded up towel on the table. “Sweet Lord!”

“Give it a minute to cool, Lee, geez!” Jackie said, able to read his mind and know he wanted to pick at it.

Stan stuck his tongue at the back of her head and watched her fry the chicken. The grease bubbled around the chicken and flew everywhere, like firecrackers. Stan took a step back as he got sprayed a little bit, meanwhile all Jackie did was flinch and asked, “Will you call the boys for dinner? It'll be ready by the time they get in here.”

“Sure.” Everyone was inside the house, so there was no sense in ringing the triangle; Stan poked his head in the living room to tell Tate dinner was ready and then knocked on the parlor door to tell the nerds that food was ready.

By the time Stan came back with Tate by his side, the table was set with pitchers of sweet tea and water on the table, big bowl of green beans, the skillet full of Mexican cornbread, and Jackie had just flipped the chicken. Stan licked his lips and playfully fought with Tate for space in the kitchen sink as they washed up.

Fiddleford followed Ford to the bathroom to wash and then to the kitchen. He stared happily at the set-up before him, and then his eyes widened at the stranger in the room. A dark-skinned woman used tongs to lift fried chicken out of a skillet and onto a tray lined with paper towels. She wore an apron over leans and a white t-shirt, her past-shoulder-length black hair tied in a loose, low ponytail to keep her hair away from her cooking. Fiddleford smiled; he had known the twins had hired help but he had no clue who that was; he had accidentally assumed it was another man.

The woman set the tray of steaming chicken on the table, wiped her forehead dry, and smiled at Fiddleford. “You must be Ford’s friend. I’m Jackie.” She introduced and held out her hand.

Fiddleford gently took it and shook her head with a smile. “Fiddleford H. McGucket, ma’am. It’s a pleasure t’meet ya.”

Jackie’s cheeks turned rosy at his politeness and invited him to sit. Soon they were all happily digging into the delicious dinner and enjoyed every bite.

Fiddleford was extremely impressed. The chicken crunched happily in his mouth and the chicken’s meat was soft and delicious. The green beans were flavored with bacon and onions, and the Mexican cornbread was very good. As Fiddleford munch on his bread while he listened to Stan tell a story, he couldn’t help but think how much better the cornbread would be with some butter. He checked the table for it, and perhaps he was overlooking it, but he didn’t see it.

“Jackie, may I have some butter, please.” Fiddleford asked politely when Stan was taking a break from his story to drink some water.

Jackie smiled and nodded. “Sure.” Let’s forget the fact that Ford was sitting next to Fiddleford and was the closest to the fridge. Jackie didn’t even notice, and she casually got the butter-dish out of the fridge, sat with it, and handed it to the southerner as he dipped his head and whispered “thank you” as to not interrupt Stan.

By the end of the meal, Stan was patting his gut happily and sighing heavily. “Yup. Jackie, I think you get better with every meal.”

While Jackie stood and took her dishes to the sink, her face grew warmer.

“Yes, that was delicious, Jackie, thank you.” Ford praised.

“Well,” Jackie opened the fridge and pulled something out. “I hope everyone left room for dessert.”

“Mm! Pie!” Stan gasped happily and rubbed his hands together; it didn’t matter if it killed him, he’d make room for Round 2.

“Lemon Meringue.” Jackie explained, sitting the pie down on the table as she took up the mostly-empty bowl of green beans and began to put the vegetables in a smaller container for the fridge; leftovers made for an excellent lunch.

Mouth watering and eyes as big as dinner plates, once Jackie sat down the small plates, forks, and pie knife on the table, Stan cut right into the beautiful dessert while Ford began to collect dishes.

Fiddleford, too full for pie at the moment, stood and stretched his arms over his head. “So, should we get back to work, Stanford?”

“Sorry, let me finish these dishes first.” Ford said as he began to clean. “Got to thank Jackie for the meal the best way I can.”

Jackie lightly shoved his shoulder as she brought over the skillet of cornbread and began to move it to a plastic container. “Hey, I don’t wanna eat canned meat or TV dinners any more than you do.”

“You know, Tate,” Stan mumbled with pie in his cheeks like a chipmunk. “If you’ll look in that cabinet there should be a jar with holes if you wanna catch some firefl-...”

“FIREFLIES?!” Tate excitedly interrupted, drained his cup of water, and dashed to where Stan said the jar would be. Lo and behold two jars with holes poked into the lids shined and Tate snatched one up. “Daddy, wanna catch some with me?” The boy pleaded.

“Sure, son,” Fiddleford said with a smile, playing with his boy sounding much better than returning to work that can be done another time, so they hurried out the kitchen door and were amazed to find dozens of blinking bugs out on the farm.

Tate grinned and ran with his father admiring the scene. Stan decided he could enjoy his pie just as much on the doorstep as he could at the table, and he took his dessert with him and sat with the door open to watch the McGuckets play. Jackie and Ford got a nice view of the scene from the sink and happily chatted away as they cleaned the kitchen.

~~~~~~~~~~

Stan yawned into his hand and he hummed a little song to himself. “Doo, doo de, doo, doo… gettin’ a midnight snack, gonna eat some…”

Stan turned on the hall-light, his eyes still sensitive to bright lights, so he could see his way into the kitchen without bumping into the table or walking into the fridge. He gasped in horror and then growled like an angry bulldog at the open fridge and spilt content. “Pie!” He finished his song bitterly with one knee before the open fridge. “Oh, c’mon! I was gonna eat that! Actually, this part here still looks good…”

With no one to judge him, Stan scooped up some lemon-filling with two fingers and hummed with satisfaction as the delicious taste grazed his mouth. On his feet again, Stan was about to grab some paper towels to start cleaning up the mess when something ran across his foot.

Stan yelled and jumped about a foot in the air before grabbing a hanging pan from the wall and holding it as he would a weapon. He first thought that the pie fell off the cramped shelf in the fridge, opening the door, but now he wondered if they had a late-night visitor. Wouldn’t be the first time a raccoon got into the house.

Stan carefully moved to where he knew a light-switch for the oven’s light was and he braced himself for whatever was coming. He flicked it on and saw something out of the corner of his eye run into the hall. Did a chicken escape the coop? “C’mere you…” Stan growled and ran down the hall.

Nothing appeared on the stairs for the attic, or further down the hall for Jackie’s room, so maybe whatever it was went into the living room. Pan still at the ready for some whacking, Stan crept into the living room and relaxed his old boxing stance to find it empty. The farmer scratched at his mullet to try to think what could have slipped away from him and gotten into the fridge. Stan was in the hallway, going to put the pan away and clean up the pie, when he noticed a small draft and he checked the front door. Sure enough, something had broken the screen in the screen door.

Stan groaned and closed and locked the main door. Tate must have forgotten to close the door when he went to the truck to get something for bed. Well, after chores Stan would just have to repair the hole.

When Stan re-entered his attic bedroom, his eyes immediately caught his twin asleep on top of a book, a flashlight on the floor by his dangling arm. That nerd had a bad habit of never stopping until his body made him. Shaking his head with a smile, Stan slammed the door loudly on purpose, making Ford jump awake with a grunt. “Huh?! Wh… Stanley?”

“You know you’ll sleep better on your pillow, not a book, right?” Stan asked as he took off his robe and let it fall on the floor by his bed, leaving on his boxers and t-shirt.

Ford snorted and readjusted his lopsided glasses. “What were you doing up?” He yawned into his palm.

“Well I was gonna have some more pie,” Stan said as he sat on his bed. “But somethang raided our fridge n’ ruined my midnight snack.”

“Was it a raccoon again?” Ford asked as he folded his glasses and put them on his nightstand by his book.

“Maybe, but I got a glimpse of it before it ran off n’ the little bit I did see didn’t look nothin’ like a black n’ white thief.”

“Well…” Ford yawned again and said dozily, “It’s too early to think. Goodnight.” And he laid on his right side, his back to his brother, and quickly fell asleep.

Stan chuckled as he shook his head and laid down for some shut-eye.

~~~~~~~~~~

After morning chores, Jackie walked in through the kitchen-door to grab something when she thought she heard the sound of a hammer down the hall. She peeked and found Stan on one knee in front of the door, working on putting a new screen over the door. “Broken screen?” She clarified as she stood by his side, her hands behind her back.

“Yeah, something chewed through n’ got into the house.” Stan shivered as he recalled the foggy memory. “It ran across my foot. Ugh, I can still feel it’s little fingers.”

“Yikes.” Jackie said and looked into the living room to find Tate coloring at the card table. “Well, since that pie’s gone, I’m gonna pick some blackberries for a cobbler. Should I make Tate help me or you got him?”

“Nah, some of those berries aren’t ready, you better pick ‘em.” Stan said as he stood up straight and wiped his hands clean. “I’m gonna take him with me into town to get some stuff from the store. Any requests?”

“Oh! Can you get some hot chilis, please?” Jackie quickly remembered.

“Sure. OY! Squirt!” Stan called and leaned against the doorway. “Wanna go into town with me? You can ride shotgun in the Stanmobile if you want?”

Tate grinned like a Cheshire cat and yelped, “Okay!” and then scooped up his crayons and book to put them away in his room.

“Sure you don’t wanna take Truffles into town?” Jackie asked, remembering Stan’s comment that the horse needs to travel every so often.

“With Tate?” Stan snorted. “Nah, wild thing isn’t ready for a kid. Let me break him a bit more n’ then we’ll see. Maybe take him out in the woods tomorrow. Maybe take a gal with me.” He added with a wink, making Jackie smile like an idiot as she shoved him in a playful manner.

“Well then good luck finding a date in town.” And she went back into the kitchen to grab a basket to berry-pick with.

Meanwhile, while Jackie worked on blackberry cobbler and Stan took Tate into town, Ford and Fiddleford were in the woods, equipped with a compass, a map, Ford’s journal, and a backpack on Fiddleford. A few days before Fiddleford arrived, Ford had placed several cameras in a variety of areas to try to get some idea of what they’re dealing with, a lead of some kind or evidence that there was something out there.

“Okay, that’s 1A, 1B, and 1C.” Ford checked off the map, his journal under his arm. “2A, 2B, and 2C were well intact. We just need 3A, 3B, and 3C. This way.”

“Ya sure ya know where you’re goin’?” Fiddleford checked. No offense to his friend, but all these oaks and pines looked the same to him.

“Don’t worry, I know these woods like the back of my hand.” Ford eased. “I used to spend a lot of time here with Stanley as kids. The trees are a great hiding place from bullies.” He chuckled at a memory and decided to share. “One time, we climbed up a big pinetree to hide from a group of kids, when one of the branches broke off and landed right on one of the kid’s head. Stanley says Pines got to stick together.”

Fiddleford laughed at the little joke as he followed Ford along the woods. They came to a small clearing and Ford stopped. “Here we are. Okay, up there should be Camera 3B. If you’ll get 3A down there, I’ll get 3B.”

“Gotcha.” Fiddleford found Camera 3A tucked into some leaves. He looked around for a third camera, and again, maybe he was just needing new glasses, but he didn’t see one. “Uh, Stanford, where’d ya put 3C?”

Up on a branch and untying a camera, Ford called and pointed. “Down there, by the rock.”

Fiddleford shuffled his feet in case he were to step on the camera, but he looked around and even felt the brush with his hands was startled to turn up empty-handed. “Uh… I ain’t findin’ it.”

“That’s odd, hold on, buddy, I’ll help you look.” Ford said and hopped down with the camera to search for Camera 3C. It truly wasn’t where Ford had placed it and it was nowhere around the clearing.

“Maybe a deer or rabbit took it?” Fiddleford speculated.

“Or a unicorn! Or a gremlin! Or a goblin!” Ford gasped with wonder sparkling in his brown eyes. “Or both!”

“Calm down there, Dr. Crackpot.” Fiddleford chuckled and made Ford smile. “Let's just get this film developed before we get our hopes up higher than a Georgia pine.”

“Great, now you’re doing it, too.”

“No! No, I just… it was either that or higher than the Empire State buildin’, n’ we’re in the woods…”

“With a Pines.”

“... with a lot o’ pinetrees.” Fiddleford laughed at their fun babble and they followed the compass for the farm.

By the time Jackie was pulling a sweet-smelling cobbler out of the oven and about to go outside to check on the sheep, Tate and Stan came home with some groceries. Tate immediately dug around a bag once it was placed on the table, pulled out some Gummy Koalas, and ran off. Jackie gave Stan a skeptical look, to which the farmer just shrugged and pulled out a white paper bag full of hot red peppers.

“Oh, great, thanks.”

“No problem, missy.” Stan said as Jackie lunged a hand into the bag and he pulled out a box of freezy-pops to put in the freezer. “What, gonna make chili? Mexican food? Spicy fried chicken?”

“Nope.” And Jackie bit into a pepper and munched on it with a big smile.

Stan yelped in shock and quickly shut himself up, but that didn’t stop him from breaking a bead of sweat and his eye twitching at her. “What in Moses’s name are you doing?”

“Having a snack.” Jackie explained as she took a second bite, only leaving the stem. “It’ll be awhile ‘til dinner.”

“What, apples n’ bananas not good enough for you?”

“Nope.” Jackie repeated and bit into another one.

“Gah!” Stan yelled and grabbed his hair as he stared at her. “How do you do that?! Stop that!”

“Nope.” Jackie said a third time and happily finished her second chili.

With shivers on his back and an impressed smile that was impossible to miss, Stan left Jackie to shake her head and munch on her snack in peace.

Tate, at this time, was running into the living room, hoping to eat his candy in front of the TV, but his daddy and his daddy’s friend were in the living room already, stringing pictures up and they had a bunch of adult-looking equipment. “Daddy, whatcha doin’?” He asked.

“Hey there, sport.” Fiddleford said and took the time to give him a side hug as he watched a photo develop in the liquid-filled pan. “Just developin’ these photos here. They’ll help us figure out what we’re dealin’ with.”

“Oh. Can I help?” The boy asked hopefully.

“I don’t know if there anythang ya can do.” Fiddleford moved his back to his son and smiled. “Whatcha got there?”

Tate grinned and showed his daddy the gummies. “Uncle Stan gave ‘em t’me! He’s real nice.”

“He sure is. Did ya make sure t’tell him that n’ thank him.”

“Uh, huh.”

“Good.” And Fiddleford ruffled his hat to mess with his hair.

Ford smiled at the father and son duo and resumed his work, recording their findings. None of the pictures so far got a full image of anything, but glimpses here and there showed that something strange was out there. Ford stared at one picture that showed someone very short and what looked like the bottom of a beard. And in another photo, when Ford looked back on it, he realized that wasn’t a twig; it was a pointy hat. “Fiddleford, come look at this.”

Fiddleford moved away from his son and towards his friend and he stared at the image that had caught Ford’s attention. “Oh… oh my…”

“I know.”

“Whatcha reckon that there is?”

Tate looked at the picture and noticed the red circle on another one. He grinned and called out, “Gnomes!”

The three turned to look back at the doorway of the living room and they saw Stan laughing at them, shaking his head. “Gnomes?! Ma used to use ‘em for an excuse for when socks went missin’, remember Sixer? There ain’t no such thing as gnomes. Except the stone ones you get at the store.”

“Ya don’t believe in gnomes, Uncle Stan?” Tate asked.

“Stanley doesn’t believe in the supernatural.” Ford answered with a roll of his eyes and he tried to resume his work. “Even as kids you couldn’t spook him with stories about monsters or ghosts or anything like that. But show him a picture of a r-...”

“Alright, that’s enough outta you, Poindexter!” Stan scooped up Tate, making the boy giggle, and held him under his arm. “I ain’t gonna let you poison this poor kid’s brain with nerd talk. C’mon, I’ll show you how to rangle in sheep.”

“Be careful, son.” Fiddleford called after them. “N’ stay outta the stalls! Don’t mess with Truffles!”

“Okay.”

The evening that came was cool and pleasant, perfect porch-sitting weather. Stan finished his freezy-pop first and read the joke that was now revealed to him for finishing his treat. “Okay okay, what is a ghost’s favorite ice-cream flavor?”

“Oh!” Tate gasped with his hand in the air, sitting on the steps with a banana-flavored pop in his hand. “Oh! Boo-berry!”

“It’s definitely Boo-berry.” Fiddleford said, sitting next to his son.

“How about cookies and scream?” Ford guessed.

Stan chuckled as he rocked in his chair. “I’m gonna say Corpse-mellon. N’ it… huh.” Stan looked all over the stick, but there was no answer to the joke. “It’s blank.”

“Blank stick?” Ford paraphrased. “That’s a bad omen, Stanley. Be careful, something terrible might happen.”

“Yeah,” Stan said slowly and shook his head. “You’re off your rocker, Sixer.”

“I am not!”

Jackie, who had been standing as she ate, sneakily pushed her foot down on the back of Ford’s rocker. On reflex, he leaned forward and Jackie released just in time for the six-fingered nerd to lose his balance and fall forward and on his face. The whole gang laughed while Ford got up red-faced. Stan patted Jackie’s back and howled with laughter, “I love this gal!”

~~~~~~~~~~

Jackie was checking the cornfields to make sure everything was in order when she could hear some familiar sheep sounds. She stretched her neck to look past some corn and she saw little Dot wiggling past the short fence and skip into the woods. Jackie yelled in shock and ran after the lamb, grateful that this time it wasn't storming and the sun was shining brightly. “Gosh darn it, Dot! Your ma sucks at keeping an eye on you!”

Because Jackie was so close this time and not blinded by rain, she actually managed to scoop up the lamb quickly. She smacked the lamb a little bit, Stan giving her permission to spank any naughty animals, and she hugged Dot so she would know she was forgiven. A snap of a twig made Jackie jerk her head upward and she listened and kept her eyes sharp. Now she knew Ford and Fiddleford were out in the woods again, close to a breakthrough according to the nerds, so she was sure it was one of them heading home or passing by. How funny it would be to come across each other. So you can imagine how shocked Jackie was to find a little bearded man standing on a rock and looking up at her.

Jackie bit her lip to keep from yelling; she wouldn’t like it if someone yelled at her due to the shock of her appearance, and she didn’t want to scare this weird creature away. The pointy hat and beard told Jackie that this was definitely a gnome. It’s beard was all over the place and gray and the gnome had a big-ish nose and a bit of an overbite with some misshapen teeth, but his eyes, though lopsided and slightly cross eyed, were warm and this creature gave off a kind atmosphere.

Jackie smiled and got on one knee with the lamb in her arms. “Hello.”

The gnome lifted a little arm and wiggled his fingers at her politely. Jackie freed a hand and held it out to him to either shake or hop on. Whichever he wanted. The gnome smiled at her and hopped up on her palm, sitting with his hands prompting him up from behind.

“What a nice lil’ guy.” Jackie complimented. “What’s your name?”

“Shmebulock. Senior.” The gnome croaked.

“I’m Jackie, nice to meet you.” The human smiled while the lamb sniffed the air around Shmebulock. “Wow, a real gnome. I’ve got a friend who’d love to meet you.”

“Shmebulock.”

Jackie raised an eyebrow, but decided to let it go. Maybe gnomes were limited in speech. Before she could ask another question, Shmebulock whistled loudly. Jackie barely had time to register that she was faced with dozens of other gnomes and she screamed in horror when they leaped from the trees for her and Dot.

Jackie’s scream was heard by Ford and Fiddleford, who were currently setting up the cameras again, dropped everything, no questions asked, and ran as fast as they could for Fiddleford’s truck and drove in the direction they feared Jackie was in danger. There was a thick dirt road leading deeper into the woods the men ran on and they saw a truly unusual sight at the edge of the trees.

Jackie was running for her life with a lamb in her arms, a crowd of gnomes behind her. Fiddleford stopped the car and Jackie hopped in the truck before it sped off to try to lose the gnomes. She huffed and puffed, her heart going as fast as the truck, and Ford opened the back window to check on her from the passenger’s seat. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, we’re fine.” Jackie breathed and Dot “bah”ed happily.

Ford smiled at them and gasped with amazement and wonder as one huge gnome, made out of dozens of small gnomes, ran after them, looking like Santa Clause on his period, red all over with sharp teeth and hat and a big beard. “Wow.” He awed and pulled out his journal to begin sketching.

“DRIVE, FIDDS!” Jackie yelled.

The giant threw gnomes like darts and some of them landed in the truck. While Jackie kicked one off the car, Shmebulock Senior was being slammed against the steering wheel by Fiddleford’s hand, but then one leaped on his face, building him and veering the truck off course. Ford punched the gnome off of his friend, only leaving behind a black eye on the driver.

“Thanks, Ford.” Fidds groaned.

“Don’t mention it. Hey, what’s that?” Ford asked and pointed ahead.

The three humans screamed as the truck ran right into an oak tree. They then held their heads and groaned as they stumbled out of the truck. Poor Fiddleford was a nervous wreck over the wreck. “My truck!”

“Don’t worry, I can fix it.” Ford tried to comfort his friend, ignoring the tire that just popped and the bumper that just fell off. “Probably.”

“At least we lost… oh, no we didn’t.” Jackie held Dot closer to her chest as the giant gnome was before them.

Ford stood in front of Jackie, Fiddleford, and Dot protectively, his arms outstretched, as the gnomes broke away to better surround them and insure there was no way out. The little men of the forest growled and snarled like animals, until a loud voice commanded silence. “ENOUGH!”

Slithering out from the shadows like a snake, but rather on a long white beard than a scaly body, came a gnome much older looking and much different from the other gnomes. This gnome carried a staff with a mushroom on top, wore purple instead of red, had a crown and a red cape, and his voice was as sour as lemons and his eyes were green with envy. Those green, empty, creepy eyes were on Jackie, and while all the gnomes bowed to their king, this guy dipped his head respectively to her.

“My Queen!” He cheered happily. “The time has come to fulfill your destiny!”

“EW, WHAT?!” Jackie yelled. “Nu, huh! No way!”

“Leave her alone!” Ford demanded.

“As it is written, in the Prophecy of Shmizzledorph…”

“Go away!” Fiddleford interrupted.

“... the Prophecy…!” But Ford threw one of his boots at the gnome and the king yelped out a sharp, “Ouch! Alright, fine! You want her back? There’s only one way…”

The gnomes around them giggled, anticipating that they would walk away with a new queen tonight. Jackie stuck out his tongue at them.

“You must answer… A RIDDLE!”

Ford, Fiddleford, and Jackie all blinked at the over-exaggerating king. Ford shrugged and said, “Fine, I like a good riddle.”

“What… IS A GHOST’S FAVORITE ICE-CREAM FLAVOR?!”

Now the humans were nervous. Nervous, surprised, and maybe a little bit impressed. The three huddled like they were about to play football and rambled off ideas.

“Boo-berry!” Fiddleford whispered.

“Cookies and scream!” Ford hissed.

“Stanford, go with Fidds’ answer.” Jackie voted quietly.

“But what if it’s not boo-berry?” Ford asked nervously. “Then you’ll have to be that creep’s queen.”

“But what if it’s not cookies and scream?” Jackie returned.

With a squeeze on his old roommate’s shoulder, Fiddleford gave Ford that softer facial expression and whispered, “Stanford, trust me.”

Ford thought for a moment, took in a deep breath, and nodded. The team broke away and Ford faced the king who was elevated by his own beard. “Boo-berry?”

The gnome was silent. Ford feared he was wrong, but then, “IMPOSSIBAAAAAAAAAAAAALE!”

The humans held each other as the gnomes were then all turned into stone, the little statues they were destined to become. With Fiddleford sandwiched between Ford and Jackie, they watched as the king turned to stone and a little bird landed peacefully on his outstretched hand.

“Huh,” Fiddleford quipped when their protective hug was loosening. “I didn’t actually think that would work.”

The trio worked together to push Fiddleford’s truck back home, but not without a souvenir. As Ford placed a gnome on the porch step, Jackie sat Dot down and let the lamb skip off to join the other sheep. “Thanks for saving my butt back there, guys.”

“Hey, we wouldn’t let you get dragged off into the woods to marry that creep.” Fiddleford reassured her teasingly with a light shove on the shoulder.

“And really, we should be thanking you.” Ford gently corrected. “Thanks to you we finally got what was on our cameras! And I have plenty to write about in the journal! Thank you, Jackie.”

The only lady on the farm couldn’t keep the smile off her face until Stan slammed the door open with Tate by his side. “Whoa, what happened to you three?” He asked, noting the scrapes, Fiddleford’s black eye, and the leaves in Jackie’s hair. “You get hit by a bus or something?”

“If we told you, you wouldn’t believe us, Stanley.” Ford said daringly, his eyes sparkling with mischief and a prideful smirk on his smug face.

Stan grinned and crossed his arms over his chest while Tate ran into Fiddleford’s arms for a hug. “Try me.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Ford yawned into his six-fingered hand as he ruffled his brown hair and wandered towards the kitchen. “Mm, thank Moses Stan didn’t eat all the strawberry cobbler.”

He turned on the light and gasped to find a gnome standing by the open fridge, helping himself to the cobbler, which was lying on the floor. The gnome screeched and scampered past his feet and Ford ran after it to see it run through a hole in the screendoor. The young scientist hurried out the door and watched the gnome run off into the woods. The stone-gnome on the step was gone.

“This is bad.”

#GF #gravity falls #i know im not funny but a girl can try #farmer au #gift #gnomes #lemonfodrizzleart #lemon is MY queen #love you girl!#i love ALL of you!#fanfiction

25 notes · View notes

teffyjeffy · 4 years

Text

Fabric Tears (Part 2)

NEXT (Coming Soon to the Mystery Shack!)

PART 1

SKIP TO PART 3

ONCE UPON A TIME...

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Mabel was stolen away from her fluffy-animal-infested dream when she heard what could only be described as... a Dipper Scream.

Mabel quickly shot up, standing on her bed and getting into a crane stance. "WHO GOES THERE!? SPEAK NOW OR FOREVER LOSE YOUR TEETH!!!"

Frisk was quick to follow, mumbling incoherently as they slowly sat up from their sleeping position in the sleeping bag. They covered their left ear as Mabel bellowed. "Mmmmgh not so loud, Mabel... Whatsssss going on?"

Then they saw it.

There, sitting in a ball position at the left leg of Dipper's headboard, was a familiar plum-furred bear.

The whole thing with it actually breathing? And making bear noises? And eating Dipper's left sock? Those were definitely unfamiliar territory.

"Oh dear," was all that Frisk could manage.

For what felt like too long of an amount of time, nobody else spoke. All they could do was focus on the bear that was devouring the poor sock like it was nothing but an ice cream sandwich. Finally Dipper spoke up. Or tried to, at least. "B- ba- b-b-bear.. ee…eeeeee… eatinggggg… mmmmmmy sock. It just… it was up in my face and-"

Mabel finally found her voice, and the first thing she did with it was shout "Mr. SnuggleLots?!?! How are you alive?? And... what are you doing with my brother's sock?! That's not healthy for you at all! Any sock that's on Dipper's feet must be washed, sterilized, and quarantined for a week! And you have it in your mouth?!"

Frisk blanched. "Dipper, is that actually true???"

"Wha- no!!!" said the dumbfounded Dipper. "At least... good god, I hope not...!"

"Mr. SnuggleLots, drop that sock this instant!" said Mabel, dropping down from the bed and beginning to march towards the Teddy.

In response, the plum bear gave a disgruntled huff and turned itself... or, himself away from Mabel. Dipper and Frisk watched in shock and awe (but mostly shock) as the bear finished scarfing down the no doubt toxic sock and swallowing it. He then gave a sigh of satisfaction.

"Nooooooooooooo..." moaned Dipper, sounding like he just watched a brand new car that he purchased go careening off a cliff. "I lose enough socks in the laundry as is..."

"That was one hungry Mr. SnuggleLots," commented Frisk, having yet to get out of their sitting position in their sleeping bag. That quickly changed though when the bear made his way to the sleeping bag and started to gnaw on it. "Hey!" said Frisk, mildly perturbed.

"Alright Mr. SnuggleLots, t-that was your last warning!" said Mabel, who was honestly adapting to this situation remarkably fast. Not that it made things any less weird. Mabel walked right up behind the bear and lifted him up from the ground. "What am I going to do with you?! ...Seriously guys, what am I going to do with him??? Mabel's Rehabiliteddy Program™ was never prepared to handle Teddy bears that went sentient!"

Before anybody could answer her though, the Teddy bear very rudely latched his mouth onto Mabel's pajama sleeve and began to chew.

"AAACK!!!!" Hollered Mabel, making the other kids wince. The fact that nobody had barged into their room yet to demand some peace and quiet was honestly more miraculous than the sentient Teddy bear. And if that bear didn't let go soon, Mabel was just going to keep on shouting.

The bear refused to let go, and Mabel began running around the room on top of shouting, forcing Frisk to get out of their sleeping bag so they didn't get trampled.

"Not the pajama sweater!" Mabel cried out. "Anything but the pajama sweater! Mr. SnuggleLots let go! LET GO LET GO LET GO!

"Hold still, Mabel! I'll get him!" announced Dipper, looking poised and ready to leap out of his bed and natch the pesky plushie.

What happened next happened in slow motion.

Having realized that she was getting nowhere by shouting or running around, Mabel took her franticness up one more notch. She started spinning around like a ferocious helicopter-propeller. Around and around she went, getting dizzier with each passing second. But she never relented. Nobody was eating her sweater tonight!

Then, finally, she felt the extra weight on her sleeve disappear. She gave a sigh of dizzy relief.

CRAAASSSSSSHHHHHH!!!

Dipper and Frisk looked on in speechless horror as Mr. SnuggleLots had been flung off of Mabel's sleeve and straight through the bedroom window. The kids only barely registered the audible thud of the bear hitting the ground. Then huffing. Then scampering away.

...

"Whoops," squeaked Mabel

"Hoo boy," added Frisk.

"Mabel, what on earth was that thing?! And why is its name 'Mr. SnuggleLots?!?!'" barked Dipper.

"Three..." mumbled Frisk gloomily, like they were counting down to Ragnarok.

"Excuse me?! If you didn't spend all day sleeping away in bed," snapped Mabel in response, "we could already be heading out after him instead of playing catch up!"

"Two..."

"Let the thing go, for all I care!" snarled Dipper, leaning against the door and gesturing to the broken window."Cursed or not, that Teddy bear was never yours! Bet you $50 a witch owns that toy!"

"One..."

"No deal!" declared Mabel, crossing her arms in an "X" formation. "There's no guarantee that the bear has an owner to begin with! This is all laid out in the Rehabiliteddy Program™ which, once again, you wouldn't have missed if you didn't waste the day away in your bed!"

Dipper scowled. "Listen Mabel-!"

The door suddenly swung open violently, painfully sandwiching Dipper between the door and the wall. There, standing rigid and fuming, was Toriel.

“You all have five seconds to explain yourselves for this racket before I officially lose my temper. Starting now.”

"And that's why we need to go after him!" finished Mabel, waiting patiently as her scarf was wrapped around her.

"Goodness..." said Toriel, finishing Mabel's scarf and moving on to Frisk now that Mabel was all bundled up. "I will admit I still find the whole thing to be far fetched, but after the encounter you three had with that Blind Biker a few days ago, I'm inclined to believe any type of weird phenomena story that comes out of the mouths of you three."

Everyone was still in the bedroom. It didn't take to long to explain the situation to Toriel, even though the trio well exceeded the five second time limit. By the time she had learned that Mr. SnuggleLots was still out there, Toriel immediately went to work on dressing the kids up in extra layers, mittens, and scarves.

"What were you doing up this late, Ms. Toriel?" asked Dipper. "If you don't mind me asking, that is."

"I've spent all day looking for something that I cannot seem to find," Toriel answered while fastening a beanie cap onto Frisk. "A videotape. Perhaps one of you three saw it earlier this morning and it's currently in your possession?"

"Nope, sorry" said Dipper.

"I have not," added Frisk, their voice muffled by the scarf.

"Me neither," rounded off Mabel, pulling her scarf down to speak clearly. "Unfortunately all I have with me right now is candy. But I'm happy to share it with the coolest mom to ever walk the earth!"

Toriel was just about to start with Dipper when Mabel said that. Much to the twins' alarm, she started to weep.

Mabel panicked. "W-what did I say?! Oh god is that considered an insult in monster-culture?! I didn't mean it Miss Toriel I swear-!"

"You *sniff* you did *sniff* n-nothing wrong at all sweetheart," reassured Toriel, collecting herself. "It's just been a very lousy day for me it seems..."

Mabel and Frisk seemed at a loss for words.

"Hhhhhow about we put a pin on that for now, Ms Toriel?" Dipper butted in, before attempting to lighten the mood by adding, "Besides, we still need to track down a rogue Teddy bear."

Toriel gave a sad chuckle. "Please... no formalities are necessary. Toriel is... just fine. And yes, if we could save my troubles for later on, that would be great. I'm more concerned about you three pursuing this critter in the bitter cold of midnight winter."

"It's really not that bad-" started Dipper.

"Don't ever argue with the Goat Mom, Dipper," hissed Mabel, getting right in Dipper's face.

"Whoa hey there, personal space please," said Dipper, waving her away.

Toriel nodded. "It doesn't matter to me if winter on the surface is less brutal than winter in the Underground, you three are my responsibility right now, and that means you bundle up."

"Understood Mom," acknowledged Frisk.

"Of course Mis- I mean, Toriel," said Dipper, lifting his arms as Toriel started to apply his scarf.

Mabel suddenly had an idea. "Dipper, I can't believe I'm asking this, but do you think the black journal has anything about Mr. SnuggleLots?"

"It's worth checking," said Dipper, his voice muffled as well, now that the scarf was on. He pulled it down gently. "Toriel, if you don't mind, could you hold off on the mittens for a second? This is important."

"Just don't take too long. The further that bear gets, the longer you three have to be out there in the cold," reminded Toriel.

"Again, we've dealt with much worse-"

"Don't argue with Mom/The-Goat-Mother," said Frisk and Mabel at the same time.

"Right, right," said Dipper, grabbing the book and skimming through the pages. "Hmmm... not having much luck here. Maybe this author didn't encounter him. Gravity Falls is a big place-"

"Hang on," said Frisk, putting their hand on Dipper's shoulder. "I think I saw it. A few pages back."

Dipper flipped back a couple of pages, and eventually found a page with a very detailed illustration of Mr. SnuggleLots.

"Wow, dunno how I missed that," said an embarrassed Dipper.

"It's because you were rambling again!" teased Mabel, waving her arms from side to side. "Ramble ramble ramble!"

"Oh knock it off, Mabel. Thanks for catching that, Frisk," said Dipper, Frisk smiling in response. "Alright, lets see what we have here."

the nocturnal teddy bear

this peculiar stuffed animal holds a dark and not-that-deadly secret. every night, from sundown to sunrise, this bear comes to life and prowls the streets if it is without an owner. despite being a bear, not all of its behavior matches that of an average grizzly bear, so as far as advantages and weaknesses go, it is hard to pinpoint what works with this creature and what doesn't. one thing is for certain though: its diet is solely fabric. bed sheets, clothes, boxers, this bear will tear through it all until it is nice and full. once it is satisfied, it refrains from eating. if you are tracking down a starving nocturnal teddy bear, be wary or well armed. Or, bring along an outfit that you wouldn't mind if it got eaten. that is heavily ill advised, though.

An awkward silence befell the group as they all looked to each other and the new layers that Toriel had just finished putting on them.

"That certainly would have been nice to know beforehand," said Toriel, pinching the bridge of her snout.

"Sorry..." said Dipper sheepishly.

"But on the bright side," Mabel pointed out, "the book mentions nothing about a taste for human flesh! Just fabric! Which means we won't die!"

"Yeah, sure. Instead, we all will run the risk of committing public indecency," said Dipper, his winter coat's hood casting a shadow over his eyes. "I honestly would prefer death."

"It's not like anybody would see you this late at night," said Mabel, deadpanning.

"I will make sure to look away if such an event happens to you," Toriel promised Dipper.

"You'd probably die of Hypothermia before the embarrassment set in, Dipper," Frisk was polite to add.

"Let's just make sure it doesn't happen, okay?!" Dipper yelled.

"WAIT!!!" Mabel suddenly shrieked, an entire Christmas tree's worth of lights going off in her head. "I know how we can arm ourselves! We have to be suuuuuuuuuuuuper quiet though~"

It took a few seconds to leave the bedroom, Frisk having decided to bring their backpack with them before setting out, but soon afterwards, the trio and Toriel were standing in front of...

"The attic?" said Dipper incredulously, as he walked up to the attic entrance. "Why do we need to be quiet here? That's where Sans sleeps! We could kill a goat in there and it wouldn't wake him up!"

Hearing no response, Dipper turned around to see a Mabel who looked ready to punch him, a Frisk who looked beyond upset, and a Toriel that- oh.

"Shoot, I'm sorry," said Dipper to Toriel who looked downright uncomfortable. "I meant like, you know- we could make... an equivalent to that much noise... and Sans wouldn't... wake up."

"Let's just put a pin on it, like you suggested before," said Toriel. "Now please open the door so we can move on from this awkward situation."

"Right."

Click!

Creeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaak.

Slowly, silently, all three children slunk into the attic, stepping onto the creaky floor. If Sans caught them, it would take forever to explain the situation. Mabel worried that she'd be even further away from Mr. SnuggleLots. Frisk worried about having to explain why Toriel was with them. Dipper worried about Sans growing suspicious from all the snooping that Dipper had been trying to do on him.

Except, there was no Sans. Instead, there was a simple note on the window seat that read "be back later."

All three children groaned at how pointless all of that super awesome stealth turned out to be.

"He's not even here??? Then where is he?!" said Dipper, exasperated. "Frisk, is this disappearing act common for Sans?"

"Only during the daytime..." said Frisk, scratching their head in confusion while also adjusting the straps on their backpack. "I don't think I've ever seen him vanish at night though. Though to be fair, he never let me into his bedroom when I was in the underground..."

"You were snooping around in Sans's bedroom???"

"No. I just said that he never let me in. How could I possibly snoop in his room if I'm locked out of it? All jesting aside, yes I tried to do that. I failed miserably though."

"Well at any rate," said Dipper, eyes narrowing. "This skeleton is not helping his case. Everything he does only makes me grow more and more suspicious of him."

"Suspicious of what?" asked Toriel, approaching Dipper and Frisk.

Shoot... Should I tell her? Dipper cursed internally. She's a good friend of his, isn't she? And it's not like I have any concrete evidence of Sans being the time anomaly that the author is talking about... Think of something else, Dipper! Say something! Anything!!!

"Suspicious of him stealing your videotape," Dipper went with.

Toriel looked absolutely horror-stricken. "He did what?"

Whoa, that was not the reaction that Dipper was anticipating. He was ready to defend his lie, but she just went with it? How important was this videotape to her?? What was on it???

"I haven't found any evidence yet!" Dipper backpedaled. "I-it's just a hypothesis! I don't want to be right about it, believe me!"

Toriel did her best to calm down. "I certainly hope that that tape wasn't stolen in the first place. If it was, I... I don't know how I'd be able to handle it."

Dipper and Frisk gulped. The air in the room had gotten quite stagnated. If someone really had stolen it, Dipper had just basically sentenced him or her to death. So now, Dipper could be arrested tonight for arbitrarily committing public indecency or incitement. Hooraaaaaaaaay....

"Guess that's one obstacle out of the way!" said Mabel, her voice immediately vaporizing the suspense that she was oblivious to. She waltzed over to the stained glass window and opened it, paying no mind to the noise it made. Immediately the quartet was overcome by the intense chill of winter at midnight. Finally the kids saw the value of the extra clothes provided by Toriel.

"Now for the tough part..." shivered Mabel.

The kids climbed out of the window and onto the roof, all three bracing the cold current. One by one, the Mystery Trio tip toed along the roof.

"Still don't understand why we didn't just use the ladder from the gift shop," griped Dipper, a burst of wind making him shiver.

"We'd be climbing down those noisy stairs. We'd risk Undyne waking up," said Mabel. "I doubt you're eager to know what she's like if she's rudely woken up."

"Just to enlighten you," began Frisk, "she begins every day by chucking a spear at her alarm clock. She has an entire closet dedicated to alarm clocks because of all the ones she breaks. Now, imagine her mistaking you for an alarm clock because you woke her up-"

"I would rather not imagine something so horrifying while also balancing on a roof and enduring the bitter cold," said a trembling Dipper. "I get it. Ladder was a bad idea. Let's keep moving."

A few more minutes of sneaking, and they reached their destination: Wendy's platform. There, sleeping soundly, was Papyrus, with his newly knitted, and extremely long, "spaghetti scarf" draped around his shoulders.

Mabel looked to Dipper. Then she looked to Frisk. She put two fingers closed together in the air, waited three seconds, then pointed them to Papyrus and whispered, "Go!"

Dipper and Frisk fanned out, each approaching the opposite side of Papyrus. They gripped the scarf, and gently lifted it up and over. The scarf was now hovering in front of the sleeping skeleton, being held tight by the smiling Dipper and Frisk.

"Mission accomplished!" whisper-screamed Mabel.

It was at that moment that one little roof shingle had decided that it couldn't handle having Dipper's foot on top of it any longer.

CHHHRK!

Dipper slipped backwards, yanking the scarf. Frisk, who was still holding it, felt themself jolted forward, unable to keep themself from slamming into the panicking Pines brother. Dipper tried to right himself, but (surprise!) only managed to trip on the long scarf, making him fall backwards even further, Frisk lurching further forward as they were too riled up to remember to let go of the doggone scarf. This time, the delirious duo collided heads, resulting in an unceremonious CONK! as the blasted scarf continued to entangle them. Frisk and Dipper became a ball of yarn as they teetered off of the roof platform and landed on the snow covered grass with an obnoxious thud.

Everything... hurt.

"Mission... accomplished?" repeated Mabel, worried that Papyrus had been woken up from all of that noise.

"ZzzzzzzzzzzznnnnNNNYEH I WILL MAKE IT INTO THE ROYAL GUUAARRDDDDDDZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz"

"Whew," Mabel sighed before making her way back down to untangle the pair.

But not before taking a photo of the pair sprawled in the snow and entangled in that giant scarf.

"Oh dear, I never expected that he would actually take my advice to heart," Toriel chortled. "An actual spaghetti scarf. I really want to know what goes on in that skeleton's head. It must be fascinating."

With the scarf now acquired, it had been strategically wrapped by Mabel around the already scarfed necks of Dipper, Frisk, and and herself, before setting off into Gravity Falls to hunt down Mr. SnuggleLots. Silhouetted by the moon, the children looked like a paper-people-chain come to life.

Toriel insisted on coming along, not liking the idea of three kids being out at night without a grownup. The trio argued with her a bit, but they were quick to admit defeat when she gave them all a glare that only a mother could perfect.

"I'm shocked we didn't wake Papyrus up," quietly commented Frisk, who was at the front end of the line. "Especially after that humiliating descent."

"Look, I said I was sorry," mumbled Dipper in the middle, rubbing his forehead on instinct.

"It made a fun memory for me too look back on, though!" giggled Mabel from the back as she put her newly developed photo into her scrapbook.

"I'm glad to know that you still find pleasure from my pain," grumbled Dipper.

"Let's try to stay on task here," reminded Toriel, having decided to walk alongside the line rather than behind or in front of it. "So, you three are going to be using this scarf to lure the bear out?"

"In a way, yes" explained Frisk "But for the most part, it's to give Mr. SnuggleLots something to chew on that isn't our clothes."

"Hopefully the guy isn't hungry enough to eat the whole scarf," said Dipper worriedly.

"Yeah, Papyrus would not be happy with us," said Mabel.

"That's not what I'm- okay, that too," conceded Dipper, before turning his head back to the path. "Now then... if I were a hungry Teddy bear... where would I go..."

rustle rustle

There was a rustling of leaves. Immediately, all four heads darted to the source of the sound. Right in front of them were two bushes, shaking up a storm.

"Oooooooooooo!" squeaked Mabel, putting her hands to her cheeks. "Guys, I think maybe we found Mr. SnuggleLots's parents!"

"Everybody be absolutely still..." whispered Frisk.

"Ummmm, guys?" said Dipper as quietly as he could. "Mr. SnuggleLots is in fact a Teddy bear, right? Do Nocturnal Teddy Bears have parents???"

"That's..." said Mabel

"...a good question..." finished Frisk, tensing up.

Was it a pair of Nocturnal Teddy Bears? Gnomes? Goblins?! Eldritch Horrors?!

The rustles got louder.

Louder.

Louder-

"Oink!"

"Yip!"

The sigh of relief was unanimous as the heads of Waddles and the Samoyed popped out of the bushes.

"Waddllleeeeeeees! What are you doing outside this late at night? Get over here, mister!" cooed Mabel, rushing over to Waddles. Having forgotten that she was tied to the scarf, Dipper and Frisk were lurched forward and dragged through the snow by Mabel. She scooped up her prized pig and nuzzled him vigorously, Waddles lapping up the snowflakes on her cheeks. "Were you giving the dog a tour of the town? Were you? You were, weren't you, you cute little... cutie!"

"Oh hey! It's that dog from the mountain!" said Dipper in recognition of the other critter. "......what's his name again?"

"I don't think he has one," Toriel pitched in. "Frisk, you really should consider putting a collar on that puppy or at least giving him a name, what with how frequently I see him."

"This dog cannot be restrained by a collar," said Frisk, suddenly looking at an imaginary sunset. Dipper found it weird. Mabel was captivated. Then the moment was over as quickly as it began. "But I like the idea of giving him a name."

The child suddenly pointed at the white dog, who cocked his head.

"Toby."

"Brrk?"

"Your name is Toby."

"Urf."

"................may I call you Toby?"

"Arf!"

"Toby it is."

In the end, Toby and Waddles started following the group, the head count growing from four to six. And those six were lead on a wild tour of Gravity Falls at night in order to find this furball. If this fiasco was a scripted sequence for some TV show, this would have been the moment when the montage music started playing.

They went to Soos's house, where a groggy Abuelita pointed towards where she saw the bear head off to after it took a chomp out of her sofa. One round of cookies later, the group was back on the trail.

Next was the Valentino Funeral Home, where Greg and Janice spoke about how Mr. SnuggleLots made their night. Not too long ago, one of the buried corpses rose out of the ground as a zombie, only to have the tux it was buried in torn off and devoured by the tiny menace. The zombie was so embarrassed that it sank right back into its coffin and never rose up again. Mabel slipped a spare cookie underneath the door to Robbie's room before returning to the scarf-line and heading out.

The group passed by McGucket's new mansion for a brief moment, unable to enter because of the locked gate barring them from the courtyard. They shrugged and continued past the mansion. Toby and Waddles, who were falling behind, were the only ones who spotted a crow fly over the gate easily, only for the crow to be vaporized by a red laser beam courtesy of the new security features that McGucket had installed in the front yard. Bug-eyed, traumatized, and holding knowledge that no one else will ever learn, Toby and Waddles slowly trotted away from the estate.

The Pines Twins even dared to visit the Tent of Telepathy. They didn't need to get too close though: the tent had holes everywhere. Mr. SnuggleLots had definitely been there. They slowly snuck away, slowly enough for Frisk to spot a poster announcing that the Tent of Telepathy was closed indefinitely. Well, at least nobody was inconvenienced. So why were Dipper and Mabel so spooked about approaching it...?

Each location they visited showed that Mr. SnuggleLots had stopped by. But they just couldn't seem to catch up to him.

"Maybe we should stop by Candy or Grenda's house next!" suggested Mabel.

"Absolutely not," said Dipper. "I understand that you want to get back together with them, but if we do that tonight, there's no way we'll be able to avoid them inviting you for a sleepover. And we have bigger things to worry about."

"I like the sound of a sleepover," admitted Frisk.

"Really???!!!!! Awesome!!!! I'll be sure to let Candy and Grenda know!" squealed Mabel, paying no attention to Dipper who was frantically waving his hands at Frisk and begging them to not be enticed by a sleepover with Mabel's friend group.

"Focus, children," said Toriel with a gentle huff. "I understand the want to socialize, but I would prefer to relocate this bear as quickly as possible. I need to be back at the shack before sunrise. I'm sure that tape is somewhere I haven't checked yet. Perhaps I'll check the lab next..."

Dipper's curiosity had finally had enough. He leaned forward to whisper to Frisk. "Frisk, do you have any idea what's up with your mom? She's usually so calm and down to earth, but tonight... I dunno, she just seems especially stressed. Just what is on that videotape that she's searching for so feverishly?"

"I understand your concern, and I wish I could answer your questions immediately," Frisk whispered back. "However, I would prefer that we wait until we have retrieved the Nocturnal Teddy Bear before we discuss this any further. It is rather personal."

"Well okay..." said Dipper, looking down to the snow covered ground. "I honestly don't know how much longer I can go looking for this bear's whereabouts though-"

That's when he saw it. Paw prints. Specifically, prints of paws that looked patched-on. And they lead up to...

This way to the Corduroy Cabin. Follow the signs.

A sign that gave directions to Wendy's house? But why would the paw prints lead to...

Wait...

Dipper called to the group. "Do you think Mr. SnuggleLots knows English? All this time, I assumed he didn't, based on our initial encounter."

"Maybe he was just too hungry to listen?" suggested Mabel.

Frisk nodded. "Why do you ask, Dipper?"

"Okay... this may sound extreme to everyone but Mabel. But I think Mr. SnuggleLots understands English enough to read it... and he mistook Wendy's family's home for a Fabric store."

Mabel, Frisk, and Toriel all looked to the sign that Dipper was gesturing at.

Then to the fresh trail of paw prints seemed to be doing exactly what the sign had suggested.

"FOLLOW THAT TRAIL!" announced Mabel.

"Hush!" hissed Toriel. "The town is asleep!"

"Oop, sorry Goat Mom," said Mabel meekly, before whispering, "Follow that trail!"

They had hit the jackpot. By following the signs (and the paw prints in the snow), the trio, the pets, and Toriel had managed to locate the cabin that housed Wendy and her testosterone-buzzed brothers and dad.

The first sign of trouble was that the lights were on. The second was that the sounds of war cries and glass shattering could be heard all the way from the house to where the group was standing. The third was that the front door had been jerked open, and a bewildered Wendy Corduroy was sprinting towards them, kicking up snow everywhere.

"We can explain-" started Dipper.

"Oh my god I couldn't care less about the explanation right now-" growled Wendy, her voice having an especially ragged quality to it. Dipper didn't have a lot of time to ponder that though as suddenly the redhead had an iron grip on both of his shoulders and was staring right through him with baggy eyelids and bloodshot eyes.

"Oh dear..." said Toriel in the back, Mabel and Frisk cringing as well. It appeared that all three of them had just put together why Wendy had been so drowsy lately.

Wendy croaked, "Every December, my family gets more and more fired up about the New Year, and it results in them screaming throughout the night. It does not help that Gravity Falls has its own New Year that ignores the yearly calendar. Long story short, I haven't slept in six days you guys."

A gasp was shared by all who were capable of doing so.

"And that- that- that toy freak in there???" continued the delirious Wendy, raising a trembling hand and pointing behind her to her home. "NOT HELPING MATTERS!"

"I am so sorry that you've had to deal with this," said Toriel. "I promise you, that bear will be out of your home before sunrise."

"Oh jeez, is that you, Toriel?" said Wendy, her vision finally clearing from the tired rage. Her cheeks flushed with massive embarrassment and she scratched the back of her head. "Did- did I just shout right in your face? I am so sorry, I didn't... mmm- mmmmmean to..." Wendy suddenly arched back and gave a massive yawn. The three children winced, realizing how tired she must have been for the past few days.

"You've been deprived of sleep. It's more than understandable that you would be cranky," said Toriel gently.

"I dunno if we'll be able to help with Wendy's personal conundrum," pondered Frisk.

"We can try to, once we have Mr. SnuggleLots back!" said Mabel proudly, before suddenly shrinking and asking nervously. "How um... how is your family dealing with his intrusion?"

"Meh, the same way they handle any other bear that invades our property," explained Wendy. "With violence. And probably rifles."

The change in Mabel's velocity was so intense that the scarf was torn in two as she charged towards the house, howling with worry.

"Wait," said Wendy, suddenly noticing the scarf. "Is that Papyrus's-"

"Explanation afterwords, right?!" said Dipper, frantically taking the scarf off of Frisk so he could don the other half of the scarf by himself. "Come on Frisk, we need to catch her before she rips someone's ear off!"

"Affirmative!" nodded Frisk, following Dipper as he sprinted toward the cabin, leaving Wendy and Toriel out in the snow.

An awkward silence befell on the two of them.

"Um.............. Aren't you going to follow them?" asked Toriel.

Much to Toriel's alarm, Wendy let out a snore.

"OH MY GOODNESS! WENDY YOU CAN'T FALL ASLEEP OUT HERE, YOU'LL FREEZE!!!"

In a panic, Toriel hoisted Wendy up. With the pets following close behind, Toriel quickly carried Wendy back into the noisy, but warm, cabin.

Two figures, polar opposites of each other, were in a current face off. On one side of the room was a small animal, covered in soft fur, trembling with fear. On the other side of the room was a big animal, strapped in lumberjack work clothes, covered in red hair on his head, face, arms, and chest. He was trembling with anger and testosterone.

....aaaaaaaand a little bit of fear, to be honest.

Mr. Manly Dan wiped the sweat from his brow, regaining his focus. He had finally managed to trap the little furry menace in a corner of the living room, its plum fur not doing much to camouflage it amongst the red plaid wallpaper.

"You took a bite out of Marcus's hat, Kevin's shorts, and Gus's shirt... and then... you went for my underwear."

Mr. SnuggleLots only growled in return.

"Them's fighting words..." snarled Manly Dan. "So be it! BY MY HAND, YOU SHALL LEARN OF WHAT YOUR OWN BLOOD TASTES LIKE!"

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"

Everything that followed happened in a manner of seconds.

Dan shouted in alarm as Mabel lunged onto his back and covered his eyes. The gorilla of a man flailed about wildly, making the trio of boys duck to avoid getting smacked by his meaty arms. Mr. SnuggleLots took the chance to dart out of the corner, only for Frisk to block his path. In the hallway, few feet behind Frisk, was Dipper, ready to face against Mr. SnuggleLots if he managed to get past Frisk.

Mabel and Dan continued to spin around the living room, Marcus, Gus, and Kevin all trying their best to stay away. From the entrance way appeared Toby, Waddles, and Toriel, still carrying Wendy. Toby was immediately intrigued by the space and climbed atop of the stairway rail, climbing all the way to the top of the first row of stairs to get a good vantage point. Waddles went the opposite way, hugging himself against the wall comfortably. Toriel spotted the dining room and quickly sat Wendy down in a seat at the dining room table. With all the noise going on, Wendy was soon roused from her sleep.

Mr. SnuggleLots managed to dart under Frisk's legs and latch his teeth onto their backpack. Frisk yelped, which alerted Marcus to the bear. Giving a battle cry, Marcus charged towards the bear, wrestling the back pack off of Frisk, which only made the poor child fall flat on their face. Seeing this, Mabel finally let go of Dan and ran over to the fallen child. Meanwhile, Marcus began to spin the bag around. Mr. SnuggleLots, remembering what happened last time he was spun around, let go before the momentum could grow too much. The backpack was flung in a random direction, hitting the (thankfully unlit) fireplace. With Marcus dizzy, Mr. SnuggleLots was free to escape, bolting for the hallway. Dipper, noticing the Teddy bear heading his way, readied himself. He grew a massive scowl and held the spaghetti scarf like a muleta. But in all his preparation to look threatening, Dipper forgot to remove the scarf from his neck.

Dan regained his balance with the help of Kevin and Gus, and headed outside with a growl to get some shears from the tool shed. Waddles entered the living room and spotted the now abandoned backpack near the fireplace. Toriel approached Dipper and the bear, while Toby climbed the second row of stairs out of three and gave himself a bigger vantage point- not that he was actively seeking it out- just as Mr. SnuggleLots lurched forward, bit the end of Dipper's half of the spaghetti scarf, and kept running.

Frisk, Mabel, Toriel, and Wendy watched in alarm as Dipper was yanked backwards and dragged behind Mr. SnuggleLots, who took off with the scarf still in his mouth.

-Toriel charges forward to save Dipper but just missed her mark, falling down on the floor and having right herself back up into a sitting position, leaning against the fridge in the kitchen adjacent to the hallway. Dipper was further dragged, following Mr. SnuggleLots into the bathroom at the end of the hallway. Frisk, Mabel, and Wendy collectively panicked and raced toward the bathroom. Mabel outran both of the others, Frisk making sure their mom was okay, and Wendy spotting that the boys had head into their bedroom to search for a bear trap to ensnare Mr. SnuggleLots with.

Soon after the bear had entered the bathroom, Mr. SnuggleLots started freaking out because the space was a lot smaller. He darted around the bathroom, throwing Dipper against the sink, the toilet, and the bathtub, which was when the bear finally let go of the half eaten scarf in his panic, Dipper getting shot-putted into the bathtub. Dipper spent the next few seconds just sitting there, dazed enough to not even bother righting his lopsided cap.

Mabel barged into the bathroom.

"Hey Mr. SnuggleLots! Look what I have for ya!"

Mabel waved the other half of the spaghetti scarf in her attempt to lure the bear away from Dipper and out of the bathroom. Mr. SnuggleLots took the bait, and Mabel calmly dragged him out of the bathroom. Dipper finally stopped seeing stars, and gripped his head as the headache set in. Wendy had just finished convincing the boys why a bear trap would be more danger than its worth, as Mabel passed by the bedroom doorway. Wendy realized Dipper was still in the bathroom and head over there to check on him. The boys shrugged and left the bedroom.

Waddles had been spending all this time rummaging through Frisk's backpack, unbothered by anybody. By that time, Dan returned with the shears, noticed the pig, considered dinner, but then remembered that the pig is Mabel's pet and thought against it, not wanting to be attacked by her again. He entered the hallway, ready to tear that bear into ribbons with the shears. At that point nearly everyone else was in the hallway, which meant that Frisk and Mabel got a perfect view of the rusty shears that Dan was holding. They both gasp, Mabel's shock giving her hand enough slack for Mr. SnuggleLots to snatch the scarf out of Mabel's hand and eat it happily, the rest of the Corduroys surrounding him cautiously while Dan was forced into a heated discussion spearheaded by Frisk and Mabel as to why the bear shouldn't be harmed. It was at this point that Toby spotted Waddles, who was still playing around with Frisk's backpack.

Toby leapt onto Mabel's head, then Frisk's, then lunged at Dan's face, hitting him with enough force that he dropped the shears and tilted backwards, falling down on the floor with a thud. Frisk quickly grabbed the shears and put them on the kitchen counter, away from Dan. Toriel followed Frisk as they left the kitchen to return to Mabel and Dan. Toby finally leapt off of Dan and bolted for the back pack, the pets now in a tug of war. Wendy and Dipper exited the bathroom, encountering the boys and the bear. The bear, who was still surrounded, payed no mind and finished eating Mabel's portion of the scarf, swallowing it, and looking very much stuffed. He gave everyone a very cute smile, and Mabel noticed he was finally acting like a Teddy bear. It made no attempts to bolt.

That's when the bear was grabbed by the throat, and lifted from the ground by a meaty hand. It was Dan, who had gotten back up. "Got you!"

There was the sound of something ripping.

For a second, a collective panic swarmed through the group, worried that Mr. SnuggleLots had torn himself open in his attempt to get out of Dan's grip. But he was fine and unharmed.

The group turned to look at Toby and Waddles, who had gone silent. The backpack had been ripped open, its contents flying through the air like candy from a pinata. One giant object, rectangular in shape, caught the eyes of Toriel and Frisk. It hit the floor hard enough to bounce and spin like a hamster wheel, before sliding on the floor and skidding to a halt at Toriel's feet.

There, lying motionless on the wooden floor, was a videotape.

With ear-ringing silence, Toriel reached down and picked up the tape. She flipped it to the front, and read the title that was written on it in faded crayon. She read it a second time. A third time.

"Frisk Dreemurr..." said Toriel with a disturbingly calm voice. "What was this tape doing in your bag? Did you put it in there?"

"M-Mom I-"

"Just answer the question," snapped Toriel. "Were you the one who put this videotape in your bag? Yes or no?"

"Yes..."

"Did you do so, knowing that I was looking for it?"

"......."

"Frisk."

"Yes... Yes Mother, I did."

The room was silent.

"...I am disappointed in you, Frisk. Severely disappointed. Not to mention angry. You should not steal anything, from anyone, period. But to think that you would deliberately try and hide this videotape from me..."

Toriel caught herself, realizing she was slipping. She breathed in.........she breathed out. In........... and out.

Suddenly, a hand was gently wrapped around Toriel's shoulder. It belonged to Wendy.

"Listen um... My bedroom, it... it has a TV and VCR. I know it might be a little odd but... you've clearly spent all day and night looking for this tape and wanting to watch whatever is on it. So... why don't you go on up to my room and watch it? It'll... give you and the rest of us some time to mull things over."

Toriel looked ready to argue, but after a tense couple of seconds, she sighed and deflated. "Some solitude would do me well right now, I suppose..."

She took Wendy's hand in her paws in a silent display of gratitude before letting go, picking up the videotape once again and heading for the staircase. She paused after climbing the first step. The room went quiet again.

"You are by no means off the hook, little one. We will talk once this is all over."

"Yes, Mother."

Then, she climbed up the stairs, vanishing from everyone's line of sight.

Dipper fidgeted with his hands. We was never good at handling the pressure of only being a bystander during a very tense encounter.

Wendy let out a deep sigh, no doubt wishing that this night wasn't so... eventful.

Mabel looked to Frisk with worry. Their hair was casting a shadow over their eyes, and their hands were hanging loosely at their side. Mabel frowned, wanting to help, but not knowing how to. She thought back to when she was younger, when Dipper would come home crying because the bullies at the park found him again, how all she had to do was invite him to her Teddy bear tea party as a guest...

...!

Just as Mabel had begun to come to a realization, Mr. SnuggleLots had gotten sick and tired of being held by the neck so firmly.

CHOMP!

"YYYYYYOW!!!" hollered Dan, letting go of the bear to waggle his hand and stave off the pain from having his index finger being bitten into by a bear cub. "Noooooooo come on! I finally had him! BOYS! GET HI-"

Mabel spoke without thinking. "MR. SNUGGLELOTS, I TOLD YOU TO BRING A BIB WITH YOU TO THE TEA PARTY! WHERE IS IT?!"

Everyone, Teddy bear included, froze in their tracks. Mr. SnuggleLots looked up to Mabel, his cute beady eyes expressing pure, non-artificial confusion.

"Rule number five hundred and sixty eight of Mabel's Rehabiliteddy Program™!" barked Mabel, pointing at the stupefied stuffed animal. "Any and all critters that are invited to partake in Mabel's Complimentary Tea Party must bring their own bib! To forget one is poor hospitality! What do you have to say for yourself!?"

At the bear's obvious silence, Mabel looked to the others for support, hands outward in an utter display of 'Just play along!!!'

Frisk was silent, but their head lifted up slightly. They appeared to be curious.

As the Corduroys whispered to each other, Dipper walked right up to Mabel.

"You agree, don't you bro???" said Mabel, jokingly - but also rather forcefully and painfully - elbowing her brother in the side.

"Owwwww..." groaned Dipper, rubbing the spot that got jabbed. "Mabel, are you seriously trying to have a tea party with a bear that only eats sheets and clothing? Furthermore, you're trying to convince Wendy's family to host this tea party?? Are you out of your mind???"

"Just hear me out," said Mabel, whispering in Dipper's ear. "I just remembered that point where you suggested that Mr. SnuggleLots might be able to read, and I thought 'heh, well that doesn't seem very bearish of him!' and then, the clouds parted."

"Mabel, what are you talking about." said Dipper flatly.

"All this time, we've been treating this Teddy bear as, well, a regular bear. And I think we just assumed that that was typical behavior for him. But look at him now!"

The kids glanced over to Mr. SnuggleLots. He was sucking on his paw and looking around the room with interest.

"Doesn't he seem a lot more Teddy bearish to you???" concluded Mabel.

"Huh.... yeah, I think I see what you're getting at," said Dipper, starting to follow Mabel's train of thought. "You think we should approach him as the Teddy bear he is, and have a tea party with him. Am I on the right track here?"

"Right track, right train, right everything!" said Mabel, proudly patting Dipper on the back. Dipper smiled without realizing it.

He quickly regained his focus. "But even if that's the case, there's no way that Daniel Corduroy, the same Daniel Corduroy that snapped a tree in half by punching it, is going to let you host a tea party inside his h-"

"So what're you kids thinking?" boomed Manly Dan, stepping in the middle of the discussion. "Chamomile or Oolong?"

The twins looked up to see that in his hands were two different boxes of tea flavors.

"Huh....?" said Dipper in a stupor.

"You got any Candyleaf?" replied Mabel.

"BOYS!" shouted Dan to Marcus, Kevin, and Gus, all three in the living room. "GET TO THE CONVENIENCE STORE AND GET YOUR DAD SOME CANDYLEAF TEA! BE BACK IN TEN MINUTES, OR NONE OF YOU ARE ALLOWED TO GO OUT HUNTING TOMORROW!"

"YES DAD!" screamed the boys in unison, scrambling out the door.

"Huh?!" said Dipper.

"Hey Dipper Kid," boomed Manly Dan, getting up in Dipper's face. "You still haven't told me what you want."

"I- I don't-"

"Whaddya mean you don't?! You don't drink tea?! Well young man, in this house, you don't get to abstain from drinking tea! Now pick a flavor, or I'll pick one FOR YOU, AND I'LL MAKE IT AS SCALDING AND AS TASTELESS AS POSSIBLE!!! YOU DON'T WANT THAT, DO YOU?!"

"Just pick one, Dipper," said Mabel, putting her hand on her brother's shoulder.

"Ummmm..." mulled Dipper. "Oo-...Oolong...? I guess...?"

"Good choice," said Dan and Mabel together, with Dan adding, "I'll fire up the kettle!"

"Mabel what is happening right now," sputtered Dipper. The poor boy was certain that he was losing his mind.

"I don't know honestly!" said Mabel laughing. "But I like it!"

"We'll talk about it later," said Wendy, walking up to the pair with Frisk close behind her. "Right now, we gotta focus on setting the dining room up for a round of tea."

"Right!" said Mabel enthusiastically.

"Dipper, Frisk, you're helping out too," instructed Wendy.

"Of course," said Dipper and Frisk with a nod.

NEXT (Coming soon to the Mystery Shack!)

PART 1

PART 3

PREVIOUS CHAPTER

ONCE UPON A TIME...

TABLE OF CONTENTS

#so #this got longer than I meant for it to get #so expect part 3 in just a few minutes!#gravity falls #undertale #underfalls #gravitytale

5 notes · View notes

melmac78 · 4 years

Text

A silly TAG story

(This is a really silly TAG story, caused by lots of weird dreams while trying to recover from a minor illness.)

*********************

Alan Tracy was enjoying a nice tall glass of frosty root beer with cherries as he played his latest attempt at “Space Spartans.”

He had always wanted to beat his Dad’s score, but when it came time to face the rounds larger enemy aircraft, he always seemed to get interru…

“Thunderbird Five to Alan!,” said John, who decided to cut out the game and put his image there instead.

Right when Alan was about to beat the top score of 750…

Always 749, he growled.

Right now though, there were more important things to worry about. “What’s up John?” Alan queried.

“It’s Virgil… he’s down but I haven’t figured out why,” said John. “He’s located in the kitchen. Go help him.”

Alan jumped up and ran to a special chute that let him get down to the lounge area and kitchen in a hurry - for emergencies. He grabbed the handrail, did a hop and slid.

He hit the floor however with a ringing thump… complete, to Alan’s confusion, a ringing, thumping sound.

The youth rubbed his backside and went over to Virgil. *I rubbed my tuchus and then went over to the scene...*

He ignored the voice, which he thought was in his head, and found Virgil, lying unconscious on the ground…

Oddly covered in duck feathers.

“Virgil, you OK?” said Alan...

*There was Virgil! He was down… in down…* said the voice again.

This time however, it made Alan jump. “Who said that?” quirered Alan.

“I did,” said the voice, louder this time, and popped up an image of a metal man. “Name’s Spanner… Dick Spanner, P.I..”

“OK, I’m Alan, and this is my brother, Virgil,” said the youth as he checked Virgil over. “He’d say hi except he’s unconscious.”

The… robot’s? … eyes spun. “Naturally,” he quipped. “Listen, I saw the foul fowl that hit your brother…”

Alan did a double take. “Wait? He got knocked out by a duck?!” said the youth. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because he’s right behind you, complete with a monkey wrench,” said Spanner… who along with Alan turned to see that there was indeed a Mallard with a monkey wrench. “Darn it… I knew I missed something…”

The human was more concerned the monkey wrench was a real monkey made of metal and had claws like the wrench.

So did Virgil, who had come to at the time. He took a look at the mean mallard, the weird wrench, and then the holographic robot.

He did the only logical thing at the moment.

Decided to faint again.

Spanner quietly nodded to the youth. “There’s only one thing you can do… use the Zippo Tranquilizer Dart in your pocket.”

“What?” said Alan, who dug into his pocket.

Instead of a tranquilizer dart, he found an apple pie.

“Hell’s Bells! I thought I had given you the right item,” said Spanner.

Alan however shrugged and threw the pie at the duck and monkey wrench… hitting them in the face.

The duck wiped off the concoction from its face and got ready to attack.

The youth was ready to defend his brother… but then looked confused as the duck and monkey then collapsed to the ground, out cold. “Huh, that’s weird,” said Alan as he walked over to check the two.

Spanner also was confused. “I’ve see someone pie-eyed, but that’s a bit overboard for shut-eye-pie” said the robot, who groaned, realized even for *him* that was a bad play on words.

Alan however grabbed the pie plate and frowned. “Says Finn…” said the youth, puzzled.

The PI robot shook his head, figuring another item he missed. “Of course! I forgot Mickey made pies,” he said.

“Wait… Mickey … Finn? As in a drugged pie?”

“Yeah… well, at least this time one of my oddly odd pocket items had a bonus benefit,” said Spanner. “At least it wasn’t the banana again.”

Alan started to say something, when he heard his brother groan. “Virgil? You OK?” he said to the rousing man.

Virgil opened his eyes. “Um… yeah, I think. Did a duck attack me?” he said, and at his brother’s nod, then looked at the various green feathers on him. “Huh, that’s a new one.”

He then saw the snoozing poultry and shook his head. “How did you get him?”

“I got a pie from pi… or um, a PI,” said Alan, and when Virgil quirked an eyebrow at the odd pun, the youth gestured to the metallic man in the holograph.

“Um… thanks, I guess.” What else could Virgil say.

“Glad to be of help,” said the metallic man. “It’s nice to solve a case once in a while… even if it takes a literal millennia.”

“Right…” muttered Virgil.

Alan however sucked on his fingers and quickly checked on his brother. “Looks like you got a knock on the noggin,” said the youngest gently brushing the bruise.

Spanner started rambling, saying something about forgetting a note about the pie….

Virgil winced at his brother’s touch. “I’m fine Alan,” he said, brushing off his brother’s helping hand. “We need to box the duck before he comes to… and I'm guessing the uh, wrench too...”

Alan paused then pulled his fingers from his mouth. “Nah, better have John inst …”

The older brother grabbed the younger’s hand instead. “Um… Alan, which hand did you pick up the pie?” he said, concerned.

“My rig…” said Alan, then realized paled at the crumbs between his fingers. “Uh... oh…”

The robot then opened up his eyes, snapping his metallic fingers. “Oh yeah! One of Mickey Finn’s pies is lights out for up to three people!” he said.

Virgil and Alan looked at each other. “Three?” said Alan, looking at the two critters on the ground.

Spanner realized his mistake. “Oh boy, not again…” he said, hand over his eyes.

It was too late for Alan, who felt the world growing dark...

Strong hands grabbed him around the shoulder as he fell. “Alan…” said Virgil. “Can you hear me?...”

“Come on kid… wake up…” said the robot, voice softening as darkness descended.

**********

“Come on kid… wake up…” said the voice again, only younger.

Hmm… it was odd that the robot had sounded like Scott only about 20 years older and after waking up from tonsillitis. That gravelly voice stuck with him to that day.

The youngest was confused but another voice continued. “Scott, EOS said he’s regaining consciousness.”

Regaining cons… oh, that’s why no rug on the floor.

Alan realized it was him they were talking about, stirred and opened his eyes, seeing Scott and Virgil with John’s hologram hovering. “Um… hi,” he said, confused. “Why am I on the ground?”

Scott chuckled. “Because you slid on a pillow, fell and knocked yourself out,” he said as he shook his head.

Alan however found himself more confused. “Ok, but it doesn’t explain why am I covered in feathers, and apple pie goo?”

Virgil merely chortled as he looked at Alan’s eyes. “Well… that’s a special UFO that a Shado hit you with,” he said. Seeing Alan’s perplexed look, he clarified. “Gordon hit you with an apple pie and a feather pillow, not sure what order.”

The youngest groaned, hand over his yes. “Oh brother. The pie wasn’t made by Mickey Finn was it?” he said, confused.

The elder trio looked at each other and then at their youngest brother. “Alan, Gordon may be mean, but he wouldn’t create a drugged apple pie,” said John. “Where would you get a silly idea like that?”

Alan pointed at Scott. “Him… well a robot that sounded like him 20 years older and as though he ate a Brillo pad washed down with a glass of Beverly soda,” he said, wincing in memory of the bitter licorice tasting beverage.

He then shrugged. “Maybe that's why he sounded so rough. At least Scott has more sense than the PI. Not as bad with puns either.”

Scott shook his head, not sure if that was a compliment or not. “OK, well, I think it’s time you get to the infirmary. Brains said he needed to do a scan of you to make sure no severe concussion,” he said.

Alan groaned. “Man, not that one with the two green rings. I keep thinking he’s doing some sort of secret to clone me,” he said.

“Yes Alan - Brains is going to create multiple clones of you to do his bidding. I mean, that’s how I stayed conscious and indestructible in 25Gs,” quipped John. Seeing Alan’s shocked look, the astronaut laughed. “Just kidding, I’m not Captain Scarlet or anything.”

“No you’re Captain Magenta,” said a new voice. “No… Ochre. You’d choose bland and boring over pink any day.”

The others laughed while John rolled his eyes, choosing to sign off before he turned the “Symphony” of humor on Gordon.

The aquanaut then put a hand on his brother’s shoulder, helping him stand. “I’m sorry Alan, I didn’t mean to harm you,” he said.

“It was an accident,” said Alan. “But thank you.”

The aquanaut smiled. “And, as a way of groveling, I plan on taking you down to the infirmary myself and wait on you hand and foot for a week,” he said, putting an arm around his brother’s shoulder to assist.

Alan quirked an eyebrow. “Wait on me hand and foot? Where did that come from?”

Gordon glanced askance. “Three brothers who said they’d try to make me fit in the little Stingray in the aquarium if I didn’t,” he said cheekily. “Come on, let’s go.”

Shortly afterward, they reached the chute that would take them not only to Thunderbird Four but the infirmary.

Sure, Gordon was very, very sincere in his comments wanting to help Alan get well soon from an honest mistake.

But there was one more set of reasons: He had to figure out who this Dick Spanner was, why all the bad puns, and finally…

Why would someone knock out Virgil with a duck in the first place?

#thunderbirds are go fanfic #alan tracy #gordon tracy #virgil tracy #scott tracy #john tracy #dick spanner #thunderbirds parody

8 notes · View notes

clown-bait · 5 years

Text

Monster Family (Monster Roommate AU) CH5

Getting this part moving along before IT CH2 comes out. Leech is not a happy camper right now and Pennywise is in huge trouble. Protip: Don’t let the clown drink.

Pennywise stumbled back and howled in pain as leech stomped forward grabbing the other woman with a horrible shriek that could shatter glass. “Get you face off my clown bitch!” she hissed rearing a clawed hand behind her in striking position. The woman in question threw a pouch that burst into black smoke against the vampires face and trotted off leaving the couple to sort out the mistake.

"Who hit me?!" The eldritch snarled and swayed.

"I did you idiot!"

The clown groaned "Too many Peachies foul poison playing tricks."

"There's just one of me here jackass." The vampire spat and grabbed her mate by the ruff causing him to stumble.

"Hey Fangs when you get a minute we have good news and bad news!" Freddy called out to his friends and the vampires skeletal face hissed at him in warning.

"Oopssss?" The eldritch choked out trying to smile despite the claws now digging into his neck ruff.

"Yeah fucking oops! This is a big fuckin oops Pen!"

"L-love y-you?"

Leech's eye twitched before releasing him. The clown was still very cross faded and beating the deadlights out of him wouldn't really accomplish much at this point.

"I'm not happy." She huffed as she dragged him to a booth and away from the staring eyes of her fellow fiends.

"Mistkate." He snarled and fixed his ruff. "I made a mistake."

"You also owe me a crockpot." Leech mumbled as she carefully sat down hand on their trilling offspring who enjoyed the thrum of the bass from the speakers around them.

"Actually I won that back for ya! You lost the first round though." Freddy called to her holding up the coveted cookware. "You owe me big Fangs this thing is nice!"

“And now I owe the devil a favor fantastic.”

Pennywise's eyes went wide as he stared at her bump. "Peachy you're pregnant?!"

The vampire turned to her two companions "You let him drink more while I was playing didn't you."

"Hey he was just grabbing any colorful drink he saw! You try controlling a 6 foot murder machine like that"

"Did I...did I do this?" The clown chittered leaning over her stomach and poking it.

"Congrats again baby daddy." The vampire sighed and slumped back in her booth.

Pennywise swayed and stumbled a bit the room swam when he remembered all the events from the past few months. Then he stopped and turned to throw up into an ice bucket containing a very nice champagne bottle.

"JINGLES!" Chucky and Freddy shouted at once.

The clown made a face of disgust his long black tongue rolling out of his mouth. Before anyone could stop him he grabbed the bottle and chugged it down wiping his chin. The trio stared in disbelief.

"So did everyone believe that time?" Leech asked quietly. To which she got two nods. "Fuck."

"IS THIS A JOKE?" Someone shouted upon receiving the bucket of clown sick.

"Shit give me him." Leech hissed.

The vampire grabbed her dizzy mate and searched for his pantaloons for his pockets the clown made a husky growl groping at her rear.

"Oh! Well look at you tasty little treat what cha lookin for in ol Pennywise's pants hmm?"

"That wallet you perv, we need to pay off that champagne before I get banned from here….again."

"Suree it's not something else?" The drunk eldritch growled and groped her breast causing it to leak a bit. Leech snarled and swatted his hand causing the clown to actually yelp in pain.

"Uhh Fangs your tit is bleeding." Chucky winced at the dark patch of red on her shirt.

"Yeah it does that now." She growled and tossed her friends her boss' wallet.

"That’s….not normal?"

The vampire rolled her eyes and grabbed her clown's cheeks causing a spittle of drool to fall from his mouth as she turned his head. "Yeah dont expect normal when this is the father."

"Meee?" The clown giggled and grinned from ear to ear then hiccuped violently giggling some more.

It was hard to be furious with him when he genuinely didn't even know where he was and was a bouncing mess. Leech sighed to herself wishing she could be giggling with him. At least it would help her block out the image of the love of her life kissing some random witch out of her mind. Leech slumped back and rested her wrist on her forehead.

"Krueger move we're gonna take care of that ruined bottle service." Chucky nodded at his undead companion

"I just sat down I'm not movin for shit."

The doll growled and slapped the back of his head. "Move you idiot." He mumbled out through gritted teeth gesturing to their emotionally drained friend.

"What?"

"My god you're clueless give the chick and her moron some space." The doll kicked his companion till they were out of the booth "You get ten minutes Jingles. Fix it."

The clown blinked in confusion then turned to his mate noticing the very uncomfortable gap between them. "Peachy? Are you still mad?"

"What do you think?"

Pennywise giggled and slowly leaned past the gap letting gravity pull his massive head down till it bumped with hers. He then chuckled wildly with his big buck teeth sticking out over his lips. It was frankly adorable but Leech could still smell the woman he'd mistaken for her on his skin and she scowled instead.

"You're verry pretty! Pretty eyes, pretty skin, big pretty ears hehe!"

"That's not gonna work"

The clown slumped to the side dramatically and leech shifted her glare to the side refusing to look at him. Pennywise was relentless in his pursuit ever the hunter he was not giving up. His finger slowly inched toward her poking her nose and making a honking sound when he did. His vampire hissed and snapped at him in response. He snarled back at her and limply swatted in her direction falling forward over the table and growling in frustration. Leech finally found herself smiling at that. Her mate is a complete mess when drunk but he was definitely her mess. "Mmph" he groaned and twisted his spine so he was now facing the ceiling.

"Pen what are you doing?"

"Trying to get to you." He growled continuing to tie himself in knots until he felt a cool hand on his cheek. The clown stopped his fighting and melted to her touch that soothed his skin that was warm with drink.

"You're a full on disaster." Leech sighed and kissed his forehead. The clown instantly unfolded and shook then stared at her with a wide victorious grin on his face.

"You still have to make it up to me." The vampire crossed her arms over her chest but was quickly grabbed by her mate and hastily pulled from her seat.

"Pennywise where the hell are you taking-" Leech began to scold him but his grip was strong and the crowd of people on the dance floor was large. Somewhere in the mess of lumbering masked killers she no longer felt the warm soft glove on her wrist. Great she had lost her idiot again. The small vampire shoved her way through the other towering members of the crowd looking for a tuft of fiery hair that rose above the sea of gray and rot. A warm gentle hand touched her shoulder and a strangers raspy deep voice calmly asked her "You alright little lady? Not the best place to be lost." She turned to the unfamiliar person he reminded her a bit of a middle aged Johnny Cash with peppered gray hair and crystal blue eyes. "Well that's quite a cargo you're carrying miss why don't you come sit down."

"Im actually looking for my uh baby daddy. He had a bit too much and tried to dance with me until we got separated." Leech sighed and eyed the stranger wearily as he sat down. "I haven’t seen you here before who are you? Demon? Witch?"

The man chuckled and sipped a half full beer. "Just an old blues man here to visit a very old friend."

"..I...I should find my idiot."

"Sweetheart you put too much stress on that bun in your oven have a seat an' tell me what that boy looks like. I'll drag him back here by his ear."

Leech narrowed her eyes "You sure about that? He's the boogie man of Derry."

"You don’t say? So the critter has a heart after all! Who knew!" The man laughed "How did a pretty thing like you end up with a nasty bug like that?"

“He can be charming if he wants to.” The vampire chided as she cautiously sat down. It did feel better to be off her feet. Her body was strong but carrying eldritch half breeds take a lot out of a girl even an undead one. "Alright this is a bit better. Gotta love my shitty friends for ditching me."

"Don't expect the company here to look out for you." The man chuckled "I take it a little lady like you ain't that type either."

"Yeah I'm post deceased." Leech smiled removed her wig and pointed to her ears "Nosferatu. You?"

"Like I said just an old sinner passin through."

"Fair enough." Leech sighed and glanced to her left at the beaten guitar case "There a guitar in here?"

"What kinda blues man would I be if there weren't?"

"I just started playing again myself." She smiled "Not any good yet but I can do a bit of Zeppelin."

The man smiled and took another sip of his beer "So tell me darlin bout that nasty bug of your’s."

"Well truth be told I’m mad at him...he accidentally kissed another woman with the same hairstyle as me."

"Haha! Can't say I haven't been there myself! Has he ever drank? I admit I don't know much about him other than the whispers."

"It’s mostly my fault. I’d say we’re even now anyway." Leech smiled "I broke his nose."

They both laughed at that.

"FANGS!"

Leech's ears perked up at the sound of Chucky's voice then turned to the stranger. "That’s uh my friend I think I need to go."

"Go on darlin set things right with your nasty bug, he'll come around. I gotta set up cross the street soon anyway." The stranger patted his guitar case and raised his beer. "You take good care of yourself and them little ones."

Leech slowly got up and began to walk into the crowd looking back to wave but the man was gone. A sudden hand on her wrist startled her and Freddy found his throat in Leech's claws.

"JESUS FANGS ITS ME! Also who the fuck was that? Never mind, we uh probably should get out of here Jingles stole a designer lamp."

".....Why?"

"No idea.Think he's proposed to it three times now."

"I'm not getting banned from here again. Where is he?" She sighed and the dream demon pulled her along through the gathered crowd. Sure enough there he was the Monster of Derry himself declaring his undying love to a lampshade.

"Peachy, darling, my queen! Eternally mine! The deadlights hum only for you!" the clown twirled dangerously while trying to dance with the fancy appliance. He was clearly black-out drunk at this point and Leech was genuinely surprised that he hadn't fallen over.

"Hey Fred, please tell me you've recorded this."

"You kiddin?! I've already sent it to you."

"This is why we're friends." She smiled and patted his shoulder. Leech strode forward and pushed the appliance out of her mate's hands "That was a lamp Pen."

The clown blinked clearly blitzed out of his mind then fell back giggling and drooling.

"Oh." He chuckled. "Hi Peachy."

“Do you want to say something to me?”

“S-sorry.” he stuttered still grinning like an idiot.

"I think you've humiliated yourself enough tonight Ruffles." She sighed and pet his fluffy orange hair "I'll forgive you if you forgive me tomorrow when you inevitably try to kill me for the hangover." The clown nodded vigorously shaking his bells as he did. Her lips touched his softly and Pennywise sighed in ecstasy deepening the kiss. He was all teeth and drool but Leech didn't mind his sloppy drool filled kisses were her favorite anyway. "Wanna get out of here?" she breathed quietly as the crowd of people quickly began to leave in mild disgust.

Her clown smiled wide and grabbed his mate vanishing in a jingle of bells before anyone could protest. Leaving their two companions without a ride and a very heavy crockpot.

#pennywise #pennywise fanfiction #it fanfiction #slasher fanfiction #pennywise x oc #nosferatu oc #horror fanfiction #freddy krueger #chucky #monster roommate au

10 notes · View notes

thefittest-blog1 · 6 years

Text

The Silence of the Lambs

The beat-up red pickup rolled to a halt in front of a large and sickly yellow building, it’s blue-haired driver turning the ignition off with a flick of her decorated wrist. She then turned to her flat mate; asleep in the seat beside her. Miranda’s jacket bundled up and nestled between Angela’s cheek and the window. What a sight for such a sinner to behold. Admiring the blond for a moment before she woke her for; of course, some more bullshit--oh, how her name truly fit her appearance. Her nature. She had no idea how her parents had known just how angelic their daughter would grow up to be.

Her twin sister Melody had been driven to Texas by a boy; a place the trio wasn’t native to in the least, but Miranda couldn’t help but do some urban exploration on such a rumored place. They say cannibals were present in Texas and that it had all started here. So, of course she’d planned on tagging the place and taking some pictures for later. She just had to. So, with a glint of her cabaret piercing, she softly shook the younger woman beside her.

“Hey, sleeping beauty! Wake up! We’ve just found me a gold mine and I can’t leave a baby in the car alone. Don’t need to get arrested now.” The rebel stuck her tongue out with a snicker towards the end of her monologue as Angela stirred, sleepy blue eyes meeting a bright sun and forcing her to shut them tightly.

Miranda began to unbuckle her seat belt, reaching over to unbuckle her tired companions as well while the blonde placed the jacket in the space at her feet. Taking a deep breath, the mute took her phone from it’s place on the charging mount in the car and shuffled it into her back pocket; cracking the door ajar and sliding out to stretch in the hot Texas sun. Much like a cat, she thought. Smiling at her trusted friend. She knew this had to be trouble--but she couldn’t just let Miranda go into this place alone.

The Korean had chosen the route of silence as to why they were there when the blonde signed one of the few signs she’d learned to her, shrugging with a mischievous grin and trudging ahead of the lightly-dressed student. It made the religious woman wonder exactly how bad it could be if she was so excited, yet she wouldn’t tell her best friend.

Expecting it to have been locked, Miranda took her lock picking set out of her front pocket only to shove it back in upon seeing the chains decorating the floor. Of COURSE someone else had gotten their first. They weren’t even from this state. With a disappointed sigh, she hurried into the building to see just how much the abandoned building had been claimed and allowing her passenger to lose sight of her; having been booting up the app “Talk for me!” instead of keeping an eye on her friend. After all, they each had their phones. ‘And her dark eyed friend wasn’t a quiet one.

Releasing an endeared sigh, she couldn’t resist the wide smile forming on her lips, stumbling into the darkened building only to be met with the sight of what looked to be a manager’s office--one that looked over the workers, she’d assumed. Considering the many tables in the layout. Strange stains decorated the floor, some even looking to dribble and drag. It spooked the Catholic even more than the fact that she was alone. Following a path that lead down a hallway where the cattle were kept, she crouched to catch sight of something scrawled into the ground. Probably by a rock or something.

Leave now.

Eerie, but not enough to get her to grow wary just yet. Miranda was around after all and Angela could handle herself. It’s not like there was anything here but dust, critters, and the pair anyways. Standing and brushing the damp, old hay off of her knees, she rose. Looking for the next turn in the building that may lead her to her ride.

Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the LORD your God goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you.

#angela #starter #thread #silence of the lambs #((Get it?? I even came up with a NAME for this one))#((another leatherface based movie and being a mute possible sacrificial lamb??))#((HOT DAMN))#((sorry if its too long! reply when you want to! and how you want to! ill adjust!))#((just had to set the scene yknow))#((aaa im excited im dead))#((my first named starter))

17 notes · View notes

mainstreetinkwellisle · 6 years

Text

This has been a couple days coming, but have another Reader Insert thing based on another one of @frizz-art‘s veggie trio boys. Moe would treat me right.

————————

Usually, work around the vegetable patches wasn't super hard. Pull some weeds here, water plants there, shoo off some critters... But when harvest day came around, that was a completely different story. The sun was beating on your back, and you barely had a moment to think between lugging baskets of turnips from the beds towards the gate where Silus and Westley were carrying whatever you and Moe brought over into the back of a pickup truck.

As soon as you were done lugging your current basket around, you leaned against the fence and let out a heavy breath. Things were a little fuzzy around the edges. When was the last time you took a break? Or had something to drink?

You could vaguely hear Westley calling out to you, “Oh, gee, are you okay? You don’t look so good.”

At that point, you were really spacing out. You didn’t even think to turn to face the voice that called out to you, you were just kinda left staring at the pile of baskets near the gate. Moe was just trudging by, a basket of okra hanging off of each of his elbows as he also carried two watermelons-- one on each shoulder. He gave you a raise of a brow in passing, but the rest of his usual grumpy expression didn’t change.

You turned your head away to break line of sight, and suddenly everything started to swim. The ground looked like it was shaking, and it was getting closer. It wasn’t until you hit the ground that you realized you collapsed. You could barely hear Silus shouting, “You good?” before you heard a pair of booted feet trudging through the dirt your way.

You didn’t quite come to your senses until you felt yourself propped up against something sturdier than a fence post, and you didn’t feel the sun beating down on you nearly as much. After a long moment, your eyes came back into focus as a canteen was shoved into your hands. Your gaze trailed up the arm to find yourself looking at a very disgruntled looking Moe. If you weren’t mistaken, he looked a little worried.

“Drink up. You passed out from the heat,” he said, pointing at the canteen. You looked down at it for a moment before nodding, taking a hesitant sip. It was just water. For some reason, you always expected Moe to have some sort of hard liquor in his canteen.

Then, he reached forward, resting the back of one of his hands against your forehead. Moe’s brows furrowed again, and you weren’t sure if that was a good thing. Probably not. But you definitely took notice of how gentle his touch was, despite how rough his hands were. He was also probably smearing dirt all over your forehead. Moe never wore gloves.

“You’re not gonna die, that’s for sure,” he huffed, pulling his hand away after a moment. As he tried to do that, you reached up one of your own hands, grabbing onto his before it could get too far. He looked at you with wide, confused eyes. With as much strength as you could muster, you pulled him closer-- which was mostly just a little tug to his arm until he leaned in. He was probably expecting you to say something.

You then leaned forward and pressed a thankful kiss to his cheek; you would have thanked him with words, but you weren’t so sure if you would be very coherent, considering how you just passed out from heat exhaustion. You could feel the stubble that covered his jaw tickle the tip of your nose and lips, and you pulled away before he could yell at you.

Thankfully, he didn’t yell at you. In fact, he smiled. The first time you ever saw him smile.

“Take it easy,” he said to you, reaching up a hand to grab onto the big tire swing that was right behind him to use that as a support to lift himself up. Oh, so that answered where you were. You were under the tree. “I’ll check on you in a bit. Still got work to do.”

You sent him a little wave as he trudged off and you looked back down at the canteen still sitting in your lap. He’d come back for that eventually. For now, you were just gonna take it easy, like he told you to do.

You pretended that it wasn’t absolutely Moe’s fault that your face was covered in dirt when Silus teased you about it later.

#cuphead #the root pack #moe tato #humanization #reader insert #writes #because they actually have speaking roles i'll also tag #weepy #psycarrot #tune in next time when i either finish up the root pack or. do something else #honestly moe is my fave i described him as the guy that looks like a grump but he'd make me a steak dinner when i got home from work

25 notes · View notes

dappercapricorn · 7 years

Text

Summer Camp’s For Losers

Hiya @mellifluous-cicadas, I’m your secret valentine~ This was turning out longer than expected, but here’s the first part of the story for ya. Since you originally said you enjoy meme redraws and the like (which I could not provide due to being too ill and moving to put a good effort in), I tried to aim for a story of the more wacky and humorous type. I hope you enjoy~ I don’t know how far I’ll eventually take this (I’m enjoy the idea I got going), but the other parts will be posted here as they come (as I don’t have an AO3). On to the story~

“Let me get this straight. You want me to tag along with you on some far fetched road trip to search for cryptids that you want to try and videotape for your weird vlog?”

“That would be correct.”

“And you’re not sure how long this will take?”

“Nope.”

Lance hesitated, shuffling his weight from foot to foot. “I dunno Keith, I was supposed to start job searching since I decided not to jump right into college.” The other male standing in front of him on his porch looked up with a pout. “You know better than to pull those dog eyes on me.”

“Please! You’re always complaining about the lack of adventure in your life. Besides, I’m not going to college yet either and we have the whole summer ahead of us! This is the first real chance I have at proving these creatures are real other than the piss poor efforts of setting up night cameras in my yard I have.”

With a sigh, Lance relented and stepped back into his home to pack a bag. “You’re lucky I like you or I would’ve shut the door on you by now like a group of persistent Jehovah's Witnesses.” Despite these words, a soft smile spread across his face as he shook his head. Twenty minutes later, a large backpack in hand, Lance scrawled a quick note to his family to leave on the fridge before he walked out the door to join Keith in his car. “Oi, since when did Shiro let you drive his Mazda?”

Keith poked his head out of the driver’s window to look back at him. “What? He actually gave it to me for a grad present. Besides, Allura made him get one of those soccer mom vans.”

“Pfffft, oh man, really? That’s freaking hilarious.” Lance laughed as he hopped into the front seat. “So mister ‘I’d totally marry mothman’, do we even have a plan?”

“Nope! The three of us shall be hitting up whatever environment along the way that holds high potential for cryptid sightings before moving from there.” Pidge piped up from their spot. They were typing away at a laptop in the back seat behind Keith.

“Holy shit, were you always back there?” Lance jumped, hitting his head on the ceiling in the process. With a hiss he rubbed his head and glared back at them. “Hey, shouldn’t you be back at home? Don’t you have like, summer homework to do or some nerd camp to attend or something?”

“Hah, camp’s for losers and homework’s never been a problem.”

“Does your mother know where you’re going?” Lance looked over to Keith. “DOES SHIRO KNOW ABOUT THIS WILD PLAN OF YOURS?”

“What they don’t know won’t hurt ‘em.” Both chimed in unison as Keith started the car and pulled out onto the road to begin their journey out of town. Lance sweatdropped as he gave in and leaned back into his seat. He might as well get comfortable for the long ride ahead of them.

In the livingroom of Keith’s home, Shiro sat beside Allura on the couch. He scanned through the daily paper while she watched a documentary on space travel. “Do you know where Keith went off to? I saw him haul a duffle bag into his car and speed off down the road.” He asked, glancing up over the top of the paper.

“Hm?” Allura looked up from the television. “Oh yeah, he said Pidge was attending a summer long science camp of sorts and he was attending as a counselor for community service experience and to act as a sort of chaperone for them I guess.”

“Is that so? Hmm.” Shiro returned to reading an article about nearby UFO sightings and missing goats.

A mixed playlist of bands like My Chemical Romance and Green Day filled the car as Keith drove off towards the Eastern coast of the country. “Well, do you at least know what cryptids or specific habitats you wanna hit up or whatever?” Lance questioned a couple hours into their trip. “Don’t tell me we’re just driving until it’s either time to rest up or you spot something worth checking out.”

“Well...It’s kinda both?” Keith shrugged, keeping his eyes on the road.

“You see Lance, we have a general idea of what we’d like to showcase on our vlog. It’s kinda hard to get much when you live in a desert town, so that’s why we’re branching out, if you will. I guess we’ll be doing a loop through the country of sorts that will eventually lead back home. Our first group of sneaky critters are the ones found along the Eastern states, like Keith’s husbando mothman, the Jersey Devil, and big foot just to name a few. So we’ll be looking for forested areas for starters along with checking out the towns and cities that have more frequent sightings.”

“I see...Well that’s something I guess.” Lance rolled his eyes. Soon his stomach rumbled loud enough to be audible by others. He pointed out a sign for an upcoming rest stop. “Hey, unless you moth brains thought enough to pack a starting supply of food, we should stop to eat. Then probably stock up on stuff to keep us going for a while.”

Keith was hesitant, but Pidge agreed with Lance. “Shit, he’s right. We actually only have random bags of junk food stashed around the car. There is plenty of bottled water, but I don’t think any of us will be too happy trudging through the woods with only chips and twizzlers to fuel us.” With a sigh he pulled into the rest stop as soon as its exit sign popped up before them.

A light drizzle greeted them as they parked and stepped out of the car. “Hurry up guys before we get soaked! We can waste time after eating and buy some of our stuff here.” Lance called back as he used his jacket as a makeshift umbrella. The trio scurried into the building. Only a few other people were milling about at the time. “Ah, much better.” Lance shook out the water from his hair and readjusted his jacket. “Sooo, what do you guys wanna get? There aren’t too many restaurants to choose from.” He asked while eyeing the dismal variety at the food court.

“Let’s share a pizza I guess?”

“I’m not riding in the same car as you if you’re gonna ingest any sort of dairy.” Pidge side eyed Keith and shook their head. “Let’s just pick out our own things and find a table to gather at.” After agreeing upon one of the numerous empty tables to meet at, they each lined up at whatever place sounded appetizing. Pidge and Keith chatted about their favorite cryptids while Lance watched on while drinking his milkshake and shoveling fries into his mouth. Aside from the handful of disgruntled staff, no one was really around to pay them mind anyway.

The rain continued to fall after they’ve eaten. Wanting to stay dry a bit longer, they decided to hunt down what they could for supplies. Lance spotted a non branded general store of sorts that was similar to a CVS or Walgreen's. “This’ll have to do until we stumble across actual stores later on.” As the light storm continued, they took their time wandering each ilse and filling up the small plastic cart Lance pushed ahead of him. They stocked up on easy to eat/prep foods like bread, tab open cans of fruit, beans, and soup, jerky, peanut butter, granola bars, a couple packs of toilet paper, and some first aid supplies. Between Keith and Lance’s grad present money and Pidge’s stash from their tech repair side business, the three had more than enough to last through the trip. Well, they had hoped so at least. Keith had Shiro’s emergency credit card stowed away in case they ran out and could get home.

By time they began carrying their bags to the car, the rain died down to a light misting. Keith unlocked the car and opened the back hatch so they could store their supplies. As Lance set his load down he spotted a black plastic case secured to the floor. “Uh Keith, what’s in there?” He inquired out of curiosity.

“Oh, just my knife collection. I figured it might come in handy not only for general use, but hey, we may need to defend ourselves at some point.” Keith replied in a nonchalant tone while opening the case to show off his assortment of blades. “Do you want one to keep on your person?”

“Er, I’ll pass for now. Besides I do have a pocket knife on me. It’ll suffice until we get into the thick of things I suppose.”

“Whatever, suit yourself.” With a shrug Keith hopped back in and waited for the others before he began driving once more.

Pidge spoke up a couple minutes in after having skimmed over something on their computer. “Hey, since we still have a long distance between our current location and the group of creatures we want to investigate first, how about we check out something a bit closer beforehand? There’s the Honey Island swamp monster in Louisiana and then big foot’s stinky cousin, the skunk ape down in the Everglades of Florida. Do either of those sound good to you?”

Keith pondered this for a moment. “Nah, I’d rather not. Both are in swamplands and marshes that I really have no intentions of wading through. I’d also rather skip the croc infested Everglades and just head straight for the New England forests to look for bigfoot himself.”

“Well, I guess you have a point there.” Pidge nodded and looked back to their screen. “So, then where are we headed to first?”

“West Virginia to meet up with my boi mothman.” Keith grinned and pulled back onto the highway. Lance let out a groan and rolled his eyes. This was going to be a long summer.

With no other intended stops the group began the long drive to West Virginia. Lance and Keith took shifts driving and Pidge spewed out random trivia about either their current location or a random cryptid to keep things lively. As three am rolled around, they were all grumpy and tired. Not wanting to risk sleep deprived accidents, they stopped at a shady looking motel to sleep before hitting the road again at ten. Despite Lance’s worry they did not, in fact, get murdered in their sleep by some crazy hillbillies to be either eaten or sold to the black market. By two they drove across the state border and Keith directed the car towards his intended location.

“Before we set up somewhere there’s someplace I wanna check out first.”

“What, a mothman exhibit or something?” Lance asked, eyes skimming over the passing scenery with a bored expression.

“Why yes, actually.” Pidge poked their head in between the seats. “We’re way too early for the festival as it’s held in September, but not only does Point Pleasant have the origin location and most sightings, there’s a museum dedicated to them.”

Lance dragged a hand down his face. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Well let’s go see this oddball museum I suppose. ‘Cause I can only assume we’ll be camping or something in the near future.”

After looking up the museum’s location via Google, Pidge directed them towards its location. As they pulled into an empty parking space, Lance’s phone buzzed with a call. Seeing as it was Hunk, he answered while they all exited the vehicle and walked towards the entrance. “Yo, this is Lance. What’s up buddy?”

“Oh thank God, you picked up on the first try. I was worried about you. Where are you? I heard Pidge and Keith are at a summer camp or something, but when I went to your house to hang out, you were nowhere to be seen. Your parents said you went on a road trip to tour colleges with Keith. Things just don’t add up, yo. This is all freakin fishy and I just wanted to at least make sure you were alright.”

“Well, uh you see Hunk...Keith pretty much dragged me along to travel the country in search of elusive creatures to potentially film with Pidge tagging along as well.”

“Wait, WHAT?”

“Don’t tell Shiro or my folks. Love ya. Bye.” Lance spewed out before hanging up and redirecting his attention to the building in front of him. Getting questioning looks from the others he just waved it off. “Oh that was just Hunk being a worry wort. Don’t pay him any mind.” With that he lead the way inside and to the admission desk. Once the tickets were acquired they set off to explore the small exhibit.

For such a small subject matter, there was enough content to occupy nearly three hours of their time. Although, they had to practically pry Keith from each section once it was time to move to the next. Lance was actually impressed. There were various sculptures of each rendition of mothman with a small plaque describing who first encountered it along with its origin location. A side room contained the museum’s collection of photographs along with footage playing on loops on the wall mounted televisions. It even had a gift shop and of course they just had to stop there before they left. Keith and Pidge both got t-shirts and pitched in to get one of the large plush versions to prop up in the empty back seat behind Lance.

Back on the road Keith steered the card towards the forested part of town. “So, our first actual stop will be the Ordnance Works, or more fondly known by locals as the ‘TNT area’ because of what was stored there. There are several concrete domes scattered about. Which is where they stored gunpowder or something? I dunno, but each one has a small clearing and I heard there’s even secret tunnels. Although most are sealed away or inaccessible due to water and other things.” Pidge debriefed them as they read off from the long set of notes stored on their computer.

“Don’t worry. We’ll just be setting up camp in one of the clearings with some cameras to monitor the area. After we get set up, we’re gonna do a little hiking in the surrounding woods with our handhelds to look for any evidence they live in the area or to capture any odd encounters we have before retiring to our tent for the night.” Keith spoke before Lance could protest. “Whether we find anything or not, we’ll also spend another night in the actual town just ‘staking out’ areas to see if we can experience any sightings there.”

“Sounds like a grand ol’ time. Hopefully we won’t have to put that knife collection of yours to use so soon into our trip.”

“It’ll be fine Lance.” Keith gave him a faint smile before turning onto a dirt road hidden among the tree line. “It’s supposedly a short drive from here. We’re gonna set up at one of the middle section ones so that we’re well into the forest, but not deep enough to wind up utterly lost.” He explained as they traveled further down the road. It only grew rougher and more narrow from there. Eventually Keith pulled over in a small alcove like clearing as the car could not travel any farther. Their destined camp site was well within walking distance anyway. “Come on guys, it’s a little after six and we’re losing daylight. We’ll have to hustle if we want to be done setting up in time to wander the area with some sorta light before having to switch to flashlights.”

Once parked they hopped out and grabbed their bags from the back. Lance carried the tent while Pidge followed behind with the other supplies in hand. Keith led the way, various cameras stowed away in a few different bags. Six minutes later the path branched off and they headed left where it soon ended and opened up to a grassy clearing. Situated smack in the middle was a domed, concrete wall with a sealed off entrance. “Here we go. Come on guys, let’s get the tent and cameras set up so we can head out. We have little time before the sun fully sets.” Pidge assisted Lance with the tent while Keith set up three cameras to post at even intervals around their campsite. They finished around seven. The sun was already well on its way below the horizon. Keith and Pidge each carried a handheld recorder while Lance brought along a large flashlight.

“So do ya have any specific plans, Keith?” Lance asked as he brought up the rear of their line with Pidge between them.

“We’ll walk out a short way from camp and wander the surrounding circumference of the area. We should be able to cover a decent amount of ground and still manage to find our way back. Pidge does have some high-tech GPS stuff on ‘em in case we run into trouble.” Keith replied with a glance over his shoulder. “Now let’s start huntin’. Hopefully we don’t run into any security patrols or anything. I did hear they’ve turned this general area into a wildlife preserve or something of that nature.”

As they began, Keith turned his camera towards himself to address whatever small group of followers he had for his vlog. “Yo, Keith here and welcome to another episode of ‘Cryptid Catchers’. Today begins my summer long journey through the states in search of our beloved hidden creatures. I’m joined with my fellow fan Pidge and boyfriend Lance who willingly tagged along to help us out.” He stopped to pan over them before continuing. “We’re currently in the woodlands of Point Pleasant, West Virginia where the mothman legend began. More importantly, we’re actually hiking through the Ordinance Works area of the town where the very first sighting occurred. Before retiring for the night, we’ve set off to scout the nearby area for any signs of this elusive creature. Let’s see what we can uncover, folks.”

After the brief intro, Keith turned the camera forward once more and continued down their current path. Lance kept a watchful gaze of their surroundings, keeping an eye out for any security patrols, potential threats, or even any pair of illuminated eyes from the underbrush. He could only hope this went over well and that if there really was a mothman out there, they wouldn’t devour them for a late night snack.

#vld secret valentine 2017 #mellifluous-cicadas #voltron legendary defender #keith #lance #pidge #my writing

6 notes · View notes

arttheweapon · 7 years

Text

Space pirates ain’t over yet kiddos, I swear it’ll get gay soon @a-fearsome-critter

Ray, fortunately, seemed to be on the same page as Mikey. As soon as the nurse left, he came over to where Mikey was standing with his hand a little too close to Frank’s.

“Okay,” Ray began, crossing his arms over his chest. “So they were able to close the wounds but they were too deep to use a regenerator on, so it’s just good old fashioned stitches. They gave him a lot of shiny new blood, too, but we’re going to have to be gentle with him when we bust him outta here.”

Mikey nodded, scanning Frank’s arms to make sure there wasn’t anything hooked to him. Luckily, he was untethered.

“Right, so how are we going to do this? Should we get disguises?” Mikey asked, thinking back to movies and comics he’d read. People in them always seemed to find extra scrubs lying around in these situations.

“Why would we need disguises?” Ray asked, furrowing his brow.

“Well he hasn’t really been discharged, right?”

“I don’t think they can really keep us here against our will,” Ray replied, but his statement was cut off by the sudden blaring of an alarm. The lights snapped into red, keeping time with the rhythm of the alarm as they dimmed and brightened. “Well, that… doesn’t seem good.”

“Not exactly the best mood lighting,” Mikey agreed. “I was hoping for something a bit less ominous.”

The nice nurse peered around the door, looking a bit frazzled and out of breath.

“The station is on lockdown!” She exclaimed. “No one can enter or leave. There’s been a report that Frank Iero is somewhere on the station!”

“You don’t say?” Ray said, feigning shock.

“There’s no need to worry, authorities are searching for him!” The nurse needlessly reassured, misinterpreting why Mikey was edging protectively closer to Frank. “If you’ll excuse me.”

And she was off, the door swinging shut again. Mikey and Ray locked eyes, both thinking “well we’re fucked.” Then, Mikey’s communicator rang. He looked down at the screen, seeing Gerard’s name blinking.

“Hello?”

“Mikey! Someone ratted out Frank!” Gerard shouted. Mikey winced at the shrill sound in his ears.

“Yeah, we’re very aware of that.”

“But guess who left his keys in our ship while he was bleeding out?”

“What are you doing, Gee.” Mikey asked flatly.

“I’m giving you a diversion!” Gerard said gleefully. Mikey heard a mumbled “Oh this is going to be so cool.”

“That is such a bad idea.”

“No no, it’s a great idea, because if the Pansy is flying around the space station then obviously Frank is not in a Frankenstein mask in the hospital, right? All the police are going to be after me.”

“What the fuck is he doing?” Ray hissed, only able to hear Mikey’s end of the conversation.

“He’s being an idiot,” Mikey said, Gerard yelling “I heard that!” from the receiver.

“Gee, you’re not that good of a pilot.” Ray said as grabbed the comm.

“Fuck you, Raymond.”

“The ENTIRE police force of this station will be after you.”

“Uh-huh, that’s kind of the point.” There was the sound of a computerized voice, muffled and tinny through the communicator. “Thank me later.”

And the communication was terminated. Ray swore, and Mikey halfheartedly kicked at the wheelchair in the corner. Then his eyes widened.

“Ray, there’s a wheelchair in here.”

Ray slowly raised his head.

“Well, that’s convenient.”

“Like, ‘deus ex machina' convenient, yeah.”

They stared at each other for a second, silent, then both scrambled into movement at the same time. Mikey grabbed beneath Frank’s armpits, Ray grabbed his legs, and they lifted him into the wheelchair as gently as possible. Frank’s head lolled about on his shoulders, the mask making odd hollow sounds as it flopped about his face.

“Okay, I guess we’re gonna just have to go as fast as possible?” Ray said, uncertain. Mikey nodded. “This is going to be fun,” Ray added. His voice sounded oddly high. “Like an obstacle course.”

Mikey took a moment to clap Ray on the shoulder, just like Ray always did when he wanted to reassure someone. He didn’t think it had the same effect, since his hands didn’t have the same comfortable weight to them, but he tried his best. Then he walked over to the door, and Ray took up the wheelchair handles.

"On three. One," Mikey counted. "Two, three!"

They burst out in the hallway, to their credit, very fast. Frank’s head thumped against his chest and Mikey winced. But once they were in the hallway, it was… empty. And very anticlimactic. For a second, they paused. Mikey and Ray’s eyes slid towards each other slowly. Mikey shrugged. Ray nodded. And they… started slowly walking down the hall.

There were a few nurses once they rounded the corner, talking to themselves in low voices, and they looked up as the trio passed. One smiled in a strained way, which Ray returned in kind. It was incredibly awkward, Mikey thought. He felt so tense he would snap. He kept waiting for one of the nurses to turn around with a “hey!” or something, but none did. Instead, they went back to their conversation.

The elevator dinged at their floor, and as the door slid open, they stepped in next to a tall doctor. Mikey’s neck muscles hurt. The doors whooshed softly shut, and Mikey swore this elevator ride was as awkward as the one in Star Wars with Darth Vader. After about a minute, Frank’s head moved of his own volition, and Mikey nearly panicked as his hands started reaching toward the edge of the mask. Mikey watched the doctor watch Ray as he gently put a hand on Frank’s, hissing

“Not now, Gerard.”

Frank, blessedly, got the hint. He dropped his hands back in his lap.

“Your mask is cool, son,” The doctor said. Mikey wondered at the tone of his voice, then realized— he thought Frank was a child. A child in a fun mask to make him feel better. Mikey wanted to die of laughter, able to keep it together until the doctor got out at the next floor. His laughter, nervous, giddy laughter came bubbling and Frank slapped him in the leg.

“What the fuck guys,” Frank intoned, voice muffled from the mask. Ray wasn’t able to keep it in any longer either, joining Mikey in the frantic laughter. The elevator walls bounced the sounds back to them. Frank sighed.

“What is this a mask of?” He asked.

“Frank-en-stein.” Ray managed to gasp, holding his stomach with one hand and bracing himself with the other on the wheelchair handle. Frank dropped his head in his hands. He started to speak again but Mikey shushed him as the doors opened onto their floor, and Mikey could just picture the pout on Frank’s face at being silenced.

They rolled him out to the main floor, this one a bit more crowded. There were still people waiting in the emergency areas, but this time there was a burly nurse situated at the door, arms crossed over his chest. Mikey felt his tension return and heart rate go up as they approached.

“No one’s allowed to go out, sorry fellas.” The nurse said, shaking his head. “Lockdown.”

“Okay,” Mikey said. He glanced at Ray, holding onto Frank. “Uh, do you think I could ask you a question?”

The nurse shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

Mikey gestured for the nurse to come closer, making him lean in closer and closer until his back was completely to Ray and Frank. Mikey waited until Ray and Frank had started out before quietly saying “Nevermind.”

The nurse pulled back with a sharp “what?” but Mikey had already taken off after Ray and Frank, who were thankfully out of sight. This time he did hear a “Hey!” from behind them, but did not stop. He caught up with Ray and Frank, and they kept running until eventually they reached the pride and joy of the Argus space station— they viewing windows. The Argus had giant wrap-around windows, showing the vastness of space around them. Twinkling stars, spiraling galaxies in the distance, one nearby planet—

and the Pansy, zooming past, the entire police force of the station on it’s tail. Frank tore up the mask from his face.

“Is that my ship?”

#frikey

2 notes · View notes

lettersnorth · 3 years

Photo

To this day, there have been at least five fish deliveries from Dirtpatch to Heartwood, all handled by Bertram Windshadow. The highlander’s feelings about becoming a fish courier was unknown...what was known was that Heartwood’s storage area would soon fill up if the product wasn’t dealt with soon. Crates upon crates upon crates, each full of fish in different stages of decay.

Aislinn comes out from the house like a person moving briskly from one task to the next. Brushing a hand down her skirts, she smiles briefly to Cravendy. "Alright there, Cravendy?" she asks in her usual fashion.

Bertram was pondering such a turn of events himself as he walked along the path toward the Heartwood headquarters. It was certainly a stark change of pace for the man but it also came with the blessing of distraction. Something he'd found to be quite the blessing. Even if the perpetual smell of fish was ... maybe less than ideal. He waved a hand to the two standing just outside the yard and flashed a quiet smile, "Cravs! Lin!"

Cravendy is outside, trying to dry some of the fish. But the drying racks are full and there are still plenty more to deal with. She turns to Lin and gives her a somewhat panicked smile. “Eh, er. Hm.” Then after a pause. “Nnn..nno. Oh bugger, Windy. Are ye ‘ere with more to deliver?”

By now Aislinn knew well enough not to jump right into the business at hand. Which in this case, was definitely the amount of fish piling up on the grounds. Even so, the looming need to move the product, and fast hung over her head. It was starting the smell and soon she feared the aroma would seep into the walls of the house itself. She turned her attention to Bertram as he arrived. She was smiling but her eyes all but dared him to say he had yet another delivery. "Afternoon, Bertram."

"Uhm ..." Bertram's gaze sweeps over the scene as he quietly processes what it all means, a somewhat nervous chuckle rising up from the man as he notes the look from Aislinn. "I ... uh ... was coming by to borrow a chocobo to haul it up the hill ..." He shifts his attention to Cravendy looking apologetic. "But the ice crystals still have some chill in 'em, so ... they should be good for a ... bit!"

“NO...” Cravs sinks to the ground, crestfallen. So soon! And all her efforts would barely cover the first batch, as there were still several more crates to process. That said, Cravs was really just buying time...a house full of fish jerky was still suboptimal.

Cravendy Hound: “The smell is startin’ to attract unwelcome company, if ye catch my drift. So far just small critters, like spriggans an’ squirrels, but if we don’t do somethin’ soon it’s only a matter of ‘when’ a bear’ll come and make itself at home ‘ere.”

Aislinn groans inwardly at the news. With a shake of her head, she glances between Bertram and Cravendy. "We can't keep stockpiling it all here. Soon we'll all be smelling of fish." she makes a face. "What about...the botanist guild? Surely they need some fertilizer or somesuch?"

Bertram watches in muted horror as Cravendy succumbs to piscine despair. Though he is pulled from that moment at Aislinn's suggestion of selling it to the the botanists. "That's a pretty good idea ..."

“Seems like such a waste.” Cravs tips her head to a particular crate that she’s been too scared to open. The wood used to be straw brown, but now it was stained darker from its wet contents. She grimaces and averts her eyes from the disaster. “But we don’t ‘ave a choice for a lot of it.”

Aislinn shoots Cravendy an incredulous look. "It can't possibly be fit for eating at this point. There's nothing for it."

Bertram follows Cravendy's gaze to the ominous and unopened crate. "Yeah ... I think we've already passed that threshold."

Aislinn waves a hand in Bertram's direction. "Maybe we can still sell the new delivery as food but whatever's sitting in that crate there..." she followed Cravendy's gaze to the menacing box like it was a ticking timebomb. "It just has to go."

Bertram Windshadow: "If it makes you feel any better, Cravs, it might be used to become food again."

Cravendy Hound: “By who?!”

Cravendy Hound: “Ye mean that one-” She points to the soggy crate. “-t-that one, as food?!”

Aislinn tips her head. "I think he means that it'll be used to grow actual food. Part of the cycle. No one would eat it as it is." she assured the Roegadyn.

Bertram blinks, trying to parse the question. "Not directly, I mean! But if we can sell as fertilizer like Lin suggested ..."

"OH YE MEAN. AS fertilizer it'll become food again....Not like. Someone’ll eat it like food. Ah." Cravs finally understands. Gods, her mind is far too preoccupied by fish despair.

Bertram Windshadow gestures toward Aislinn, "Yeah, that! Or maybe swine fodder ..."

Cravendy blushes slightly as she clears her throat. “Ahem. Well, let’s go over and try to sell it to the botanists then. And keep an eye out for anyone interested in the fresher stuff as...instant food.” Cravs grabs a couple of fish samples before she heads out, just in case.

As the wind shifts, the putrid smell drifts their way. "Nymeia's breath." Aislinn chokes. "Alright. Yes, this needs to get solved. Yesterday. Surely we can make some sort of deal."

Bertram suppresses the sudden urge to vanish as the scent of ripe fish wafts in his direction. He speaks as though he's being partially strangled, "Yeah. Let's go."

The Botanist’s guild is, as usual, a verdant and bustling place, with farmers diligently working the fields. As the trio approach, one of the guild’s workers stops what he’s doing and freezes in place, nose crinkled and generally confused. “Gods, what’s that smell?”

Bertram follows along with Aislinn and Cravendy whilst also holding a russet colored chocobo by the reins and walking them alongside the trio. Hitched to the saddle bags are two small crates of fresh(ish) fish that are being kept chilled via ice crystals. He clears his throat and looks to the others at the cry. "Fish..?"

Aislinn jerks to a halt, a dawning look of embarrassment flashing across her face. She knows it can't be the still fresh fish Bertram has in tow. "It's happened already. We reek of fish." she murmurs, leans over and discreetly sniffs Cravendy. "Everywhere we go." a flush of red starts creeping up her neck.

Cravs realizes the stranger must be talking about her. When she had grabbed samples, she had grabbed a fish from every stage of rot, from unspeakable, to fresh, to bone dry. Figuring that there was no point in hiding it, she presents the source of the smell to the farmer. “Fish...”

“I can’t tell if it’s ye, or this thing.” Cravs lifts the rotten fish in her hand slightly. “Or me. Or all three. Seven ‘ells, this is bad....Maybe we’re numbed to the smell.”

Aislinn realizes what Cravendy has brought with her and pulls back sharply. "Twelve above!" she hisses. "Nevermind." she says somewhat in relief. With a bracing breath, she steps forward and addresses the botanist.

Bertram was starting to wonder if he was just going to smell like fish for the rest of his suns. He'd been around the scent for so long now that he was worried that he couldn't really discern it from himself any longer. "We ... uh ... we were hoping that we could, maybe, ... offer a trade with your guild?" He looks toward the botanist thoughtfully.

Aislinn nods in agreement with Bertram. "We find ourselves with some good quality fertilizer on our hands and we were hoping you all here might be interested."

The farmer puts down his bag of seeds for a second to listen to the trio’s sales pitch. “Let me guess - fish fertilizer? We’re already stocked up on other varieties of fertilizer. What makes yours different?”

Bertram seems entirely at a loss on this one. He's not exactly a botanist and his knowledge of caring for plants was ... middling. He looks over at Aislinn in the hope that she would know something about this, otherwise he'd have to fly by the seat of his pants.

"Namely, it's fish. It does wonders for the overall health of the soil. And the plants really take to it. The gardens at our Company House are quite the sight to see." Aislinn replied as she took a look around the garden plots. "We have an agreement with a fishing village and ended up with a bit of surplus."

“Ye know why Sea Wolves are tall and strong? It’s cause we love fish. And eatin’ it daily ‘elps keep yer eyes workin’....Not that you’d know, since you Gridanian’s don’t eat meat...” Cravs notes, her comment both useless and insulting? She clearly has a bone to pick with Gridanian cuisine. “Anyway, that’s gotta count for somethin’ with the plants.”

Bertram nods his head slowly along with Aislinn's explanation before looking back over to the botanist. "And I could make personal deliveries." He looks over to Cravendy's pitch with ... a bit of uncertainty but nods all the same. "It could bring some nutrients that the local varieties don't usually replenish!"

Aislinn blinks once at Cravendy's reply. And again. But aside from that small tell, she makes no sign that the comment was anything out of the ordinary and plows ahead, building off of what Bertram had said. "You really can't go wrong with a well-rounded fertilization schedule."

The farmer listens intently to Lin and Bertram, his curiosity piqued. He opens his mouth, about to ask about price and volume, but is interrupted by Crav’s comment. So instead, he gasps, insulted. “Wait, what?! What do you mean by that?”

Aislinn lets go the quietest of sighs. So close.

Bertram takes in a *deeeeeep* breath as he lifts a hand up and rubs the back of his neck, "She ... uh ... she doesn't mean anything by it. She's just not from around these parts."

“I’m sayin’ ye should try it too. Fresh fish. We got that.” Cravs says somewhat aggressively. She steps forward, invading the botanist’s space and looms over him with her fish-begotten height. The farmer shrinks under her shadow. What the HECK is this negotiation - more like intimidation?!

(Bertram Windshadow) (( I'm dying. "Fish-begotten" )) (Cravendy Hound) bad cop good cop confused cop ))

Aislinn steps neatly between the looming Seawolf and the botanist with a gentle laugh she certainly doesn't feel but sells all the same. "Or, just the fertilizer. Like Bertram said, our friend is from Limsa, very passionate about seafood. She just wants everyone to try it." as she's speaking, an elbow is nudging Cravendy back. "And I can't blame her. It really is, very good. Very fresh."

Bertram takes a step forward and reaches up to touch Cravendy's shoulder with a pleading smile, "That's right. She feels real strongly about it, but it comes from a place of passion and knowledge."

Cravendy Hound - There isn’t much space between Cravs and the farmer, so for a second, Lin, Cravs, and the poor man are sandwiched against each other - chest to back to chest. At Windy’s touch though, Cravs backs down and takes a step back. She has more to say, but senses that maybe she should leave the talking to the others.

The botanist is visibly shaken and annoyed. “Tell your oversized friend that around these parts, we live in harmony with the forest and Elementals! That our meals are balanced and wholesome!” He huffs, arms crossed.

(Aislinn North) ((I love the visual of us all just piling on this poor botanist)) (Cravendy Hound) ((probably never gotten a sales pitch like this before ))

Bertram pats Cravendy's shoulder as she backs off from the botanist. Something that the man says seems to spark a thought. "I guess ... these fish would be like a wholesome meal for the plants that is in harmony with the forest? The fish returning to the soil..?"

(Cravendy Hound) return to soil )) (Bertram Windshadow) (( He's trying his best. )) (Cravendy Hound) I love all of this xD )) (Aislinn North) ((Ahh yes, the soil. Natural habitat of fish XD))

For a moment, Aislinn stills and her smile grows tighter. Insults thrown in her direction rolled off her like water off a duck's back but insults tossed uncaringly at her friends were an entirely different matter. Even so, she tries valiantly to keep sight of the bigger picture. She merely nods along with what Bertram had said deciding it was much better than what might slip from her mouth.

Cravendy is being placated by Windy...for now. But when she hears the botanist spit an insult back, she nearly goes right back at it. Teetering on the edge of doing something rash, Cravs grabs tightly onto Windy’s shoulder and whispers harshly in his ear. “Guh, I know I shouldn’t, but I wanna give this whelp a new eye socket. ‘old me back, alright?”

Bertram feels the vice like grip upon his shoulder and shifts his attention back to Cravendy. He listens quietly to the request before lifting his brow and, ultimately, giving a firm nod. "I'll do my best, Cravs, but you have fish-fueled strength." He offers back in a hushed tone.

The botanist is at the limits of his patience and desperately wants this colorful trio to leave him alone so he can work. He raises his hands up in defeat. “Fish returning to the soil? I....doesn’t everything return to the soil eventually? Agh, look. Just. How much are you selling this for? If it’s a good price I might be willing to try, provided you throw in free samples as an apology for how your colleague acted. VERY generous free samples.”

“Free samples?! F-for wh... Alright, this bloody drylander is askin’ for an ass kickin.” Cravs growls under her breath. She tries to lunge forward, truly testing Bertram’s strength.

Bertram does his best to hold Cravendy in check! He slips his arm through her own and tries to lock it there ... or as best as he can! "Cravs ... we're *trying* to get rid of the stuff!" He whispers sharply.

The only thing keeping the smile on Aislinn's face at the moment is the thought of this man opening up the dark, fish juice soaked crate that currently sat back at Heartwood and being assaulted by whatever lay within. "Certainly. I can have that sent over straight away." she paused, a look of consideration on her face before tossing out a gil price per ponze of fertilizer. Discounted but still enough of a profit knowing the need to get rid of the stuff while still giving Dirtpath something for their efforts.

(Cravendy Hound) djfkls the contrast between the professional and the absolute clownfoolery in the back ))

(Bertram Windshadow) (( *laughs and grins* Also, if you want me to roll or anything to hold back the fish primal just let me know. ))

Cravendy Hound is like a lion on a frightfully thin leash. For the moment she is held back, but for how long?

The botanist considers the price, considers the free sample, considers the sight of Bertram holding Cravs back....and finally gives. “Okay. But if this fertilizer isn’t up to par, we have the right to get a refund. Eh, hope this stuff really is a wholesome meal for the plants.”

Cravendy isn’t able to break free from Windy’s grasp, and he buys enough time for the botanist to agree. This, in turn, is enough to defuse Crav’s fighting spirit. Bertram manages -- by some miracle -- to hold back the tide of fury boiling over in Cravendy, though he does hope and pray that the botanist either hurries or keeps his mouth shut a much a possible. He doesn't want to have to explain to the Wailers why there's a botanist out cold that smells of spoiled fish.

Bertram heaves a sigh of relief as the tension seems to settle.

Aislinn shakes her head. Did he take them for fools? The price was already discounted. All she could see was him opening up the crates of decaying fish and sending it straight back. They'd be in the same situation a sennight from now. "Alright, that's fair." she allowed. "But if you decide it's not up to snuff, we'd like to come back and see the plants that you feel didn't benefit before issuing a refund." she replies.

The man nods. “That’s fair. I’ll bring this up with the guildmaster and we can draw up official agreements, refunds and conditions included.”

Cravendy shakes her arm free from Windy. Thank the twelve for Lin. It looks like she has something to say, but wants to wait until they leave.

Bertram exhaled a sigh of relief as the botanist seemed to take to the demand reasonably. "And I'll be happy to come in and check up routinely for a moon or so!" He fully pulls his hands away from Cravendy as he decides to trust the roegadyn not to throttle the botanist now.

Aislinn nods as the polite smile returns to her face. "We'll leave you some samples now." she waved to the decaying fish Cravendy had brought with her. "And we'll stop back later to sign the agreement. I'm excited to see how the plants here are going to take off once you start rotating in our fertilizer." turning to Cravendy and Bertam she gives them a look of utter relief. "We'll be getting out of your way now."

Bertram nods in fervent agreement with Aislinn before looking over to the botanist with a small smile, "It was ... uh ... a pleasure doing business with you. I look forward to speaking again!" He then looks back to his two companions and quiets his tone slightly, "That ...wasn't so bad?"

Cravendy places the rotting fish at the farmer’s feet and then backs away awkwardly. The farmer simply stares down at it and then at the three as they make their way out. The silence that follows is particularly uncomfortable for Cravs. What an experience.

Aislinn Is only too happy to beat a hasty retreat before the botanist tries to change his mind.

Once they're far enough away, a rush of breath escapes her. "Alright, the important thing is we've dealt with the spoiling fish problem. From here on out, we can try and find takers who are actually interested in the fish as food."

“Pah, fish this high quality, and it’s just goin’ straight into the ground. What a goddamn waste!” Cravs bemoans, her agitated expression more intense than usual. She rubs the space between her brows. “Maybe there’s an underground market for this kinda stuff...I know there’re miqo’te in the woods that might be more open to eatin’ fish.”

Bertram follows behind as they make their hasty retreat from the botanist's guild, leading the chocobo along with him. "That *does* take care of the more critical problem." He turns his attention to the crates on the chocobo's sides. "That just leaves the fresher catch..."

"Hopefully there are people around here a little more open minded than that...." Aislinn stops herself. "man." from the stress she puts on the word it was clear she had something more colorful in mind. "Miqo'te, you say? Maybe some Keeper tribes?"

“I can’t believe that man!” Cravs hears an echo of herself gently speaking back - but you started it. Undeterred, she shakes her head. “And he ‘as the gall to complain about how the fish stinks, when they’re usin’ literal shite as fertilizer too? Bloody shove it.”

Bertram Windshadow: "Sometimes it's the novelty of the stink that really gets people ..."

“We’re givin’ ‘em the caviar of plantfood, and then ‘e’s askin’ for a discount, for samples,” Cravs grumbles. She sighs. But Lin was right, at least the problem of Heartwood filling up with fish was dealt with.

Aislinn nods to Bertram. "Shite, they're used to. Fish, not so much. But once they see the results, they'll stop complaining.

Bertram nods his head slowly before lifting a hand and rubbing the back of his neck, "So ... we should look for one of the keeper tribes out in the Shroud?" “Worth a shot. A lot of ‘em ‘ave been branded as poachers though, so they might be ‘ard to find. Maybe Riylli could ‘elp us get a foot in the door.” Cravs says

Aislinn offers up a placating hand. "But think about it this way. You don't have to open that jack-in-the-box of decaying fish now. That joy belongs to him." she looks to Bertram and nods. "I think that's our best bet. Especially if that man's attitude is prevalent around these parts."

Aislinn North "Aye, maybe Riylli could help, if she's willing."

Cravendy smiles smugly at the thought of the man dealing with /the/ wet crate. Hopefully, he wouldn’t return the merchandise, but still. It felt good to be petty. “That’ll be a once in a lifetime experience for ‘im. Windy, make sure ye run at least a malm away, in case ‘e wants to open it the moment ye deliver it.”

Bertram glances over at Aislinn at the mention of pulling in extra help. "Well, I certainly wouldn't turn down someone that's more familiar with them. I can't say I know which would be the best to approach with this sort of offer." Bertram has chosen not to think about the horrifying pandora's box of the sea.

Bertram looks at Cravendy at that comment. "I'll be ready to run ... don't you worry."

Seeing she had successfully hit the mark by appealing to Cravendy's vengeful side, Aislinn turns back to Bertram. "We'll have to move quickly though if we don't want the latest shipment to end up in the ground again." she glances over at Cravendy. "Can you try and track her down? See if she'd help us and soon?"

“I can catch ‘er at the next bar night. Riylli...I don’t know where she lives, actually. She’s the type to drop in and out at ‘er own schedule,” Cravs notes. “Meanwhile, Windy, if ye can find others that might be interested, other Keeper clans or otherwise. I’ve found that when ye ‘ave rules on what ye can and can’t ‘ave, there are always interested parties willin’ to pay premium for illicit goods.”

Aislinn snorts delicately. If that wasn't the gods honest truth, she didn't know what was.

Cravendy gives the two a hearty thumbs up. A job well done! Well, it was mostly Lin, and Bertram keeping the situation from diving nose-down into disaster. But regardless, a job well done.

Bertram nods his head firmly, "Yeah, I can do some scouting ..." his gaze drifts in the direction of the chocobo at his side, "And ... I'll keep these crates on ice as best I can."

Aislinn glances at the crates. "We've got some more ice crystals back in Heartwood's lab. We can fill them up."

Bertram reaches up and scratches the neck of the chocobo fondly before looking back to the others, "Compared to selling spoiled fish selling edible fish should be a breeze, right?"

"One would hope." Aislinn returns dryly

#ffxiv rp #balmung rp #rp snippets #Fishmongers #Lin definitely never thought she'd use her blackmarket experience to sell fish #Never a dull day at Heartwood #Cravendy Hound #Bertram Windshadow #Aislinn North

8 notes · View notes