dizzy_land | SECOND ANNUAL TALK LIKE A PIRATE DAY! (Open RP)

"Is'it not always th' way of it?" Well, in Fett's experience that was usually the case. People liked to bark around him because it made them feel better. He had stopped listening a long time ago.

Revenge by way of consuming eared products went over his head entirely, sad as that was; it did not actively harm the Mouse in any way, after all. What did not go over his head was that these cookies were coated in multi-colored frosting. He took one from the container to get a closer look. "Yer doin' it on purpose, I reckon," he decided.

"Not by my reckonin', matey. Seems to me the seas I sail," by which she meant her universe, "missed out on their ration of wishes comin' true and got all the ferocious beasties instead. Yarr."

She looked innocent. Suspiciously so. "Doin' what, mate?"

"I should take ye back to my seas," Fett told her. "All th' beasties either eat themselves or lose thar wind faster than sails." ...Right. He wasn't even sure what that meant now.

Innocent did not work very well on a man who made a hobby and a job of studying behavior. But he had a feeling that wasn't the point anyway. He turned the cookie around in his hand so that the smiley moustached face was pointed in her direction. "Turn me tolerance into an addiction, ye sly beauty." (Names. Whatever happened to names? Honestly.)

She wasn't exactly sure on that point, either, but, "That do be soundin' like a fair stretch of saltwater."

Sunshine grinned unrepentantly. "Arr, a sweet here an' thar wouldn't never hurt ye, me lad." Wait. Was she being coy? What. The. Hell. 'Coy' was definitely on the list of 'things Rae Seddon would never even consider being."

Hutts, he thought. That was probably what he had meant. But trying to explain that rightly was a challenge that he wasn't up to. He was talking enough as it was.

As far as coyness was concerned it sure looked that way, and beneath the helmet Fett actually blinked. "Here an' thar be another tale; you'd 'ave me eatin' enough ter feed a whole crew of sea dogs, 'f I ever had th' mind ter let ye." He stepped up to her. "T'won't work." Playful? Not possible. Not.

"Won't it, then, me fine bucko?" She sidled a step closer. "Now, ye wouldn't be thinkin' I'd ever do anything to ye that ye wouldn't enjoy?" Sunshine wasn't sure whether she looked vaguely horrified or not. If she didn't, she should. This had just stopped being funny.

Well, it had never actually been funny to him in the first place. But this was just over and beyond anything he had prepared for. He leaned in, suddenly very thankful that he kept so many barriers between himself and the world. Two-way eye contact would have been a very bad thing, he was certain. "Tis not me enjoyment I worry over much as me health, ye devilish siren."

Lack of eye contact was a good thing. Yes. "And what might I be doing to put yer health in danger, love?" Aaaaahhh make it stop!

When this was all over, he was going to find the Mouse and Cat, trap them in the energy holding cell with a grenade and- no, the flamethrower, grenades were too fast, and he would-

One hand went to the small of Sunshine's back and pulled her closer. Neverminding the fact this was completely out of his control, this was also the closest he had been to a woman in... a very long time. Which made the whole thing even harder for his brain to compute. "Ye know very well, fine lass." Why was he whispering? When does it stop, it has to, doesn't it?

"Aye, well, I was thinkin' ye might like to be...specific." Okay, aside from anything else, it was skegging bizarre to be whispering sweet nothings to a visor. And Sunshine knew from bizarre.

((I would just like to mention that I'm laughing like a loon, here. That is all.))

The one thing they still had going for them was that Sunshine hadn't gotten it into her head to remove his helmet. If that happened, it was all over.

What he really wanted to say was, pick up the rifle, set it on stun and kriffing shoot me NOW. What came out was, "Oh, if ye want specific there'll be more then talk happenin' in these waters." Whoever wrote this script was also going to be at the end of the flamethrower. Or just efficient, old-fashioned torture.

((Seriously. I keep biting my fist to make sure I don't wake up the building.))

Well, it wasn't like she even knew how or if it was attached to the rest of his armor. She ran an experimental fingertip along the bottom edge.

(Like she knew how to shoot his rifle, either. ...Oh, gods, even her parenthetical thoughts were coming up with innuendo now.) "Be that a promise, me hearty?"

It was attached. To the jumpsuit at the neck with two snap-locks that he (or anyone else for that matter, provided they could get close enough for long enough) could flip easily with his fingers. And now his narrative was betraying him.

But as long as he could keep that one word from slipping, and he had to have enough self-control for that, really, he could stop this- "Aye." ...Oh hell. "That be a promise."

Treacherous hornswogglers, internal narratives. Her hand found the snaps and undid them.

"Well then, love. Blow me down with yer specificity."

Kissing... was like riding a bike?

Well, a speeder would be more accurate in his case.

Analogies aside, he didn't seem to have any trouble remembering how to do it when faced with an order like that. He was vaguely aware that the light in the room was hurting his eyes and that being this exposed was definitely a problem and that he had actually muttered 'yo ho' before moving in, but all semi-logical thought was being held back by some invisible override circuit in his brain.

Cat. Mouse. Dead.

It had definitely been a while - a year? About that, yeah - for her too, but it did all come back to you, didn't it? She might have made a joke about whether that was a belaying pin in his trousers but fortunately all she managed was "Mmmp!" before her mouth was busy doing other things.

Her hands, too.

Belaying pin. Poison dart. Vibroblade. Comlink. The possibilities were endless with him.

So was the armor. There was a lot of it, and she probably needed help with - why would he be thinking that? This had to stop, stop right now, and so he mustered up every fiber of will he had, and managed to wrench himself from her lips just enough to utter the words: "Impatient, ain't ye?" Right, that had not worked at all like he had planned.

His hands were beginning to itch something terrible.

Speaking of his hands, what exactly had happened to that cookie he'd been holding? Sunshine had a feeling it was currently being smeared all over her lower back of her t-shirt, and while it certainly wasn't the first time she'd engaged in this kind of activity with frosting all over her, it...that really wasn't a thought conducive to stopping this now was it?

The armor was definitely a bit of a challenge, though. And, if she'd been in her right mind, fairly uncomfortable to be smooshed up against.

She bit his lower lip and then whispered, "Be that a complaint?"

The cookie was currently all over her shirt and all over his righthand glove, in fact. So clearly both items had to go.

But not while she had his lip fastened between her teeth. A unfamiliar sort of shudder ran a marathon up and down his spine, and maybe he did remember the sensation after all, but it was distant and vague and terrifying. Yeah, bit more than a year for him. Try over a decade. "Ye should know better than t'accuse me of such treachery."

He tugged up the hem of her t-shirt, cueing her to lift up her arms. That had to go, then he could help her with the armor and lost it, finally lost my mind here, only a matter of time-

Yep, there went her shirt and okay, the armor was definitely uncomfortable against bare skin and that really should've been some kind of cue to slow down and think but to be honest Sunshine didn't always show the best judgment in these situations and how the hell did these buckle things work? Were there zippers involved? If she didn't get to touch something that wasn't metal plating or heavy fabricky stuff she was going to go insane. More insane.

"If it troubles ye, ye might try persuadin' me." And licked a stripe along the underside of his jaw.

Buckles first, zippers later (for the jumpsuit, naturally), but right now, the utility belt and the jetpack really had to be the most important, since nothing would slip off properly with them still in place. Once he'd worked those off he guided her hands and taught her how to handle the buckles by touch. Get the armor off and she wouldn't be cold from it; metal chilled but he always ranged a few degrees warmer than normal (part of being cloned, everything ran a bit hotter, always at maximum, odd side-effect). Wrist gauntlets had to be unfastened before he could work his gloves off, which proved to be a chore in itself, but once he had managed it -

Hands on skin and now he knew he was cracked because that was it, the one thing he never ever allowed himself, it was too telling for him, too- "Persuadin'? An' what places would be needin' persuasion, I wonder?" He started with an ear to test.

((I must away to bed. But I will be back early...ish tomorrow. XD))

Hands on skin was a fine, fine thing - after all that unfastening it was like the touch of your feet against a soft carpet, getting out of bed after sleeping too long. Pure sensation, and almost overwhelming - and that not-quite-normal heat under her sliding palms sent a weird shiver through her ~~timbers~~, one part anxiety but five parts excitement.

She smiled wickedly (though he might not have noticed, being busy with her ear) and wriggled in appreciation. "A question worth further parley, love. Be thar a bunk in these quarters?"

Because if they were doing this - and yes, they definitely seemed to be doing this, holy gods and angels - she'd rather it not be on top of a pile of plate armor. And the last time she'd been thrown up against a wall, body memory was telling her, it had not led to a sexy fun time.

He didn't feel touch in quite the same way other people did; he'd asked microsurgeons to remove a lot of pain and even a few pleasure receptors from his body long ago, telling himself that it was a safe and wise move to allow himself endurance. He hadn't accounted for certain things in that equation, he now realized - just because the touch itself wasn't sending the same signals didn't mean that when you saw it your brain didn't kick into chemical overdrive, causing the same damn problems it always caused. Like that slight feeling of lightheadedness or that urgency and instinctual possessiveness, and he had always said that humans were designed poorly, too much animal getting in the way of sound thought.

But this wasn't them, his logical brain said sagely. This was the damn park, and he had a mind to burn it down and use the remains as wood chips for a Coruscant playground, violent as he was feeling toward it. And he would if only she could stop touching and squirming like that and....

The question prompted something that might have actually been a laugh as he backed her up slowly toward the far end of them room where he normally slept. Not that any of the makeshift beds here were exactly fit for palaces, but she would probably appreciate some sort of padding if she were what? If she were what? Are you insane? "Yer luck seems ter be holdin', me beauty." Boots, had to get rid of the boots.

Now, see, if he'd taken this moment to actually explain that whole surgery thing, that might have weirded her out enough to slow her down or stop this. (Though gods only knew how he could've explained it in pirate-speak, even if he'd wanted to share.)

As it was she was mostly musing about how the battle of man vs. clothes at these times seemed to be a constant throughout the multiverse. And maybe enjoying just a little bit being steered backwards like that. Her arms slid up over and around his shoulders.

Some remotely sane part of her consciousness cut in here and vetoed the motion of jumping and wrapping her legs around his waist, a move which in her experience stood about an 80% chance of inspiring a lot of swearing after you knocked the guy on his ass. She was nonetheless unable to help rising to her tiptoes and redoubling her efforts with the kissing.

"Is that what's holdin' me..."

Yes, 'microsurgery' definitely did not translate so well into Pirate. And considering the fact that he had plenty of other matters to be self-conscious about (acid scars and blaster burns, it was like a map of his life done with chisels and watered-down paints) he was content not to attempt it.

Jumping up would have, in fact, been an unwise move: Fett had actually had bad knees since his late teens. It was one of those things that he was very good at keeping to himself, so much that he rarely even thought of it. All the same, sudden weight probably would have set the mood (what mood?) off.

Boots down, shinguards off, and now it was the simple things, which would have been relieving were it not for that track repeating at the back of his mind do something, do anything, you must be able to beat it, nothing can make you-

It seemed automatic; she rose up on tiptoes, so he should help. He lifted her an inch or two off the floor, not as though that was difficult (how can she possibly cook that much and be so small?), and let her kiss him even though he knew that every moment that continued was one where all the protests seemed to get softer and softer. "Not all that's holdin' ye," he growled. Actually growled, what the hell was wrong with his vocal chords?

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