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alltheirdamn · 8 months

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A Bounty for Reward (Mando x f!reader)

CHAPTER 10

Summary: Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum Warnings: fluff (like a fuck ton), unprotected piv sex, oral (f receiving), graphic violence, weapons, mentions of SA (attempted), language, helmetless!din (omg??) Word Count: 11.2k A/N: Here it is... here's ~the moment~ you've been waiting for

The flicker of the fire between you cast violent shadows on Mando’s armor. You watched as the flames twisted and danced together, a dangerous waltz that erupted into the dark and rose into the air in orange embers. He had managed to find a secluded spot within the outer edge of the forest, only halfway back to the Crest. Your body ached from the walk, and the humidity didn’t help since your clothes were practically stuck to your skin. You didn’t understand how Mando survived under all the layers of armor.

He had caught some frogs along the way, roasting them over the fire to help quell the hunger pains in your stomach. You were grateful for it.

“Mando,” you spoke softly.

He had been fixated on cooking, keeping to himself while you cleaned your blade and watched. His helmet raised without hesitation, the stare that ruminated behind his visor sending chills down your spine.

He waited for you to continue.

“Why me?” you asked.

It was a question without explanation, a question that held more weight than you could hold on your own. You needed answers. You needed clarity. You needed a reason, any reason, to deny yourself the feelings that swelled inside your chest, begging to rupture.

He considered you a moment, carefully turning the stick over the fire as the frog cooked through. His hands folded together, elbows resting on his knees as he looked past the flames that lapped forcibly in the evening breeze.

“I lost my parents in a Separatist attack when I was young,” Mando began, “The Mandalorians taught me to let go of my emotions and follow the Way. My armor became my protection, and I learned that emotions were the weakness I needed to conquer.”

Crestfallen, you continued listening silently, watching his body language tense with each new admission.

“I’ve only ever been loyal to my Clan, but then you show up as this helpless bounty,” he paused, helmet lifting to meet your saddened gaze, “You weren’t a criminal or a murderer. Turning you in wasn’t worth a reward, and I couldn’t figure out why I cared so much. I just did.”

There was a brief silence between you– comfortable, yet the air felt compressed by a heaviness you couldn’t fathom, a slow suffocation that wilted your breath.

You leaned forward, urging him to continue.

“I still do,” he corrected himself. “I’ve tried to deny myself this attachment to you, but I can’t anymore.”

Without thought, you stood, letting your body drift to where he sat. Every molecule in your body strained towards him, every forbidden emotion unraveling inside you. It was dangerous, letting yourself lose to the battle that stirred inside you. You ruined him and took his loyalty from his Clan without realizing it. It was selfish of you to let yourself grow so close, to allow him to grow this close.

You were taking away the very thing that made him a Mandalorian.

How could you?

How could you be so selfish?

Crouching before him, you steadied yourself on the balls of your feet, nails gripping his thighs. You had to make it clear to him that he could not lose himself to you, regardless of what you felt. He had to detach. He had to let go.

“I’m not worth all of this,” you uttered. “I can’t ask you to abandon your Creed.”

Mando reached out, brushing the hair from your face. Shrouded in the shadows the fire cast, he couldn’t see how your eyes pooled with tears; the emotions smothered you, threatening your judgment, blinding you from the decision you chose to make.

It was for the best, you told yourself.

It felt like a lie.

He said your name, a whisper through the breeze that surrounded you.

“I want you to know me, angel. All of me. If I’m going to break my Creed, I only want it to be for you.”

“Breaking your Creed… that means?”

“Ni copaanir haa’taylir ni,” he spoke softly. “I want you to see me.”

“Like without your helmet?” You cautioned.

He nodded, cupping your cheek to steady your gaze.

“Not here. Not now. But when you’re ready, I’ll show you.”

“Mando—.” You whined.

“Just think about it, okay? I’m willing to give you everything. I’m tired of fighting this attachment inside me. I’m tired of pretending this isn’t real.”

You rested your head on his knee, gazing up into the helmet visor, imagining what he looked like behind all the armor. What color were his eyes, and did they ever soften when he looked at you? Was his face as tan as his hands were? Would kissing him feel like coming home? Maker, you never realized how badly you ached to see him, to know every piece of him. He saw you freely every day: your body, eyes, and smile. You wanted to know if his smile was as beautiful as you believed.

You didn’t want to take him from his Creed, but you were so fucking greedy to know him.

“What color are your eyes?” You asked.

He smoothed a thumb over your cheek, and you could hear flames cracking behind your body in the silence.

“They're brown, angel.”

You were crying, and you couldn’t understand why.

He was yours.

Every fiber of your being yearned for him, and you were terrified to accept that you were falling in love—if this was what love felt like. You had never allowed yourself to give into those emotions, nor had you ever been given the opportunity after your parents died. Love wasn’t something you knew. All you knew was pain and aggression. This felt foreign; the emotions inside you were confusing and all too overwhelming. You didn’t deserve this, but maybe you could learn.

“I want to know you,” you admitted. “All of you.”

“I’m yours.”

Mando offered a hand to help you to your feet, leading you back to the log you had been sitting on. He pulled a cooked frog off the fire, extending it to you, and you both ate in harmonious silence.

The fire died out after a few hours, the embers dwindling until there was barely any light between you and Mando. The fatigue from the day had finally caught up to you to its full capacity, and you couldn’t keep from yawning. Mando still sat beside you, his hand resting at the top of your kneecap. He had been able to stop touching you since he caught you, always keeping one hand on your body in some way. Resting your head on his shoulder, you let the cool touch of his pauldron soothe your sweating body and drift off to sleep after fighting it for too long.

Daybreak streaked behind your eyelids, and you woke with a heavy groan. Mando had let you rest against him the entire night, his body tense and alert. Once he knew you were finally awake, he softly squeezed your knee and whispered your name.

“We should get moving,” he said.

Lifting your head, you nodded. Only a few more hours and you’d be back in the safety of the Crest.

“Did you sleep at all?” You asked, stretching your arms to release the tension in your muscles.

“I had to keep watch.”

You were guilty of letting yourself sleep when you knew he hadn’t in days. You caused him so much fear when you’d left he probably hadn’t slept in nearly three days—maybe more. You needed to get back to the ship so he could rest.

“Take the bed when we get back,” you offered. “You can sleep, and I’ll take the floor.”

“There’s still a bounty to hunt,” he sighed. “I promised Karga an extra quarry, so I need to deliver. When we return, I’ll ensure you’re safe and head out again. I don’t think he’s gone far, probably thinks I let him go free, and now he’s sitting idle.”

“I promise not to run.” You attempted a joke, but it didn’t land.

“Better fucking not,” he growled.

Your thighs clenched together at his tone, and you sat up straighter. His threats always managed to snake through your veins in a way you couldn’t help but react to. After all the emotions being laid out on the table, you needed to know how he’d fuck you now.

“Let’s get back to the ship,” you murmured, grabbing his hand and tugging him away from the makeshift campsite.

You never thought you’d be so happy to see the Crest again. Walking up the ramp hand in hand with Mando, you couldn’t help but sigh a breath of relief. You let him wander off to the armory wall, watching as he swapped out his blaster for a new one along with a vibroblade. A hissing noise came from the carbonite chamber, which worried you that the valve was malfunctioning again. You were too far from the village to gather more tools, so you’d have to work with what you had to fix the valve if it was faulty.

“How soon can we get off Sorgan?” You wondered aloud.

Mando clipped the blaster to his belt and walked to look at the chamber with you.

“The moment I catch the bounty, we’re leaving. I need to get to Nevarro to give Karga these bounties, and hopefully, Bo Katan will be ready by then.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to rest?” You chewed at your bottom lip, worrying he’d get hurt on his hunt.

You had barely been back in the safety of his presence for maybe 24 hours, and now he was leaving again. But this time was different; you had a reason to stay. You wanted to stay.

Mando embraced you, his arms snaking around your shoulder blades and squeezing you softly. You inhaled that familiar scent lingering on his suit and armor, nestling your head against his metal breastplate. How did you think you could leave this? You grappled with the guilt still lingering inside of you for all you had done. You tore away everything you had built together, and that trust you once had was hanging on by a thread. But you’d stay and prove to him that you could keep your word.

“I’ll be back soon, angel,” he murmured into your ear. “Be safe, and don’t leave.”

“I won’t,” you mumbled.

After a few more moments wrapped up in each other, Mando was gone. You stared at the space around you, realizing it was the first time you could call somewhere home—an old beat-up fighter ship and a grumpy Mandalorian—that was home now. Nothing else mattered.

Your body was still so exhausted from the trek back to the ship that you collapsed onto the bed and fell into a deep sleep. Thankfully, there were no nightmares or memories to flood your senses, only total darkness. It wasn’t long before you were jolting upwards at the strong smell of gas.

You cursed yourself for not taking care of the gas leak earlier.

Dank Farrik.

Running on little sleep and even lower motivation, you grabbed the toolbox and rummaged for a wrench and pliers. The new valve was supposed to fix the problem in the freezing stage of the carbonite chamber, not make it worse. The leak was worse, the gas escaping further into the hold until it fogged your vision. If it gets any worse, you thought, the entire chamber would be nonfunctional, and it would cause some problems with the bounties Mando had already collected.

Rubbing away the sleep from your eyes, your hands pulled at the leaking valve, inspecting where the issue had begun. The freezer valve you had bought was, in fact, faulty, the heat stripping away a layer of the pipe, leaving a tear in the rubber material. Fuck. There was no way to fix it unless you had a new pipe or some patching material. Even with that, the leak wouldn’t hold for long, especially in the ship's pressurized cabin. The only option you had right now was to try your best to wrap the tear until Mando got you to Nevarro, and you could hopefully find a better mechanic shop.

But for now, you reattached the pipe valve, keeping the bolt on the looser side to prevent another tear. There was nothing remotely close to the material needed that laid around the Crest, so thinking quickly, you stripped away a piece of cloth from the lining of your shirt, tying it tight over the tear. The gas still came out steadily, but far less than it had been moments ago. There was a good chance the fabric would wear away or catch fire, so time was limited on the leak before it turned into a real issue.

With the fragrant gas in the hull, you opted to lower the ramp— despite Mando’s warnings— and release some pressurized air into the open. The fog was dense outside, the visibility minimal as you scanned the perimeter. Something felt ominous about it, but you assured yourself that the location of the Crest was safe. And his bounty was only going to take, at most, a few hours.

Leaving the ramp fully lowered, you returned to the carbonite chamber, checking over the other bounties on the hold. The four in Mando’s possession remained locked into their blocks, the steady red light pulsing on the side, indicating that the freezing gas was still working at total capacity in each block. The good news is that it was an isolated issue. Bad news: Mando wouldn’t be able to store any more quarries without risking destroying the integrity of the entire chamber.

Tapping on the comlink on your wrist, you sent an alert to Mando’s, awaiting a response. Giving him a few minutes to respond— he was on a hunt, after all— you situated yourself on one of the crates closer to the ramp, enjoying the fresh air as it breezed through the hold.

Too much time had passed before you realized he never responded to the initial alert. Pressing the com button, you spoke into it warily.

“Mando, come in.”

Static.

“Mando, come in.”

More static. Enough that electrified your nerves into deep worry. Mando never had comlink issues, and he never took off his comlink.

“Shit,” you muttered to yourself. You couldn’t leave the Crest, and you definitely couldn’t leave the gas leak unattended without the fear of the entire cargo hold catching fire.

Returning to the torn valve, you worked at maneuvering the stripped fabric around it so that it wouldn’t snag on any heated metal. The bolt that held the valve in place was hot to the touch— hotter than usual. Grabbing the wrench again, you twisted off the bolt, cursing yourself as it fell against your palm. The grease left a small burn streak, and you made a mental note to patch it up later.

A med patch! Why you hadn’t thought of it the first time, you didn’t know, but you left the valve exposed while you searched for the med pack Mando left hanging in the refresher. Searching through the pack, you found the med patches, seeing only three left. Mando would have a fit over wasting them on the valve, but it was either this or catching fire. Unwrapping it from its packaging, you peeled away the adhesive, wrapping it strategically around the tear. The patch was thick enough to withstand the gas and heat, buying you more time to find a new valve pipe.

Twisting back on the bolt for good measure, you looked over your work, satisfied for now at the last-minute resolution. If anything, Mando would at least be impressed by your quick thinking. After all, you had been the child of a junkyard owner; you knew your way around most issues.

The burning sting on your skin was your next point of action; the searing red outline of the bolt inflamed against your skin. With only two med patches left, you chose a less sterile option and wrapped your hand with a roll of gauze unraveled in the med pack. It wouldn’t protect it from much, but it was enough of a solution for now.

A rustling outside the Crest alerted your attention, your skin rippling in pulsating nerves. Mando hadn’t responded to his comlink, and the infinite amount of ‘what-ifs’ was too high to consider any good outcomes.

“Mando, come in,” you hissed into the comlink on your wrist.

No response.

Ducking behind a stack of crates, you reach towards the weaponry wall, grabbing at the blaster rifle Mando left behind. He had only taken a vibroblade and blaster, so you internally thanked him for leaving such a big weapon for you to protect yourself with now. Even if you had no fucking idea how to shoot a rifle, you’d try your best. You aimed it through a gap in the crates, eyes laser-focused on the expanse of grass lying in front of you. Holding your breath, you waited.

“Looks like they abandoned it,” a voice grumbled, the sound coming from the left of the ramp. Your eyes snapped towards the side, connecting the voice to the grizzly face of a spice smuggler. Flanked behind him were two more men, both strapped with rifle weapons that resembled Mando’s. Squinting through the gap in the crates, you could see the two armed men wearing bounty comlinks, a hologram of your face displaying over them.

Shit.

So, it was true– more people had their hands on your bounty, and this time, it was for a far higher price in credits. The only thing keeping your fear somewhat at bay was the fact that you were still wanted alive. Kesi wouldn’t want you dead now; he would want you back in his hold to use as he pleased. Or, he wanted to kill you himself. Either way, you wouldn’t let yourself be taken this easily.

The leader of the three began to tromp up the ramp, the weapon in his hands looking to be a modified blaster. The body of the blaster rifle looked standard issue, but with the added power pack clipped into the chamber, it could have the firing rate of a repeating rifle. If that was the case, then your bounty no longer considered the need for you to be alive. The thought of it made your skin crawl.

“Rik,” he motioned to the one flanked on his left to move forward, “Scan the cargo hold. Find anything we can use to find her.”

“Gresk,” he tilted his head to the other, this one a pale green Rodian, “Keep watch on the clearing. I don’t know when that Mandalorian will return, and I don’t want to be caught off guard when he does.”

Gresk responded in a gurgle of noises, turning to stand guard at the base of the ramp. The leader, still unknown to you, began trodding up the ramp, Rik on his left. Your eyes– and rifle– moved with their movements, tracking them through the cargo hold. There would be little coverage for yourself as they moved closer, and you couldn’t shoot down one without risking the others to finish you off.

“I’m going up to the cockpit,” the leader said, “He’s gotta have some sort of tracker on her, or at least previous logged data on her whereabouts.”

“Got it,” Rik said, his hand clenching around his blaster.

As the other man ascended into the cockpit, your focus returned to Rik, who was now siphoning through the cargo crates. Most were empty, sans a few that held miscellaneous ship parts and scrap metal. Luckily, the weaponry cabinet had shut after you grabbed the rifle, the contents of Mando’s arsenal a secret to the bounty hunters on board.

Rik’s footsteps grew closer, and you were running on limited options in terms of survival. He didn’t hold the same modified blaster as the other, but the standard carbine rifle most hunters carried. He would have the upper hand at close range since your range was limited from the floor with the sniper rifle. There was a loud crash in the cockpit, redirecting Rik’s focus, and it gave you the smallest window to make a move.

Scrambling up from the floor, you angled the stock end upwards, driving the edge of it into the hunter’s shoulder. Yelling in pain, Rik tumbled to the ground, writhing in enough pain for you to escape the corner you had been hidden between.

But it wasn’t enough of a safety gap before Gresk turned around, his blaster aiming at you. The plasma blasts skimmed past you, hitting the metal walls behind your head. Yanking the rifle upwards to eye level, you sent a wave of blasts towards him, the use of the rifle scope unnecessary in short range. None of them struck, a disadvantage to your bad luck that was overflowing. Shit. Gresk returned fire, climbing the ramp to get to closer range. You continued to fire the rifle, the blasts searing the walls around him as he closed in. Ducking behind crates wouldn’t stop the plasma beams from striking you, so you opted for no weapons. Hand-to-hand would be more of a benefit to you.

Dropping down, you moved to kick Gresk’s legs out from under him, the blaster falling against the metal ground with a loud clunk. Grunting in pain, Gresk scrambled upwards, grabbing at your pant leg to tackle you down. Hitting the ground hard, your mind fizzled out momentarily, but a moment was all Gresk needed to get the upper hand. Pressing a blade to your throat, he grunted out a few alien words, compressing your airways in the process.

Losing breath, your fingers strained to find the handle of the blaster beside you, scrapping it against the ground until you found a firmer grip. Pressing the barrel to his side, Gresk fell over with a swift pull of the trigger; the release sounds enough to deafen your ears in an echo of vibrations. His body weight sagged onto your chest, your body heaving several breaths as you pushed him off. Wriggling yourself semi-free—your ankle caught under his waist— you laid in contempt, waiting for death or salvation to take its turn on you.

A stirring groan behind you forced your attention, and you watched as Rik dizzyingly began to stand, eyes focused on you as you lay trapped under Gresk.

“Rungar! Found the girl!” Rik yelled, his blaster pointed at you.

With a hand still hugging the blaster beside you, you lifted it high enough to send a shot at Rik, but not without him sending one back down, grazing the top of your left shoulder.

“Fuck!” you yelped, the blaster falling from your hand.

Rik toppled over, the hole burning through his sternum smoldering in red and orange colors. The smack of his head on the crates sent the stack of them crashing into the refresher door, the metal denting under the weight of impact.

The larger of the three, Rungar, as you knew now, clobbered down the stairs, the modified blaster tight in his grip. Your leg was still trapped under Gresk, your shoulder was burning in blinding pain from the blaster shot, and your hopes to come out of this alive were slowly dwindling.

Rungar gave you a toothy grin, his mouth curling upwards under his overgrown beard. He wasn’t dressed like a bounty hunter, nor did he carry the usual weapon of a bounty hunter. The possibility he could be a smuggler or a pirate worsened the situation. Because if he was— more than just bounty hunters had your hologram plastered across the galaxy. And if the information fell into the wrong hands… worse people than Kesi would be on your tail.

Crouching beside you, Rungar let the barrel of his blaster coast over your skin, the coolness of the metal sending debilitating chills up your spine. He let it glide over your stomach and chest and finally let it rest on the burn at the top of your shoulder. You winced in pain, unable to hold back a whine as he dug it in further.

“It’s a real shame that Mandalorian isn’t here,” he thought out loud, “I was hoping to kill him off, too.”

When nothing but a whimper escaped your lips, he continued, his eyes dancing over your injured body.

“You made this far too easy for me,” he said, slowly lifting your chin with the barrel of his gun.

Squirming under his touch and Gresk’s body, you pulled your free leg around, knocking Rungar sideways in a loss of balance. His finger pulled against the trigger in his daze, a sputter of blasts bouncing around the cargo hold. Shards of metal and wood rained down on you, and you struggled to free your trapped ankle as Rungar gathered himself again. With another forced tug, your ankle slid free, and your hand came around to deliver a hard punch to Rungar’s side.

The force of the hit hurt your hand more than it hurt him, as he laughed at your attempt to stun him.

“I like it when my girls put up a fight,” he snarled, pulling your hand into a bone-breaking vice.

Yelping in pain, you stood paralyzed as his thick fingers twisted around your skin, the bones under his grip rubbing against one another. Refusing to give up yet, you threw your leg around his calf, pulling it forward until his weight gave out under him, his body sent flailing forward against Rik’s dead body. Shifting his hold on your wrist, you pulled his arm around his back, the bones in his shoulder cracking as you yanked it backward.

Rungar screamed in a mixture of pain and anger, his face twisting back to see you. You smiled, gripping his wrist tighter, watching as he writhed in pain below you. But it didn’t last long as he rolled his body, dismissing the pain in his shoulder as he brought his blaster up to aim at you. With only a millisecond to react, the shot skimmed past your face, leaving a devastating hole in the metal behind you. Not only was the modified blaster able to shoot automatic rounds, but it also had a more significant target attached to its barrel. The larger the target, the bigger the destruction.

The only option left that you had now was to run. Mando was unresponsive, and the Crest was standing in literal tatters as the destruction of the blasters caused too much cosmetic damage. You were lucky enough that none of the shots had hit the broken valve– one shot would have sent the entire ship up in flames and you with it. Turning to run, you trampled over Gresk’s body, nearly tripping with the lack of strength your ankle had from being trapped so long. Another round of shots fired off behind you, this time one hitting you in the back of your thigh. It wasn’t a full shot, but the shrapnel of the plasma had hit you enough to leave you injured and falling to your face.

“Maker, fuck!” You screamed, your hand instinctively reaching back to feel your skin tinged with the burn.

“I told you,” Rungar’s voice crept closer, “I like it when you put up a fight.”

His hands groped your body, pushing you over onto your back. The stench of his breath was hot on your cheek as he leaned into you, lips roaming over your chin and neck.

“I like it even more when they can’t fight back,” he laughed, the tip of his tongue skating over the pulse surging under your throat.

It sickened you, blinding all senses as you fell victim to his power. You seethed with anger as you felt his hands trailing over your body, fingers digging into the burning flesh of your thigh. You screamed in pain, tears spilling over your cheeks. All you could do was struggle and squirm under his hold, your arms pinned at your sides. Your fingers search for anything you could use against him, wishing— no, begging—for release from this nightmare. Too often had you experienced this exact moment with several other men and clients, and you wouldn’t let your last moments alive end like this. You wouldn’t let yourself die without telling Mando how you felt and how much you needed him. You had control; you had the strength to fight back this time.

Fumbling fingers brushed against something metal, and the blade handle grazing your fingertips. In his own daze, Rungar was incapacitated to feel any motion below him, and you took the opportunity to grab onto the handle with desperate force.

Holding your breath, you pulled slowly, coaxing it free from the leather holster at his hip. You could still feel the crawl and dig of his fingers as he roamed your chest, kneading the soft flesh of your skin with low groans in his throat. It was easy to fixate on the surge of bile stirring in your stomach, but you suppressed it, keeping focus on pulling the blade free.

With a heavier yank than expected, you freed the blade, the jerk of your elbow a brief distraction for Rungar. His eyes grew in rage as he saw the blade gripped between your fingers.

“You stupid bitch!” He roared, knee driving into your abdomen to keep you pinned.

You reeled over, the pain shooting up your body as you tried to keep centered on the goal of staying alive. Rungar’s hands shot to yours, fighting with the blade as you kept a white-knuckled grip around the handle. Minor cuts grazed his calloused fingers, but they were no concern to him as he continued prodding your fingers open.

He was nearly successful in pulling your fingers free, the blade slightly slipping out as he shifted his weight, giving you a fraction of room to slide free of his hold and scramble onto your knees. Regaining balance and control, you plunged the metal knife upwards into his chest, driving it right between the soft tissue of his collarbone. Twisting it with what little strength you had left, you listened to the harmony of his screams, digging it further in. It wasn’t enough to kill him, but enough to disable him briefly so that you could gather yourself.

Grabbing his weapon from beside his writhing body, you unleashed a round of shots into his body. It should have sickened you, seeing the hail of plasma destroy the dirtied skin of the pirate. But in the blinded, desperate rage… watching him struggle in death felt good. It was a moment of power, a moment to claim back all you had lost over all the years in Kesi’s hold. It wasn’t just his death; it was the death of every single man that had touched you. Every time you said no, every unwanted touch, every night tied up in the dark… it was all dead in your memories.

Pain erupted from you as you turned to the other two lifeless bodies, another round of shots laying claim until there was no longer recognition in their features. Rik and Gresk were minimized to nothing but seared flesh and charred bones. Never had you seen— or done— anything so gruesome. But still, you didn’t feel sick. Not an ounce of remorse tingled in your body, nor did you feel the pain of your injuries.

You felt triumphant.

You felt reclaimed.

You kept to yourself for the next few hours, watching the sun pass over the sky behind thick layers of fog. The ramp stayed lowered as you let the smell of burning flesh roll out into the open. At first, the scent tinged your nose, but it had been long enough now that you no longer noticed the stench. Your adrenaline was also slowing in your veins, replaced by the paranoia of other hunters coming for you. Mando still was unresponsive in the comlink, and you had given up trying. Keeping the modded weapon near you, you replayed the events repeatedly in your head, wondering what more you could have done. You had been successful, yes, but not successful enough.

In the distance, you saw the outline of reflective beskar emerging through the forest's edge. Mando was hauling the bounty on the cable he had used on you just days ago. The dead bounty dragged against the muddy ground, leaving a trail with each step Mando made. Taking in the situation before him, Mando unclipped the cable from his waist and sprinted toward you.

Rising from the ramp, you walked down slowly, watching in simmering anger as his silhouette jogged closer, his pace approaching a cautious stride. Looking at the remnants of the fight, Mando paused several yards from you. Your body twitched, a deep yearning for him folding over the other emotions that swam within your bloodstream. Tossing the blaster lazily to the ground, you closed the gap between you, standing feet from him.

“Is your comlink broken?” You bit, the rage no longer at a simmer but a full-on boil.

“You’re injured,” he stated, his helmet trailing over the outline of your body.

“Oh, so your eyes work at least,” you snarled.

Your name was a whisper on his tongue, “What happened?”

“I got ambushed. Three hunters.”

“And they’re dead?” He cautioned, focus now turning to the spectacle behind you.

The smoke that had since filtered out of the Crest now danced through the clouds and fog above you.

“I had no choice. You weren’t responding,” you accused.

“The bounty got a good shot in. Bounced off my comlink and smashed the transmitter,” Mando explained, raising his wrist to show the proof.

The metal attached to his wrist guard was bent inward, shards of the comlink jutting out in all directions. It was nonrepairable, the transmitter far beyond the point of replacement. The entire comlink would need to be replaced, and that just added to the list of things to fix on Nevarro.

“They’re dead?” he asked again, and this time, you turned towards the destruction, nodding as you looked upon the Crest.

“Yeah,” you sighed.

More than dead, you thought to yourself.

“I’m proud of you,” his voice was rugged, a hint of something under his words.

“That I killed people?” You scoffed. “You’re proud I’m a murderer now?”

“No. I’m proud you defended yourself,” he corrected himself.

“I had no choice.” You were bitter.

Turning from him, you began walking back to the Crest, a slight limp in your leg as the pain faded and went. There were still fizzles of adrenaline shooting through your nerves, enough to pacify the sting of the blaster shot. Mando’s heavy boots followed suit, his pace quickening to match yours.

“How bad is it?” He asked. About your injury or the mess, you didn’t know.

“My leg or my shoulder?” You continued walking, unphased.

Mando’s hand grabbed at your arm, twisting you around. His helmet did a long once over of your body, settling again on your face.

“How hurt are you?”

“I haven’t had time to look, but I assume it's pretty bad,” you lamented. “Three against one isn’t very good odds.”

“You came out alive,” his voice was softer now. “I like those odds.”

A moment stalled between you, and you could feel your anger phasing out the longer you stood in his presence. Something about the security of his body, the armor he wore, the weapons he carried— it all summed up into a man you couldn’t live without any longer. How you could survive in the universe without him, you didn’t know; the luck you had today would run out eventually.

You wondered if Mando could feel your anger dissipating the longer he stared because you felt the way your chest slowed its rise and fall as it returned to a normal staccato of breathing. His gloved fingers grazed over your shoulder, your shirt covered in dried blood that clung to your charred skin. It was a tender feeling as his thumb rubbed the swollen skin around the wound, yet something else inside you pulsed in earnest need. Maker, what was this?

“I should have some bacta spray in the med pack. I’ll patch it up,” he decided.

“Well,” you stalled. “We have a bit of cleaning to do first.”

“It can wait. You risk infection if we don’t get it sprayed and bandaged first.”

“Mando…” You were weary, “It’s bad.”

There was a hitch in your breath, your eyes bouncing between his visor and the smoking ship. Yes, you had sat on the ramp and watched the day pass, but you hadn’t looked back on the mess you had left.

It wasn’t a mess.

It was a massacre.

The adrenaline was thickening in your veins, slowing all blood flow entirely. No longer were you seeing the world around you in a haze; reality was a bitch that bit down hard. The pain in your extremities came on suddenly, then all at once, inspiring your ability to stand much longer. Sagging into his side, you clung to Mando’s breastplate, nails digging into hardened beskar. His hand caught under your armpit, hauling you up against his body, helmet peering down on you in silent worry.

“You shouldn’t have waited this long,” he scolded, “You’re probably infected already.”

“Mando,” your voice was barely above a whisper, the pain stripping away your voice. It was all you could breathe out before a wave of tears and cries burst from your chest.

Images of the men's bodies and their mutilated features tore through your mind, the vivid memories painted permanently in the indents of your brain. It was a choice you had to make, yet it sickened you to know you caused this damage.

“Whatever it is, I can deal with it,” he assured you. “What matters right now is you.”

He pulled you tighter against his body, his grip on your side enough to keep you pinned against him as he walked you both forward back to the Crest. The smell of smoke had long carried off, at least to you, and you didn’t know what Mando could or could not smell.

“I’m so sorry.” It was an apology mostly to yourself.

The Crest was painted with blaster shots, their rounds embedded in the steel shell of the ship. Splatters of body parts were strewn across the ground, the flesh mixing with shards of wood that had exploded in the crossfire. It was horrifying to look upon the ship with fresh eyes, the ghosts of their struggle plastered across the expanse of the cargo hold. A silent cloud of understanding hung over Mando as he walked you through the maze of destruction, his hand occasionally reassuring you with a small squeeze. He spoke nothing as he looked onwards at the fragments left in your wake, the shrapnel of your past lodged within the metal bearings of his ship. Rungar had awoken a beast inside you, one that preyed and hungered for your vulnerability. For so long, you had been able to smother the darkest parts of your past, to silence the screams within your mind with distractions. Mando had even been a distraction– his life constantly moving and his quiet needs that met yours in the desperate moments that melted together. Odd enough, his pain and your pain weren't too far off; the only difference was that he hadn’t seen your pain unravel in front of his eyes.

No one had.

Not even you.

Mando offered no words as he scanned the remainder of the Crest, his boots walking meticulously through the pathway of bodies, finding his way to the med pack lying on the ground. Surprised to find it intact, you watched as Mando siphoned through the components in search of the bacta spray and the med patches. Your wounds were pulsating in pain, the effects of your emotions getting the betterment of your mind and body, the need to stay awake and alert slipping away the longer you waited for Mando to find the spray.

“Hey,” he snapped, noticing as your head fell against the gash on your shoulder. Your eyes blinked softly at him, mind foggy as you watched his helmet turn from one into two.

“M’sorry Mando,” you muttered. “I lost it. I really lost it, didn’t I?”

His hand shot to your face, fingers pinching at your cheek until you knocked consciousness back into your body. Panic tore through his body language as he rushed further into finding the bacta spray, finally gripping it and two med patches in his hand. You had forgotten there were only two left.

“Two should be enough to cover these right now, but I’ll need to get more so we can change them in a few days,” he explained, laying them out as he readied the spray can. “I swear I had more of them.”

“You did,” you groaned, head lulling to the side again. Catching it, Mando focused your eyes on his visor, shaking your jaw until you stayed upright. “The freezer valve on the carbonite chamber was leaking, so I used a med patch to save us some time until we could buy a new pipe.”

Mando’s head turned over his shoulder, considering your work restoring the contraption. While the rest of the ship was questionable in terms of functionality, the carbonite chamber was still fully functioning, albeit with the small leak that had been subdued.

“I’m sorry.” It was the only words you could find fitting in the silent expanse around you. “Fuck, I’m really sorry.”

You drew your hands to your face, forgetting the burn that stung your palm, now ripped open and dirtied from fighting. The gauze you had covering it was now bloodied and stained, another reminder of the mess you had created.

“I fucked up,” you muffled your cries in your hands, “I ruined your ship. I—I killed people. I’m a fucking murderer. I’m a murderer, Mando!”

Your cries turned into sobs, your body shaking as you continued hiding your face behind your bandaged hands. Soft, gloved hands reached out, taking your wrists in a strong vice. With blurred eyes and cheeks dewy from tears, you woefully watched as Mando turned your injured hand over in his, examining the burn with expert consideration. You were a fucking mess, coming completely undone in front of a man that should rather want you dead, at least for the damage you had done on his fucking ship.

“You’re not a murderer,” he spoke, his finger brushing over the inflamed skin of your palm. “You defended yourself, and there’s a difference. You had no choice, right?”

You were silent.

“Right?” He asked again, this time with an edge of exasperation.

All you could do was nod, the muddy images of Rungar on top of you slowly floating to the surface of your memory. Shot after shot, your mind snapped into the moment— under his bodyweight, under his hold, under his breath. Wagging your head in protest, you shoved what remained of your unfortunate encounter into the depths of your mind, hoping they could rot away in the darkest corners.

Your name off Mando’s tongue was enough to quell the wrench inside your heart, a pacifier to the surmounting pain that overflowed beyond the reaches of your nerves and mind. Guiding your hand away from your body, Mando covered it in bacta spray, followed by a pained wince off your lips.

“I won’t use the med patch on this, but we’ll need to keep it clean,” he said.

“Mhmm.”

You were fading, your consciousness slipping the further you succumbed to the pain and trauma. Mando’s hands were rough on your skin, a force to keep you alert and steady on him. Yet, you ached to lose yourself to the pull of sleep. If you were asleep, at least you could forget the world burning around you.

You were destruction in the human form.

Everything you had ever known was gone, and part of you— all of you— wondered if it was your fault.

Had you fought harder, maybe your parents would still be alive.

Had you fought harder, maybe you wouldn’t have been Kesi’s slave.

Had you fought harder, maybe you could have kept your freedom.

But now, this was all you were. All you would ever be.

A hopeless mess.

Failure.

That’s all Mando could think as he pieced together the mess inside the hull. He was a failure. He left her alone somewhere he thought was safe. He risked her life for a bounty. He almost lost her. All in a single day. He was a fucking failure.

He had carried her limp body to the bed, hand smoothing down her matted hair. Despite it all, he was proud of her. Proud that she outsmarted three bounty hunters. Proud that she fought them off. Proud that she made it out alive.

She shouldn’t have had to do any of that in the first place had he been there with her. He should have stayed; he should have taken off his fucking helmet and claimed her, body and soul until the world collapsed around them. She needed him more than anything, and he failed.

His mind reeled on an endless loop of hopelessness. And at the core of it all was this twisting inside his heart, thinking of the possibility that almost turned reality; he had nearly lost her.

He knew there was a possibility other hunters were out to find her, but he had been so caught up in this comfortable world they built together that he didn’t consider the risks. He had failed her in more ways than one.

And he would rip the galaxy to shreds if that meant keeping her alive.

She was his entire world now.

He left the cockpit after a while, setting the navigation for Nevarro. He needed to return his bounties; they needed more supplies to fix the Crest. More importantly, he needed to meet with Bo Katan and rid the galaxy of the man he hated most.

Whatever happened in the hull, the Crest had nearly been desecrated. He hadn’t let her see his shock when they walked up the ramp; he had been far more concerned with the state she was in. But the destruction inside was enough to tell him she fought hard. The metal frame of the hull was littered with blaster holes, now burnt into gaping black spaces. Crates were destroyed, vibro blade marks scattered the floor paneling, and worst of it all was the blood that covered almost everything.

Mando couldn’t distinguish where one body started and the other ended. Each one was massacred to the point he could no longer identify them by face or body. He shuddered at the images that burned into his memory. He had never seen such brutality before. She had poured every ounce of her anger into those rounds of shots, and his heart ached for her. She held so much pain and fear, always staying strong for him, that in those moments of survival, she let them consume her.

He didn’t know what they had done to her, and anger seized him every time he thought of the possibilities. When she was ready to open up, he’d listen. But he would be patient. Grief and guilt consumed her.

But he would be damned if he let her pain be her pain alone.

Hours passed, and he had finished cleaning what he could of the Crest and found himself settling into the silence of the cockpit. She was still sleeping heavily in his bed, and he needed to find the right words to calm her when she woke.

She killed them, but she wasn’t a murderer.

She fought for herself. She was strong.

She survived.

But more importantly, he needed to prove his loyalty to her. He would remain at her side no matter what the galaxy threw at them because she meant more to him than any Creed or Clan. He needed her to see him even if she wasn’t ready.

You awoke in a blazing silence that sat heavy around you. Every muscle in your body screamed in pain, the adrenaline rush now fully satiated. Waking alone was jarring, and you feared for a moment you hadn’t survived. Was this hell? The silence was deafening, the darkness thick and washing over you.

Where was Mando?

With a rasping voice, you called out for him. You peeled your body away from the bed, scared to revisit the horrors inside the hull. But as you limped around in the darkness, there was no trace left of the bodies that had been laid out. Aside from the lingering blaster holes, everything had been cleaned. Your heart seemed to seize with a profound sense of gratitude. Mando had done this for you. Somewhere inside you, you knew that.

“You’re awake,” his voice was rough.

You jolted at his sudden appearance, leaning against the ladder of the cockpit. He was in nothing but his pilot suit and helmet, the dark visor tracking you as you walked the path through the empty space. His presence soothed the ache in your bones, and you so desperately needed to feel his arms wrapped around you.

“You cleaned it.”

His helmet dipped, the silence fading back into place. You paced around, your feet drifting you closer to his body. He didn’t move, only watched you silently. You had been used to the silence, but now all you wanted was his words filling the air around you. You needed to drown out the silence.

“I’m sorry—I… It’s all a blur.”

“I know, angel.”

“I didn’t—.”

“Stop,” he said. The word sounded strained, hurt. Had you hurt him?

This ship was his home, and you let so much damage come to it. You failed him. You failed yourself.

He pushed off the ladder, stalking you in the darkness. A thread tethered between the two of you wound tight, pulling you both closer until you were toe to toe. His height forced your neck to bend, eyes searching for something hidden behind the helmet. You inhaled the smell of smoke and gunpowder falling off his body; it smelled like home.

“First, please do not apologize,” he started. His hand came up to cup your cheek, his gloved fingers smoothing your skin.

“Second,” he exhaled, “You are not a murderer. You did exactly what I would ask, and that is to fight.”

You nodded slowly, trying to believe the words he said. It was so easy for him to say those things, but living with them was harder for you.

“I’m proud of you, angel. So proud.”

More tears streamed down your face. He saw past the destruction, past the pain, and saw right into you. Darkness lingered inside you, and you knew he saw and understood it. You were two souls entangled, lost together within the chaos. He made you feel seen.

“I’ve held so much inside myself,” you shakily exhaled. “It all just came crashing down. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t stop myself. I—It was like I was outside of my body.”

“I need you to understand what you did wasn’t wrong.”

Your tears hadn’t yet subsided; they blurred your vision, and all you could do was bury yourself in his arms. Mando wrapped himself around you, pinning you to his body, holding you through each shaky breath.

You pulled away, his arms still wrapped tightly around your waist. Mando reached toward his helmet with an audible exhale, his fingers curving under the metal. Instinct told you to slam your eyes shut, and that’s exactly what you did. You wanted to see him; you were ready. But it still didn’t feel real. The moment his helmet came off, everything would become a reality, and you’d never have to imagine what he looked like again. He’d officially ruin his loyalty and abandon his Creed, and you still grappled with the selfishness inside you that was taking him from that. Would he regret it?

“Mando—.” You tried to protest.

He hushed you quietly, and then came the sound of your name. Unmodulated. Raw and real. The sound was far more delicious off his tongue without a filter. Your name was almost your undoing, your eyes watering again and squeezing tighter. He said your name again, now a plea of his lips.

“I want you to see me. Whatever I am without this armor, I am yours,” he confessed. “My loyalty for my Creed is stripped away now. You are my Creed, and all I know is you. Please, angel, just open your eyes.”

Your lips trembled, your cheeks hot and wet from an endless flow of tears that would not cease.

“Mando,” you whispered.

A beat of silence passed. “Din. My… My name is Din.”

And there it was: the dam breaking. Your eyes slowly opened, and everything around you ceased to exist. Even in the shadowed darkness, his features began to morph into an actual reality. Here he was— Din—standing before you, stripped bare of his Creed.

Dark curls stuck to his forehead matted from the helmet, but you yearned to run your fingers through them. They curled around his temples, graying in some places. His skin was tan despite never seeing the sun, and his chin was covered in days-old stubble, greying along the edges of his jawline. And his eyes… maker, his eyes. Pools of chocolate that caught the light even in the darkest space. They were radiant and glowing as you drew in a shaky breath. Everything you had searched for lay within those irises. Soft, warm, inviting. His lips were just as welcoming, the bottom one more pouty than the top, the curve of his lazy smile, everything you had imagined— yet so far from what you had expected. He was beautiful, encompassed in a rough exterior and soft features.

“Din,” you whispered.

His eyes shut, his lips forming a brilliant smile.

“Maker, I’ve wanted to hear your voice say my name for so long.”

Then his lips were crashing into yours, desperate and hungry. This was coming home. Passion, agony, longing, needing. Every unsaid emotion spoken in tongues, searching for each other. Your fingers tangled themselves in his curls, sweat still dampening them as you raked your nails over his scalp. He let out a satisfied groan against your open mouth, and you swallowed every unmodulated sound. Maker, you loved the noises he made. Craved them. Needed them.

His arm snaked around your waist, the other pulling your leg around his torso. You lifted the other, pressing yourself to him, wanting every space between your bodies to dissolve until there was no telling where you began and he ended. His hand came up to hold your neck, fingers brushing over your skin as he claimed you with another bruising kiss. You moaned against him, feeling his hardness pressing against your body. You met his need with a deep ache in your core, desperate to know the way his face would twist into bliss when he was buried inside you. You wanted to see every face he could make— every emotion.

You pulled from his lips hesitantly, eyes roaming over a face so new but so known within your soul. Lips swollen, you smiled broadly at him, disarmed and content. This was your Mando. Your Din.

Din.

Maker, knowing his name, was a gift on its own.

And the words tumbled out before you could catch them.

“I love you, Din.”

His eyes blazed with profound emotion, softness, and darkness blurring within the gold flecks inside his chocolate pools. His head dipped into the crook of your neck, pressing open-mouth kisses against your neck. You could feel the hum from his chest against your pulse, your thighs squeezing his torso as you quelled the need that bubbled under the surface.

“I love you,” he mumbled, kissing softly against the shell of your ear. “Maker, so much. I love you so much, angel.”

You ran your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging lightly until his eyes met yours.

“Then fuck me like you love me,” you demanded.

He unraveled.

Everything moved in a blur as he walked you back against the wall of the cargo hold, his mouth leaving sweltering kisses down your neck and collarbone. The pain from your injuries still radiated faintly through your body, but you could shove it aside to relish in his touch on you.

“I need you, Din,” you whined, his lips trailing down your sternum as he pulled down your sleep shirt.

His mouth ravished your breasts, his teeth grazing over your nipples and soft flesh, leaving bruises in their wake. He was marking you. And you fucking loved it.

You pulled at his soft curls, basking in the feel of his hair through your fingers. You had ached to know how he felt under the helmet, no matter how selfish, and you reveled in knowing every part of him now.

His lips crashed against yours, his hand coming up to your throat and squeezing lightly. You moaned into his open mouth, and he swallowed every sound you made.

“You’re mine, angel,” he growled. “Fucking love you s’much.”

He pulled you from the wall, lowering you both to the ground without a care to make it to the bed. That was fine with you. You needed him inside you now. Pulling at his flight suit, Din stripped it off in one move, then returned his attention to your sleep clothes. You shed your shirt, hissing at the cold of the floor beneath you. He ripped away at your shorts, exposing your whole body to him.

Scars and all, he loved you. Maker, he loved you. You would never tire of it.

“I can’t promise I’ll be gentle,” he confessed, his hand roaming down your stomach. You squirmed under his touch, lifting your hips with a whine, hoping he would move his touch lower. “You tell me if it’s too much, okay?”

You nodded, eyes heavy-lidded now. “Give me all of it, Din. I can take it. Just want you now.”

His hand traveled lower, feeling you slick between your thighs already. A groan escaped his lips as he pushed two fingers in, your body flexing around them as he curled them inside you. His tempo sped up, the only noises filling the space coming from your breathy moans as he hit the spot that made you see stars.

“Din!” You cried, clawing at his arms as he pulled the orgasm from your body. Your back arched off the floor, your cunt clamping around his fingers as stars around you exploded.

“That’s my good girl,” he praised, leaning down to capture your lips against his.

Wasting no time, Din aligned with your core, thrusting to the hilt. You screamed out his name, legs wrapping around his waist as he drew back and plunged in again. His thrusts were hard and brutal, your skin biting against the metal floor. It was piercing and violent, but you drank in the way he claimed every part of you.

“Fuck,” he rasped your name, his hand wrapping your neck. You took a deep breath before he tightened his hold, drawing the air from your body.

His pace quickened, his cock bruising against your cervix in a ferocity he hadn’t even shown before. You were entirely at his mercy, unraveling under his hold until another orgasm simmered under the surface.

“Please,” you gasped under his choking grip.

With his other hand, Din found your clit and began rubbing in slow circles until you were crying for release. His hand squeezed tighter until your vision blurred, and everything but he disappeared around you.

“Cum for me, angel. Give me everything,” he growled, his brown eyes clicking with yours. There was so much fire behind his eyes, hunger and thirst that gazed upon you.

Your body obeyed, and you thrashed under him, tossed into the current of euphoria as your cunt clenched his cock into a vice. His breath came out ragged as his body tensed with his release, filling you full until he slumped against you. His hand fell off your neck, tangling into the mess of your hair.

You gasped for a lung full of breaths, your arms snaking around his broad shoulders to hold him against you. With his cock still nestled deep inside you, you kissed below his ear and down his neck.

“Keep doing that, and I’ll never want to stop fucking you,” he groaned, thrusting softly into you.

You lifted your hips to meet him thrust for thrust, your body moving with his. You couldn’t get enough of him, only wanting everything he could give you.

He was yours. All yours. This mysterious bounty hunter: your salvation and savior. He saw every part of you and still loved you. You would never be alone again in this galaxy, always protected and always loved.

“I love you, Din,” you whispered, stroking his untamed curls. You could feel his smile against your skin, a smile for you and you alone. You’d never tire of his face and the beauty of it.

“I love you, angel,” he sighed.

His cock grew harder inside you, and you could feel an orgasm coiling inside your core again. You were insatiable, just as he was.

In one swift move, Din had you pinned on your stomach, his hands yanking your hips up until your knees were scraping the ground.

“Fuck!” You cried as he filled you once again.

His hips connected with yours with each thrust, your cunt sore and crying for release. You could feel yourself coming undone again, a strange feeling unraveling inside you. The orgasm was close; you knew it, but something foreign inside you pushed you closer to the edge. His cock was jackhammering into you, hitting your core at the right angle, and without warning, your body caved into the release, your cunt drenching him.

“Oh fuck,” he groaned, fingers bruising your hips. “Fuckin’ soaking me, baby.”

You didn’t even have the energy in you to be embarrassed by the liquid seeping out of you as he continued pounding into your body. All you could feel was the wetness rolling down your thighs and his body pressing against you. His hips began to rock slower, deeper, harder until he was cuming inside you with your name falling off his lips.

Din rested his body weight on you, his hands brushing away the dampened hair from your face. Your breathing was ragged as you came down from your high, your body alight with pain and bliss. With a soft kiss to your temple, Din rolled off your body, hitting the floor with a heavy thud. You turned your head to face him, body slumping into the ground as you gathered your bearings. Your cunt ached from his roughness, yet you still felt insatiable. But your body throbbed with pain from your injuries again, and you groaned into the metal floor.

“Was it too much?” He asked, brushing away the hair from your face.

You muttered a soft no, curling into his body. The feeling of his bare chest against yours was everything you had dreamed it to be. You ran your fingers up his stomach, tugging at his chest hair lightly before tracing the outline of his collarbone. You were memorizing every inch of his body, too in awe to believe this was real. Lifting your face to meet his, you kissed along his jawline, finding a gap in his scruff where his skin was smooth and warm.

“You love me,” you sighed.

“I think I have since the start,” he admitted.

“Even when I was a pain in the ass?” You teased.

His laugh rumbled through his chest, the sound of it so beautiful.

“You still are, angel.”

He rolled on top of you, caging you between his muscular frame. He dipped his head down to capture your lips in a soft kiss, coaxing your mouth open to slip his tongue over yours. You let out a small whine, feeling his cock harden against your thigh. You were both so fucking insatiable.

“I need to taste you,” he moaned.

Kissing down your body, Din pulled your thighs around his shoulders, careful to avoid your injury. As his head dipped lower, your breath stalled, the slickness between your thighs a devastating revelation into how much you needed him. His mouth trailed further, wet lips meeting your inner thighs. You careened back, your head pushing further into the metal floor.

“So fucking perfect,” he whispered, mouth grazing your wet cunt.

“Please,” You begged.

Wasting no more time, his mouth was on you, tongue devouring anything it could touch. You squirmed at the sensitivity of your cunt, his tongue drawing slow circles around your clit. Strangled groans of pleasure erupted from his chest as you bucked your hips against his tongue, begging for more. Taking control, Din shoved his tongue inside you, gathering every bit of juice leaking out, forcing a wave of pleasure to surge through your belly.

“Din—.” Your voice was hoarse, a sob choking your words.

Your pleas were cut off as his mouth clamped around your clit, sucking it until you were shaking through an orgasm. A cry of relief fell from your lips, your thighs clenching around his thick neck, his shoulders keeping them in place as you returned to your body. His eyes peered up at you through dark lashes, a wave of desire flashing through his irises.

“I think you can give me one more,” he challenged.

His tongue darted out, licking up your folds and pressing against the throbbing bud of your clit. He didn’t even move his tongue, only applying pressure against it while you fought off another surging orgasm. Your hands reached out to grip his curls, holding him against your cunt as you rolled your hips. His growl vibrated against your body and his fingers bruised your hips as he held you tighter.

“Ride my face, angel,” he rasped.

Your body was shaking as you ground your clit against his tongue. You caved in to the feral need to cum for him, your entire body electrified by the sensation of his mouth against you. Your mouth fell open, and you exhaled his name as the orgasm tore through you, ripping you apart from the inside out. Everything was heightened around you; the feel of his tongue lapping at your swollen clit, the stubble on his jaw rubbing against your skin, the soft curls of his hair that intertwined between your fingers. You must have cried through the last orgasm because your cheeks were damp with tears, and you could taste their saltiness rolling onto your lips.

“C’mere,” you whispered, yanking at his curls.

Din climbed over you, peppering your sweaty skin with kisses as he made his way back up, burrowing his head into the crook of your neck. Maker, you were the luckiest woman in the galaxy.

He was yours; body and soul.

“Din,” you whispered, massaging his shoulders.

He groaned at your touch, his body weight pressing into you.

“Yes, angel?”

“Thank you.”

He nipped at your neck, humming against your skin.

“For what?” He asked.

“Saving me.” You meant it in more ways than one.

“Always,” he promised.

#mando x reader #mando x f!reader #the mandalorian #din djarin #din djarin x reader #mando #mandalorian fanfic #star wars fanfiction #helmetless!din #so much fluff #eat your heart out

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melissaleftenright · 3 months

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Recently I did some reading on 9/11 because it came up in conversation, and I realized I didn’t know or remember much in detail about what happened. (And it turns out I talked to some family and my memories were false! Nice guess, brain, but not quite.)

And then, because I’m one of those THEATRE KIDS, I was thinking about the musical Come From Away, and then, Assassins (the musical).

Come From Away is about the town of Gander, Newfoundland, Canada. When the North American Airspace was closed due to the attacks, 42 planes with 6,600 passengers were directed to the Gander International Airport (about 66% of the local population). Residents housed, fed, and entertained the grounded passengers for 6 days while the airspace reopened and flights were configured.

The opening number (“Welcome to the Rock”) is about the town, and the people, and about the moment people learned of the attacks. Interestingly - in my opinion - the song doesn’t name the moment. “Everybody in this room has a story about how they started that day.” “I’m sitting in my car…I’m in the staff room…I’m in the library…And I turn on the radio”. And they let you fill in the blanks of what they heard - what you heard - in that moment.

And it reminded me of Assassins (the musical). Assassins is about Presidential Assassinations (and attempts).

(Interesting aside, a Broadway production was set to start in late 2001, but was delayed until 2004 due to the material being seen as insensitive in the light of the attacks on the Twin Towers).

The penultimate number is called “Something Just Broke” - and similarly, its about people recounting the moment they heard that JFK had been shot, and when he passed. This song does name the moment in a refrain of “The Presidents Been Shot”, although the main singers focus on their little moment - “I was folding sheets - Lizzie’s sheet” "I was getting me a shoe shine” “I was halfway through correcting the exams”.

The other thing about both these pieces - while they are both about loss and collective grief, they’re also about collective strength. The facing of that loss, together. “If you’re hoping for a harbor then you’ll find an open door - to the ones who have come from away - welcome to the rock”. “Something to be mended / Something we’ll have to weather / Bringing us all together / If only for a moment”. “Welcome to the land where the winters tried to kill us / And we said: We will not be killed!”

Just have found both of these songs really interesting, and I’m sure I’m not the only person to contrast them in this way. Both of these moments - JFK’s assassination and the 9/11 terrorist attacks- are very historically significant and I’ve heard people say that they were points of change in American culture as a whole. I only see the events in the rearview mirror (even though I was born before 9/11).

And now that I’ve rambled on, here are videos of the two songs I discussed. I hope you find them as interesting as I do. I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

Welcome to the Rock - Come From Away (Song starts at 2:00) https://youtu.be/UH-ozsBI570

Something Just Broke - Assassins https://youtu.be/cbzAWU4P4Kk

#musicals #musical theatre #come from away #assassins musical #assassins the musical #welcome to the rock #something just broke #thoughts #ramblings #theatre #musical theater #theatre kid #theater #broadway #theater kid

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unmotivatedwrit3r · 9 months

Text

One in Eleven Million (ch. 9)

damian wayne x reader x jon kent

(A/N): So I have literally drafted the post for the last chapter in order to get it out by the end of the year. It will happen, I swear.

Series masterlist can be found here.

warnings: anxiety, airport, train station

wc: ~1300

The baggage claim area was packed when they arrived. Damian scanned the crowd quickly once, then once more. He knew you had a bag. You had to be there. A large man elbowed his way through the crowd and Damian had to restrain himself from forcibly removing the man from his vicinity.

“Anything?” Jon asked from beside him. Damian opened his mouth to say no. His eye caught on movement in his periphery.

“There.”

You were off to the side, most likely trying to avoid getting trampled by the crowd. Your arms were wrapped tightly around yourself, eyes scanning the moving conveyor belt despite its lack of suitcases.

“Hi,” Jon started as they came up behind you. You let out a startled exclamation, nearly tripping over your feet in an effort to see who was talking to you.

Damian winced internally. He figured you’d hear the rattle of their carry-on bags. In hindsight, everyone was carrying some form of luggage. They were standing at the baggage claim.

“Hi,” You said. “What are you doing here? I thought you left.”

Damian’s heart tweaked in his chest. He heard what you didn’t say: I thought you left me.

“I mean I know you don’t have suitcases,” you rambled on, “so there’s literally no reason-”

“We were looking for you,” Jon interjected. “Even if you didn’t want to see us again, we could have at least said goodbye.” He was hurt, Damian realized, getting defensive.

“No no that’s not what I meant.” Your voice was frantic. “I just-I know you don’t have large bags and you have each other and probably some better way to get home than finding a last-minute train so when I didn’t see you, I figured you’d just…” The sentence trailed off in a shrug.

“But we’re here,” Damian argued. “And Jon and I were already planning to take public transport.”

Your eyes searched beside Jon’s shoulder, scanning the suitcases coming down the conveyor belt.

“Do you need help getting your bag?” Jon asked, following your gaze.

“No, I got it. Meet you back here when I get it?”

Damian nodded.

“Do you want to leave your backpack here?”

He could almost see you mentally combing through the pros and cons.

“If you leave with my stuff,” you began lightheartedly. Damian could hear the underlying anxiety in your voice. “I’m going to be really pissed off.”

You handed the bag to Jon and disappeared into the crowd around the belt.

“Do they think we would?” Jon asked Damian. Damian resisted the urge to reach up and smooth the wrinkle in between his eyebrows. “Just leave, that is? I mean if they knew who we were-”

“What’s to stop them from thinking they’re an obligation then either?”

Jon sighed, pouting. Damian bit back a smile. It was adorable.

“You’re right. I hate it when you're right. It happens way too often.”

A huff of laughter escaped Damian. A moment of comfortable silence lingered in the air, interrupted by you pushing through the crowd with a suitcase.

“Okay this is it,” you declared, taking your backpack back from Jon. Your relief was unmistakable. “So the train stop that gets us to the main station is in terminal A, I think. Are you guys taking a train back too?” Jon shrugged, glancing at Damian.

“We hadn’t actually gotten that far yet.”

“If we need to catch a local train, we should head that way now,” Damian suggested. “We’ll figure out the rest on the way.”

“So what train are you taking?” Jon asked halfway to the airport train platform.

“Uhh wait one sec.” You pulled out your phone, tapped the screen a couple times, then handed it to him. “Here. That’s my ticket.”

Jon turned the screen—open on the Amtrak app—towards Damian. He was already pulling out his phone. Damian dipped his head towards the screen, scanning the list of trains for the correct one before purchasing two tickets. Bruce’s credit card auto-filled into the payment information. Damian doubted his father would even notice.

“Alright, we all have tickets for the 119 train to Gotham.” Jon handed your phone back and you shoved into your pocket.

“Now we just have to get there.”

You didn’t think Jon had ever been in a train station before. Or at least not this one. He’d spent the majority of the half hour you’d all been sitting in the station alternating between talking to either you or Damian or looking around and asking you questions about your previous experiences on trains.

“You have a terrible track record with transportation,” he frowned at you after you recounted a two-hour train delay. It had pushed your arrival time at home until past two in the morning. The face he made was really sweet. “Yeah I kinda do,” you laughed, shifting on the wooden bench.

Train stations overall, you found, were less overfilled and more comfortable than the airport, this one especially. You wouldn’t want to get delayed at Gotham Station (you knew that from experience too), but this station was much nicer. Less so at midnight, but that had more to do with your exhaustion at that time than the station. Damian, on your other side, was typing on his phone. He’d gotten up a little while before to make a call then came back and declared he’d sorted out who was picking him and Jon up once they arrived in Gotham.

You glanced up at the big screen in front of you once again. This time, your gate and track number were up on the board.

“Gate seven, track eight,” you read aloud. Beside you, Damian’s eyes snapped up to the board. Jon turned to look at you.

“What?” You pointed at the screen.

“Our gate and track number. We should go now before the line gets too huge so we can get seats not already occupied.”

Damian nodded, collecting his belongings. Jon followed, pulling his jacket back on before flashing you a smile.

“Alright, let’s go.”

You were quickly vindicated in your decision. The boarding line stretched all the way out towards the restrooms at the back of the station. When you got on, the train wasn’t empty, but it was close enough. With an origin in Baltimore and an end stop of New York, Philadelphia was one of the larger stops on the train’s path. You dropped into the first empty seat you saw with a likewise empty seat behind it, shoving your suitcase into the limited space allotted to legroom. It didn’t fit, but you really didn’t want to check your bag. Again.

Damian dropped into the seat behind you. Jon sat down next to you.

“What-?” you asked, confused. “Don’t you want to sit together?”

“We are,” Jon shrugged. He leaned towards you, voice lowered. “Besides, Damian could probably use an hour not squished in between a whole bunch of people.”

You turned around just enough to see Damian shove both his and Jon’s carry-ons onto the window seat and sink down heavily into the aisle seat.

“That’s smart; I do it too,” you approved. “No one wants to take the window seat with a stranger.” Damian offered you a nod in exchange. He looked the way you felt after hours upon hours spent with people you weren’t comfortable with. That is to say, socially exhausted.

You turned back around, crossing your legs so that you could sit somewhat comfortably even with a huge suitcase taking up all your legroom.

“Turn it sideways,” Jon suggested. “So it’s not so tall.”

“But it’ll take your legroom,” you protested. Jon shrugged and did it anyway, maneuvering his backpack to rest on top of it. You followed suit, shifting your seating position to accommodate the new space. The fabric of your pants had no traction on the smooth material of the train seats.

“See,” he said. “So much better.”

“Yeah,” you smiled. “Thanks.”

Through his glasses, Jon’s eyes shone.

#damian wayne x reader #damian wayne #damian wayne imagine #damian wayne x gender neutral reader #damian wayne x reader x jon kent #damian wayne x reader x jonathan kent #jon kent x reader #jonathan kent #jon kent imagine #jon kent fanfiction #emerson writes sometimes #one in eleven million

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dirty-urie · 6 months

Text

Use My Body

5.6k Words

Warnings: Public sex

Author's Note: Hi all :) I'm posting this as a late birthday present for someone. But if it's bad then ChatGPT wrote the whole thing and not me.

“Brendon! I need your body!” You call from your home office.

“Coming, dear!” He shoots back. After about thirty seconds, he strolls in, looking sexy as always. He must have come from working out in the garage because he's shirtless, flushed, and a little sweaty. Not gross sweaty, just shiny and warm. “What do you need?”

You finish the sentence you're on and wrench your eyes away from your computer screen. You spin around in your chair to face him. “I need to see if a scene is possible. Can we block it together?”

His face lights up. “Hell yeah!” He gives you a hand and pulls you up out of your chair against his body.

You let him get one long kiss in before you let him down gently. “Don’t look so excited, baby. I’m on a deadline. Your pants have to stay on.” You sigh. You really wish he could fuck you right now.

Brendon pouts. “That’s no fun.”

You make a sympathetic noise. “There, there. You’ll survive. Now, uh, get on your knees and sit back on your heels,” you instruct, pointing to the bed.

Brendon scrambles onto the bed and assumes the correct position. It's purely luck that you work from the guest room and always have access to a bed for workshopping, but it's fucking brilliant and you don't know what you'd do without it. “Are you comfy? How are your knees?” you ask.

“Yeah, it feels fine.” He stretches back on his hands, arching his back. “I'm glad you force me to stay limber,” he laughs. “I'm in better shape than my twenties.”

You snatch your notepad off your desk, jotting that down. You toss your notepad onto the bed and straddle Brendon's lap, already questioning how realistic this position is. Your tits are almost right in his face for one, and you're not sure how much leeway either of you has for movement. “Hm. Do you think you could thrust into me like this?”

Brendon pushes up against your cunt through your jeans. You feel him throbbing. You’re caught by surprise, snapping you out of your concentration. You have to bite your lip to keep from snickering. He's too easy. “How are you already hard? I just climbed on top of you.”

He pecks your lips. “You know you get me absolutely raring to go, baby.” He winks. “but admittedly, you interrupted a proofreading session- I was already halfway there.”

You have to fight back a smile, but it creeps into your cheeks anyway. “So the new chapters I sent you are good?”

Brendon gives you a “no shit they're good” look. The man is going to give you an ego. “That scene right before Carter and her dude get engaged. That's based on our honeymoon, right?”

You’re thrilled he recognizes it. It's maybe your favorite sex scene you've written. You nod, swallowing hard. “Fuck. You were being a fucking tease all day in those black swim shorts that hugged your ass just right. And you kept checking me out in my bikini, and I could see your fucking cock swelling through them. But you made us wait until we're in bed together and sunkissed and couldn't keep our hands off each other.” Brendon nibbles your neck, briefly making your brain go totally fuzzy. “It was your first time without a condom, and not having that barrier between us felt so special.”

“I came so fast,” Brendon remembers fondly. “A couple minutes I think? Less than five definitely. You were pissed, baby. I think you contemplated divorce right then and there.”

You sigh in content. “Until I realized you fucking stayed hard. Which I swear is not possible, and if my editor read it in a draft, she'd say it's unrealistic and I need to fix it. But it happened, and your hot come was inside me while your cock was inside me, and you were moving your hips in perfect time with my heartbeat.” You grind on his erection absent-mindedly. “Any chance of you pulling that off again?”

He shakes his head. “Believe me, if I could, I would. Can you imagine the bragging rights?”

You roll your eyes. “Please don't brag about your cock.”

“You're the one writing about our sex life for thousands to read.” He smirks. “Speaking of, do I get a writing credit? Some of that dialogue sounded awfully familiar.”

“Not my fault that you represent the pinnacle of dirty talk, baby.”

“Yeah? You like it when I talk about how I can feel your pussy even through all this fabric, and it's driving me fucking crazy because I know you'd be hot and wet and pulsing around me right now?”

Fuck, you know where this is going, and it does not end with your manuscript being submitted on time. “Bren-” Your protestations are cut off by him bucking hard against you. He knows your body well, knows where to put pressure, so that your whole body lights up.

“You like hearing me talk about how as soon as I'm released from my husbandly duties, I'm going to jack off and look at pictures from our honeymoon and finish your fucking incredible sex scenes and come hard and loudly in our bed? And how I'm going to send you voice messages while I do it because I know that's the best way to cure your writer’s block?” His voice is low and husky. “But you know you won't need voice messages because you'll hear me across the house.” He slides his hands down your back to grab your ass, rocking you forward on his dick and then allowing you to slide back before he rocks you forward again. “You know the very thought of my girl’s fucking perfect pussy makes it impossible to stay quiet.”

You whimper. “Bren, baby, l have work to do.” He ignores you, increasing his tempo. He buries his face in your breasts, sucking gently on the sensitive skin. You're so glad you wore a low-cut top. “Fuck, fuck. Harder,” you plead.

He grabs your ass harder, practically slamming you forward. “Yeah, darling, I can thrust a little,” he pants, finally answering you. “But you'd have to bounce on my cock. You’d have to ride me like the perfect cockslut you are.”

God, he's a calculated bastard, waiting until you've found the perfect groove to fulfill what you called him in for. You throw your head back, giving him better access to your cleavage.

Brendon smiles before he slows to a stop. You continue to wiggle on him incessantly. “Baby, I gotta let you work. I'll stop being a tease.”

You disregard him, sliding along his length and moaning rhythmically. The seam of your pants presses against your clit perfectly.

“God, you're fuckin’ pretty,” Brendon marvels, squeezing your ass again. “But c’mon, I'm your biggest fan. I need more content. The way you incorporated the motif with the cigarettes? Fucking brilliant.”

You clench your teeth, arousal burning deep in your stomach.

“And the way you wrote their emotions was almost palpable. So good, honey.”

And you're coming. You’re nearly screaming as your body convulses in pleasure. “Bren, shit, coming,” you choke out. “Fuck! You're so good,” you shriek, rubbing hard and fast on him.

You slump forward bonelessly. Brendon eases you off his lap onto your back and lies down next to you. “Are you-” you inhale, struggling to catch your breath. “Are you going to apologize to me?” you demand.

Brendon rolls onto his side towards you, so you can see his face. He's smiling slightly in amusement. “For?”

The absolute nerve of this guy. The audacity. You want to fuck him so bad. “For disrupting my writing session!”

“Hmm, depends.” He brushes your hair behind your ear. “Are you going to apologize to me?”

You furrow your brows. “What did I do?”

His eyes snap toward his crotch. “Forcing me to change my pants.”

The crease between your brows only deepens in further confusion. “Did you…?” you trail off, letting him fill in the blanks. You don't remember feeling or hearing him come.

He laughs softly, pressing his pelvis forward. You can clearly feel his erection. Brendon recovers quickly, but not this quickly. Not outside of your honeymoon that is. “Darlin', you came. Hard. And messily.”

You blush. “I didn't think it would have soaked through to your pants.”

He takes your wrist and guides it to the front of his pants to feel. The soaked fabric clings to his cock. You scramble for the button of his pants, struggling to get them open with one hand. Brendon pulls you away- gently but firmly.

You whine wordlessly, begging him with your eyes.

“You have to finish writing,” he says, his voice a warning.

His subtle slip into dominance just makes you want him more. “And you have to get off,” you argue. You slip out of his grasp, but he catches you before you can go back to groping him.

You exhale. “Fine. I'll behave myself. Thanks for your help.”

“Any time.” He winks before he climbs out of bed and kisses your forehead. “Do your job, baby. I'm very proud of you.”

You melt. “Aww thanks.”

He gets about halfway through the door before your orgasm-induced haze clears enough to remember the other reason you called him. “Wait- Brendon,” you stop him.

Brendon turns around quickly, leaning against the door frame and facing you. “What's up?”

“Are you coming to my book signing tomorrow?” You try to stay neutral in your question, but you're secretly begging the universe he says yes. He'll make the day so much more fun.

“Uhh, let me check.” He pulls out his phone to look at his calendar. “Well, I can, but I probably shouldn't.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I show up at too many, people are just going to go for a shot at meeting me. I don't want to take attention away from you,” he explains.

You scoff. His beautiful and talented and smart, but his ego is a little too much sometimes. “Honey, first of all, your fans are going to show up anyway. And second of all, is it to crazy to think that I might have a following of my own because of my best-selling erotic novels?” You're not offended, but you're slightly annoyed.

He raises his hands in surrender. “No, you're right, I was trying to be considerate and supportive, but I just made myself sound like an ass.”

“Well you are an ass,” you retort, but it's playful.

“You are what you eat?” Brendon offers unsure. He purses his lips and squints his eyes in consideration of his own joke.

You throw a pillow at him, laughing. “Whose ass are you eating? Because it's certainly not mine,” you say. “If I called you a pussy? Sure. A dick? Maybe. So many weed brownies that you can't move because the first one didn't kick in right away? Of course.”

He scoops the pillow up from the ground. “Point taken.”

“So you're coming to my signing?”

He blows you a kiss, pivoting to walk out of the room. “Of course. Anything from my gorgeous,” he lowers his voice, “bossy,” he raises it again, “perfect wife.”

“For that you’re driving!” you call after him.

“Bossy!” He retorts.

•••

You shut the book, and, to your relief, applause fills the packed library auditorium. Brendon shoots you a grin and thumbs up from the front row before clapping along with everyone else. He's wearing stereotypical “I'm a secret celebrity” attire: hoodie, sunglasses, hat. You're pretty sure he's just drawing more attention to himself, but you're so glad he's there regardless.

You feel your heart rate settle back to baseline now that the hard part is over. You were terribly nervous to read new material aloud for so many people, but it went extremely well in your opinion. The audience was on the edge of their seats- including the boyfriends who got dragged along against their will. You even noticed a few people who got so worked up they had to excuse themselves partway through. You'd call that a success.

The applause dies down after a few seconds, and you clap your hands together to transition to the next segment. “Okay! I think I have time for a few questions before the signing.” To your surprise, about twenty hands shoot into the air. Sweat beads on your temple, a combination of the stage lights, physical exertion, and nerves.

“I don't have time for everyone,” you say apologetically. “But I will try my best! You in the purple, you in the back, and then you with the hat.”

A young woman in a purple sweater stands up. “Um, I was just wondering if you write from experience?” Her voice shakes a little, and you feel for the girl.

Your eyes flit to Brendon, who’s grinning. “Well, I've never been kidnapped by the mafia, so no,” you joke, referencing your first and least favorite book. The audience laughs lightly with you. You got pressured into writing a mafia romance by your publisher at the time in exchange for an almost life-changing advance. You got your foot in the door, but you think mafia romances are horribly uninspired, unrealistic, and immature. You love your share of cliches, but you wish you hadn't agreed to sell your soul a little. Plus the royalties are abysmal.

The next person in your queue stands to speak, a larger woman in a floral dress. “Hey! I love your books.”

You smile warmly. “Thank you. I worked hard on them!”

“My question is where you find inspiration to write.”

Brendon mostly, you think to yourself. Sometimes you'll have such an incredible session with him that you have to put it to paper. But you can't very well say that. “Everywhere really,” you answer aloud. “Music, movies, other books. My favorite is people-watching at the beach. I've even had some dreams that heavily influenced my writing. And yes,” you make eye contact with the woman in purple, “real life experiences.” You know you're speaking fast, but you’re slightly rushing to get to more people. “Uh, let’s see, who’s next?”

Hat guy stands up, staring at his phone. You think he's an inconsiderate douche, but he redeems himself once he starts talking. He's clearly reading from the screen. “My girlfriend is in surgery, but she has asked me to tell you she's your biggest fan.” He talks with a bit of an accent, but you can't quite place it. He pauses to scrolls down. “And she would like to know how you write such realistic sex scenes.”

The crowd murmurs excitedly.

You find it fascinating that everyone is gathered to hear you read from an erotic novel, but the explicit mention of sex still feels rebellious and taboo. You don't look down at Brendon this time, but you feel him staring at you smugly. It's like all your fans conspired together to indirectly ask about your sex life with your husband. “Tell your girlfriend thank you, and I hope her surgery goes well,” you say to start. “I'm not sure if she's performing it or receiving it, but my best regards either way.”

You weren't quite making a joke, but everyone- hat guy included- laugh politely.

You walk across the stage. “Has she considered maybe you're just copying your moves from my books, and that's why my scenes are so evocative of her experience?” you ask cheekily.

The man doesn't get flustered. “Ah, you have figured out my secret.”

Another round of tittering and chattering rolls through the room.

You wait a beat for everyone to settle down. “Well, let's keep it between us then. Tell her that my sex scenes come from a lot of research,” you answer. “Most of it far less saucy than I'm sure you guys are imagining, unfortunately. Quite academic. But some is hands-on. Or mouth-on when needed.” You wink.

You’re glad when you get the signal to wrap it up because you fear you've already said too much. “Okay, that's my time, but I will be signing books in the lobby in just a few minutes.” You wave the audience away, smiling. “You guys have been lovely. Thank you for showing up.”

People file out of the auditorium, conversing with each other excitedly.

The auditorium has a door that connects to your small makeshift green room that you eagerly retreat to. You collapse on a folding chair and chug a bottle of water. Your job isn't physically taxing, but it's deceivingly exhausted to be on “on” mode for an extended period of time. It reminds you of your job as a cashier before you started writing full-time. The emotional labor was harder than the physical labor.

Brendon comes into the room after about five minutes. You assume he waited until the auditorium was clear and no one would notice him slip in with you. “That was fucking great,” he exclaims. “Can I get you anything right now?”

You shake your head before putting it down on the plastic table. “I don't have this signing in me,” you whine. You're going to go out there and give it your all, but you need to bitch and moan a bit first. The cool pressure from the table feels great against your forehead. You can feel a nasty tension headache forming.

“A’ight, here's the plan,” Brendon says, leaning in conspiratorially. “We'll have Marge run across the street to the Party City and buy a wig. You and I will swap clothes, and I'll do the signing. No one will know the difference.”

You exhale weakly. “I think your stubble would give it away. And your lack of tits.”

“Oh shit. I'm sorry, baby.”

You strain to pull your head up, stretching gently. “Nah, I'll be okay. Any chance you can hand me an Advil from my bag and buy me something cold and caffeinated from the vending machine?”

Brendon dons his sunglasses and pulls his hood up. He looks like Damian from Mean Girls. “On it.” He checks his watch. “Oh shit. Showtime in two. I'll hurry.”

You blow him a kiss.

•••

“Listen up, here are the rules,” your hired security guard barks at the line of guests snaking their way through the stacks “No cutting, no pushing, no holding up the line, or you will be removed from the premises and you may risk termination of your library privileges.” You and Brendon fight back laughter. This man means business. You appreciate it, but the situation is really not as serious as the ex-marine is making it out to be. “And Mr. Urie is not here to sign anything or take pictures with you, so do not ask.”

Brendon grins. “Pretend I'm not even here. I'm just keeping Y/N company,” he tells the line before burying his face back in your book.

You had to beg the director of library events to allow Brendon to sit next to you at the table. Nobody explicitly said it, but you could tell managing and protecting a “real” celebrity was a bit above everyone’s paygrade. Fortunately, a generous anonymous philanthropist donated a few thousand with explicit instructions to dedicate ninety percent to the youth music program, and the rest to the library special event budget. What a felicitous coincidence.

Once the housekeeping is in order, the first person in line scrambles up to you. She's a girl you'd definitely consider too young for your books- maybe sixteen. But you were sneaking LiveJournal smut on the family computer at sixteen, so you really can't judge. Her mom lingers awkwardly behind her, clearly trying to give the girl space without leaving her alone completely.

She fidgets anxiously. You have to hold your hands out to prompt her to hand you her book. She silently thrusts the hardcover novel into your hands, and the familiar weight of it is comforting. “Can I make it out to someone?” you ask patiently. You know you have a whole line of people waiting, but you try to make each interaction meaningful and intentional with each person. You learned that from Brendon. He told you that you won't remember meeting every fan, but every fan will remember meeting you. It's a lot of pressure to make a good impression with everyone, but it's satisfying too that you're touching so many lives.

“Oh um, Alexandra, if you don't mind- or Alex is shorter if that's easier,” the girl sputters out. “Please.”

“Alexandra is a beautiful name,” you say, jotting down: “Don't make yourself smaller for anyone else, Alexandra. - Y/N Y/L/N :)”. You shut the book and hand it back to her. You still struggle with sincerity with fans, but you hope she appreciates the message.

“Thank you so much,” she says appreciatively. She finally looks at Brendon, who she has been staunchly avoiding the gaze of. “I love you guys.”

“Thank you for coming!” you smile.

"Lovely to meet you!" Brendon chimes. Alexandra looks like she might drop dead right in front of you from Brendon's acknowledgement.

As soon as Alex leaves, the next person replaces her, and you settle into a comfortable routine. Almost everyone is extremely polite and respectful, which you hope is a positive reflection of your fanbase and not just intimidation from your security guard. You'll take it either way though.

Brendon, of course, is charming and gracious for everyone that comes up and talks to him. He stays true to his boundaries or not signing or allowing pictures, but he happily shakes hands and answers the odd music question or chats about video games while you write. You're secretly delighted that everyone in line seems to primarily be there for you with Brendon as a fun bonus for the Panic! fans. Even the people starstruck by Brendon talk about your books with enough intimate knowledge that you believe they're actual fans.

You do have the occasional sour experience. A few obvious resellers, a couple people ranting about the wait, maybe a dozen with noticeably poor hygiene. But the bad apples don't spoil the bunch, and you're generally enjoying yourself.

One thing that starts to distract you is Brendon enjoying himself too. To pass the time, he has your book open to skim when people aren't chatting with him. The deluge of sex scenes are starting to get to him. The signs are almost imperceptible, but you know him well. His breathing is quick and sharp and his face is slightly flushed. He keeps fidgeting in his seat: crossing and uncrossing his legs, tapping the table restlessly, and biting at his cheeks and lips.

You'd be able to ignore it, but you've been craving him since last night when he left before you could play with him. He has the perfect cock. The skin is soft and smooth and warm over a firm, pulsing shaft. He's big enough that you can comfortably take him in your hand and mouth while still being able to fill and stretch you, hitting all the right spots.

You know you have a floating fifteen minute break within your two hour signing window; although, you had planned to forgo it in favor of getting through as many people as possible. Security cuts off the line, but there's always a few hopeful stragglers in case you have an extra minute, and you love the satisfaction of helping them out. But you don't owe them anything, so now you're wondering if you can yank Brendon into an empty study room to pay him back the orgasm you owe him. You don't love to give blowjobs, but do you love to watch him as you suck him off. And you know he'd come fast enough. “Mrs. Y/L/N?” Or maybe you can lay back on a table and let him fuck your pussy until his knees are too weak to keep standing. “Excuse me?” The next person at the table finally manages to jerk you out of your concentration.

She smiles awkwardly without teeth. “I'm sorry- you seemed preoccupied, but I didn't want to hold up the line.” You shake your head to clear it, shifting uncomfortably in your seat.

“Oh sorry, I get lost in my own head sometimes,” you apologize breathlessly. You squeeze the Sharpie.

You distractedly get through the next dozen or so people before Brendon finally sets you over the edge. He angles the book towards you and points to a line.

Damon’s mouth waters at the sight of Safa’s shiny, wet cunt. She fingers the button on the stopwatch with a smirk. “Oral for an entire hour, really?” she asks incredulously. She was amused by the idea originally, but she didn't think he would actually be able to go through with it. “Your jaw will get sore.” In truth, she doubts her own ability to stave off an orgasm more than Damon’s ability to eat her out for that long.

“Having doubts?” Damon taunts. “Because I don't have to lick this perfect pussy. We can watch a movie instead. I don't mind. I have nothing to prove.” He's bluffing slightly. He'll be crushed if he doesn't get his mouth on her.

He leans in, covering his mouth. “I'd love to do that to you, baby. Eating your pussy for a full hour? That's a fucking dream. And I'd edge myself the whole time. I’d come so hard inside you,” he whispers into your ear.

“Do you wanna go somewhere private?” you finally work up the courage to ask, internally pleading that no one nearby can hear you.

He hesitates. “Baby I- I really shouldn't stand up right now,” he explains regretfully.

You clench your teeth. Hard. You slip your hand under the table, grateful for the table cloth hiding your activity. You place your non-dominant hand firmly on Brendon's thigh, your pinky just barely grazing his cock. Brendon turns to you with wide eyes. He grabs your wrist under the table, and you almost deflate. He's right, you shouldn't touch his cock in front of all these people. But, fuck, you're aching to feel his arousal.

However, to your surprise, he doesn’t move your hand away- instead, he guides it right between his legs. You squeeze him, giving him one last warning before you start touching him. He doesn't even flinch, just focuses hard on his book. You start exploring his body eagerly through his pants to warm him up. Though, from the obvious erection you can feel through his jeans, he doesn't need much preparation.

You graze along the length of his cock before your find the swell of his balls and rub them to really give him a tease. You manage to multitask well, continuing to sign and chat as your fingers dance around the sensitive areas of Brendon's inner thighs and crotch. But Brendon gets antsy. You can feel him staring at you, willing you to give him more.

You give in rather easily, anxious to feel him directly. You unbutton his pants and then cough loudly to cover the sound of his zipper opening. The people in front ask if you’re alright, but you wave them off with your free hand and then take a swig of your Dr. Pepper, relishing in the tension of making him wait another second. You regrettably take your hand off him for a moment to slip it between your own thighs. You slide your underwear to the side under your dress and coat your palm in your slickness. The feeling of your hand against your hypersensitive cunt is heavenly, and you struggle to pull yourself away. But the moments between undoing his pants and snaking your hand into his briefs crawl by, heavy with possibility. Brendon closes his eyes, his whole face clenched in concentration. He looks visibly aroused in front of dozens of people, and you don't even care.

You finally take pity on the man, fearing audible noises of frustration if you tease him any longer. You slip your hand inside his underwear, pleased to feel him fully erect. “Baby, is that-” he hisses, referencing the wetness on your hand. You don't answer. He already knows.

You stroke him inside his pants at first, knowing you shouldn't take the risk of fully exposing him. Brendon exhales in satisfaction, but you don't have as much freedom to move as you'd like, and you imagine he feels uncomfortable trapped inside his restrictive jeans. You snake his cock out of his pants and grasp it hard. When you first became intimate with Brendon, you were far too timid. Now you know he likes you to be firm and slightly aggressive when playing with his cock.

You keep your thumb on his glans and then stroke him hard and fast. “Fuck!” Brendon exclaims, and you gasp, fearing that he's blown it for you two. He manages to recover though. He smacks the side of his neck and rubs it. “Ah, damn, neck cramp,” he explains to the people looking with concern. “Excuse my language.”

It tests the very limits of your coordination to rub circles on his sensitive head, stroke him up and down, and continue to sign. You almost misspell your own name at one point. Still- The adrenaline from your deviance makes this ten times hotter. You're acutely aware of everything happening around you, making the sensations even more intense. Your clit hums demandingly. Each of Brendon's breaths sound like moans. You're convinced someone will catch you. You dare them to catch you. That's one thing you miss about touring with Brendon- the clandestine trysts in front of band mates and road crew. You fucking love an audience. Love the thrill of sneaking around.

You sense Brendon’s having a similar experience. He's leaking precum like crazy, allowing you to stroke him even more easily. And his eyes are getting more glassy and unfocused as you continue to work. You hope he knows this is just the appetizer. When you get home, you are fully taking advantage of having your mouth and other hand at your disposal.

Even without being able to verbally communicate, you know he's close when he turns to you with frenzied, panicked eyes and bucks uncontrollably into your hand.

You don't know what to do. Your emergency stash of tissues in your backpack has been depleted by a particularly nasty allergy season, but you can't let him get come on his clothes or the table. And leaving him hanging is not an option. Brendon needs release.

You eye the line. It's down to about fifteen people. You don't think he can hold off long enough for them to be done, and, even then, you'd barely have any privacy.

So you take a risk. You allow your trusty Sharpie to slip through your fingers onto the floor under your table. “Sorry!” You say to the man you're signing for. “All this writing is making my hand cramp. I'm ready to finish! Let me just grab it.”

You make eye contact with Brendon, and he nods ever-so-slightly. You slip onto the ground onto your knees.

“Oh I can help,” the man offers, lunging forward to kneel with you.

You glance at your security guard, and he thankfully takes the cue, standing in front of the table and the line. “Stay away from Mrs. Y/L/N,” he demands. “She will finish the signings in a moment.

You crawl under the table, easily sliding your mouth on Brendon’s cock even in the darkness. You fondle his balls, but it's unnecessary. He's coming before you've even fully closed your lips around his head. Come drips down your chin as hot spurts of it shoot into your mouth. He grabs your hair instinctively, twitching violently in your mouth. For a split second, you fear he may never stop coming and you'll be trapped under this folding table and polyester tablecloth forever. He groans- clearly aroused, and you hold your breath again. “C'mon, you're taking forever with that pen,” is his cover this time. You don't think anyone’s buying it.

He finally stops coming, and you scramble to find the actual marker. “Sorry, I can't find it in the dark.” You emerge from the table, trying to surreptitiously wipe your mouth. Brendon slumps against you. You two must look utterly fucked. “Does anyone have a pen?”

People scramble to look through their pockets and bags to no avail. You're at the end of your time anyway. You smile apologetically, handing out pre-signed copies. “I'm sorry they're not personalized, but you guys take these signed copies and keep your other copy to give to a friend. Thank you all so much for coming out!”

•••

“Am I in trouble?” you ask, sliding into the passenger seat.

Brendon leans over and kisses your neck. You shiver. “Fuck no. I haven't come that fucking hard in months. And from a handjob?” He bites your earlobe. “God, those people were looking at you- were looking at me all day. Thinking about us together. And then we fucking gave them a show, didn't we?”

You laugh. “I'm glad we didn't get arrested.”

“We wouldn't have gotten arrested. I'm famous,” Brendon says. He licks his way down to your cleavage.

You squeal. “What has gotten into you?”

He pulls away. His pupils are massive. “I just fucking love you, and I'm so proud of you, and I love that you're mine.”

You stretch to kiss his cheek. “Aw, baby. Was it hard to share me with all my adoring fans?”

He shakes his head. “Love your fans. Just love that I get to take you home with me.”

“Yeah? Gonna ‘help me write’ when we get home?”

He nods eagerly. “But I may need a banana and a Gatorade first. I get the sense you're going to make me work hard.”

You laugh. “I can make that happen. Unless you wanna check for run-on sentences. You don't need to hydrate for that.”

He gives you an incredulous look. “No fucking way, pretty girl. Bend me, fuck me, tie me up however you want. I'm yours.”

You grin. “God, this sequel is going to be good.”

#brendon urie smut #brendon urie fanfiction #brendon urie #brendon urie imagine #Thank you to my wife for being my Brendon and letting me use her body for porn-writing purposes lol

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estrellami-1 · 1 year

Note

I've been itchin for some good old fashioned steddie hurt/comfort, maybe steve with migraines? I know its been written a lot, but its always so soft and loving

Okay so this took FOREVER but muse deserted me like. Two days after I asked for these prompts. I’m terrible 😂 but I finally feel like I have something, so hopefully this suffices!

Courtesy of my dad putting a meat thermometer in the car on a 110°F/43°C day:

155.5°F, y’all. 68°C. That’s hot, no matter where you’re from. I’m not from Indiana, so I’m gonna go a little easy on Steve and say it’s barely breaching triple digits where he’s at, but if anyone’s from Indiana and wants to correct me, then by all means, please do!

It’s the heat that finally gets him.

Steve can deal with rain, with snow, with wind, hell, he can deal with interdimensional creatures.

But the heat is what finally takes him out.

His ears are ringing, his head is pounding, his stomach is churning.

The kids are out in the backyard, screaming.

He’d been out there with them, supervising, playing, settling fights. Being the babysitter. But he’d overdone it, and now he’s stuck inside. Can’t move from where he’d collapsed into a kitchen chair.

He’s got a cold Coke can by his elbow that he snagged from the fridge. Contemplates grabbing it and holding it up to his forehead, but everything feels like too much work right now, and he shuts his eyes against the tears that want to come.

The back door opens just as Dustin begins screaming about something else, and Steve can’t hold in the whimper, or the way he curls in on himself.

“Shit,” someone whispers, and Steve hears their footsteps approaching. “Steve?”

It’s Eddie. He’s whispering. Steve’s never been more grateful. He manages half a nod, to show he’s listening.

“Can I touch you?”

Another half-nod, and he grimaces at his head and stomach yelling at him.

“Okay, hey, shh, it’s okay, don’t move. I’m just gonna grab your hand, okay?” He does, grabbing the hand Steve hadn’t realized was tugging at his hair. He holds Steve’s hand with one of his and with the other, rakes his fingers through Steve’s hair.

Steve leans over a little, closer to Eddie, letting out a breath of relief. “Squeeze my hand once for yes, twice for no, okay?”

Steve squeezes once, and Eddie lifts their joined hands to his mouth, kisses the back of Steve’s. “Okay. Headache?” A squeeze. “More?” Another squeeze. “Stomach?” Squeeze. “More?” Squeeze. Pause. “Can you point to it?” He points to his ear with their combined hands, and Eddie hums. “Ringing?” Squeeze. “Dizzy?”

No squeeze. He’s not sure. “Okay, that’s alright. D’you want the coke?” Two squeezes. “Okay. If I get you some water, d’you think you can drink some of it?”

A hesitant squeeze. He can try, sure, but he’s not sure it won’t come right back up. Eddie squeezes his hand, gently places it on the table, and kisses his forehead before moving away, getting a bottle of water from the fridge by the sound of it. He comes back quickly, lays a gentle hand on Steve’s shoulder and rubs it down his back for a second.

Steve sighs, bowing his head, and Eddie chuckles softly, placing the water down in favor of getting both hands on Steve’s shoulders. He squeezes and kneads his thumbs in, on either side of his spine, down to the middle of his back and up to the base of his skull.

He continues with the massage for a few minutes, until Steve’s practically melting onto the table, then drags one hand down his arm to his hand, taking it again so Steve can squeeze. “Did you take anything for your headache?”

A pause, because he’s berating himself for not thinking of that when it would’ve been the most effective, then two squeezes. Because Eddie’s perfect, he says, “That’s alright, Stevie, I know it’s hard. Let me get you something for your head. You want something for your stomach, too?” Steve could cry with how in love he is. He squeezes twice and hopes Eddie doesn’t notice the tear making its way down his cheek.

Eddie’s lips intercept it about halfway down. “It’s alright,” he murmurs, carding a hand through Steve’s hair again. “I know. You’re doing so well, Stevie, I’m so proud of you. The kids are okay, and I’m here to help for as long as you want me to, alright?”

One last squeeze before Eddie pulls away. Forever, he means, and the lips on his temple make him think Eddie understands.

He’s back in a few seconds with two pills. He hands them to Steve, but they’re small and he thinks he might drop them, might spill the water, so he presses them back into Eddie’s hand.

Another pause but Eddie understands a few seconds later and the pills are at his lips, and he’s opening for them, accepting the water that’s next, slowing down when Eddie murmurs. “Careful, slow sips. Just a little for now, you can do more in a minute, just let this settle first.” He pulls the glass away, sets it down on the table, and takes Steve’s hand again. “How about we go upstairs? Maybe take a bath? I think there’s some of that lavender oil still.” Squeeze, pause. Upstairs. Squeeze, pause. Bath. Two squeezes. Lavender.

Eddie seems to understand, thankfully. “Okay, no lavender. Want me to carry you up?”

Not for the first time, and probably not for the last time, Steve internally curses his parents for buying the biggest, grandest house they could. He squeezes once; even if he would prefer to walk, he’s not sure he can right now.

Eddie moves to crouch beside him, pressing another kiss to his temple. “I love you,” he whispers, lips brushing Steve’s temple still. “So much.” He gets his arms around Steve, adjusts a little, and counts down so Steve knows when he’s going to move. Steve loves him an insane amount.

Instead of saying anything, he loops an arm around Eddie’s neck, tucks his head into the juncture of his neck and shoulder, and presses a kiss to Eddie’s collarbone.

Eddie gets him upstairs and in bed with minimal jostling. “I’m gonna go grab your water real quick,” he whispers. “D’you want the bath now, or later?” He quickly thrusts a hand back into Steve’s. “One for now, two for later.”

Steve thinks about it, honestly doesn’t know. Holds up a weak-feeling w to his chin. Water.

“Okay. I’m gonna let the gremlins know too, okay? I’ll be right back.”

Logically, Steve knows he will be back in a few minutes. He knows he’s in a sweat-soaked tank top and swimming trunks. But it’s somehow cooler upstairs than down, and his window is closed, and his head is pounding less, enough so that he’s falling asleep by the time Eddie makes it back up.

He startles awake when Eddie places a hand on his forehead, then winces when his movement causes everything to hurt more. “Shit,” Eddie whispers. “Sorry, baby, didn’t think you’d be asleep yet. Can you drink a little bit more water for me? Then we can sleep.

Steve frowns, lifts a clumsy hand to sign. Bath?

“Do you want one right now? Because I’ll go set it up if you do. But I think your body knows what you need right now and is trying to give it to you.”

Steve thinks it over, then agrees, asking for water again. “Yeah, of course, here, lemme just…” he maneuvers behind Steve, props him up some, and lifts the bottle to his lips. “Small sips, baby, it’ll be here later too, m’kay?”

Steve obeys, taking small, slow sips, tilting his head up when he’s finished. Eddie places a kiss on his cheek as he puts the bottle back on the table. “Go to sleep, baby,” he murmurs, laying them down. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Steve frowns, signs one more word. Kids?

“I let them know you’re not feeling well. They’re packing up, Nancy and Jonathan are gonna take everyone home. Robin threatened me with dismemberment if I didn’t tell you to call her when you’re feeling better.” Steve smiles. “Oh, sure, just laugh at a threat to me, what’s gonna happen when-” he splutters when Steve puts his hand over Eddie’s mouth. He grins, kisses his palm, and grabs his wrist, slotting his thumb into the pulse point. “Love you, Stevie.”

With the hand still held aloft, Steve sticks out his thumb, pointer finger, and pinky. I love you. And with that, he drifts off to sleep.

When he wakes up, the little bit of light coming from his window tells him he’s only been out for a few hours. He takes stock of himself: his head still hurts a little, his ears aren’t ringing anymore, and his stomach still feels a little weird, but he thinks he might just be hungry.

He rolls onto his side and comes face-to-face with a sleeping Eddie. As he watches, Eddie’s brows scrunch, he mutters something, and he stretches out, one arm creeping across the sheets towards Steve. His hand pushes against Steve’s chest a few times before he mutters something else and wraps his arm around Steve, pulling him closer.

Steve can’t help it. He grins and kisses Eddie’s forehead, so in love with this dork he’s just about shaking with it.

Eddie’s eyebrows scrunch again and his eyes flicker open. He smiles at Steve. “Hi, baby,” he whispers, sleep-rough. “How’re you feelin’?”

“Better,” Steve whispers back. “Head still hurts a little, but it’s not bad. Mostly I’m hungry.”

Eddie hums, tucking his head under Steve’s and rubbing a hand up and down his back. “What’re you in the mood for?”

Steve hums back. “Feels good. I dunno. Think there’s any burgers left? Might do one of those.”

He can feel the face Eddie makes. More so, he can hear it in his voice. “You want leftover burgers?”

Steve lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “It’s easy.”

“Stevie. Baby.” Eddie pulls back to press a kiss to his lips. “I asked you what you want, not what would be easy. If you could have anything in the world, what would it be?”

Steve thinks about it, then starts laughing. “Honestly? McDonald’s.”

Eddie chuckles too. “Then McDonald’s you shall get,” he swears. “Wanna come with me or stay here?”

Steve’s brows raise in surprise. “I can get it, Eds.”

“I know you can. I’m asking if you want to come with me or if you’d rather stay in bed.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “I’d rather stay in bed with you,” he says, causing Eddie to smile.

“Ah, but we can do that after I get your food. You want your regular?”

“Yes, please. Think I’d rather stay here, if that’s okay. I think the sun might make the headache worse.”

“That’s fine,” Eddie soothes, standing up then bending over to press a kiss to Steve’s temple. “Be back soon.”

“M’kay. Thanks, baby.”

“Anything for my love,” Eddie grins, bowing before he walks to the door.

Steve chuckles and shakes his head at his boyfriend’s dramatics, shifting in bed to get comfy again.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but when Eddie walks in, he blinks awake, stretching as he smiles at him. “Hi, baby,” Eddie whispers.

Steve wants to kiss him, so he does, sits up and drags Eddie closer, food all but forgotten. “Hi,” he whispers against Eddie’s lips. “Thank you.”

Eddie hums as he kisses Steve once more then pulls away. “Anything,” he says, and Steve knows he means it.

They eat in relative silence until Steve asks, “how’d the kids react when you told them?”

Eddie smiles. “They were mostly worried for you. I think Dustin was about to bust inside and demand why you didn’t tell him you weren’t feeling well, but then Nancy gave him a look—you know the one—and told him in no uncertain terms that they were going to leave you to rest and could check in on you tomorrow. So expect a call from him.”

“Or twelve,” Steve chuckles. “Speaking of, I should probably call Robin, huh?”

“Probably,” Eddie agrees, then grins. “Or I can think of something else we could do instead.”

Steve pretends to think about it, then leans in. “Robin can wait,” he agrees, matching Eddie’s grin with his own.

#I’m so sorry this took so long #I’ve had NO inspiration lately and what little inspiration I have had I’ve used for if I should stay #I want to keep that buffer that I have #but this was an absolute joy to do #even if it ended up being longer than I thought #also I should point out that the car had been off for the entire day so it had just been heating up like a greenhouse #imagine THAT on bare thighs #because God knows women’s shorts aren’t nearly long enough #anyways I hope you like it!!!#stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #prompt: hurt/comfort #Steve has migraines #starambles

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dujour13 · 7 months

Text

OC Kiss Week - day 3

For my friend @arendaes - a magic azata kiss for Ariadne 🦋💜

The Best in the World… continued

The planar gate briefly fills the air of Golarion with sparkling rainbow rays, releasing a flock of golden hummingbirds and two demigods before it snaps shut again.

“It’s an emergency,” Daeran declares. There’s something in his defiant stance that warns them: if they argue, they’re in for it. But the moment he lays eyes on Woljif he loses some of his poise. “What—whatever is that?”

Woljif scowls. You’d think a demigod could stop himself from blushing. “We were in Elysium, ok? I’m tryina blend in.”

He is wearing an Elysian chiton made of the gossamer silk of the luna moth and embroidered with shadow and gold; high, gilded sandals are laced halfway up his skinny cobalt calves; gold bangles decorate his bare arms, and a crown of flowers hangs over one horn. With an eye-roll Woljif snaps his fingers and is once again clad in his familiar leathers.

Daeran lets out a full-throated laugh and in that instant Siavash realizes what it is exactly that has changed about him these past few weeks: his laugh has lost its brittleness. It’s still razor sharp and a little wild, but richer, more solid, less likely to shatter.

Ariadne is trying hard not to laugh at Woljif herself but her tail dances.

“So what’s the emergency?” asks Siavash. They’re in Ariadne’s fathers’ garden in warm Absalom sunlight.

“Ariadne’s wayfinder has gone missing.”

Siavash glances Woljif’s way.

“What? It wasn’t me!”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to. I can read your mind, remember?”

Siavash raises an eyebrow at Daeran. “And this is an emergency worth interrupting an Elysian revelry for.”

“A dire emergency,” affirms Daeran, his eyes flashing defiantly again. “That wayfinder means a lot to her.”

“It was a personalized gift from my fathers when I was inducted into the Pathfinder Society and yes, it means a lot to me!” Ariadne does indeed look distraught.

“I suspect it was lost during our little excursion to Sothis and hence I hold the two of you responsible,” Daeran says with an arch frown.

Woljif shrugs one shoulder. “I’m good at locatin’ lost things, I can look into it.”

Again Siavash raises a brow his way.

“What? You’re not still mad about the thing?”

“Which thing?”

“Forget it. I’ll take care of it for you, Ariadne. So uh, what does it look like?”

While Ariadne describes it, Daeran catches Siavash sizing him up and smiling knowingly. “What? Don’t you dare act smug. Not in that outfit.”

Hopelessly smitten. Who would have thought, Siavash chides him telepathically.

“I didn’t really want to cause an interplanar fuss,” Ariadne says, wringing their hands despite Woljif’s apparent eagerness to help.

Siavash squeezes them around the shoulder and plants a kiss on their temple that feels warm and somehow sparkly like one of her glitterbomb concoctions. “We’ll have it back in no time. You have no less than three demigods on it.”

“Two,” corrects Daeran.

“Three,” Siavash corrects him right back. “You wouldn’t decline to help a damsel in distress?”

That evening Ariadne takes advantage of the time to herself to hit the alchemy books she’s been neglecting since Daeran swept into her life. She feels oddly energized, easily concentrating on complicated reaction ratios, not even minding that her happy humming is off-key (or perhaps it’s more on-key than usual?), when the slightest whisper behind her suddenly causes her to freeze.

She holds her breath. There’s a sense of wrongness she can’t place; nor does she understand why she is so highly alert tonight, when normally she’d be curled up under the lab bench having a nap by this hour.

It could be anything—a mouse, a loose parchment settling to the floor, Elvandir bringing her a midnight cup of tea—but somehow she knows it’s dangerous.

Too late.

A spell – tensile webs of arcana closing around her.

She resists with a force of will she did not know she possessed, an energy that refuses to be bound lending her limbs fierce strength, and the dark web gives way and unravels.

There is only one thought: get away from the house. Whatever this danger is, it must not hurt her fathers.

All Ariadne sees as they tuck into a roll and come up on the other side of their attacker is a shadow clad in supple Pharasmin ash-gray, incanting another spell behind its veil.

Deflecting again with this strange freeing force animating their limbs, Ariadne throws open the lab door and sprints out into the night garden. How is it they can see so clearly on a cloudless night is a mystery to consider another time. They sense the gray-clad attacker approaching swiftly at their heels.

But she hears it hiss, stumbling as little vines whip out to tangle its legs.

She is free.

Clearing the garden wall in one vault, sprinting with the wind in her ears down the path toward the city—

She doesn’t spot the second attacker until it’s too late. It lunges out of the shadows of the neighbors’ toolshed and this time Ariadne is unable to snap the dark threads of magic before she is overcome and roughly pushed through a portal.

More darkness, but this time cold and stale. Under their limbs as Ariadne twists to their feet they feel the dry rasping of sand. And walls on every side.

#ockiss24 #friends' ocs #ariadne #siavash #pwotr pals #best in the world 'verse #happy valentine's day ash

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sagemonsters · 1 year

Text

Though Hell Should Bar the Way

Summary: Bess is a night owl and a college student—a combination that turns out to be dangerous when she realizes she can’t make it back to her residence during an ice storm at 3am. After being saved by a strange, mute motorcyclist who is reluctant to remove his helmet, Bess is eager to uncover his secrets.

Status: SFW

Relationship: cis female human (she/her) x cis male dullahan (he/him)

Word Count: 2,200

Notes: this is a modern AU fanfic of Alfred Noyes' poem "The Highwayman"

Chapter 1 of 1

Bess all but screamed when someone tapped her shoulder in the small study cubicle on the fourth floor of the Holger Library. One of the assistant librarians, Alex, grabbed her half-empty Starbucks cup before Bess could knock it over as she recoiled, and her Beyoncé-induced study euphoria ended as that motion yanked her wired earbuds out of her ears.

“—Closing in five minutes, Miss Noyes,” Alex said.

“Right, yeah… What time is it?” Bess asked.

Alex set her Starbucks cup back down on the desk. “Five minutes to three o’clock in the morning,” he answered, and then looked down at his wristwatch. “Four, actually.”

Bess blinked, then dived for her phone in her backpack; the time was correct. “Damn,” she muttered. She had an English final—a timed essay—in six hours; she needed to get whatever sleep she could before it started.

“Be careful out there—the snow feels like falling glass, and everything’s iced over,” Alex warned. He crossed his arms over his chest. “I hope you don’t have far to walk to get back to your dorm.”

“My apartment is on Kerr Green,” Bess said.

Alex looked at her in horror for a moment, then gave her a wince of sympathy; Kerr Green was halfway across the city, since Losthaven University had a decentralized campus whose student residences gave grief to the aforementioned students and city planners alike.

“Get an Uber or Lyft or whatever,” Alex said. “You cannot walk there in weather like this.”

Bess shook her head as she shrugged on and buttoned her navy blue peacoat. “I’m broke at the moment. I’ll be fine, though. Thank you.”

Alex gave her a final, worried look, then left the cubicle and resumed his patrol for other students who had missed the closing announcement. Bess shouldered her backpack and took the stairs to the library’s front door, and then paused.

The pavement outside the library was slick and shining with ice, just as Alex had promised, and she could see more ice coating the streetlamps and the lone USPS box. The plows had already come by, so the roads looked reasonably clear—but snow piled high in dirty, irregular drifts to either side of the street, and more was falling by the minute.

For a few moments, Bess allowed herself to despair. She could call her mother in Florida and ask for twenty-five dollars to get an Uber back to her apartment—but that would be the second time this week she asked for money, and it was three o’clock in the morning, so her pride forbid such a thing. Bess huffed to herself, then pulled on her hat and gloves and stepped outside.

The wind hit her like a broadsword, slicing through her layers and carving straight to her core. This was, without a doubt, a proper New England winter storm, and Bess fancied that she could feel ice crystals making shallow cuts into the inside of her lungs as she inhaled; the air was so cold that breathing hurt. She wobbled in place as the wind threatened to bowl her over on the slick pavement.

Bess managed to get five blocks in the direction of Kerr Green before she realized she should have swallowed her pride and called her mother. She had fallen twice during those five blocks, and her fingers were aching with cold inside her gloves even after she had shoved them into her coat pockets.

She eased herself into an alleyway for some reprieve from the wind and unzipped her backpack with clumsy, gloved fingers. After some digging, she managed to pull out her phone, and then removed one glove with her teeth to unlock the device with her fingerprint. The cold ache intensified in that hand, so much so that it shook with pain. She could barely feel the phone anymore, but managed to open the CALL app—

The phone slipped out of her fingers and fell to the asphalt at her feet. The screen went dark, and when Bess picked it up she saw a spiderweb of cracks across the screen.

Crying is useless. Crying is useless. Crying is useless… Bess told herself, but the tears were welling up anyway and stinging at the corners of her eyes. She fumbled her glove back on and turned to trudge back out into the wind. Maybe there was still someone at the library, and she could beg them to let her use the phone at the front desk…

A headlight sliced through the snowy nighttime murk in front of the alleyway, followed closely by the deafening snarl of a motorcycle engine. An all-black bike with a helmeted rider swathed head to toe in black leather gear pulled to a stop in front of the alley, its engine settling into a low, coughing growl. The rider’s helmet, with its shadowed visor pulled down, turned toward Bess. He let go of the handlebar and held out his hand to her.

Bess stared.

The rider curled and uncurled his gloved fingers in a beckoning gesture. After a moment’s hesitation, Bess stumbled toward him. The sidewalk was slippery beneath her boots. She tottered as another gust of wind hit her, instinctively reaching out for support, and the rider grabbed her wrist and helped her upright—helped her the final few steps toward him, too.

“Can you take me to Kerr Green on West River Street?” Bess asked, shouting to be heard over the wind and the engine. The rider was still holding her wrist.

The rider nodded, and Bess was cold and desperate enough to climb on behind him and wrap her arms around his midsection. The motorcycle’s engine howled to life like a thing possessed, and she and the rider tore down the street.

The wind whipped icy snow into her eyes, so Bess hid her face against the rider’s leather-clad shoulder. At this speed, it was even colder than before, and she was so very tired. She’d have to get her phone replaced tomorrow, and she had her English final too…

When Bess lifted her head after a particularly hard turn, she saw tongues of green ghostfire licking at the motorcycle’s wheels, and more streaming out from the engine like banners. One flame seemed to be in contact with her leg, but it didn’t appear to be spreading to the cloth of her pants and Bess felt no heat. She blinked hard, but the flames didn’t go away.

This is real, she realized, and a moment later: this isn’t a normal motorcyclist.

“Stop! Stop!” Bess shrieked, and shook the rider’s shoulder. A moment later he swerved into a narrow side street, slowed to a stop, and put his feet down to balance the bike. The green ghostfire dimmed and then faded to nothingness. He looked over his shoulder at her.

“Who are you?” Bess demanded. “What are you?”

The rider said nothing.

“What do you want?”

The rider twisted around as much as he could so that he could face her properly. Bess looked into the visor, but couldn’t see even the faintest shadow of a face beneath it. The rider reached up a hand and brought two fingers to her cold lips in the barest ghost of a touch, then pulled away.

“What does that mean?” Bess asked. And then, more softly, “Are you mute?”

The rider nodded.

“Okay,” Bess whispered after a moment. “Okay, let’s… let’s keep going, then.”

The rider gripped the hand that she still had wrapped around him, threading their fingers together and giving a light squeeze, then pulled away and started the motorcycle again. Bess tucked her head back down against his shoulder and did her best to endure the cold and wind and ice, but the flaring ghostfire provided no warmth; by the time they arrived at Kerr Green and the student residences that lined the park, she had largely stopped shivering.

The cold had numbed her mind as well as her extremities, and it was hard to move. The rider had to help her to her door, and he followed her inside when Bess struggled with her gloves in the entryway. He heated water in a bowl in the microwave of the kitchenette, then helped her remove her gloves and submerge her frostbitten hands in the warm water.

“Thanks,” Bess said, and started shivering again as her body thawed. The rider, still in all his leather gear, pulled off her ice-rimed hat and coat and boots, then draped the blanket on the back of the couch over the space heater to warm it up before wrapping it around her shoulders where she sat at the kitchen table.

“You can take off your helmet if you want,” Bess said when feeling started to return to her fingers and toes.

The rider hesitated, and then the helmet shook from side to side.

Bess attempted a reassuring smile. “I promise I won’t tell anyone what you look like.”

Another shake of the helmet.

When Bess’ fingers no longer hurt, she pulled them out of the bowl, flexed them experimentally, and then started fidgeting with a tassel on the corner of the blanket.

“Thank you for all your help,” she said. “It really… I mean, I think I might have died without you.”

The rider nodded, then moved toward the door.

“Wait!” Bess said. “Please… please don’t leave just yet.”

The rider paused and looked back at her. Bess stood up, still with the blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and went to him. She reached out and touched his arm; there really wasn’t a single inch of exposed skin showing among the black leather, not a single smidgen of humanity or clue towards his identity.

“What’s your name?” Bess asked.

The rider shook his head, then reached up and brushed his gloved fingers over her lips again.

Bess felt her cheeks heating in a blush. “Kiss me,” she whispered. “Kiss me before you go.” She knew it was a ridiculously romantic thing to say, something out of the trashy romance novels she kept hidden under her bed, but what else was there to say in a situation like this? What else was there to do?

The rider reached into a pocket of his jacket and brought out a small, dogeared notebook and a stub of pencil. He wrote for a few moments, then showed the page to her:

I CAN’T KISS.

“Why not?” Bess asked.

The rider started to move past her, toward the door, and Bess darted in front of him and put her back to the door to bar his path. “I’m not moving until you tell me what’s going on,” she said.

There was a pause. The warm yellow lights in the apartment flickered, dimmed, and then died entirely, and that sickly green ghostfire curled out of the lamps and from the burners of the stove. A chill crept in, not as terrible as the storm raging outside but still cold enough that Bess wrapped the blanket tighter around herself.

The rider took off his helmet, revealing empty air; he had no head.

Bess’ eyes went wide.

The headless rider wrote again in his notebook and showed it to her: SCARED?

“No,” Bess said, even though that wasn’t quite the truth. She stepped forward and put her hands on the chest of the rider’s jacket. “Show me the rest of you.”

The rider pulled off his gloves. He had normal-looking hands, although they were room temperature at Bess’ touch and had no warmth of life within them. The high-collared jacket came off next, revealing a plain black shirt that had a human-seeming chest underneath it. When Bess laid a hand over where his heart should be, however, there was no beat beneath her fingers, and his tattooed skin was cool.

“Why did you help me?” Bess asked.

WHY NOT?

Bess frowned. “That isn’t a good answer.”

YOU SHOULD STOP ASKING QUESTIONS, THEN.

Bess folded her arms over her chest. “Absolutely not. You…” She felt her cheeks heat in another blush and forced herself to be brave: “If you can’t kiss me before you leave, then I’m sure there are other things we can do.”

SUCH AS? the headless rider wrote.

Bess’ blush intensified. She reached for the top button of her blouse, but then hesitated. “I don’t know how to start without at least a kiss,” she confessed.

CAN I SHOW YOU?

Bess nodded. “Please,” she whispered, and the long ribbons of emerald ghostfire burned high and bright throughout the apartment as the headless rider set aside his notebook and reached for her.

•

The storm had died by the time dawn arrived, and newborn sunlight glittered atop the ice that sheathed the city in crystalline glory. Bess awoke alone, and found that her final had been postponed via an email from her English professor. She smiled and plaited a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Enjoy my writing? Please consider buying me a coffee so I can have a warm drink while I write.

You can also read this story in the August 2023 edition of the much-loved M❤️NSTER magazine.

#monster romance #monster lover #terato #sage's portfolio #monster x human #monster boyfriend #dullahan #romance writing #romance fiction #the highwayman #fanfiction

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concreteburialplot · 1 year

Text

VIRALITY // 08

08 - Play Along

pairing: noah sebastian x fem!oc / nicholas ruffilo x fem!oc

word count: 5.3k

masterlist/intro: here | crossposted: ao3

warnings; irritating moody noah lol, angry/jealous nicholas, alcohol, noah teaching how to play pool, creepy guy at bar, implied past SA experiences, physical fight, blood, love triangle a brewin', 18+ ONLY MDNI

a/n: don’t be mean for no reason & let others enjoy things thnx :)

VALLIE

Noah somehow convinced me to drive us to a bar down the street from the warehouse where we were brainstorming with Bryan.

“So, remind me why you couldn’t have just driven here yourself?” I asked, looking over at him in the passenger seat of my rental car.

“I don’t have a car.” He replies flatly.

“You’re a world famous rockstar, and you don’t have a car?”

I hadn’t notice just how tattooed his hands are until I catch them moving up and down his thighs. The small action reminds me of ways I soothe my anxiety, especially in stressful work meetings.

“Not ‘world famous’, nobody even knew who we were til last month.” He’s quick to correct me and his grumpy tone makes it transparent that he’s still annoyed about getting kicked out by Bryan.

“Right.” I reply shortly.

I pull up to the small seedy bar Noah directed me to. It’s nestled within a larger strip of restaurants and shops. The random tiny city we’re in is not nearly as busy as LA and the buildings are all rustic and brick.

I’m not even parked a whole minute before Noah has already slammed his door behind him and headed towards the front door. At this point I should just expect to have to babysit every single grown man in this fucking band.

When I walk into the establishment, I’m smacked in the face by thick cigarette smoke and my face twists in disgust. It’s packed for 2pm on a Tuesday and almost every single patron is accompanied by a lit cigarette. I spot Noah at the bar already, just receiving his first full beer.

“A cosmopolitan please.” The words can’t come out fast enough, I need alcohol more than air itself right now. The bartender nods and starts curating my order.

Noah scoffs, “A cosmopolitan really? Could you get any more pretentious?”

“Oh my god.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Could you just shut up for literally like 5 minutes?” Right on cue the bartender places down a stemless martini glass with transparent red liquid. “At least it’s better that some basic ass beer.” I take a long sip of my ice-cold drink and alleviation begins the moment the alcohol meets my tongue.

He finishes the last of his beer and lands it hard on the wooden tabletop. “Fine. Whiskey and Coke please.”

“What is your deal huh, why are we here? What exactly are we doing?” I ask the obvious, finishing my own drink already and gesturing to the bartender for another.

He lifts his new glass, “You’re looking at it, Thornhill.”

My brows immediately scrunch together, “How do you know my last name?”

“You think you’re the only one who does their homework?” He asks ironically. “You do work with us after all.”

Both of our new drinks are halfway gone already with replacements on the way. Getting plastered midday on a Tuesday with my most infuriating client in some hole in the wall California bar was not on my bingo card for the week. But these boys keep surprising me, it’s almost refreshing. Almost.

Noah is quick to get started on the fresh drink in front of him, maybe too fast. The glass hadn’t even hit the table before it was half gone.

The numbing already growing in my fingers reminds me that all I had for breakfast was a green juice. Noah’s eyes travel over the bar and land on something across the room then back on me. His eyes are mischievous and playful, “You know how to play pool?” His lips spread into a competitive smirk.

I raise my brows at him. The man that was just 30 minutes ago arguing with me about music video lighting now wants to play pool?

“You want to play pool… right now?”

He laughs, which makes me realize I’d never heard him laugh. It’s nice. If I wasn’t already so exhausted by his bullshit already, it might’ve even made me smile.

“So, you don’t know how to play is what you’re telling me.” He slips off the stool and grabs my arm dragging me off my own.

“Hey, hey!” I smack his hand off my burgundy blazer, “This is designer, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t get your bourbon-y fingers all over it.”

His eyes roll so hard I think they might fall out. “Oh, so sorry princess.” He raised his hands up in defense. “Wouldn’t want to get your Prada dirty.”

While derogatory, the nickname makes my cheeks heat up but I’m not quite sure why. “It’s YSL actually.” I correct him, not that it matters but I guess when you pay almost $4000 for a jacket, it seems like it matters.

“See? Pretentious.” He points at me before going over to the table to set up the game.

I brought our drinks and my bag over to a wooden chair just behind the tables so I could keep a close eye on them. I decide that between the weak airflow in the bar and the sticky surfaces that it would be best to shed the jacket. I slip it off my arms and immediately remember that the blazer was essential to the look, since I only have a black lace corset underneath. But with the 4? 5? drinks I’ve had, I don’t care right now.

“Okay so since you don’t know how to-” Noah turns to look at me and seems to forget his words, he just blinks at me with a deer-in-headlights look.

I step closer to him, “Ya know, it’s not polite to stare.” I say in a hushed tone and poke his pointy nose. Whether or not he is actually looking at me like that, doesn’t matter, my confidence is boosted regardless. Surviving in an industry like the one we’re means walking a fine line between power and control. Men are easy to control when you know how to use assets correctly. And right now, he’s looking at the assets on my lace-covered chest.

“What were you saying again?” I ask, putting my weight on my palms at the edge of the table and leaning forward.

He clears his throat and diverts his eyes away from my cleavage. He directs me to a triangle filled with variously colored balls, some solid, some striped and all with numbers on them. “So basically, you want to get all your designated balls into the holes.” He hands me a long stick, “This is a cue, this is what you’ll use.”

“Got it.”

He perks up a brow above an eye, “You’ve really never played before?”

“Nope.” I take a sip of my potent drink without breaking eye contact with him. “Never thought I’d like it. I’ve watched exes play though. Seemed lame.” I say, sounding more apathetic than I actually am.

“Alright well,” He tugs at the hem of his long band shirt, “You might like it.” He knocks back the last of his drink and holds out a hand to me, “You want a refill?”

I drink the last bit of my own, letting the ice slide down the glass and sit on my numbing lips for just a second before handing it to him. “Please, thank you.”

The minute he leaves me, I become very aware that I’m the only female in the dark bar and every set of eyes is on me. I cross my arms over my chest and retract into myself.

Not long after Noah returns, we start playing. He explained how he “broke” the triangle and he ended up being solids which meant that I’m stripes. After a very bad attempt at hitting a ball, he decided I wasn’t doing well.

“No, no, no.” He waves me off before my stick touches the white cue ball. “Here, I can help.” He rounds the table and stands behind me. I obviously knew he was taller than me, but it isn’t until just now that I realize just how much taller he is than me – the top of my head barely meets his shoulders. And the boots I’m wearing have heels, making me even taller than normal. His sizeable hand runs down my spine and hooks it around my hip to readjust my position. His other arm goes to help adjust my arm that’s holding the stick. I can’t tell if it’s the alcohol, but my skin is burning anywhere he’s touching me and the way his hand engulfs my hip completely sends a buzzing between my legs. His fingertips are mere centimeters away from my core and I am extremely aware of it.

“See, not so bad.” He smiles, pulling away from me and it’s only then that I notice he actually helped me hit the ball.

My eyes linger on him longer than they should’ve. It must be this dim bar lighting and the copious alcohol I’ve had that is making see him through a new filter. His smile meets his eyes and he’s just so…bright. His chocolate eyes are so welcoming and kind, a stark contrast to how harsh and cold they are normally. He’s so much more attractive when he’s not scowling at everything I say.

“What?” He wipes off his mouth with the back of his hand. “Do I have something on my face or something?”

“No, no.” I shake the thoughts from my head. “I just don’t think I’ve ever really seen you smile.” I blurt out stupidly. “It’s pretty.”

He rolls his eyes walking over to the other edge, “Shut up.”

“What?” I ask walking over to where he’s lining up his cue to the ball. His tongue his tightly held in thought between his lips.

The cue ball clashes into a grouping and sends balls flying across the table, some landing in holes. “You’re still on your boyband bullshit.” His voice gained his usual attitude once again with a bit of drunken slur.

“What?” I shake my head, “No, no. I’m not talking about that.” I chase after him around the table. “I mean it.”

Though I should’ve taken the excuse he provided himself as to why I was even paying attention to his smile in the first place.

The long-haired boy holds his cue stick like staff looking at me with an unconvinced look. “Don’t say things you don’t mean, Vallie.” He says in a deep gravelly voice that almost sounds like a threat.

My eyes widen slightly when I look up at him. “I meant it.” I repeat softly, this time with a somewhat intimidated undertone.

He eyes me beneath a skeptical propped brow like I just told him something completely out of the realm of possibility. “Let’s just get back to playing.” He grumbles and walks over to finish off drink.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Similar to Nicholas, Noah also has a sort of whiplash duality, just different. I see tiny peeks of a sunshine-y Noah hidden beneath his grouchy storm-cloud persona. It makes me wonder what it would take to see more of the Noah that was just joking and smiling with me.

After another round or two and various refills later, I’m winning. Again.

“How are you winning when you just learned how to play?” Noah asks, pushing himself off the pool table. “Are you conning me or something?” His voice now has a thick, noticeable slur to it, but I don’t think much of it.

I giggle, “No. I just like to win.”

He scoffs playfully and grabs his own glass with my empty one. “You sure you don’t want another?”

I bite down on my thumbnail thinking, but ultimately refuse. “Nah I’m good for now.” I’ve hit the fine line of if I have another, I could get sloppy. Sloppy mixed with what I felt earlier with his hand on my hip could get me in trouble.

He nods and heads to the bar. I pull my phone from where I tucked it in the waistband of skirt and rest against the table as I scroll through emails I’d missed. Suddenly, I feel a presence that definitely isn’t Noah’s. It’s larger, meaner, and darker.

“That your boyfriend with you darlin?” Speaks a low southern accent. His words seem harmless, but I can tell by his tone that he’s not.

My eyes rise to meet him, he towers over me about as tall as Noah maybe an inch or two more. He might be as tall as Noah, but he’s about double his size, wide and muscular. His face is angular and sharp, adorned with middle-aged wrinkles. My gaze glances down to notice that he’s holding two drinks, one that looks like the one I’ve been drinking all day.

I keep an arm around my waist, my phone open facing me and prop a brow at him. “Maybe. What’s it to you?” I neither confirm nor deny out of caution.

“Well, I was thinkin’ you could have a drink with me.” He holds out the similar-looking drink. “The bartender told me you’ve been drinking cosmopolitans.”

I analyze the martini glass within a quarter of a second – the red liquid is dull, murky and the ice is bobbing at the bottom. I’ve lived alone in big cities long enough to know not to take drinks from strange men, especially when they look suspicious. I’ve dated enough men to know what this familiar uneasy feeling in my stomach means. My thumb maneuvers slowly and discreetly to my camera app and hit record. I would send my location to someone, if I had someone to send it to.

I smile politely, “I’m okay but thank you.”

As I predicted his energy shifts and he steps towards me, “Oh c’mon pretty girl, it’s not very nice to refuse a free drink.”

The fear coiling around my spine forces me to fake a laugh, “I’ve really had enough, but thank you.”

He steps even closer backing me into the pool table, the curved wooden corner digs into my lower back. The bar is so busy that nobody is taking notice of what he’s doing.

“I don’t think you heard me, it’s not nice to refuse a free drink.” He says lowly within the small space between us. “We could just play a round of pool and have a good time.”

The walls begin to cave in on me and air is vacating my lungs. I’m paralyzed, panicking and my heart is racing so fast I fear it may tear through my ribcage.

From the moment he was just near me I knew, I just knew.

I always know.

“I’m just not interested, I’m sorry.” The words slip from me quickly and I brace for verbal impact.

He bridges the little gap that’s left between us and sets each drink at each side of my hips, caging me in with my arms wrapped around my body and my phone still recording. “You think you’re better off with that toothpick of a date you have?” He hisses.

Right on cue Noah returns, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

I must’ve really been working off survival muscle memory because I had completely forgotten Noah was with me until just now.

The mystery man pulls back from me with the biggest bullshit smile on his harsh face. “Oh, I was just offerin’ your friend here a drink.” He raises the drink to him.

I chuckle nervously and wave him away, “It’s alright Noah, it’s fine, he was just being nice.” I scratch my arm anxiously. I want the interaction to be over and I’m not expecting Noah to defend me, he barely likes me as a person.

“No Vallie, I saw him.” He sets down his beer and points a finger at him. “You were being fucking creepy.” His drunken voice is rising, and I’m scared that it’s only going to make the situation worse.

The man chuckles at Noah like he’s a puppy barking at mountain lion. “What is this your girlfriend or something?” He asks as though that it’s something he hadn’t already suspected.

Noah briefly glances at me then back at him, “Yes, as a matter a fact she is.” He states assertively but his poker face isn’t that good. I’m surprised that he’s even gone this far to defend me but I’m appreciative.

He laughs even harder, “Oh you really expect me to think a girly twig like you can pull a girl like her?”

Noah doesn’t skip a beat, “You think a meathead asshole like you could pull a woman like her?”

While Noah is scrawny compared to this traditionally “macho man”, I think that was the manliest thing I’ve ever seen a man do for me.

However, it is painfully clear how drunk Noah is by the way he chooses to get in this huge man’s face.

“You’d better fucking watch it, Toothpick.” He growls in his face, then breaks eye contact with Noah to look over at me. “This pathetic joke of a man is your boyfriend?”

Noah doesn’t waver, doesn’t back down with tight fists at his sides but I can’t take it anymore. I may not get along with him, but he doesn’t deserve to be insulted like this on my behalf.

“Yes.” I say confidently with a straightened back, even though it couldn’t be farther from the truth. “Yes, actually, he is. And I’ll prove it.”

I instantly realize that I have no idea how exactly to prove it. So, I go with the first thing I think of within a split second.

I give Noah a brief look that says play along – though, I’m not sure he had enough time to understand the message because when I stand on my tippy toes, take his face in my hands, and land my lips into his, he freezes.

It feels like time freezes too as my eyes flutter closed and I melt into the kiss. Drunk in this shady bar, in this shitty scary situation, right now, it feels like it’s just me and Noah. In this moment, with our lips locked, the bar is quiet, everything is calm, and it feels really fucking good to win at pool. I can’t tell if the swirling in my tummy is from the panic or from something else entirely.

When I finally pull from him, my brows can’t help but furrow together in confusion. He looks back at me with a similar expression – though it’s hard to really decipher any real reactions in his glazed over eyes.

What the fuck was that?

The asshole is visibly over the charade. “What the fuck ever. Maybe next time you shouldn’t let your slut of a girlfriend leave the house looking like a whore.”

Before I even have time to process what he just said, Noah’s fist swings and crashes into Mystery Man’s face.

“Oh my god.” I gasp and bring a hand over to cover my mouth in shock.

It takes a second for the muscular man to react, his hand immediately going to his now bleeding nose. He doesn’t fully realize his condition until he holds out his fingers covered in blood.

His mean eyes then land on Noah like he’s a bullseye target. “You little fucking shit.” The man charges at him and in the blink of an eye, he’s on top of Noah on the ground just pummeling into his face.

“Noah!” I run over to him, not really knowing exactly what I could do.

Luckily, we’d already garnered the attention of the whole bar, so other similar sized patrons were able to pull the man off Noah before he had time to do worse damage. They drag him to the opposite corner of the bar and they fade into the background with my focus now being on Noah.

“Fuck Noah.” I mutter as I land on my knees near his head. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I stammer frantically looking around at what I could use to help him. The workers near us must’ve read my mind because they brought over a huge stack of napkins. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

He says nothing and flutters his glossy eyes closed when I start to clean him up. He winces when I dab the blood gushing from his nose. “I’m sorry.” I repeat breathlessly, trying my hardest to keep a panic attack away. He flinches a bit when I try to gently wipe his busted lip. “Sorry.” I repeat again, because what else am I supposed to say to someone who just got beaten up because of me. I don’t dare go near his already swollen eye until I get access to some ice… or maybe some frozen peas.

“Should I call Nicholas? Or Jolly?” I ask meekly, folding the napkin within my hands.

Noah groans. “Nicholas.” He brings his hand to his forehead. “Don’t call Jolly. He’ll kill us.”

There’s something about that word in that statement. I can’t explain it, but it seems so much bigger than just Noah and I.

Before he finishes his statement, I’ve already texted Nicholas. I’m surprised at how quickly he responded and even more surprised when he says that he’s not even 5 minutes away.

“Nicholas is here? He said he’s visiting a friend at a tattoo shop in this strip.”

“How convenient.” He grumbles sarcastically and uses his hand to cover his eyes.

When I return my gaze to him, I notice his bloody and bruising knuckles. “Oh my god your hand!” I gasp and take his hand in mine. I urgently steal the condensation off a nearby beer glass to wet a clean napkin and use it to delicately clean each knuckle. An overwhelming sense of guilt fills my chest, and another even worse feeling wraps itself around my throat with thorns. My heartbeat begins thumping so hard I can hear it in my ears and I’m trying my hardest to steady my now trembling hands.

He peeks an eye at me while keeping the other scrunched closed. “Are you okay?” His voice is soft with an inflection reminiscent of concern.

My eyes begin to burn the minute he acknowledges my panic and only makes everything worse. I focus intently on where the napkin is meeting his skin. “Mhm.” I know the moment I open my mouth to speak any semblance of emotional control would disappear. I discreetly attempt to stabilize my breathing so that it might tether me back to earth.

“Hey,” His brows knit together and lifts himself up onto his elbows. I never let go of his hand. His other hand finds my chin and gently redirects my gaze to him. “What’s wrong?”

My eyes fill with tears but immediately screw shut in a last-ditch effort to keep my composure. I rarely cry and even more seldom do I cry in front of others. And here am I, about to cry in front of the person I least want to.

The lump in my throat is painful and I try to swallow it down in an attempt to keep my tears at bay. “I’m fine, just let me keep cleaning you up.” My cracking voice gives away just how close I am to unraveling. A tear escapes me and I’m quick to wipe it off with the back of my hand.

He sternly but gently grasps my wrist to stop me from continuing. “I’m not letting you keep going until you tell me what’s wrong.”

“I don’t know… a panic attack maybe?” A couple more tears escape, and I swiftly wipe them away. “You don’t deserve this, this is all my fault.” My eyes fall back down to his bloody hand in my own. “You look like this, because of me.”

He sits up more, analyzing. I can feel him dissecting me – even though we’re both drunk, it feels like he can see right through me. “I think it’s more than that Val. What’s up?”

That’s the first time I’ve heard my name come out of his mouth without some sort of insult attached to it. It sounds nice. I wouldn’t mind hearing it that way again.

My breathing is slowing down marginally, and I choose to ignore that his touch might have something to do with it. Surely it couldn’t have anything to do with it, right?

I take a deep inhale in preparation to speak without crying. I hold his bruised hand carefully with both of mine. I keep my attention on my thumb that is grazing across the black ink on his fingers. “Um.” I press my lips together and take another breath through my nose. He gives me my time, doesn’t rush or interrupt. “I don’t want to talk about it,” I hear my own voice crack and it feels like I’m somehow betraying myself by crying. “But, it’s not the first time something like…that has happened.” I blink some tears from my eyes and still focus on his hand. My voice is small and quiet, not the way I ever like to hear it. “It’s not even the second or third. And they’ve all been so much worse.” I let out a sad, sobby chuckle. “Which is why me crying about this is so fucking stupid because this was nothing. Worse things happen to people all the time and this was just some guy being a creep and–“

“Hey,” He rests his free hand on top of my own that were fidgeting more than I’d realized. “It wasn’t nothing. It was something. Something worth getting in a fight for. Okay?”

“It just shouldn’t be this upset over something so small.” My voice is not even a whisper. “It’s my fault.”

Weak

Is the only thing that is repeating in my head over and over.

I could’ve gotten myself out of the situation sooner.

I shouldn’t have frozen up.

I should’ve just taken the drink.

It didn’t have to escalate to that point.

I could’ve handled it on my own.

I shouldn’t be crying.

I was weak.

I am weak.

Weak.

He sits up and takes my chin into his fingers, titling my face up to meet his. The growing swelling all over his face only makes me feel worse. “You’re not stupid and it’s not your fault.” I know he’s trying to keep it together for me, but I can tell he’s struggling to form and deliver coherent sentences. “I don’t need to know any of the other instances to know that you were never stupid or that anything was your fault. Okay?”

I nod but it’s not enough for him. “I need to hear it.” The look in his chocolate eyes is one I haven’t seen in him before. Even behind his drunken daze and black eye, his eyes are genuine, kind, and concerned. A warmth blooms in my chest – it reminds me of when you’re running from the rain, and you rush into the safety of your car. That feeling of reaching a warm, safe place, that’s what I feel.

“Okay.” I reply quietly. “Thank you.”

While Noah is mere inches away from my face with his hand on my cheek, I hear a familiar voice. “What the fuck.” States an already irritated Nicholas.

Our eyes snap up at him and Noah instantly pulls away as if he has something to hide. Nicholas’ eyes shift between us, seemingly trying to decide which to address first.

“What the fuck did you do Noah.” His tone is immediately defensive.

Noah sloppily falls back onto the floor. His eyes go back to focusing on the ceiling. With Nicholas here, he looks unimpressed, maybe aggravated – definitely aggravated. For the person he told me to call, he seems quite unhappy that he’s here.

“No, no, it’s my fault.” I stop him before he continues to blame Noah. “He was protecting me.” I lower my voice into a whisper for the second half, “He helped me.”

“Bull fucking shit.” He sighs then the crouches down to inspect Noah further. He carefully pushes some bloody hairs away from his face, Nicholas’ touch on him is gentler than even mine. He gets a clear view of Noah’s face, it’s adorned with a black eye, a bruised nose covered in dried blood and a gashed open bottom lip.

“Do you think he’ll have to get that stitched up?” I bring up my thumb and chew on a freshly manicured nail.

He tugs at the injured boy’s lip looking at it closer, “No he’s fucking fine.”

While Nicholas is visibly angry, he seems oddly calm, at least calmer that I expected. I suppose it makes sense though, I’m sure this isn’t his first rodeo with a drunken Noah in a bar fight.

He lets go of his lip letting it harshly snap back into place earning a whine from Noah. “Hey!”

Nicholas stands up straight and offers me a hand to get myself up. Once I’m up in front of him, he gives me a once over, probably questioning my outfit of a lace corset and a skirt. “What were you guys doing here?” He questions angrily and closes a bit of the space between us.

“It’s a long story.” Between the alcohol, the fight, and my fading panic attack, I don’t have the energy to go through it all. He goes to argue with me, and I shut him down, mirroring his low grumbly voice. “I’ll explain later.”

His thick brows fall straight, evidently not liking my answer. He takes a moment, as if he’s trying to decide on the next thing to say without pissing me off. “He could’ve gotten you hurt. He could’ve hurt you.”

I scrunch my brows up at him. Sure, I’ve seen Noah storm out of numerous doors, and I saw him get a little abrasive with Bryan earlier, but would he actually hurt someone? Would he have hurt me?

“He didn’t, Nicholas.” I place my hand softly on his chest in an effort to calm him down. “Believe it or not… he saved me.” The sentence surprises even me as I say it.

Skepticism plasters itself across his face. “Saved you from what exactly?”

My eyes flutter to the ground and the same panicky feeling from before spins behind my ribcage. “It doesn’t matter.” I wave away the technicalities. “Point is, he didn’t do anything wrong. You should let up on him.”

He gives me a you’ve-gotta-be-shitting-me look.

The man from before – which I learned from the guys that pulled him away earlier, that his name was Mike – is being escorted out of the bar by two men who look like security guards.

“Oh, so you didn’t just need one scrawny bitch you needed two?” He practically spits at me while wiggling beneath the guard’s grip.

“Excuse me?” Nicholas snaps immediately turning to narrow his eyes at the man.

He laughs, “This one’s even more pathetic.”

I’m not sure why that, out of everything, fills me with the most rage of all. Anger spreads through me like electricity and every cell in my body propels me towards him.

An arm hooks around my waist and recoils me backwards before my fists can reach his body. Even though Nicholas is shorter than Noah, he still towers over me, and I must look tiny in his arms.

Mike mocks me while the guards try to urge him towards the door.

“Shut the fuck up! Don’t fucking talk about them like that!” I struggle trying to escape from Nick’s surprisingly strong arms.

“Hey, hey calm down,” Nicholas hushes me with a little chuckle. “I got you.” His hand gives my side a reassuring little squeeze. “It’s okay.”

Once Mike is completely out of the bar a heavy weight is lifted from my chest and I can finally breathe again. Whether on purpose or by chance, Nicholas’ arm is still wrapped around me, but I don’t mind it. His warmth is comfortable against the frigid air of the bar. It feels nice, like a shelter.

Only then does it occur to me that any sort of panic or fear I was feeling before was soothed by him. In his arms I feel safe, and it reminds me of the way I felt with Noah earlier.

“C’mon asshole,” Nicholas snaps at Noah who’s looking half dead, still laying on the ground.

Noah covers his mouth and squeezes his eyes closed, “I’m gonna need a fucking trashcan.”

“Enough with the dramatics.” Nicholas rolls his eyes, and I can practically feel the impatience and aggravation radiating from his body. “Get the fuck up so I can get us home.”

There is that word again: us.

Us.

It’s a just small detail of wording but for whatever reason, I cling onto it like it means something.

Maybe my time with them won’t be as fleeting as I thought it would be.

next chapter -> 09 - Lavender Haze

tag list; @ladyveronikawrites @kingdomof-omens @persuasivus @strawberryruffilo [comment if you'd like to be tagged?]

A/N: The love for this story has honestly been so overwhelming (in a good way obv) and I couldn't be more grateful. I really thought this would flop lol so, thank you so much for every like, reblog, ask, or comment. It means the world to me truly. Thank you.

i love hearing your thoughts so feel free to share! (i'm really bad at responding to asks but i still love them 😅 i'm so sorry)

ALSO! Thank you so much for the love on my new series, Intertwined 💗 New chapter coming soon! 💗

#i s2g i’ve edited this so many time i can’t even look at it anymore #so here have it already 😭#cheers to this being the longest chapter of the series so far 🥂#i feel like vallie’s personality really shines through in this one #concreteburialplot works #bad omens fic #noah sebastian fic #noah sebastian fanfic #noah sebastian fanfiction #noah sebastian rpf #nicholas ruffilo fanfiction #nicholas ruffilo rpf #nicholas ruffilo fanfic #bad omens fanfiction #bad omens fanfic #noah sebastian x oc #nicholas ruffilo x oc #bad omens x oc #virality series

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five-rivers · 1 year

Text

Cryptid Crawl! 7

“You… aren’t a cryptid,” said the man who’d been chasing Danny for literal miles.

“What?” demanded the other unbelievable human being, who hadn’t been all that far behind the first guy. “Did these guys hire you to make us look bad?”

“Uh, no?” said Danny, who realized he’d said it like a question. “No,” he repeated, more confidently, because this was the plan. “I am making you look bad freelance.”

“That’s the wrong word, dude,” said Tucker.

“It’s pro bono,” corrected Sam.

“Pro bono.” He nodded. “Like Peter Parker.”

“Still the wrong thing.”

“What does Spider-Man have to do with this?”

“We both wear cool costumes and have our pictures taken, duh,” said Danny, not mentioning the superhero thing. He started to peel the contacts out of his eyes.

“What are you doing going around dressed like the Amity Park Phantom, then?”

Danny snorted. “There is no Amity Park Phantom. It’s just me and sometimes my friends messing around.”

Crawly’s face turned dangerously furious. “It’s what?”

“This is like…” He waved his hand vaguely. “A prank? Follow people around, spook them a little? It’s something we do sometimes, for the bit.”

“The bit? What do you mean, the bit?”

“For the joke. You don’t think Amity Park is really haunted, do you?” Danny rolled his eyes theatrically. “I was going to do the same thing today, but then you started chasing me.” He pointed accusingly at Bill. “Like, you chased me for blocks. It freaked me out.” That last bit was hardly even a lie.

“Uh,” said Bill. “Sorry?”

“I mean, I guess it’s your job, but–”

“Wait, wait, wait,” said Az, who had lost a great deal of his for-television veneer. “If you’re not a ghost, how were you running that fast? How were either of you running that fast? That kind of speed isn’t possible for normal humans!”

“Yeah, duh, that’s because Bill is an ex-military super-spy!” said Crawly, leaning on Bill’s shoulder.

“I’m retired from the spy business, actually.”

“That’s not the point!” said Az, throwing his hands up in the air. He then pointed accusingly at Danny. “You!” he said. “Do you have any idea how this’ll affect our ratings? I can’t afford to go job hunting again! No one will hire Jimmy! He doesn’t talk!”

“Oh, yeah,” said Danny, unzipping the top part of the fake hazmat suit so he could shrug halfway out of it and tie the arms around his waist, “where are the other two stooges?”

Az spun on the spot and stalked away, followed by a good deal of the camera crew. Then he came back, dragging his brother and Jimmy with him. Danny’s eyes met with Jimmy’s.

Danny’s ghost sense started to go off– And he swallowed it. No breathing a bunch of weird blue fog in the middle of a sunny spring day on camera. Nope. Danny had to admit he was impressed, though. That was a very realistic human disguise.

“You,” said Az, “are getting interviewed, and you,” he turned his baleful finger at Crawly, “are getting off our set.”

“What set? This is an abandoned lot. You can’t make us do anything.”

They started bickering.

Apart from one of the hosts being a ghost, and the others being bizarre enough that Danny was wondering if they would fit in in Amity Park, this was actually going quite well. Neither show would have a coherent enough episode to make Amity Park interesting to any wannabe ghost hunter tourists. Or cryptid hunters. Whatever.

Gosh, the only thing they needed now was for the UFO hunters to come out of the woodwork. Or was Hannah enough of one to fulfill that category all by herself?

Before Danny could decide, a massive pillar of green light originating from a couple miles away lit up the sky. The sky howled and pulsed.

“What the hell was that?” demanded Az. “You guys saw that, too, right?”

“Yep,” said Ned.

“Hmm,” said Jimmy.

“Bill,” said Crawly, “I think this trip just became worth it again.”

They all left.

“What,” said Danny, “was that?”

“Uh,” said Tucker, “I’m working on it. Get Ember.”

“Ember?”

“Or Desiree or someone else who can either cause a massive distraction or unscrew reality because I am–” there was a crashing sound. “

“I’ll get her,” said Jazz.

Danny jumped. “Have you been listening the whole time?”

“Yeah, but it’s busy here, so sue me. I’ll talk to Ember, just tell me what you need.”

“Hey, Danny!”

“Dani!” exclaimed Danny, looking up. “Val!” He paused. “Are you sure you should be hoverboarding this close to the cameras?”

“Shut up,” said Val, “we’re here to give you a ride to whatever that was.”

“I’m on my way, too,” said Sam. “Hold on, there, Tucker.”

Danny, Val, and Jazz arrived to see most of the Groovy Ghost Blasters Extreme unconscious and stuck to various walls with bright green goo and Tucker trying to hack the GAV and Danny’s parents nowhere in sight.

“Where are Mom and Dad?” asked Danny, jumping off Valerie’s board. Valerie tapped her heels together, retracting the board as soon as he was off.

“Chasing the tiger. Apparently they think it’s a ghost.”

“Great,” said Danny, rubbing his hand down over his face. “Sam’s not going to be happy about that.” He jogged over to the Groovy Ghost Blasters Extreme and started checking vitals. “Everyone looks alive.” Now, he should get them off the wall and to a hospital or something. Getting knocked out wasn’t generally good for people…

“What should I do?” asked Dani.

“Uh,” said Danny. “I don’t know, Tucker? What was your plan?”

“Uh,” said Tucker. He pointed at a trailer that held the ruins of several vehicles. “Stage.” He pointed at the smoking holes in the street. “Mist from black ice?” He pointed at the GAV. “Lighting and sound system? I don’t know, man. I’m just making things up. There’s no way we can hide this on our own.”

“The hunters are getting closer,” said Sam. “It’d be great if I had some help slowing them down.”

“Okay,” said Danny, “okay.” He ran over to the GAV and used his handprint to sign in. Most of the controls were still locked out for him - no driving license - but it got Tucker that little bit forward. “Uh, then, Dani, you fill up anything smoking with dry ice, Val, you and me, we need to get those guys to a hospital.”

“I think I’ll have to do that myself,” said Val, “unless you have a hoverboard.”

“To cut them out,” said Danny, producing a pair of Fenton Scissors from his pocket and walking over. “Otherwise, that stuff won’t come off unless you take a wall with it.” He spoke from unfortunate experience. Usually, he’d just phase them out, but… witnesses.

Things had been going so well, too.

“Babypop is letting me perform in his precious city?” asked Ember, eyebrow raised.

“Assuming you do it fast, yes,” said Jazz, blowing a strand of hair out of her face. She was covered in flour, eggs, butter, batter in various states of mixture, and icing. “You know that your performances were never the problem. The problem was the mind control.”

“But he’s suddenly okay with it now?”

“He’s got to hide the results of a ecto-gun fight between our parents and trigger happy ghost hunters. Tucker thinks their ATV trailer could be covered up as a stage.”

“And why should I? If Amity becomes famous, maybe some of that spills over. More people to hear me play. More people to shout my name.”

“Do you want to be famous in your own right, because of your music, or because you’re a ghost?” snapped Jazz.

“What do you think, babe?” asked Ember, leaning back towards the rest of the ghosts.

“Do it, and show them the error of underestimating you!” said Skulker, around a mouthful of cake, and how did that even work, exactly? Jazz just… ugh. She didn’t want to know.

“Okay, yeah, sounds good. I’ve performed on worse. I’ll take a look.”

“Maybe we should call an ambulance, actually,” said Danny. Getting knocked out like this and staying knocked out was generally a bad sign.

“And screw things up for whatever friend you’ve got coming to turn this into some kind of rock show?” asked Valerie.

“It’s just Fenton Sleeping Gas,” called Tucker. “According to the weapons logs, anyway.”

Danny briefly looked skyward. “Why do they even have that? I swear…”

“I have Ember on her way, better get Valerie out of there.”

“Yeah,” said Danny, “just, uh. Dani! Help Val carry these guys, will you?”

Dani dropped another chunk of ice into a hole. “On it!”

“Cool, cool, cool,” said Tucker. “There’s so much stuff. Why is there so much stuff?”

Danny wasn’t sure if he was talking about the code in the GAV, the weapons in the GAV, or the debris scattered all over the road. In any case, there was a lot of stuff.

But Valerie was flying off, and… “Sam, do we have an ETA on those guys?”

“You’re lucky they didn’t have cars,” said Sam. “Halfway there.”

“Thanks.” Danny transformed and started pushing stuff out of the way. He also did the fastest structural ice-work of his life, covering up the trailer and making it look more stage-like. He hid several of the gaping holes in the street– hopefully being filled with ice wouldn’t make them worse– and worked on putting out the few fires that were still going, despite Dani’s ice.

Then he paused and surveyed his work. It looked…

… Bad.

Genuinely, there was no way around it.

“Oi, babypop!” called Ember from above. “What’re you doing chilling out when it’s time to rock on?”

Smiling at Ember was a new experience for Danny. Maybe–

“Hey, uh. That one terrifying camera guy is fighting a tiger, now, what do I do?”

The tiger. The one his parents had been chasing.

“Sorry, got to go!” he shouted.

“Are you ditching me?” demanded Ember.

“It’s not you,” said Tucker, “it’s the tiger.”

“That’s a tiger,” said Ned. He might have been more concerned about the situation if the tiger wasn’t running away from Bill.

“Hng,” said Jimmy.

“Genuinely a tiger. Just a tiger.”

“Hm,” said Jimmy.

“You know what? I’m done.”

“Yes! Get it, Bill! If we can’t have a cryptid we can at least get an anomalous big cat!”

“Hm?”

“Just done. Done with this, done with the show, done with everything. I want to retire and work on classic cars.”

“You can’t retire,” hissed Az, who was hiding behind Jimmy. “You’re in your thirties! And we don’t know what that light was, yet!”

Ned was very tempted to say screw the light.

Behind him, the producer attempted and failed to call animal control.

“Fine, we can go see what the light was about, but if we get there and it’s a kid in an iceberg–”

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, like you never watch cartoons.”

“Yes! Yes! Now zoom in on its face. I’ve never seen a tiger like this before, maybe it’s endangered!”

“Please, please set up,” begged Tucker. “Please start playing.”

“Uh, no,” said Ember, crossing her arms. “I’m not performing for an empty street.”

“You said–”

“I’d said I’d take a look. So here I am. Looking.”

“Ember,” squeaked Tucker. “Come on. You got free cake.”

“For staying hidden, yeah. But that’s not my point, geek squad. Don’t you think that me playing to absolutely no one would be suspicious? No way this is a concert. It’s a special effects test for later this week. And you’d better believe that later this week, I’ll be collecting.”

Danny flashed into visibility in front of his parents and prepared himself for a very long chase.

They eventually got hold of animal control.

“No, you can’t be here. I’ve got it cleared with the city to test this stuff, and it’s proprietary. You’re lucky security is on break, so you’d better get your stupid cameras out of here before they get back.”

“But the light–” started Az.

“Pro. Pri. E. Tary. What. Part. Don’t. You. Get. Little T, how’s your martial arts class going, can you kick these guys out?”

“Uh,” said Tucker, who was honestly sort of impressed by Ember’s whole performance, improvised as it was. But then, he supposed she had practice. It must be hard getting a venue when you were dead and had no money. Between how she’d altered the stage with her powers and what she was saying now, they might be able to pull this off. “Maybe?” He sized up the tallest of the three ‘Investigators.’ “Probably not, actually.” Not without weapons, anyway.

“Whatever, it’s not like that’s what I pay you for.”

“You know what?” asked Az, who was, at this point, staring dead-eyed into space. “I’m done. Let’s go get cake.”

“That’s the smartest thing you’ve said since we got here,” said Ned.

“Cake,” said Jimmy.

“Oh, crud,” mumbled Tucker.

“What?” said Sam. He could see her head peeking out of an alley a few blocks down. “Are they not buying it?”

“Worse,” whispered Tucker. “They’re going for cake.”

“Hey,” said Crawly, as the tiger was loaded into the truck by animal control. “This might have been a bit of a bust, but we can still go get cake.”

“Any day where I get to wrestle a cryptid tiger is a good day,” said Bill.

“Uh,” said one of the animal control people. “It’s a regular tiger, just albino.”

Crawly held up a finger. “Hush, you.”

#danny phantom #dannymay #dannymay 2023 #dannymay 2023 day 23: rogues gallery #they're in there #i promise they're there #sort of #barely

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