#bumper x ps reader

[another-supernova-girl]

'Twas the Saturday Night Before Christmas - Wyatt Walker x Fem Reader

This fic is a combined fulfillment of my 2 remaining Wyatt Walker requests from last year, for dialogue prompts "I'd kiss you if you let me" and "I'd spoil you rotten if I got the chance" (both from anons). This is a winter holiday-centered fic, and was intended to be posted about a month ago, but...my motivation has been practically non-existent, and my mental health is in the gutter. I kind of fell out of love with this fic TBH (a crappy personal Christmas probably didn't help), which is probably why it took so long to finish, but hopefully some of you will enjoy it anyway. Gif is mine, as always.

PS : Moodboard at the bottom is not meant to be ethnicity-specific. I just had a very specific item of clothing in mind and there was only one model in the photos.

(( word count ~ 4,400 ))

“I don't need help!” the young woman shouted against the noise of passing traffic, before Wyatt had even closed the driver-side door of his truck. She hadn't even looked up at him as he slowly began to step toward her, loose gravel crunching under his boots. “Seriously,” she called out, finally glancing up from her own activities, toward the stranger in the 'Hibdon Tires Plus' button-down, the blinding sun at his back. “I've got this.”

Wyatt had been traveling down a stretch of highway toward his uncle Dallas' place to plan an upcoming heist, and had driven past a car pulled over on the side of the road – a not uncommon site. It had been in his rear-view mirror as he passed, when he'd noticed a young woman on the passenger side, fiddling within the confines of the wheel well, and he had taken the next exit to circle back around. He hadn't expected to be snapped at as a result, but he continued to approach anyway.

“I've got a better jack in my truck-”

“Look, mister...I'm a big girl,” she answered as he neared close enough to touch the bumper of her car, pausing in his steps to listen to the stranger, who, contrary to her phrasing, looked rather petite in comparison to himself. “I've already done most of the work. I don't need help.” The standard tire, low on air, was indeed leaning against the car, halfway between herself and Wyatt, the spare tire bolted into place. Wyatt glanced at her hands, gripping the crank handle, grease and blood on her knuckles.

“I see you've, uh...scraped yourself up, there,” Wyatt pointed out, and she glanced down to her wounds, exhaling with an eye roll, and looking back up to him. “Wouldn't be any trouble,” he insisted, taking a step forward, and reaching a hand out. “Ain't no reason for you to hurt yourself any more than you already have,” he added, and she let out a breath from her squat position on the pavement.

“Fine,” she finally breathed out, holding out the steel rod for the stranger to take.

❄️ ❄️ ❄️

“Are you always that stubborn?” Wyatt asked as he sat across from the stranger in the booth of a breakfast-centric diner, flipping through the menu, deciding between waffles and pancakes. True to her exasperated word, the work to change her flat tire had been mostly complete, but she had admittedly appreciated his assistance in the finishing touches of the task, and had agreed to join him for a meal after.

“I'm just...having a bad day, alright?” she declared, shrugging her shoulders as she gazed at the laminated pages.

“I bet,” Wyatt agreed, glancing up at her while she was distracted. If he'd caught proper sight of her the first time around, he'd have pulled over immediately. “Nothing like a popped tire to ruin your afternoon,” he continued, and she shook her head slightly.

“More like, dealing with the cost of replacing it,” she mumbled, picking up her glass to take a drink of watered-down soda. “I, uh...never mind,” she began and immediately ended, but Wyatt spoke up instantly.

“Maybe you didn't notice, but, uh...” Wyatt indicated the patch on his shirt. “I can get you a good deal-”

“I got laid off, today,” she suddenly piped up, and Wyatt's brows knit together as he sat up straighter. “My department got downsized, as of...” she glanced at her phone screen, “Fifty-seven minutes ago.”

“Wow, that's...shitty,” he admitted, unable to form a more articulate response, and she shrugged before dropping her shoulders and slumping back against the cracked, vinyl upholstery of the booth.

“It sure is,” she stated simply, staring at the handsome but ill-timed stranger across the table. “They say this shit comes in three's, so...you're not gonna dine and dash, and stick me with the bill, or something, are you?” she asked, a defeated half-smile across her lips.

“No, of course not. I, uh...I was just thinkin' that, um...” he hesitated, running his fingers through his hair, as he stared at the young woman across from him – pleasing to his eyes, and charming, despite the unfortunate circumstances they'd met under.

“I hope you're not about to ask me out,” she mumbled, glancing away from his umber eyes as their waitress came into view from across the restaurant. “No offense, but now is so incredibly not the time-”

“Well, actually, I was gonna ask how you'd feel about working at my car shop.”

❄️ ❄️ ❄️

“Think ya' got enough ornaments up there?” Wyatt asked as he stepped into the lobby of his auto sales and repair shop, watching the young woman who had infiltrated his life so completely over the last several months, hanging baubles on an artificial tree.

“I think there's still space for a few more,” she retorted, glancing down from her perch on the step-stool, toward the boss she had a less-than-professional relationship with. “You're welcome to make adjustments-”

“No, I, uh...you look like you've got it under control,” he answered immediately, standing to the side to observe her efforts.

It had been almost half a year since that chance day when he'd found her changing a tire on the side of the highway, and near-instantly offered her a job before he even knew her last name. At the time, he hadn't even been certain there was enough work around the shop, outside of sales and repair, to consistently fill up a forty-hour work week, but Wyatt had quickly found he'd underestimated the value she could bring to his business. Filing, secretarial work, payroll – mostly the excess responsibilities that fell on his own shoulders, he had placed onto hers, but she had become so much more than that. Not only to himself, but to the entirety of his staff, she'd become a near-constant morale boost, to the point that work simply didn't feel right when she was out during regular operating hours. It had even been her idea to have a small Christmas party, including a 'Secret Santa' gift exchange, and with several of the men without partners or much family to speak of, no one had turned their nose up at the idea. It had, unsurprisingly, fallen on her to decorate for the event, and so she found herself putting the almost final touches on the tree, preparing for the small, upcoming party.

It certainly looked more festive than anything Wyatt had put out for the season at home, the owner realized, as he glanced around beyond the tree, to the strings of lights and garland, the paper snowflakes adhered to the windows. His exploratory gaze did not go unnoticed.

“Am I missing anything?” a feminine voice spoke up, and Wyatt directed his vision back toward the young woman within arm's reach.

“Hmm?” Wyatt mumbled in answer, and the young woman took a step down the short ladder, closer to the floor.

“You look like you're searching for something specific,” she clarified, and Wyatt shrugged in response.

“I was, uh...makin' sure there wasn't any mistletoe hangin' around,” he answered, and she gave him a quizzical look.

“No, that...hadn't exactly occurred to me,” she answered, her brows quirked as she considered him. "Who are you gonna kiss in a shop full of dudes, anyway?"

"I'd kiss you if you let me," Wyatt blurted out, the words automatically falling from his lips before his brain could catch up. He instantly closed his eyes, his mouth opening and closing again without any more sound escaping, and when he finally opened his eyes again, he was not surprised to find her staring at him. The look on her face was not as easily discernible as he'd hoped. Before he could come up with something intelligent to say, the sound of his name being shouted across the shop caught both their attentions, and the two glanced in the direction of the voice. When Wyatt glanced back up in her direction before leaving the lobby, he found her back to him, her nimble fingers working at the artificial tree, her response still unstated.

When Wyatt arrived at the source of the shouting of his name, he found a semi-familiar man who occasionally delivered auto parts, watching out not for Wyatt, but the young woman in the lobby he leaned to the side to catch a glimpse of.

“I don't know how you get any work done with that hot little piece hangin' around here all day,” the delivery man uttered as he continued to stare, holding out a clipboard requiring signatures.

“How about you show a little respect, and stop starin',” Wyatt muttered as he scribbled his name on the form, pressing it back into the other man's hand, who voiced something sleazy in response. “Hey,” The shop owner spoke up again when his recommendation was ignored. “Why don'tcha pop your eyes back in your head before I rip 'em outta your skull?”

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The shop was mostly silent between the hours of closing, and the scheduled party, no one left at the auto-centric business save for the boss and his secretary, the Saturday before Christmas. All the mechanics had gone home in the mean time, for a proper meal, a shower, and whatever else, leaving the remaining two to do whatever it was they did when they were alone together. Rumors had swirled for months, though no one outside Wyatt and his secretary much cared about whatever was going on between the two of them. It had mostly just come to be a light source of amusement for the auto technicians, watching their employer and the only woman in the shop pretend that things were completely professional between them. It didn't much help their case of said professionalism when both had traded between themselves and the auto workers to make sure they had each other's names for Secret Santa.

“Wow,” Wyatt had stated simply as he stepped out of his office, through the garage portion of the building, and into the lobby. “This looks...I really don't pay you enough, do I?” he mumbled as his eyes scanned the tables full of laid out foodstuffs, the individually marked bags under the tree that would soon be joined with the Santa gifts, filled with 'masculine' treats like miniature bottles of liquor, meat snacks, each man's favorite candy, and of course – their holiday bonus checks. More festive decor dressed up the generally plain room, and the occasional ornament that didn't seem to quite fit in with the shiny, vivid baubles, dotted the tree.

“Probably not,” he heard a soft voice behind himself, and he swiveled about to find his only female employee, expecting to find her dressed in the same slacks and button-down she'd worn during the day. Wyatt's mouth opened slightly before closing again, no sound escaping, as he stared at her, and the shimmery blue dress that clung to her frame, and flowed out to end half way down her thighs. When he remained silent, and simply stared, she spoke up again. “Do you think it's too much?”

“I, uh...I think it might be a little too...little,” he answered, more articulate words alluding him. “Not sure how I feel about my guys seeing you like this,” Wyatt continued as she started to wander closer, watching his eyes, as his own focused on what she wore and what it failed to cover.

“I'm not worried about them,” she mumbled, reaching for his hand when he extended it toward her, staring at him intently as his gaze finally made it back up to her eyes. When he reverted back to silence again, his fingers stroking her hand and wrist as traffic flowed beyond the large windows, she glanced to the tree that she had put so much time into decorating. “So, um...how does everything look?”

“Looks great,” Wyatt murmured immediately, and she rolled her eyes and smiled, reaching her hand up to his cheek, and directing him toward the display beyond herself that she'd put so much effort into.

“I meant the tree,” she emphasized, taking a step back to watch him as he scrutinized her work. Beyond the vivid, reflective, jewel-toned baubles, Wyatt found far older pieces hanging on the occasional branch, made not of glass or plastic, but of cotton and pipe cleaners, construction paper and googly eyes. Wyatt stared at the aged crafts in silence, glancing over half a dozen trinkets from the past, finally reaching out to pluck off a miniature tree, made of glued-together Popsicle sticks, decorated with green paint and pom-pom balls of various colors. Flipping it over in his large hand, he found his own name scrawled on the back, misspelled and in his own handwriting, along with the year of the ornament's creation.

“Where...” was all he could manage as he held the school craft – older than the woman beside him – in his hand, his umber eyes twinkling from the reflections of the colorful lights, and his sudden, overwhelming emotions.

“Dallas,” she immediately answered, Wyatt's gaze drifting back to the tree to return the extracted ornament, and tug off another. “He found some boxes of...well, Walker history I guess, in his basement. Including your, uh...handmade ornaments,” she continued, as Wyatt began to explore the tree more thoroughly, drawing off each hand-crafted piece he found to inspect it more closely. “If anybody asks, I'll say they're mine,” she suddenly mumbled as the two of them watched a vehicle pull in off the street, and onto the lot the shop resided on.

“Think I'm gonna get embarrassed, or somethin'?” he questioned as he looked back at her, and she glanced out the window, at the second car that pulled in, noticing the beginnings of fluffy snow, falling from the sky, and reaching a few dozen windshields.

“I think you're already starting to get misty-eyed,” she confirmed, reaching for his empty hand when familiar mechanics started emptying out of their respective vehicles. “Hey, um...I need something in the back, and I need a tall person to help me get it,” she suddenly spoke up, and Wyatt's brows drew together as he followed her, dragged along by the smaller hand that gripped his larger one. The two of them eventually stepped into a narrow room full of boxes of files – not much more than a glorified closet – and Wyatt's gaze fell upon the tallest of the stacks as the lobby door opened, and new voices began to filter in.

“Which one?” he inquired simply as he glanced around, his secretary pointing to the door instead, or rather a piece of something plastic and green sat above the moulding. Wyatt reached up to grasp the faux foliage, comprised of green leaves and white berries, and before he could utter another word, his employee gripped the collar of his shirt and pulled him down to her height, her lips mushing against his. The fake mistletoe fell out of Wyatt's hand as he reached to cup her cheek instead, her back meeting a wall almost immediately as he pressed her against it, her body dwarfed by his own as his palms gently cradled her face. The sounds of their kisses were completely drowned out by the collective noises of the men that had begun to filter in to the lobby. “Is this because of what I said the other day?” he queried as he loomed over her. “Or is this my Christmas gift,” he added, nudging the green bundle on the floor with his shoe.

“The first one...kind of,” she confirmed, placing her hands against Wyatt's chest and gripping the fabric that draped over it. “I guess I also just...kinda got tired of waiting,” she added, shrugging her shoulders, closing her eyes as he leaned over her, placing his forehead against hers after he captured another quick kiss.

“The first day we met, you made it clear you didn't want me askin' you out,” he reminded, and she took a breath and sighed, shaking her head, the tips of their noses brushing against one another. “And! I wouldn't ever wanna make you uncomfortable, with you bein' my employee and all.”

“Do I look uncomfortable to you?” she spoke up, and Wyatt stood back up straight, carefully cupping her jaw as he looked over her features. “Funny,” she mumbled, reaching up to grasp his hand.

“I'm serious, though...I'd rather you be comfortable than prioritize my own...” his words fell away as she stood up on tip-toe to steal a kiss, then another, Wyatt chuckling when she nudged him back against the closed door. “Think we oughta get out there, before the boys start dippin' in to the eggnog,” he mumbled, though his arms continued to rest around her waist.

“Wait, not...hold on,” she answered suddenly, slipping out of Wyatt's grasp as she stepped back toward a stack of boxes, reaching an arm through the crack of shadowy space between them. “Why don't you go ahead and, uh...open your gift,” she mumbled, pressing a pristinely wrapped present into his hand, the paper's pattern distinct and aged.

“I can wait-”

“No, really...go ahead,” she encouraged, and he lowered his gaze to the paper-sheathed box. Glancing up at her for a moment, he cast his eyes back to the item in his hands, and began to carefully open it, guiding a finger between the edges of wrap. Pulling the paper away, a confused look formed across his face, and he managed a simple, questioning, “You shouldn't have?”

“Oh my g-...keep opening,” she huffed, and Wyatt's brows drew together as he stared at a box meant for fuses, but he continued along, finally drawing out something rectangular from inside, packed with green tissue paper. Glancing up at her expectant face once more, Wyatt tore the remaining paper away and stared at the framed photo in his hand. His eyes darted back to hers, and down to the picture again – a joyous moment between a child-version of himself, and his deceased mother, captured on film.

“Dallas?” Wyatt asked simply, his mouth pressing into a strained frown as moisture began to well up at the corners of his eyes.

“Of course, Dallas,” she mumbled, reaching up to brush fallen strands of hair from his face as he wiped away quickly-forming hot tears from his cheeks. “I didn't quite hit the $25 limit, but-” A pounding on his office door, beyond the file closet they stood in, cut off her words, and Wyatt wiped more tears away from his eyes as he stood up straighter. “I, um...I knew you wouldn't wanna cry in front of your guys,” she whispered, and Wyatt's gaze met hers, lifting up a tear-dampened hand to brush her hair back from her face. “Do you like it?”

Wyatt tilted his head as he considered her, a half-smile tugging at his lips as he leaned in to press a kiss to her forehead, “I love it.”

❄️ ❄️ ❄️

To neither Wyatt's, nor his secretary's surprise, the party was already a festive, joyous success by the time they made it out of the closet, their emergence fortunately going unnoticed. The mechanics, and guests who had arrived as their plus-one's, quickly dived into the food and drink, including the alcohol-infused eggnog, and a collection of gifts – mostly in holiday-themed bags – began to accumulate under the tree, among the initial shop-financed gift bags. A particularly shiny box was eventually added after Wyatt disappeared briefly to his office, and within an hour of the gathering beginning, bags and boxes from under the tree had slowly began to disappear as they were collected and opened.

Eyes glancing around the room to make sure all the employees and their guests were distracted, the secretary dropped her gaze to the box in her hand, wrapped in a way that displayed effort despite a lack of skills – the paper metallic and holographic, the edges cut jagged from failed attempts to slice a pristine line. The tag on the gift stated it was from 'Santa', but the handwriting was instantly recognizable as Wyatt's, and she glanced his way, relieved to see his eyes focused elsewhere, before she began to pluck at the clear tape. A wave of discomfort washed over her as she exposed the interior, a smaller box inside the larger box, this one upholstered in a velvet-like fabric. When she glanced back up again, she found Wyatt's umber eyes trained on her from across the lobby, a bottle of domestic beer in his grasp. Taking a deep, nervous breath, she inched the smaller box open, and was met with a loud smack of hinged edges meeting each other when she let it close again. Staring at the fabric-covered box, she glimpsed inside once more, then quickly closed it again. Wyatt let out a sigh from his isolated corner of the bustling room as he watched her cross it, and disappear down the short hallway that led to his office.

She was plopped down in his swivel chair by the time he entered his office, himself, to join her, away from the noise of the party.

“So, you make me make the first move after almost six months-”

“I didn't make-”

“And then you draw my name for a $25 gift, and end up spending...do I even wanna know how much you spent on this?” you asked, exasperated as she gripped the jewelry box in her hand. His silent stare drew a sigh out of her, and she sat the box down on the desk. “More than my rent?” Wyatt looked away to some invisible spot on the wall. “Two months of my rent?” Still no answer. “Please...tell me there isn't anything on the sales lot priced lower than what you spent,” she implored, and her boss glanced toward the parking lot beyond the window at her back. “Wyatt?!”

“I'm thinking!” he answered, watching her slump back in his chair. “I can't remember the price of every car out there off the top of my head,” he insisted, but both the boss and his employee knew that wasn't true. He was too meticulous for that, which only served to validate her irritation. “Do you not like it, or-”

“It's not...this isn't about whether I like it or not-”

“So, you do like it,” he interrupted, and she rolled her eyes, shaking her head slightly.

“...Well, of course I like it,” she finally mumbled, a smile finally returning to Wyatt's lips as he pushed off the door with his foot and took a few steps, sliding into the stationary chair on the opposite side of his desk than normal. “But, that isn't the point,” she huffed, watching him as his shoulders shifted, as he made himself comfortable. “This is...this is way too much.”

“There's no such thing,” he responded, and she slumped further against his chair, glancing toward the door at the sound of a clatter beyond it. “I'd spoil you rotten if I got the chance, darlin',” he continued, “If you gave me that chance.”

“I don't need you to spoil me,” she muttered as he stood up and stepped around the desk, sinking down to sit on the floor by her feet, his legs crossed. “Just be normal...ask me out on an actual date, or something,” she offered, a roar of laughter from a handful of voices erupting from the lobby, drawing both of their attentions.

“So...should I take the necklace back, and-” he began, but she swiped the box before he could lay a hand on it from beside the desk. “No?”

“No...I like it,” she admitted, opening up the box again, finally drawing out a pendant hanging from a delicate, silver-toned chain. “What is it, anyway?” she asked, gazing at the flashes of color that seemed to shift in the glow of the flood lights, streaming in from the window.

“Uh...Tanzanite?” he confirmed, though he sounded a bit uncertain. “I never heard of it, but I guess it's your birth stone?” he explained.

“One of them,” she confirmed. “Certainly the most expensive.”

“Well...I also thought it was the prettiest,” he insisted, tugging his phone out of a denim pocket and shining the flash light on the gem. It shifted deep blue to vibrant green, hints of violent at the furthest edges. “Rare, and unique, and...beautiful,” he continued, staring at the glistening stone before his gaze shifted higher, to the eyes of the young woman that sat before him.

“Guess I'm...lucky you pulled my name,” she finally mumbled, and he winced as he began to stand up, his knees aching a bit as he rose, the sound of something breaking in the lobby convincing him it was time to rejoin the festivities.

“Actually, I had to trade with one of the guys,” he admitted, taking her hand to give her leverage to stand, her feet a tad unsteady as the booze-spiked eggnog she'd enjoyed earlier began to take noticeable effect. “He didn't wanna give up your name, either.”

“That's funny, I had to trade for yours, too,” she answered, grasping the box in one hand as Wyatt held the other. “But, um...he was kind of thrilled to get rid of it.” Wyatt shrugged as he reached his empty hand for the doorknob, but his secretary grasped it gently as his fingers formed a grip around the brass-toned metal. “I wouldn't have taken no for an answer though, just so you...” she finally shrugged, and Wyatt leaned against the door to watch her flustered form. “I wasn't gonna let someone else make you cry,” she murmured, and he chuckled softly as he recalled the gift, or rather gifts that she had given him. Not just the photo, or the ornaments, he realized. She'd dug up a piece of his past he'd thought long gone, and he was grateful for it, and for her. As he began to lean in toward the expectant young woman before him, the knob in his hand seemed to turn of its own accord, and the door opened up to reveal a few of the more inebriated employees, mentally returned to their teen years, trying to catch a sight not meant for them. The door immediately closed again in their faces as Wyatt shoved his palm against it, his other hand weaving into the young woman's hair as he leaned in for a kiss.

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❄️ ❄️ ❄️ ❄️ ❄️ ❄️ ❄️ ❄️ ❄️ ❄️ ❄️ ❄️ ❄️

Comments and reblogs are appreciated and encouraged. I have a bad habit of not always responding, but I read them all and they make my days less miserable.

tagging : @gissellec1 , @sashimeep , @callsign-fangirl , @jessy02 ,

@charliehoennam , @bleeding-heartz , @amethystblackkchaos

MY TAG LIST HAS BEEN UPDATED TO THOSE WHO REGULARLY COMMENT OR REBLOG. SEE MY PINNED POST FOR DETAILS. I WILL NO LONGER BE TAGGING PEOPLE WHO NEVER COMMENT OR REBLOG MY FICS.

[plus-size-reader]

Rivalry

Bumper Allen x Plus size!reader

Word Count: 1048 words

Warnings: Lil ansty?

Summary: Being Bumper's girlfriend and him being surprised when you audition for the Bellas

——————————————————————————————————

You could hardly breathe as you looked out around side stage, out into the small crowd of longstanding acapella groups.

Right there, toward the back of the auditorium was Bumper and the Trebles.

You figured that he would be here, with this being his thing and all, but you were sort of hoping you’d be able to figure this out without him seeing.

You didn’t even tell Bumper about your audition this morning but it wasn’t exactly like you had a choice.

In all the time that you two had been together, he was constantly talking about how much he despised the Bellas and how ridiculous they were. There was nothing you could do to change that.

In the world of Acapella, they were literal rivals and you knew better than to try and remedy that.

Instead, you decided to just keep your singing talent to yourself. It was his thing, and you were okay with that, for the most part. Recently, you’d realized that there was an opening with the Bellas.

This year, they were making changes and you wanted to be a part of it.

Bumper was just going to have to deal with that.

Besides, just because you auditioned, didn’t mean that you’d get in. All you were doing was taking a chance and you expected him to accept that. It was all you could do.

In years past, you never thought you’d be able to even audition for them. Traditionally, they didn’t let in girls like you but that was changing now.

You had a real shot, and you weren’t going to waste it.

All you had to do was hope that Bumper would be able to get over it.

The audition song they’d settled on was ‘Since you’ve been gone’ by Kelly Clarkson, a song that you all knew by heart at this point in your lives. It may not have been your first choice but you were going to try nonetheless.

You just had to do it.

It was now or never.

You took a deep breath, swallowed the doubt in your throat, and made up your mind. You were going to do this, and whatever happened after, you would deal with it.

The room was silent as you walked out onto the stage, ready to make their decisions about you. However, there was another reason for their silence that you decided not to think about.

Everyone knew that you and Bumper were a couple, and that was going to create quite the problem if you got accepted into another rival group. You just hoped Aubrey would give you a chance anyway.

It wasn’t lost on you that he wasn’t exactly her favorite person.

...But as soon as you started to sing, all that faded away.

Your voice spoke for itself, and it was good. As much as she hated Bumper, Audrey knew that she couldn’t just pass you up, especially not with the current state of the Bellas.

She needed all the help she could get, and you would certainly do the trick in that department.

As it would turn out though, the audition part was never the problem. What you were really dreading was afterwards, when you would have to face Bumper over what you’d done.

Luckily, you felt so good after it was over that you forgot about that part for a couple minutes.

It wasn’t until he was in front of you that you had to actually reconcile with that.

“What was that?” he asked, not even bothering to take his feet down from the seat in front of him as he looked at you. Of all the things he could have seen you doing today, this wouldn’t have even cracked the top fifty.

...But here you were.

“Come on Bump, it’s not that big of a deal” you shrugged, hoping he would just move on. Really, it wasn’t the most important thing you were ever going to do.

You just wanted to sing a little and have some fun.

“Not that big of a deal? How is this not that big of a deal?” he gasped, shocked that you would even dare to say that to him. Acapella was his life, the only thing he cared about, and you had betrayed him.

To Bumper, this was the worst thing you could have done.

It was the ultimate betrayal.

“It’s just a club, I didn’t think it mattered” you shrugged, though that was partially a lie. You had a not so subtle suspicion that Bumper would have a problem with it from the very start.

...But you couldn’t change it now.

You had already auditioned and you thought it went pretty well. If you happened to make it in, you weren’t going to pass it up just because Bumper didn’t like them.

“Yeah, well, it does. You can’t be a Bella and my girlfriend” he huffed, crossing his arms across his chest like he often would when he was upset.

Usually though, he only did that when there was no more chocolate froyo in the cafeteria or when he dropped the much inferior vanilla froyo on his walk back to his building.

You’d never gotten into a real argument like this, but you weren’t going to just back down. You wanted to be a Bella and as your boyfriend, Bumper should have supported that.

What you shared should have been far more important than some old rivalry.

Until now, you thought it was.

“Well I guess you’re gonna have to get a new girlfriend because I’m not giving this up” you sighed, turning away as quickly as you could away from him.

At times like this, you hated Bumper for acting like this. You were there for him all the time but when you finally needed him to just be supportive, he couldn't do that.

You were tired of it.

Right now, all you wanted to do was go get some coffee or something while you waited for them to get back to you.

It would be good for you and Bumper to get a little bit of space, besides, he had things to do. The Trebles had initiates to and nothing could happen without his say so.

That had to be his priority, because you certainly weren’t.

[batmanrogues-scenarios]

Masterlist 3

Fluff

Big Vigilante S/O Being Gentle With Them : DS, MM

Metal Head S/O : DS, MM

Witchy S/O Doing Tarot : DS, MM

Crush Giving Them Cute Name in Phone : Riddler, Scarecrow, PI, MrF

Crush Rogue Is Out of the Costume : Scarecrow, MrF, Joker, Catwoman

Sleep Walking S/O : Scarecrow, Riddler, BM, MrF

S/O Being Amazing With Traps : Arkham! KC, Joker, Penguin

S/O Just Shows When Called : Scarecrow, BM, MrF, MH

S/O Proposing : MH, Scarecrow

S/O Insults Back for the Rogue: DS, Joker

Gifts for/from Rogues : All

Music Meister with S/O Making Musical References

Actor S/O Being Slasher in New Movie : DS, TF

Intimidating Gothic S/O : MH, MM

S/O Never Having Happy Christmas Before : DS, MM

S/O Wanting 50 Squish Mellows : DS

Kiss Under Mistletoe: DS, MM

Crush Vigilante Immune to Their Effects : Scarecrow, MM, PI

S/O Having Night Live : DS, MM

S/O Has Creative but Weird Solutions: Scarecrow (GN, Arkham)

Arkhamverse Scarecrow x S/O with Thermorecuration Problem

Mad Hatter x Wonderland Enthusiast

Wonderland Enthusiast Asking Jervis Out

MH and S/O Going To Costume Party, Other Rogue Wears Alice Costume

Reader Dressed as Alice Kidnaps Jervis

S/O Often Praising MH

S/O With Crackhead Energy : GS

S/O Being Cyborg : MH,.MM

MM Finding Out Ghost in His Hideout

S/O Being Captain Marvel: Arkham!DS, TF

S/O Just Baking at 1am : DS, Lego!Joker

S/O Being Fashion Disaster: DS, MM

Getting in a Relationship While in Civilian Break to Find Out New Rogue is S/O : DS, MM

Cryptic S/O : Scarecrow, Riddler, Penguin, Poison Ivy

S/O Being from Zombie Apocalypse : Arkham! TF, Penguin,PS

S/O Frauding IRS : Joker, BM, Penguin, PS

S/O Wearing Mustache Nose Piercing: Unburied!Riddler, Joker, MH,PI

Harley and Bumper Cars

Not Sure/Mix

Uncanny Valley S/O : Joker, Scarecrow, Riddler

Another Dimension MM Dating Their Daughter: Riddler, Scarecrow, TF

Rogues Experiencing Period : Riddler, TF, BM, MH

S/O Who Hibernates : MrF, MH, PI

S/O Resurrecting Because They Kicked Devil in the Balls : Arkham!: Anarky, Joker, HQ, Scarecrow

Crush Henchperson Who Can See Ghosts : MB, HQ, Scarecrow

Meeting Man Eating Siren: Arkham!KC, Scarecrow, MM

S/O Having Firepowers and Loving Fire: MrF, BM, Joker, Arkham!Copperhead

Past Best Friend Ending Up as a Hero : Scarecrow, UN Riddler, Arkham Anarky, Twojar Kiteman

S/O Using Spine of First Victim as Pitching Wedge : Arkham! KC, Scarecrow, BM, PI

Vigilante Flipping Script : DS, MM

Finding Posirive Pregnancy Test: MrF,MH, TF, MM

Comedic

Condiment King in Poly Relationship

Reaction to Scarecrow Saying Toxin Needs LSD : Riddler, HQ, MH, PI

S/O Saying Most Out of Context Insults : Arkhamverse! :Riddler, MH, Zsasz, KC;

S/O Doing These Threats (up, same rogues)

S/O Mistaking Them for IRS : Anarky, Copperhead, Bane (Arkhamverse)

"Can I make make meat taboocan out of them?": Arkham!GS,

Taboocan 2: Copperhead, TF, Joker

Kidnapped Y/N Just Chilling : GS, MH

Platonic/Singular

Friend Realizing They're Gay : Riddler, HQ, Catwoman, MM

Arkham Guard Friend : Scarecrow, MH, TF, Joker

Friend Being Too Much Into Daydreaming : MH, Scarecrow, HQ, MrF

Magical Sib Getting Mortal : Scarecrow, BM, HQ

Friend Not Knowing how to express Emotions: Scarecrow, MH, MrF, MM

Friend Wanting Nuke as a Kid : BM, Riddler, TF, Scarecrow

Sidekick/Kid being Ex-Robin: DS, TF

Robotic Protege Sib : Riddler, MH, Penguin

Friend Who is Neurodiverged : Scarecrow, MrF, Catwoman

Rogue Finding Kid with Batman Backstory: Catwoman, MrF, MH

Young Vigilante with Venom like Powers : BM, Scarecrow, PI, Joker

Best Christian Tree : MM, MH, PI

Seeing Cryptid : BM, Riddler, Scarecrow, TF

Friend Being Animal Magnet: HQ, MH, Catwoman, Scarecrow

Getting Scarecrow for Secret Santa : Riddler, MM, HQ, MH

How they Handle Blizzard : DS, MM

With Willing Person as Subject : MH, Scarecrow

Mr Freeze Meets Orphan Kid with Ice Powers

DS + MM Snowed Together

Drinking Out of Scarecrow Toxinated Cup: HQ, Riddler, Penguin, TF

Reaction to Ed Becoming Detective: Scarecrow, MH,MM

Reacting to Crane Being Caught by Mystery Gang : Riddler, MH, MM

DS Getting Muscular Without Noticing

Penguin Getting Growth Spurt

Friend Who is Ghost Pirate: HQ, MH, BTAS!Clayface

Dork Squad + MM Living Together

Magician Putting on a Mask: BM, HQ, Scarecrow

Art

Soda Queen and Milk Man

NSFW

Make me, Sexy Outfits BM

S/O Talking in Underwear Casually : MH, Scarecrow

Scarecrow in Lingere +18

MM First Time With S/O

[mandoinevarro]

heyy so i heard you were taking suggestions???

i cant stop thinking about this modern au where din is a detective and reader is either another detective or a witness or something and they end up working a case together? maybe set in christmas for an extra creepy vibe? smut or not ill leave that to you, but youre one of my favorite writers and id love to read your take on this :)

hey anon, you heard right! i'm sorry that it took me a bit long to write this but i liked your idea and i wanted to get it right, so here it is. i changed a few things, but hopefully you'll still enjoy it.

Din Djarin x f!reader

Rating: uhhhhhhhhhh T? M? i'll probably write more about this AU and if i'm being honest it'll most likely evolve into E—either way no minors

Warnings: well no smut so far but i have 0 self control so who knows what the future holds… anyway: crime, c*ps, mentions of blood, mentions of murder, missing people, mentions of drugs, and very unethical journalism :D

a/n: I realize that Horatio Mythrol is the dumbest name in the world but let's see you come up with a better one

Words: 4.8k

       TWELVE DRUMMERS DRUMMING

The early December drizzle fell like frozen needles on your cheeks. It dragged the lampposts’ light like smudged watercolor, creating a fuzzy orange halo around them, the only pigment outside of the black and grey spectrum. That and the yellow tape.

The sirens are off. Red and blue rotating lights are no longer necessary to alarm neighbors of possible dangers. This quiet suburban neighborhood in the outskirts of Nevarro has learnt to recognize the screeching tires of squad cars, the panicked murmuring of half-asleep officers and detectives.

Too cheesy. True-crime-podcast level of cheesy. Not that the Nevarro Bee was the pinnacle of investigative journalism and crime reporting, but the last thing you needed was to look like an amateur in your first assignment.

You hadn’t had time to give yourself a pep talk before the call came. It had jolted you awake, your screeching ringtone cutting through your slumber like oil in water, a rough voice that took you a couple of seconds to recognize: “Horatio Mythrol. 352 Cypress Street.” A pause. “You were right.” The line went dead.

Your stomach swirled with dread and sick excitement. With pride. Your hunch had been right.

The next call had been less ominous.

“I dunno, kid,” your editor slurred. You could hear the clicking of his typewriter, a leftover from his time as a stringer in the 80s. 2:50 a.m. and the old worker bee was still at the office. “You’re a rookie. This isn’t rookie work.”

“Come on, Fett, I got the tip.” All that time reporting on Little League games and interviewing the kaki-wearing winners of the Best Lawn Award had finally paid off. This was your one-way golden ticket out of covering county fairs—you’d rather stick your fingers below carnival bumper cars than writing another piece on the latest hot dog eating competition. “Fennec’s out covering that embezzlement thing in Corellia, who’re you gonna send? Calican?”

You heard him huff in time with a key jamming.

“Be serious.”

“I am.” You were already half dressed, stumbling from cold bedsheets to a colder bedroom with a leg half up your jeans. “I got the tip straight from the police department. From my source. I can do this.”

He typed to the rhythm of his ruminating. “You sure you wanna jump on the crime beat, kid? Cops can be assholes.”

“Can’t be worse than soccer moms.”

“Might be dangerous.”

“I’ve got pepper spray.”

It hadn’t been raining when you left your apartment. The jacket you’d worn for the cold, but you’d foregone the rain boots. You inevitably felt out of place in your stupid soaked sneakers, as you watched from a block away the warm, protective gear that cops and crime scene techs were clad in. A boulder settled deep in your stomach when you imagined yourself walking across the street with shaky hands and a notepad filled with more doodles than quotes—Baby’s First Crime Scene. The uniforms on scene would raise their snouts and smell it off you like brand-new plastic: a rookie, some amateur, a kid among the pros.

No. No, you could definitely handle this. You got the tip. For the time being, you were the first and only journalist on scene—even the nightcrawlers seemed to have missed this one—and this was your story. Christ, you could do this. Fett only asked for ten inches of copy and one quote from law enforcement. Piece of cake.

Your sneakers squeaked across the shining asphalt as you crossed the street, fingers trembling in your pockets from the cold and the anxiety. Nobody seemed to care much about your presence on the sidewalk. Officers circled around you, spoke codes into their radios, helped techs unload equipment. You were early. The chief of police wasn’t here yet, and neither were the detectives. Your source had been the first on scene—thanks to you, of course—so he’d kept his word, which you’d only half-expected.

A heavy-limbed officer ducks behind yellow tape with a black light in his arms. A crime scene technician in a white boiler suit carries a jug of luminol inside the luxurious 70s bungalow at the end of Cypress Street. Despite the fully-equipped van, the squad cars that keep rolling in by the second and the top-notch technology at the disposition of Nevarro PD, every uniform on scene carries the haunted look in their eyes of someone who’s been in this position one too many times. They know that luminol will not flare up white and neon inside this bungalow. They know that the only prints they’ll pick up will belong to the owner of the house, Horatio Mythrol, the man who is currently missing.

You walked until the yellow tape grazed your waist. Cops bumped into you, murmuring apologies or curses. Word was starting to get out, but not fast enough. The police station was a twenty-minute drive away from the crime scene. The uniforms that were already here had either been patrolling the area or running red lights. Or, of course, they’d already known what houses they needed to stake out—which was the case of your source. A man you couldn’t find anywhere among the hive of buzzing cops.

Shit. You needed that quote.

Flipping out your legal pad and asking random, grumpy cops for on-the-record quotes, pretty please, didn’t seem like the most sensitive plan of action.

This is the fourth disappearance in less than two months. The Nevarran upper-class neighborhood that has been rocked by what some call a crime wave (nobody really calls it that—most women in the line at the grocery shop insist it’s a serial killer) already shows signs of the fear settling into its inhabitants. Tall fences have been built, CCTV cameras blink red at passersby, some front doors have ditched Christmas crowns and mistletoe for triple locks. And yet, Nevarro PD insists the cases are not related. The public isn’t so sure. (The public, aka, you.) Last week during a press conference (that you hadn’t been allowed to attend) Chief—

“You, with the sneakers,” someone barked behind you.

It made you jump. It made your ears and neck warm because goddamnit you had to wear those fucking sneakers. Mostly, it made you want to trade places with Horatio Mythrol when you turned to find an officer in full uniform scowling at you, and you said the single stupidest thing you could: “Me?”

“Yeah, you.” The cop’s arms were crossed, highlighting the nametag on her left side that read Reeves and the badge on her right side that said Captain. “You live here?”

“Um, no.”

“You see anything?”

“No, I’m…” You knew it was a mistake before you said it. “I’m press.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Really? What, you want a quote?” Captain Reeves stepped towards you, you stepped back until your waist bended the yellow tape. Somehow, you didn’t think saying yes and pulling out your pen and legal pad would do you any good. “Well, here’s your quote, Press: The last thing we need in an active crime scene is a glorified web sleuth getting in our way and distracting officers. We have this under control.” She paused for a second to let it sink in. It did. “Beat it.”

And beat it you did.

Sort of.

You wore your best wimp face and scurried away like a scared little mouse running away from the Big Bad Wolf, an act you knew cops soaked up as their daily shot of god complex. You were only half-acting. Reeves’ coal eyes burned into you all the way to the end of the street, where tall cypresses prevented passersby from plunging into the river below. It was only after you spotted her telltale cop smirk and she turned around, that you took cover behind the cypresses to trek back to the house with what you knew was a shit-eating grin.

If one believed town gossip—and you certainly did—Captain Koska Reeves had a reputation for bending civil rights as far back as she did suspects’ arms: guilty ‘til proven innocent, anything you say I’ll paraphrase to my liking, if you cannot afford you ain’t getting one. Anyone with a brain would’ve marched straight back home—that is, anyone who didn’t know that Miss Congeniality here didn’t have the upper hand for once. Fourth disappearance in less than two months and Nevarro PD had a whole bunch of nothing, not a single print or drop of blood or speck of semen to waive around as a white flag. You saw it during the press conferences, when they babbled about unreleased information and an abundance of physical evidence. Bullshit. Reeves’ eyes had sunk deep into their pockets under the weight of all that imaginary evidence, under the Chief’s pressure and the Mayor’s boot. They couldn’t afford to fuck up, so she was playing this one close to the chest—if you had to guess, you’d say she was only calling in the police officers she trusted the most—the ones who were only mildly dirty— which is why, when you reached the back of the bungalow, there wasn’t a single one in sight.

Back in the 70s Nevarro was a hot hippie hub, believe it or not. This was before the real estate whales and big developers from Corellia moved in and ran anybody with sandals and bloodshot eyes out of town before they could say “fascist.” But Horatio Mythrol seemed to hold on to the summer of love, judging by the dream catcher hanging by the porch and the bright green conversation pit in the middle of his living room that you caught a glimpse of when you snuck to the bungalow’s backyard.

One thing about these authentic midcentury modern houses: the fences are never tall.

Still, not an easy climb. With the rain-slicked fence and the sneakers that you were definitely burning after this, you slipped and fell like a sack of potatoes into the backyard, crashing butt-first into a charming little allotment of what smelled like weed. Jesus Christ.

Moron Journalist Arrested for B&E, Tampering with Evidence

So when you rolled off onto the mushy lawn and peered at the property damage you’d caused, you thought you were imagining it. A flash of silver blinking at you from between the spiky marijuana leaves, it could only be an hallucination caused by your fall—but when you reached a hand inside the orchard and closed your fist around the glint, it materialized. Cold, ragged and metallic: a key.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

The scratchy voice fell on your shoulders like a piano in a cartoon. You jumped a couple of feet into the air and scrambled on your hands and knees, limbs shaking like industrial drills, searching in the dark for the source of the commanding voice that could only belong to a battle-worn detective or a serial killer or God. Either way, you were fucked.

A dark shadow stood above you, ominous like a closing shot of The Twilight Zone. You were dizzy from the fall and the adrenaline, blinking against the darkness to try and gauge the outlines. Tall male, broad shoulders, hands stuffed inside the pockets of a trench coat. Face darkened by the leaves of a sycamore above him. If the cold-induced mist coming out of his mouth had been cigarette smoke, he would’ve been a picture-perfect noir detective, the cover of a pulp paperback.

Mystery Man slowly removed a hand from his trench coat’s pocket. Your heart picked up its galloping, you thought you smelled blood. Your eyes were stuck on the pocket, racing with possibilities: handcuffs, a gun, Horatio Mythrol’s severed hand. No, just—a hand. His own hand. Extended towards you, palm up, like he was approaching a scared dog who needed to sniff his fingers before trusting the well-meaning stranger. It took you a moment to realize he was offering to help you up.

Probably not a serial killer, then. You lifted your right fist an inch, before you remembered the cold weight of the key, and extend your left hand instead. He grabbed you by the elbow and hurled you to your feet until your nose was a fist’s length away from his chest. He smelled like soap and rain and baby powder. You hoped he wasn’t some pervert.

“What are you doing here?” The voice was familiar. Not acquaintance-familiar, not like a neighbor or a friend. Backdrop-familiar. As if you’d heard it before in a crowded mall.

“I just…” Warning signs with Captain Reeves’ face flashed in your head. You stuffed your hands into your jacket, feigning a little shiver, dropping the key into your pocket. “I saw the squad cars and the tape.” Not a lie, a petulant little voice supplied inside you, as if you weren’t already on thin ice, I did see them.

“You live in the neighborhood?”

You knew you were walking the tight rope of what constituted honest-to-god, Pulitzer-worthy reporting. Below, the murky swamp waters of unethical journalism bubbled and invited you to fall over.

“I’m not far off.” Ten minutes wasn’t far.

“Right.” The voice gave nothing away, steady as a monitor flatlining. You couldn’t tell if he believed you.

“Are you…” Careful treading here. “Are you a detective on the case?”

You still couldn’t see his eyes, but you felt them on yours. On your shoulders, your arms, your entire face, unlike him, you didn’t have a sycamore to shield you from the moonlight. “Something like that.”

That was your cue to be a good little journo and reveal that you were press and hope you weren’t kicked out for the second time. But you had already ignored an officer’s orders, breached into private property, stepped into a crime scene. Most importantly, this man was law enforcement, and you still needed that quote. Dipping your toes in that murky water couldn’t do that much harm.

“Did…did something happen to Horatio?” You called this act Scared Neighbor. You even managed a little stutter and a shiver.

“That’s what we’re trying to find out, ma’am.” You caught a glimpse of his chin when a sliver of moonlight trickled through the sycamore leaves. Patchy stubble, strong jaw.

Trying to find out. Just like you thought, another crime scene where they would get jack shit. A couple of months weren’t nearly enough to declare that a case had gone cold—not even lukewarm—and yet your source was positive that this one would never be solved. The way he’d vaguely described it, the other houses looked like your run-of-the-mill suburban burglary: upturned mattresses, open drawers, slashed cushions. But a burglary didn’t explain the missing home-owners.

It didn’t help that nearly all cops in the department were busy protecting their sponsors. Good old Nevarro PD was a delightful bottomless pit of filth—they wouldn’t give anyone a parking ticket without triple-checking that they didn’t work for someone they worked for. Looking up at the shadow in front of you, you wondered who filled his pockets.

If the detective’s grasp on your arm hadn’t tightened, you would’ve thought he’d turned to stone. Whatever. He was welcome to think he was comforting Suburban Damsel in Distress as long as he gave you the information you were fishing for.

“Oh, I hope he’s okay,” you murmured in your best Snow White voice. “I…I heard about the other cases and… You don’t think it’s connected to those, do you?”

For a second, you saw the glint of his teeth. A tiny grin or a brief snarl. “Why were you awake?”

The commotion in the front porch was getting louder, more squad cars’ tires were screeching on the asphalt, your brain was going ninety an hour. “What?”

“You said you saw the squad cars. Not hear them.” His voice sounded amused—not in a friendly way, not inviting you in on the joke. You figured he was more used to playing Bad Cop. “They didn’t wake you up. So why were you already awake, looking out the street at three a.m. if—”

Someone flicked a switch inside the bungalow, and the sliding doors came to life, flooding the backyard in bright yellow light. The hand on your elbow pulled hard, guiding you to take cover behind the sycamore and dropping to the wet grass, bellies to the ground, guerrilla style. Uniforms and boiler suits poured into the mint green living room splashed with bright orange cushions and psychedelic carpets on the walls that could only be described as “groovy.” A Ouija board in the middle of the conversation pit. Had the spirits had the chance to warn Horatio of his untimely disappearance?

The detective’s breathing was hot on your ear and strangely comforting. His shoulder against yours, his heart racing as fast as yours, both of you staring holes at the sliding doors, trying to catch some irregularity, something they’d missed on the last crime scene, anything that would make this case make sense.

You were close enough to the sliding doors to count the hairs on the officers’ heads; and they were close enough to count yours, if any of them spared a glance at the backyard. You scooted closer to the sycamore’s trunk.

The place looked trashed enough for a burglary, all right. Stabbed cushions with their cottony insides spilling to the floor, open drawers with their contents scattered, an upturned table that seemed too short and sturdy to naturally tumble to the side. Your proto mattress was also disheveled enough to fit the style of the rest of the property. What you’d thought was a small personal allotment of cannabis for Horatio’s nostalgia nights turned out to be a plot that ran all the way past the sycamore, close enough to the fence that it wouldn’t be seen by outsiders.

“Huh.”

The detective’s shadow of a head turned to look at you. “What?”

You pointed a finger at the patch. “Didn’t take the weed.”

The patch where you’d fallen was the only part of the culture that looked disturbed; the rest of the plants were tall and perky, surprisingly green and purple for the winter, and most had already flowered. Any self-respecting burglar would’ve known that cash and drugs were the easiest goods to move—no middle man, and they change hands fast enough that in a few days they’d be untraceable.

The detective remained quiet for a long second, and you were starting to wonder if you’d have to explain what you meant when he whispered, “Maybe the burglar doesn’t smoke. Or wouldn’t know where to sell it.”

You managed a quiet snort. “In this town? Toddlers here can roll blunts.”

He was quiet for a longer moment, trying on your theory like a glove, flexing his knuckles to see if it fit. “You could be right.”

You barely had time soak up the pride when the commotion outside became tomb-quiet, snatched from the root. Seconds later, an officer marched into the living room: redhead, girl boss haircut, giving every tech and cop in the living room a foul look, as if they’d all fucked up already just by existing and were in for it. None of the cops met her eye.

“Chief Bonnie looks better on TV,” you whispered.

A sharp exhale, probably his version of a laugh. “If she ever hears you call her that she’ll plant coke in your car.” The woman took slow steps around the living room; everything she saw made her eyebrows furrow deeper. “Stick to ‘Chief Kryze.’”

You grinned. “What do family and friends call her?”

“‘Chief Bo.’”

You could’ve laughed, if Chief Kryze hadn’t turned to the sliding doors. You swallowed it down and tried to sink into the muddy earth. The chief of police opened the door, stepped into the grass, made a sour face at the allotment of weed where you’d landed. The detective had gone stone-still, his breathing imperceptible, and then it hit you—if he was a detective, why was he hiding?

Chief Kryze’s combat boots crushed the grass, her gaze made the air on the backyard collapse. She approached the sycamore, stared up at its branches or the moon or the heavens. You didn’t know if you should run from her or from the stranger beside you. With a hard sigh, she turned back to the bungalow, leaving you half-relieved and half-paralyzed with fear. You still needed to get away from this man, whoever the fuck he was.

You slowly tried to get on your feet but—of course, of fucking course—your sneaker squeaked like rubber ducks.

Chief Kryze’s head whirled back like whip, she snatched the flashlight from her hip and shone it right at your faces.

“Get up!” she barked, approaching you in long strides. You stood on noodle legs, ears buzzing, squinting at the light. “Get the fuck up and—!” Two long strides and she was almost chest-to-chest with the stranger. You were trying to block out the flashlight’s glare with a hand when her voice turned low and bitter, only a step above a growl and a badge above a punch: “Djarin.”

The flashlight clicked off. You blinked against the dark spots in your vision that it left behind, big enough to cover most of the chief of police’s face, but not dark enough to black out the fiery rage in her eyes.

“Good to see you, Bo.”

“I swear to God, Djarin,” Chief Kryze spat in a harsh whisper. “I swear to fucking God that if you have anything to do with this case, I’ll—”

“You think I kidnapped Horatio? What, for kicks?”

“I wouldn’t put it above you. Lots of people in this town wouldn’t.” He promptly shut up after that—it hit a nerve. And Chief Kryze knew it, judging by the long, triumphant gulp of December air she took and the lazy tilt of her head.

She strapped her flashlight back to her hip and said in her confident TV voice, “Frankly, I don’t give a rat’s ass if you did it or not. Actually, I’d love it if you had, that way I could slap a pair of handcuffs on you and throw you in gen pop, so don’t tempt me, Djarin. If I ever catch you at one of my crime scenes again, or at the station, or anywhere where I can fucking smell you, I’ll have a couple of uniforms stock your apartment full of hippie shit with Horatio’s fingerprints all over them, and sprinkle a bit of his hair there too, so I can be sure it sticks. I don’t have to tell you where that special someone you’ve got at home would be spending Christmas—I hear you’re well acquainted with that place, too.”

She closed her speech with a short exhale and a winning grin that, even in the dark, you could tell contained no joy—it was all teeth. Her eyes fell on you for the first time, looked you up and down, quirked an eyebrow. “You brought a date?”

“Came here all by herself.” Still his steady, low voice, rough like pavement; it tickled your spine. If not for the next thing he said, you would’ve liked the sensation: “She’s press. Nevarro Bee, right?”

The tickle became a sting, like an icicle lodged between your vertebrae.

You were gonna be sick. “I… I mean…”

“Unless you want your speech word for word on tomorrow’s front page, Kryze, I suggest we both forget about tonight. We both know Fett won’t think twice about printing it.”

Bonnie Katan-Kryze grabbed your wrist and yanked your paralyzed self towards the light spilling from the sliding doors. She gave you a look that matched the weather, a snarl pulling at her lip, her nostrils flaring. She was memorizing your face.

When you looked back at the sycamore, the man’s shadow was gone. Fuck him. Whoever that man was—pervert or detective or serial killer—, fuck him. He threw you like bait and scurried away to save his own ass.

“Unless you’re fucking brain dead,” Chief Kryze said slowly, as if she were, in fact, talking to an idiot, “I don’t think I have to tell you what will happen if you even think about printing anything you heard tonight.” Her fingernails dug into your wrist. “Because if you think that your little friend back there had it bad, you have no idea—”

The sliding doors opened a crack.

“Hey, Chief.” This time, you knew exactly whose voice that was.

“What?”

“Better take a look at this.”

Chief Kryze rolled her eyes and turned to the officer, ready to tell him to fuck off, when she let go of your wrist. The officer was holding the Ouija board. It was made of a dark wood that looked expensive, decorated with intricate arabesques, pentagrams, a siren. The letters were carved rather than drawn—and blood filled letters N to Z, numbers 1 to 0 and the “Goodbye” sign at the bottom.

Kryze dug a pair of latex gloves out of her pocket. Her hands were shaking when she put them on. “Mayfeld,” she said, as she carefully took the board from him. “Escort this woman off the crime scene. Frisk her for a note pad or a recorder. Take her name and address.”

Chief Kryze stepped into the living room looking ten years older; Officer Mayfeld stepped out looking like he was trying real hard not to give you a black eye. You followed him to the back of the yard, where you could see the river shining black. He opened a gate on the corner of the property and shoved you into the empty lot next to Horatio Mythrol’s house. You almost crashed face-first into an idle scissor lift. Fuck knows what they were building in there.

“So,” he says behind you, clasping his hands together, “did you hit your fucking head or something?”

Now that danger wasn’t imminent and the adrenaline had crashed, you wanted to sleep for three days. You were cold, tired and dirty with mud where that fucker had made you lay down on the ground. The last thing you were in the mood for was Mayfeld’s lecture. “Give me a break.”

“No, I’m serious. You need me to call you an ambulance, sweetheart? Because I don’t understand how anyone without brain injury would walk into a fucking crime scene—into Chief Kryze’s fucking crime scene—and get caught!” Under the moonlight, Migs Mayfeld looked paler than a ghost—a ghost about to get audited, pacing back and forth, rubbing a palm on his head. “You got any idea what you’re playing at? Huh? Why don’t you just print my face on the front page next time and call me a snitch?”

“Relax, nobody noticed I even knew you, let alone that you’re my source.”

“Source? I’m not your fucking source. I called you this once as—as a professional courtesy—”

“—because I did your fucking job for you. You would’ve never been first on scene to collect your Good Boy Badge if I hadn’t told you—”

“—I called you so you could write the story before any newspaper, not so you could come skipping with your goddamn notepad to play detective and network with the crowd. Who was that on the backyard, anyway? The guy Chief Kryze was talking to?”

He stopped pacing, breathing hard, but suddenly calm, his tone gentler. Piece of work, Mayfeld was. He could be booking you for murder and he’d still try to figure out a way to be buddies if it benefitted him.

You kicked a pebble. “Don’t know. Chief Kryze called him ‘Djarin.’”

Migs Mayfeld stared at you like you were Horatio Mythrol’s ghost making a peace sign. He didn’t blink for a full minute and then murmured, “Jesus H Christ.”

That got your heart racing again. “What?” You pictured Most Wanted lists, local prowlers, ex-cons. You’d been checking those lists since you started digging into this case, but you hadn’t been able to see the man’s face; you wouldn’t have recognized him either way. “Is he a suspect?” You thought of his hot breath on your ear, so close to each other.

Migs shook his head. “Christ, you really are new at this.” You gave him a blank stare until he exhaled the last of his patience. “Din Djarin? Private detective Din Djarin? Public-fucking-enemy number one to every cop in this town? Solved the Tusken Murders last year and made Chief Kryze look like a moron? Ring a bell?”

A chilly gust of wind came blowing from the south. Mayfeld trembled like a leaf, his teeth rattled like bones. He couldn’t stop shaking his head.

“If Din Djarin’s got his head in this case, it means we really are fucked,” he murmured, pacing again. “Happy fucking holidays to me.”

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