#close your eyes x reader

[talkingsaxy]

PHOTOS YOU’VE TAKEN OF YOUR BOYFRIEND YEOJUN

please don't repost, requests open! | masterlist | sign up for the taglist

taglist: @bang-chan-my-man, @slytherinshua (I thought you might like this one <3, it's baby gyehyeon)

[whenhypen]

who I take requests for.

groups I'm very comfortable with:

all(h)ours

ampers&one

arrc

boynextdoor

dxmon

enhypen

fantasy boys

zerobaseone

&team

groups I'd be will to try to write:

close your eyes

kickflip

one pact

tws

xikers

xlov

[teddybeartoji]

gojo feels like he's gonna DIE if he doesn't get to kiss you after you've just swallowed his cum. he's instantly tugging you up or he's dropping down to his knees beside you (whichever is the fastest yk) and he's just on you. lips locked, heavy breathing; his hands are just fucking all over you. he's sucking on your tongue, moaning into your mouth at his own taste. he's such a freak<333333333333

and i think he gets even more turned on if you make fun of him for it a bit. call him disgusting or call him a perv and he's popping another boner<333333333333

[ghost-proofbaby]

AND I REMEMBER THINKING, ARE WE OUT OF THE WOODS YET?

summary: you and eddie are given a choice.

warnings: strong language, angst, everybody's a hypocrite (still), the sort of fake dating plot has officially entered the chat, sugar (reader) is specifically an idiot, minors dni

wc: 5.4k+

a/n: dedicating this chapter as a blatant birthday gift to @fracturedarkness. i am so grateful to have you in my life and absolutely adore you to the stars and back <3 thank you for supporting this story so much, and for always just generally being such an absolutely lovely person. we are so undeserving of your presence and light. ily so much my dear friend <3

☆ prev chapter | masterlist | next chapter ☆

“For what it’s worth, I am sorry for what I’m about to ask the two of you. Especially now that I know the truth.”

The lobby is cold as Matt’s words echo within the confines of your mind. 

It’s cold enough that the front receptionist dons a cardigan as she types away at the computer, and the security guard wears a jacket worthy of a Chicago winter to identify himself. Cold enough to send a shiver up your spine as you trail behind Matt to the elevators.

Cold enough that innocent bystanders don’t notice the severely chilly shoulder you offer to Eddie the entire time.

You haven’t looked at him more than the one time when you approached the front door of the building, only offering him a fleeting glance before the two of you followed the path of his agent. It’s clear that Eddie should know his way as well as Matt does, but it doesn’t stop him from purposefully trailing behind you. 

In an elevator full of mirrors, even when you should have no choice but to look at the man who has opened up a chasm within your chest, you keep strict eye contact with your own reflection. You can see Eddie in your peripherals, and you can see the look Matt offers him over your shoulder as well. 

For what it’s worth, I am sorry for what I’m about to ask the two of you.

Eddie had kept you a secret. 

Especially now that I know the truth.

Or spun you into a blatant lie. You don’t know which one is worse. 

“You know,” Matt mutters as he fiddles with a key ring, unlocking the door to what is clearly his office. The plaque on the door says his name. “Normally, when your agent is calling you repeatedly in the dead of night, it means answer him.” 

It’s clear he’s speaking to Eddie, so you let him answer as you slide in past Matt as he holds open the door, “I did answer.”

“And then hung up.”

“I was busy.”

“Clearly.”

The office is surprisingly large, probably a deliberate illusion aided by the panoramic windows that occupy an entire wall across from the door. There’s shelves of awards and photos, cleanly lined up in pristine condition, a few even appearing to be copies of ones you’d spotted in Eddie’s apartment. Plated plaques engraved with achievements, photos of moments of the utmost importance framed by sleek black wood. Photos of Eddie, photos of Corroded Coffin, photos of unfamiliar faces. There’s a few empty spots that reveal the need for dusting, but there’s nothing that makes you particularly ache.

Except for one photo. A photo taken the day that Eddie had clearly signed Matt on as his agent; a photo of him shaking Matt’s hand, the smile on his face never having been more superficial. It couldn’t have been more than a month after the tour that you’d left him during. 

“I don’t understand why the front cover of some stupid ass magazine is so important,” Eddie grumbles as he follows you now, both of you deciding to stand and not yet sit in the empty chairs on the closest side of what must be Matt’s massive desk, “The tabloids run rumors about my dating life all the time-”

“Exactly.”

The door slams shut behind Matt, and he doesn’t bother to lock it. You’re sure whatever is about to transpire, Matt has informed the entire building to leave the three of you alone as you talk. 

“The tabloids are constantly running headlines about you and your mysterious affairs,” Matt continues as he rounds the desk, heading straight for a fairly comfortable looking office chair, “You’re always adding more fuel to the fire. And the label is getting sick of it, Eds.” 

There’s an edge to his tone that has you taking a seat the moment he waves for the two of you to do so. Eddie to your left, and a shelf of all that he is now to your right. A life he’s built without you. A life he drafted the blueprints for with you. 

“I don’t think I’ve heard anyone call him Eds in years,” you whisper under your breath, staring at the grey carpet below the soles of your feet. 

Neither man pays you any mind for the time being. 

“I can’t control the press, Matt.”

“You could. You just don’t want to.” 

“To-may-toe, to-maw-toe,” Eddie waves off into the air, slumping into the stagnant chair he now occupies, “My job is to make music, not make some perfect image.” 

“No, my job is to keep your image digestible, at the very least,” Matt is scowling so deeply, you’re convinced you’re watching new wrinkles imprint into his skin in real time, “You and I both know that these days, it’s about more than the music. People need to like you so you can sell records. And all you’ve done is an exceptional job at pissing the people off.” 

You finally, finally spare a glance to Eddie, and his glare matches Matt’s, “It’s never been an issue before.”

Matt lets out a scoff, making your head whip to him, “Oh, no. It certainly has been. The only time it wasn’t an issue was before you signed me as your agent.” 

“That’s why I hired you,” Eddie smiles, but there’s not an ounce of joy behind the curl of his lips, “Right?” 

Matt nods for a few beats, before he turns his head at a leisurely place to level you with a stare. The glare melts microscopically, some form of pity behind his older eyes. 

“You did, and that’s the issue.” 

When Matt’s hands come up to rest on his desk, you notice him immediately toying with the corner of the shortest stack of papers on his desk. Only a few pages, and you don’t miss the several blank spaces left deliberately throughout the top page.

A contract. 

“I’ve done the best that I could with what you’ve given me to work with, but…” Matt trails off, eyes darting to Eddie only momentarily before focusing on you once more, “You haven’t been submitting nearly as many songs as your contract outlined. You’ve been busier making headlines than you have been making albums. I- They’re pissed off, Eddie. The label is pissed off now, and they’re up my ass.” “Sounds like a you problem.” Now, it’s you glaring at Eddie. 

All his hackles are raised, the portrait of who he’s been trying to convince everyone that he has become over the last two years painting over all the lines of the man you’d been digging after these last few weeks. Overshadowing the promise of a good man by a simple, jagged tone of voice. 

“No, it’s a you problem,” you snap, making both men finally have no choice but to acknowledge you, “You’re the one who wants to be a rockstar, not Matt. If you’d pull your head out of your ass long enough to actually listen to him, maybe he could actually help you.” 

It’s crueler than necessary. A slap to Eddie’s awe-stricken face. “I-” he starts, but your glare sharpens, eyes narrowing at him as he tries to ready a counter-argument, and it’s clear the fight dies on his tongue as he sighs, “Fine – fine. What do we do about it, Matt?” 

When the unspoken battle fizzles out, reluctantly on your part and eagerly on Eddie’s, Matt is simply onlooking with the faintest of smiles. 

“What?” Eddie questions immediately, clearly just as confused by you in his sudden change in demeanor, “Why are you smiling?” 

“Her.” 

He nods curtly in your direction, grin growing a bit wider. It does little to answer the question. 

“Me?” you ask, lifting a ginger finger to rest against your chest.

“You,” Matt repeats, and nods a bit more eagerly for a few seconds before he rifles those papers in front of him again, “Just now. You watched the way we were going back and forth. I can’t get through to Eddie-” a short pause in which Eddie almost speaks up, but one lift of your hand to signal him to stay quiet is effective, “-but you clearly can. He went from argumentative to agreeable in seconds. He became digestible, all because of you.” 

Your stomach sinks. You can see where this is going, even if Eddie can’t, as you croak out, “It could have been a one-off. Sheer luck.” 

The contracts. The headlines. The meeting with both of you. 

“I don’t think it was.” 

You’ve read about this somewhere, in some awful and painfully predictable romance book. You’ve seen a movie about this before, in some rundown and eerily empty theater as the cheesy rom-com occupies the big screen. “I can’t control Ed-” you start, but Matt is quick to cut you off.

“You’ve gotten more out of him in the last three weeks than I have in the last year,” Matt points out, leaning forward on his desk, palms making the wood creak, “He’s in the studio, making more music than I can even keep track of. He’s willing to get involved in the band's decisions, not even sleeping through the meetings with the suits these days.” 

Eddie scoffs as he shifts uncomfortably, “Maybe I’m just inspired.” 

“I’m sure you are,” Matt readily agrees, “By her.” 

The fucking contracts. You’ve already had to sign on to be involved in Eddie’s life for a full three months, smoke and mirrors about closure and just surviving these months having filtered through your lungs since the moment you stepped foot in that conference room. 

For what it’s worth, I am sorry for what I’m about to ask the two of you.

This was about to become about far more than just arranging a party for a single release. This was about to become about far more than just getting closure. 

“Just get it over with,” you whisper, staring blankly at papers you can practically read already, even upside down. You’re not an idiot – you realize now what Matt, what the label wants. “Say it.”

Eddie’s still in the dark as he glances at you, “Say what?” 

Matt shares a knowing look with you. Almost sad, almost remorseful. As if he isn’t about to ruin your life. As if he isn’t about to ask you to burn down every single thing you had built up with your own bare hands. 

Just over a month ago, you had been convinced you’d finally closed the chapter on this part of your life. You had let the ink dry, you had let the fresh pages cool, and you had damned the entire novel of you and Eddie to the attic of your past. To gather dust, to be eaten away by the moths, to be forgotten as you moved along with life – you swore it was finally over.

And now this. Now, you were contracted to help him with the damn release party for a song certainly about you. Now, Matt was about to ask you to sign away the last of your sanity, all for the sake of the man you thought you’d finally slammed the door on. 

“You think I can control Eddie, that I could be good for his image,” you say flatly, not sparing a glance at the problem child beside you, “You think I can fix the mess he’s made, because you can’t. You’re assuming, and assuming, and assuming,” you take a deep breath, moments away from breaking apart, not letting it show as you lean back in the chair, “Assuming is bad for business, Matt.” 

To your surprise, Matt nods in agreement, “It is. So don’t let me make an ass of myself – prove the assumptions right,” Finally, he grabs a pen, bringing it to lay atop of the contracts. “I’ve already pitched the idea to the big shots upstairs. They’ve already approved it.” 

Eddie lurches forward, “What idea?” 

Matt ignores Eddie’s question, the conversation spiraling into tunnel vision between you two, “Again, I am sorry.” 

He slides the contracts in a circle, finally making them legible to you and Eddie. 

PUBLIC RELATIONS (PR) AGREEMENT.

Eddie takes the time to read the sentences, littered with blank spaces perfectly sized to fit your legal names. Spots for dates, empty boxes for initials. 

A neatly wrapped up present – a professional PR stunt in a contract. 

“Matt, what is this?” Eddie’s voice is shaking as he gets about halfway through the page, “What the fuck does this mean?” 

“PR stunts are common in the industry,” Common with problem rockstars, he means, “Sometimes they’re simple agreements to benefit both parties, and sometimes they’re last ditch attempts at saving someone’s image. It’s the latter, for you.” 

Eddie isn’t piecing it together fast enough. Or maybe he has, and he’s just in denial. 

“Say it fucking plainly, or I’ll leave this office and-”

“It’s time to kill your bachelor image,” Matt grabs a second pen, working mechanically as though he’s gone into autopilot, “Tame the bad boy image, as I put it to the suits.”

“You want me to agree to be Eddie’s fake girlfriend,” you take over the explaining, since Matt won’t just say it, “You want us to sign a contract, and promise to play nice in public. Act so in love the entire public forgets that Eddie ever trashed a hotel room or stuck his tongue down some random’s throat-” 

“I haven’t done that publicly in months,” he snaps, now looking harshly at you, clearly infuriated the more he reads. 

“No, but the rumors still circulate,” you recall your Google search that night before Eddie came properly barrelling back into your life, “The only thing people love to gossip about more than someone’s downfall, is their love life.” 

“Exactly.” Matt clicks one pen, and puts it closer to Eddie. “So help me out, and give them something good to talk about for once.” 

You need a moment; you need to consider it all, you need to weigh out the pros and cons. The room is suffocating, all that dust you’d previously noticed now itching your throat and the fabric of the chair stabbing far too uncomfortably against your skin through your clothes. The large windows can’t stop the walls from closing in.

“No,” Eddie barks out, throwing himself back from the paper as though it might burn him, “No.”

“Eddie, please trust me when I say-” 

“I’m not doing this – I’m not doing this to her.” 

“You’ve already done it to me,” you laugh bitterly, leaning forward and pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes until you see stars. Until the space behind your eyes aches. “The headline went viral online, right?”

“Yeah,” guilt seeps into Matt’s words, “It did.” 

“Have they figured out who I am?” 

The they in question being the fans – the they in question being the tabloids. If just one person recognizes you and cracks the code, you’ll be the talk of the town for at least a month, regardless if you sign the contract or not. 

You’re the first girl to ever be taken back to the infamous Rockstar’s apartment. The first to ever make it past the threshold of the bars, the clubs, the afterparties. 

It’s already a big deal. 

“Not from what I’ve seen,” When Matt slides a pen over to you, he makes a point to not click it. A choice is very clearly being given. Eddie is expected to sign, no longer being given a choice, but you? You don’t have to do this, “There've been a few D list model’s names thrown out, and a few people thought it might even be a B lister in a wig, but… they don’t know it’s you, yet.” 

Yet. But they will, eventually. The general public is capable of astonishing things when they set their minds to it. No doubt, there would be a way for them to resurface old photos of you and Eddie prior to the band skyrocketing to success, or someone who knows you will recognize your blurry side profile in the paparazzi’s pictures.

Eddie doesn’t budge on his stance, arms crossed and eyes blazing, “What’s the alternative?” 

“Excuse me?” Matt raises a brow.

“The alternative,” one of Eddie’s ringed hands flourishes through the air, “What can we do instead of this?” 

You already know what Matt is about to say before he opens his mouth. You already know the ultimatum about to be presented to the two of you. 

“You only have two options,” he sighs, a pregnant pause before he continues, “Either you sign this contract, we arrange the fake dates and press, so on and so forth. Or you cut off all communications. The two of you are never even seen in the same city again, if possible. You,” he pauses to nod towards you, “Will sign an NDA before disappearing from Eddie’s circle entirely. And you,” he then nods to Eddie, a bit more stern as he looks to his client, “will have to go through the process of signing some other sort of damage control scheme. Likely either an arrangement with someone else of the label’s choosing, or a contract of celibacy for the next year or so. Put it into writing that you’ll be the angel child of the label for an indefinite amount of time.”

You’re still reeling a bit from the threat of having to vanish from Eddie’s life once more, for good this time, when you catch onto that last part, “If I don’t agree to this, you’ll just replace me with someone else?” 

The image coming to mind through the fog makes you sick, and not for the expected reasons. It’s not the image of Eddie with his hands on someone else that makes your skin crawl. It’s not the picture of Eddie singing songs on a stage every night, songs written about you, and claiming they’re about some other lover in the crowd. 

It’s the look on his face. 

The fall of every muscle, the spark of fear behind umber eyes. The immediate fiddling of rings that exposes all the anxiety building up beneath his skin. 

The thought of being in his shoes, and being forced to pretend to love a stranger, all because of a few mistakes.

And - okay, well, a few mistakes is an understatement. Eddie did this to himself. He had dug this grave, shovelful by shovelful, all by his own doing. He had made his bed; he should have to sleep in it. 

But you can’t. You can’t let him when you see the shakes in his breath and the sincere regret, when you recall every single moment from the night before with such striking clarity. Even after all that the two of you have been through, you can’t resist that inherent urge to protect him. 

You can’t quiet the voice that whispers that you still care for him, and you still want to be there for him, even at your own destruction. 

He opens his mouth, surely about to seal his fate and agree to the one thing you know he doesn’t want to do but will for your sake, when you beat him to the punch line. 

“I’ll do it.” 

You don’t want to vanish again. You want to stay. You want to fight. 

“What?” Eddie looks up to you, and he looks close to tears, “What, no. You’re not doing this-” 

You ignore him, swallowing hard as you nearly jump out of the chair to retrieve the pen and glance over the paper until you find a random spot to begin signing at. The click of the pen drowns out his protest, and the angry scribbling across the paper shuts him up entirely. 

The signature is messier than the one you’d scanned into the computer for all your emails, but it will do. 

“Why would you do that?” Eddie asks, eyes wild as he reaches out to take the pen from you. But it doesn’t matter – the damage is done, “Why the fuck would you sign that?” 

“You heard him,” you try to keep a steady tone, you really do, but you fail miserably. You refuse to look in Eddie’s eyes, instead choosing to channel all your glaring and all your anger towards Matt, “It was this or I leave again. It was the easiest option for everyone involved.” 

Matt is riddled with disbelief – he clearly hadn’t thought you’d do it. He had thought he’d lost the battle. 

“I…” he glances down at the paper, avoiding looking at Eddie’s hands that still hovers to snatch away the pen, instead choosing to point at another blank line towards the top of the page before he clears his throat to assume a professional voice, “Please print your name here.”

Eddie’s hand falls away, and as you carve out the letters on the parchment, you swear it’s your blood staining the page rather than the ink. 

—

“Are you fucking insane?” 

Once the two of you had finished filling out all the dreadful paperwork, Matt had offered to call a car to take you both back to the studio. 

“I’m not the one screaming in the street right now.” 

You were starting to regret not requesting a separate car from Eddie.

“Why the fuck would you sign that contract?” he continues his tirade, hands flailing as he stands before you on the sidewalk. “We had options, Sugar! Fucking options-” 

“Shitty options,” you finally snap, leaning around his figure, glancing down the busy street for any sign of the black SUV that would be picking you up, “We had shitty options, and I chose the lesser of the two evils.” 

“Lesser of two evils?” he laughs bitterly, hand shoving down into his pocket, producing a pack of cigarettes, “I was ready to tell him to just get one of those D list models on the phone. I had one rule, one fucking rule, and we’ve managed to break it with one flick of a pen.” 

As he pulls out a cigarette, lighter appearing in his other hand as he cups the stick between his teeth, you decide to humor him, “And what would that one rule be? Hm?” 

He takes his time. Lights the cigarette, takes a long drag, holds it in his lungs as he shoves the lighter back deep within his pocket. His eyes find yours carefully just as the first wisps of smoke slip free from between his lips, breeze ruffling his curls across his forehead. 

“Keep you out of it.”

Your mouth snaps shut just as another strong breeze whips around the two of you.

What the fuck can you say to that?

“Keep me out of it?” you repeat his words in dubiety, creases forming between your brows, “What do you mean keep me out of it?”

You’re going in circles today, continuously returning to asking questions you already know the answers to. It doesn’t take a genius to decipher what Eddie means by his rule. 

The notebook of songs that have yet to see the light of day. The way his past was seemingly erased the moment the band shot into stardom. The lack of your name and memory having ever been so much as uttered in an interview. The fact that even Matt hadn’t known the truth about you two. 

You had originally been hurt at the erasure of you from the history of Eddie Munson, but there’s something breaking behind his eyes currently that offers explanation. 

“Out of this entire shit show,” his breaths are hard and heavy as he flicks the ash off the cigarette, making no move to take a second drag, “Out of all the rumors, out of all the fucking headlines. I just- I just didn’t want them to ruin you, too.” 

And yet, here you were. 

“What’s done is done,” you mutter, an SUV turning onto the street that you have a hunch is heading your way, “Not like we can unsign the contracts.” 

The car is, in fact, yours. Eddie opens the door after stomping out his cigarette. He holds it open long enough for you to climb in first, following quickly after and slamming the vehicle shut. Cutting off all the noise of the outside world and immediately leaving the two of you to be alone, properly alone, once more. 

Save for, of course, the driver.

But the man doesn’t even so much as glance back at the two of you in the backseat before he’s slowly setting the car into motion once more, already beginning to navigate the roads back to the studio. 

Until suddenly, Eddie is piping up, an irritable voice capable of echoing about the inside of the SUV.

“Take us back to my apartment,” he demands, but when you glare at him from the side, he clears his throat and adds on a measly, “Please.”

It’s a start. There’s a long road ahead, but it’s a start. 

You expected the entire ride to be filled with arguments. Under the assumption that Eddie would be too riled up to care about the driver’s presence, you sit tensely and wait for him to throw the first punch once more. Make a comment about what you’d last said before getting in the car, once again scrutinize the decision you had made. He’d never been silent in his anger; he was always loud, always made it known. He’d always claimed, back in Hawkins, he’d rather you know he’s angry so the two of you could fix it. 

But he doesn’t say a word. His jaw twitches with irritations, his eyes stay focused on the passing sidewalk out his window rather than you, and his entire body remains an impenetrable distance from your own. Even on the roughest of turns, he never allows his knee to so much as bump yours.

He’s not making it known. He’s not offering the option to fix it.

You fall into old habits immediately, youth insecurities as you simmer in the silence and the boil of a fight that has to happen eventually – right? The fight is unavoidable. The fight had already technically begun outside of Matt’s office. He has to make it known at some point; he has to say what needs to be said so the two of you can just fix it. 

But then a hoarse voice in the back of your mind whispers, what if he doesn’t see this as something worth fixing? 

Had you even seen it as something worth fixing? 

You had been the one to leave originally. You had been the one to not make it known to him all those years ago, never using your words to tell him how you had felt and leave the door for redemption wide open. You had been the one that had evaluated the situation, and for some strange reason, deemed your relationship with someone you had truly believed you’d spend the rest of your life with as something to just run from. 

By the time the car has arrived outside of Eddie’s building, you’re a mess. Metaphorically, physically, mentally. A tragic mess. 

He still holds open the door for you, still nods at your squeak of thanks as you shuffle past him. He still mutters a pitiful goodbye to his driver. And he still won’t look at you, won’t speak to you. 

Something inside of you burns. Had he even intended for you to follow him into the apartment? Or had he hoped you would have given your address to the driver as he slid out of the seat, set your eyes on your own home and away from him? 

It’s funny, the way one quick signature and you’re back to square one of your youth. Insecure and unsure, second guessing every choice. The entire persona you had built up over two long years has officially crumbled, and you don’t even have to look into a mirror to absolutely hate the girl staring back now. 

At least before, the catch of your reflection in the shining walls of an elevator wouldn’t make you sick to your stomach. At least in those two long years, you could stand the sound of your own breathing. 

Each step down the hall and towards Eddie’s front door after the quiet elevator ride is haunted. More self-doubt, more anger at yourself. The pad of the soles of your shoes against carpeting is a drumming heartbeat building up to something. 

That something snaps when Eddie unlocks the door. 

He motions for you to enter first, but you stand your ground. Staring him down, silently urging him to just fucking look at you. 

“After you,” he mumbles when you make no move to walk past him, waving his hand a second time as he continues to stare at the ground. 

You were both different people. Personas don’t just crumble because you sign a contract. You were still someone head-strong, someone capable, someone who could be sure of herself. You weren’t some naive child, lost in the thrills of your first grandiose love. And Eddie was no longer the boy you’d spent long days and longer nights with at Lover’s Lake, and at local record shops every Sunday. He was no longer the person you’d kiss dizzy as the incense burned on the shelf. He was someone new, someone different, someone unfamiliar. 

And yet, even in knowing all of this, attempting to redrill it all into your head once more, you also know that some things will never have to change. Some things between the two of you will always stay the same.

You want one of those things to be making the anger known. 

“Look at me,” the demand comes out soft, a bit more feeble than you’d wanted, but it still comes out all the same. The words fall from your lips, and you swear you see Eddie flinch.

He doesn’t look up. 

“Eddie,” you say, a bit more urgently, a tad bit more desperate, “I know you’re pissed so-”

“I don’t wanna do this. Not here.” 

You take a sharp breath, and bite back the urge to spit out tough luck, “Well, I do.” 

��Do you?” When his head finally snaps up and his eyes finally meet yours, it’s as if ice shards have replaced all your blood, chilling your system to its core, “Do you really? You wanna finish that fight we started back in the studio, right here – right outside of my apartment?” 

There it is: the anger. It strains every syllable of every word of his. But there’s still hope, all because of one little word.

The fight we started. 

We. Not just you, not just him. We.

“Yeah,” you breathe out, something in you eager at him finally just acknowledging it once again. His silence had been cruel, his brooding had been torture, and it’s easier to hear the venom he directs to you than nothing at all. “I do. I want to fight.” 

Did something just soften in his eyes, or are you just delusional? Are you that desperate to crave and imagine him feeling all the same things you were feeling? You want him to want this; you want him to want the fight, because then, it means there’s still something to fix. 

“Can we at least do it inside the apartment?” he flatly requests, lips a fine line as he levels you with that same dead stare. Dead, with glimmers of something buried alive beneath the surface. 

Something. Anything. 

He was never a stain. He isn’t an old maroon, seeped into the cotton of your existence, rusting over your past. He’s something here, something tangible, in this very moment. He’s fresh wine rushing down your chest, he’s vibrant scarlet sticking to your skin. The potential of a stain, but for now, the wound is still wet. Still fresh. Still something you can wipe away, if you play your cards right. 

You walk through his door, shoulder brushing his chest, and you almost wonder if you’re even willing to play your cards right. This time, you almost consider if what you want, what you’ve always wanted, is for Eddie to leave a stain on you that could never be cleaned away. 

After all, what is a stain if not a reminder of something loved, something worth keeping, fixed or not?

The door shuts softly behind Eddie as he trails in behind you, and with a final sigh and click of the lock, he turns to you.

“Alright. Let’s fight.”

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[rosietrace]

The way I avoid angsty non-mc-reader fics like the PLAGUE bc I know damn well I'm gonna cry my eyes out

.... And I STILL end up reading them

[naffeclipse]

Warm Fangs

Naga!Sun x Reader. Sickness.

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As you sleep, the fever worsens. Chills hit you with a violent shudder. The heat from the sickness flees under the quaking cold. You moan softly, curling up tighter. A soft hiss shushes you but you can’t find anything warm, anything warm at all.

The smooth brush of scales loosens from around you. The outside cold slips away from your feverish skin but stays within.

“It hasn’t broken yet,” Moon murmurs distantly. Cold fingertips brush your hair, damp from sweat, away from your forehead. A whine leaves you. You hate how pathetic it sounds inside your head.

“Oh, no. I was afraid it might linger with our poor lily pad,” Sun lowers his voice but he’s not as quiet as his brother, holding a stage whisper more than an actual whisper. You might have smiled if you weren’t bothered by the mottled moonlight giving way to a blue-bright early morning sky. 

It doesn’t feel warm. The sun is supposed to reheat the earth and take away the frost filling your chest with a shivering revolt.

A few quiet exchanges slip away in your near unconsciousness. Gingerly, you become weightless, lifted into the air like a feather before pressed into other arms. Heat, raw and covering, finally touches your body. You breathe out a low sigh, eyelids fluttering to peek up at the source of the heat. The form softly sways as you’re carried away.

“It’s going to be alright,” Sun hums. He looks down at you, his spiky frills flaring around his head in golden hues before the shadow of the cave eclipses the morning sun. “Don’t move, my water lily, you’re still sick.”

“Hmm, I’m fine,” you half moan. Your eyes fall close again. A tender soreness soaks into every muscle, especially at your neck and your shoulders. The deep, deep ache that refuses to go away. 

You shudder with another chill. Sun clicks his tongue in concern, the forked end whipping with a snapping worry. 

“You amaze me, truly. Even in the throes of illness, you’re still so stubborn.” He laughs softly, endearing but in a way that almost makes you push yourself out of his steady arms. He doesn’t get to think you’re cute. Not right now, when you feel how sticky your body is and how weak your limbs dangle as he carries you deeper into the cave you’ve made a shelter within.

“Sun,” you softly groan.

“Save your strength to fight the fever, not me.” A soft peck of his scaly mouth touches your temple. You nearly dissolve under his doting command. “You need to rest and do as I say so you can feel better. I don’t like to see you like this.”

You, in a reflective, rebellious instinct, almost try to kick out your feet and find solid ground, but Sun lowers you to the cold, cave floor. You’re seized by another icy torrent of coldness. Hugging your arms, you quietly groan. A soft swell of tears teem over your eyelids. That’s from the sickness, you tell yourself. You’re not crying because Sun and his sweet warmth let you go.

“I’ll be gone for only a moment, lily pad. Hold on for me, okay?” he singsongs.

You want to snatch the heat that had held back the torturous chills. Lifting your heavy eyes, you scour the dimness of the cave, catching sight of Sun’s long body softly slipping over the stone towards the shelves that were chipped into the wall of the cavern. The rich yellow hues of his scales are bright even in the shadows of rocks. The markings along his waist and around his throat are scarlet and vibrant with warning of his venom. You watch the outline of Sun’s defined shoulders move, taking and gathering, collecting a pale pink blossom you can’t currently name.

Pressed against the wall in a sleepy bundle of his scales, Moon watches you, eyes half lidded but attentive. You didn’t hear him enter. His hands open and close, as if to reach for you. He holds back. You frown at his distance but recall his cool scales through the midnight fever, and drowsily, in fitful half-sleep, wait for Sun.

He returns with a skim over the floor. His presence washes over you with hope.

“Don’t cry, my water lily. I’m here,” Sun coaxes with gentle mirth. A crooked finger swipes the leaking liquid from your eyes.

“Not crying,” you grumble, voice croaking like a frog. “Not a water lily.”

“Oh, I’m going to have to disagree and blame your lack of sense on the sickness,” he chirps as if you were simply the most adorable thing he’s ever seen.

You pry your eyelids open for a glare. You certainly are not a beautiful and grandiose flower. Not right now in your freezing weakness.

Moon’s hissing laughter echoes. It fills you with another short burst of irate energy that lasts for only the moment of his humor. Sun tuts and shoots Moon a look before gently cradling you. The golden naga guides you upright with a tender hand supporting your back. He rests your head on his shoulder, his underside a shiny, pale cream color, and the gentle heat of his body burns away the chills holding you down. 

He lifts up a small flower, pale pink and pom-pom like on the end of a slender, green stalk.

“Eat this. It’ll make you feel better,” he softly insists.

You eye the flower as if it were a venus flytrap, and you were a particularly weak fly.

“What is it?” you murmur.

“I’ve heard humans call it a sensitive plant, sometimes called touch-me-not. If you had told me you weren’t feeling well early, you could have had this sooner.” The chasiting does not evade your awareness. Sun lowers the plant closer, as if offering a rose instead of medicine. “It will help with your fever and chills.”

“Ugh,” you turn your head ahead. The thought of eating when you have no appetite rears an ugly head within you. “I don’t need it.”

“I disagree strongly, lilypad,” Sun crones in disapproval. “Once you eat it, you’ll start to feel better.”

The soft lift to his tone invades you. You want to squirm, keep turning away from the offered medical plant, but Sun’s warmth surrounds you entirely. Gently, his finger guides your cheek until you face him once more.

“Please, won’t you, for me?” His cornflower blue eyes hold you with his plea. From the corners of his wide mouth, the very tips of fangs glint, but you’re not afraid of his bite. He saved you with his venom, once.

You grimace and force your lips to part. Murmuring praises and coaxes alike in a soft, musical tone, Sun presses the flower head to your mouth until you bite it off, and chew laboriously. It tastes green and dry. He watches you, hawk-like, ensuring you masticate the soft, brittle like petals before swallowing against the vicious dryness of your throat. You gasp after gulping.

His smile grows like a sunbeam at sunrise.

“See? It wasn’t so bad.” He tenderly rubs his mouth against your forehead. “Thank you."

The heat of his affection battles the cold underneath your skin, and when you shiver, he holds you tighter. You fall deeper under his fondness.

"This will pass and you’ll be in tip-top shape again,” he says softly, brimming with heated hope.

Oh, Sun. You want to curse him. You want to tell him that he can’t talk like that, melting your insides and making you nothing but an ooey-gooey mess, but you can’t. You are swept away by his sweet tones. 

No one but Sun unbalances you and catches you in the same motion. He’s disarming. He's the only thing that feels right.

You slump against him in another full-body shudder. Softly humming, Sun begins rearranging your limp form, draping your legs across his deliciously warm tail as the dark end wraps your lower legs. The tightness of his coils used to frighten you before you realized how summery and soft he is. He tucks you gently against his arm, lying down to become your personal pillow.

You are so useless. It’s a miracle you haven’t faded away by now—a miracle of two nagas, no less.

“It’s also called humble flower,” he continues with a soft note. “Perhaps you could take that aspect from it as well, my water lily.”

You moan, unable to offer a rebuttal that you are no flower, but his gentle embrace covers you entirely. His chest thrums lightly with a heartbeat you’ve listened to before. A soft hum fills his throat. He continues pressing his mouth against your cheek, the crook of your neck, and the top of your head as if smothering the clammy effect attempting to surface on your body.

“Soon, you’ll rise and we can stroll through the jungle and find more flowers, more flowers like you, and you’ll feel better. Doesn’t that sound nice?” he chatters endlessly.

You can only snuggle deeper against his chest, against his warm, smooth scales, better than any patch of sunlight, and trust in him.

[wurm-food]

alabasta portgas d ace please let me smell your balls

[gojoshooter]

Ryomen Sukuna does you so good—he makes sure you scream “oh god” about hundred times a round just so he can growl “that’s right... I'm your god” right above your ear, ramming himself a little too hard.

i mean that would be my last straw too

[red1culous]

Before You Close Your Eyes

Normally she would have been in bed hours ago. Early to bed, early to rise sort of philosophy. But the events of the day had left her on edge. She had tried settling into bed at her usual time, but she spent the next 40 mins staring up at the ceiling and the next 25 minutes after that wondering if she should just dismiss the idea of sleep altogether.

She was just about to when you cracked the door open just a tiny bit. She watched as you stuck your head in through the gap and peered in her direction. You must have thought she was asleep so you let yourself in and start your nightly routine taking the utmost care to keep any sound levels to a minimum. Natasha was greatly amused in spite of her foul mood seeing your body hunched over as you crept through the space on your tip toes. And she almost laughed out loud when you stubbed your little toe on the dresser and bounced around on the spot silently cursing while balancing on one leg doing something akin to a very postmodern version of a Gopak. She watches as you switch off the en-suite bathroom lights and follows the sound of your bare feet padding your way towards the bed. Pulling the covers aside you finally see that Natasha is not yet asleep. 

You gasp at the sight of her already watching you with a wry smile on her face. “Nat!” you visibly flinch at the fright. “What the— you should be asleep by now.” She chuckles at you as you climb into bed and lay on your right side tucking your right hand under your pillow. She mirrors you and smiles as she moves a loose strand of hair from off your face.

“Why aren’t you asleep yet?” you say much more gently this time.

She hums and scoots closer towards you. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Right then” you say throwing off your covers and holding open your arms and legs, “there’s nothing a cuddle can’t cure.”

She giggles at you but moves to situate herself in your arms. You snake your arms around her waist and pull her back flush against your front. You feel her relax in your arms with a pleasurable sigh. 

There’s a pinch of laughter in your voice. “D’you want to talk about it?” you ask.

“Hmm?” she answers. 

Gently you kiss the back of her neck and she shivers slightly. Your whole body thrums to the tune of her. “Why you can’t sleep—“ you add.

“It’s ok baby you go to sleep” she says stifling a yawn. “Today was just so exhausting.”

“You don’t say” you grin and peck in between her shoulder blades.

“What?” she playfully elbows you in the sternum and you laugh circling your arms tighter around her.

“I’m just surprised you aren’t asleep yet seeing that you are of an advanced age and al—“ your sentence dies off as she raises one of your forearms to her mouth and clamps down on it. 

You yelp.

“Remind me how old you are again?” she asks with a laugh. 

This time you laugh into her hair. “I’m old enough to know better and young enough to not care.”

“Jesus!” she exclaims smacking the leg you have conveniently draped over her lower body. “I can’t believe I’m dating a child!”

“Urgh age is nothing. Plus I like—“ 

“Don’t say it, Y/N” she jokingly warns.

“—MILFS” you finish and she groans aloud.

“I take it back, I’m dating a literal foetus.”

Smiling into her hair you breathe in her shampoo and the breath you release comes out like a sigh.

“Stop thinking and go to sleep” you add after a few minutes of silence.

“You were in diapers when I was getting my boobs!” she whisper shouts.

You chuckle behind her and worm your hands up to cup her breasts. “Mmm. Nice job with that” you say giving them an appreciative squeeze.

Nat lets out what sounds like a huff and a chuckle. Eventually her breathing evens out and quietens. The silence that envelopes the both of you deepens. You wait a few more minutes before finally letting your eyes close, nuzzling into her, adjusting to her gentle breathing.

-------

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[throwaway-yandere]

"Life is misery and then you keep living."

[evans23]

It started with a smile

Pairing : Sinclair Bryant x Reader OC

Summary : The day you met Sinclair was the day your life has truly started.

Tag(s)/Warning(s) : Mention of depression. Mention of divorce.

A/N : Hello dear 😁 hope you will enjoy my first attempt of writing about the best puppy man ever. I didn’t proofread so sorry if there is any mistake.

Read also on AO3

You could perfectly remember to yourself how you had met Sinclair. You will never forget your first encounter. It was an accident. A delightful accident.

You were walking in the streets of London where you had just arrived to start your new work. You didn't know the place well and you were looking at your favorite shop, the one that sold your favorite smoothie, the one with some pineapple and honey topping.

As you were leaving the store, Sinclair bumped into you, spilling your drink all over your white shirt.

"Oh dear ! I am so sorry." he had said genuinely contrite.

"No, it's fine." you had answered without thinking one word of it.

It was your favorite shirt and it was also your first day in a new town, doing a new job. Your accommodation was far below your expectations and the place was so cramped that you couldn't stand saying there for more than what was necessary.

You weren't sure if you had made the right choice by moving to London and you were ready to cry at the slightest annoyance. And your smoothie dampening your skin and tainting your shirt was the straw that broke the camel's back.

"Oh no, no, please ! Don't cry. Please ! I am so sorry."

He couldn't stop saying how much he was sorry and eventually, a bit embarrassed by his overwhelming rambling, You told him that really, you weren't mad at him. Not even a little bit.

"Really, because it is not usual for me to see someone crying over a shirt. Well, I have to admit I don't usually spilled any liquid on a pretty girl but…"

He continued his babbling but you had stopped to listen to him after having heard the word "pretty".

"Pretty ?" you repeated.

"… buy you another one of cou… what ?" he interrupted himself.

"You said I am pretty."

"Oh… yes… well, even stunning. I mean… You look like a porcelain doll."

You smiled widely while his cheeks flushed. You could have sworn even his ears were a bit red.

"Well, of course, I'm not saying that to make you forgive me or to play the smooth talker. I… well, I have the habit of being a bit straightforward."

"A bit ?" you asked playfully.

"Well…"

He restarted waffling on about how much he was sorry and after having insisted for at least five minutes, you agreed to follow him towards the market in the next street to permit him to pay for his mistake by buying you a new shirt.

And there you were, strolling in the streets with a shirt tagged "I love London" and a Sinclair who had made his mission to tell you everything you needed to know about the vicinity since the moment you had told him you were the new girl in town.

“Oh ! You should try this new Indian restaurant, it’s one of my favorites;”

And he continued to ramble about why this one was the best and also how the bakery on the corner of the street was the best if you liked croissant but not his favorite because their cupcakes were too sweet and you have to believe him, he had quite a sweet teeth but this one was definitely not to his taste.

You could have been annoyed by his endless talking but for a reason that escaped you, you were totally engrossed in his words, even almost appealed to him, but just almost.

You didn’t know what got into you, never had you been attracted by someone so fast but there was something quite enticing about Sinclair that you couldn’t explain.

He was alluring, you couldn’t deny it. His tall frame, his hooked nose and his hazel eyes were mesmerizing. You felt so short beside him, and you were, but you also felt attractive. Not in a physical sense, yet, even if he was far more talkative than you were, Sinclair would stop babbling from time to time to ask you questions and he was genuinely interested in your answers.

“And what are you doing in London [Y/N] ?” he asked while you were waiting your turn in an ice cream shop.

“I… Well, I made a change of life last year and I became an English teacher. So… I’m here to teach in a private school, » you answered shyly.

You didn’t like to talk about that reconversion, not because you were ashamed to have had the courage to restart your life from the bottom but because your professional journey was chaotic which was not the case for Sinclair as he has explained to you in detail his studies in Cambridge and how he was earning a living as a Stock Analyst.

You had immediately understood he was out of your league. You came from two different worlds. But the more the day had progressed, the more he had proven to be a simple person who didn’t give any importance to the social background of others. And because he was insisting, you confessed everything you had bottled up about your disordered past and not once he had judged you. In fact, all the contrary. He had been understanding and while you were strolling through St James Park, laughing at the squirrels’ shenanigans to steal food from tourists, he explained to you that he had just got over depression after the discovery of his wife's infidelity and the tumultuous divorce that had followed. You learnt the entirety of the story a few months after your first meeting and you still feel the disgust you felt the first time he told you his ex-wife had an affair with her brother. Her real brother, not a stepbrother who wasn’t blood related.

“It has been one year but…” he hesitated to continue.

To your own surprise, you took his large hand in your small one and smiled at him.

“You don’t have to talk about it if it’s too hard for you.” You said with a commiserate smile.

“No, I don’t mind talking about my divorce. This is how life is. Sometimes, you have some downs.”

“This one was a big down, bigger than any of mine,” you said in a light tone with the hope of alleviating a little bit the tense atmosphere after his confession.

“Oh, you know [Y/N], woes, sadness and depression are not a contest and you shouldn’t compare yours to someone else.”

You smiled coyly but inwardly you knew that you had met a really sensitive, compassionate and genuine person. Yes, it was the moment when you understood how much Sinclair was worth to be known. Later in life, you will discover than no one else could live up to him.

“No, what I wanted to say is that it has been one year since my divorce and it is the first time I feel like myself.”

You fathomed what he was saying because, for the first time in a long time, you felt a sense of calmness you thought you wouldn’t feel again after your first depression which has been followed by some others with the consequences of anxiety disorders that would probably plagued you for the rest of your life. But with Sinclair, you could appease all those struggles and when life was too much, he was there, always knowing what to say, liven your life up each time you had a breakdown, always by your side with his shining personality no matter what.

“It is quite late,” you said looking at the sunset. “I should go back. I don’t like to walk alone by night.”

“I can drive you home !” he proposed excitedly.

Normally you would have said no. After all, he was a stranger even if you knew more about Sinclair after one afternoon than about your closest friend after five years. But against all odds you accepted his propositions, giving him the address of your residence without an ounce of hesitation.

“You’re living in a student’s residence ?” he asked almost insulted by the mere idea.

“The accommodation is furnished with the job. I can’t afford any renting as I’m currently living from hand to mouth.”

At this moment, you didn’t know that one month later you would move in with Sinclair in his tremendous house in a wealthy area of London.

“Here, my number,” he told you while handing you out a business card. “I’ve written down my personal number in the back. Call me anytime if you need anything, a ride, advice for a good restaurant… a friend to talk with.”

“I will,” you answered, even though you knew you wouldn't have the bravery to do so.

Sinclair has had to feel your hesitation because next thing next, he was asking you if you could meet the next day for a lunch.

“I would like to,” was my answer.

You met the next day. And the next. And the next. He eventually invited you to see a play with him and then it has become your ritual twice a month. Lunch and dinner together had become a habit after two weeks and at the end of the first month, you were exchanging your first kiss. This is when he asked you to move in with him and you accepted without thinking twice.

For you, but also for him, it was a leap of faith. You needed to move on and you both had that strong feelings that you were meant to meet. You had always thought that your soulmate wasn’t living in the same timeline than yours when he was just living three hours away by train.

“I know it can seem precipitate [Y/N], but I… I love you, I know it for sure, you… you complete me,” he stuttered lovingly.

He opened his mouth to add something but you hushed him with a kiss.

“And I love you,” you beamed at him after having pulled away for breathing.

His smile was the widest and the brightest you had ever seen. Even the sun must have been jealous of Sinclair’s glow that day.

Three years later

Yes, definitively, you would never forget the first time you met Sinclair, the love of your life. It was one of these days where the stars leaned on two people to link their destiny the destiny by making them complete the soul of each other. You had been sure since the first day you had met Sinclair that he would be the man with whom you would spend the rest of your life. You weren't the kind of person to believe in love at first sight, but that day, you had no other choice than to admit you had fallen totally, desperately, undoubtedly in love with Sinclair Bryant the day he had spilled all over you your smoothie. But it wasn't before the moment he had given you the more beautiful, honest and loving smile that you understood he was that person you had been looking for such a long time.

Today, it was your anniversary. 2 years since he had proposed you to be Mrs Bryant. You couldn't stop smiling while you were looking at your husband who was still sleeping soundly beside you. You delicately stroke his cheek with the tips of your fingers and your smile grew wider when he stirred under your touch without waking up. You lean towards him to lay your lips on his hooked nose, whispering "I love you" against his lips. He betrayed his consciousness by smirking for a millisecond.

"I love you Sinclair,” you said again, your lips pressed against his cheek.

"And I love you too Mrs Bryant," he said, his voice a husky sound full of sleepness

He opened his eyes to plunge them into yours and you couldn't help the urge of love invading your heart. You knew just by looking at him that he was feeling the same. The both of you were truly happy, more than you ever thought you could be. And all of this has started with a smile.

[talkingsaxy]

PHOTOS YOU’VE TAKEN OF YOUR BOYFRIEND KENSHIN

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taglist: @bang-chan-my-man

[narcolini]

white room - pt. 5

johnny davis x gn!reader, 18+, canon typical themes and language, 5.8k words, 5 of ? ao3 link | previous part a/n: hellow :3 we are back after an unexpected hiatus and lips finally gets to meet benny ! very exciting all round <3 i hope you like it and forgive me for falling off planet earth for a bit

Might sound kind of stupid, but recently, you been thinking that you’ve finally got it all worked out—about Benny, that is. Somewhere between the last time you saw him, and the Saturday of the picnic, Johnny’s weird kinda way of talking around him started making a whole load of sense. And it wasn’t just some little joke when he said he didn’t want you knowing Benny, it was pretty much sort of the truth, you think, hidden under all the hums and grumbles of him. He actually was cut up about it a little. Nervous, though someone like Johnny never aught’a be nervous about nothing. And you really would never say it to his face, or anyone else’s for that matter, but you’ve even been considering the possibility that Benny might be part of the reason things with him and Betty didn’t work out. 

Fuckin’ rat up the drain pipe sort of shit, right? Never saw it coming ’til it started scratching at your head one night. You were lying there staring at the ceiling and thinking, huh, Johnny talks about Benny the way you’d be talking about Johnny, should anyone ever ask you about him when you didn’t really wanna say nothing. Eh, he’s just some guy, you’d say, yeah, we hang around with each other, you know, doing stuff. Stuff, and other things and what not. 

Like, he’s got a hold on him, alright, the same one Johnny’s got on you. A real, steel grip, hold. You started off thinking well maybe it’s a jealous type of thing, you know, old guy wanting to step into the young buck’s riding boots, but it ain’t just that. Can’t be. Half of Johnny’s crew are ten years younger than him, but well, they aren’t Benny, right? And there’s something about the way he looks at him—the few times you’ve been around to catch it—something ‘bout the way Johnny watches him. And talks about him. And makes excuses for him, and the way he is. Sure, he may like him like he wants to be him, you know, foot taller, blonde, pretty as anything, but by the time Saturday rolls around and you’ve really sat on it for a while, you’re starting to think: well, what if he likes him the way every girl that ever meets Benny likes him? The way even you might’a liked him, had you never seen Johnny, of course.

Seems obvious once you’ve really put some time into the idea. Nothing about Johnny says he couldn’t be liking men the same way you do and, jeez, maybe you’re dumb for it, but even with all of that, you can’t find a single part of yourself that seems to mind. Johnny still treats you good, still makes the nights feel longer than the days—and he invited you to this picnic of theirs, which he says is only ever for wives and girlfriends and serious things like, so you figure you’re someone real important to him now, cause even if you aren’t one of those things, you’re something, right? And he did all of that with Benny around, so what difference does it make to you? Sure, you can share as long as everyone’s playing nice, you’re not spoiled or nothing.

Well, alright, maybe not share, you aren’t an angel—who is?—but right now, if Johnny likes Benny like he likes you, he sure don’t even know it yet. Or if he does, he’s still two hundred miles back from dealing with the meaning of it, and you know he’s not planning on running nowhere on those knees of his, so it’s whatever, right? Can’t fix nothing if it ain’t broke yet.

“You like dirt bikes?” he asks, while he’s dragging you across this damn field that you spent all morning riding for, grass wet from yesterday’s rain still. No place for any sort of picnic you’ve been to, but for Vandals, sure, it’s like a natural haven to them or something. 

“I never liked any sort of bike ’til I met you, Johnny.”

“Yeah,” he winds, like he knew as much but didn’t really care in the first place, “few of us are gonna race ‘em. See that track there?”

You see nothing but a whole load’a mud on top of another bunch of it. “Mhmm.”

“That’s where this whole thing started.” 

“And when you go spinning over the handlebars, that’s where it’ll end it up,” you say.

He laughs, but he goes on, “I’m serious,” through the smirk of it. “That’s where me and Brucey got the idea for the club in the first place. Well, that and, yeah.” He nods. “Here, when we was racing.” He waves toward the tracks in the dirt, and the bikes in the dirt, and the men that are fifty-percent fuckin’ dirt, like the whole lot is some sort of sacred ground to him, like he’s just a humble guide blessing you by bringing you here, then he says, “and I never come off no more, so don’t worry about it.”

And you like him enough to go along with it, cheesy Colby Jack that you are. “It’s something special,” you tell him, mostly meaning it. Well, all the way meaning it, but only in the way people look at scraps of metal in a museum cabinet, and think that it’s really something just cause the guys in tweed say that it is. 

“Benny race with you?” you ask him.

“No,” he shakes his head a little, “not his kind of…”

“What, you gotta be short like jockeys to race or something?” 

“No—“ he shoots a confused look at you, then realises that you’re joking, at his expense, and forgives you for it too, all in the same sort of moment, “—would you give it up with that?”

“Hm, think I have maybe three ‘just under six foot jokes’ left in me,” you promise, “but I’ll spare you today.”

“Yeah, you will.” And it’s as much a threat, as it is an invite, cause he’s smiling like a little something or other, and your lips find his in a real awkward, bumpy, kind of way, noses knocking as you walk, you know. Giggling and stuff. Real cutesy lovebird shit that you wouldn’t be repeating to no-one, if you wasn’t, well, you know.

“So where’d he come from then?” you ask, wrapping your free hand around the arm that you’re already attached to. Half-way close to crawling under his leathers, under the shirt and undershirt too, right under the curl of hair beneath that chain that he wears, if you could. “If it wasn’t the racing, I mean.” 

“Benny?”

“Yeah, Benny.” 

You should probably not be asking so much, now you know what you think you know—even if you don’t know it, and have just convinced yourself that you do—but it’s bothering you, well not bothering, but toying with you. He’s never wanted to say much about him and you figure you should take advantage of that sentimental look in his eye, for research purposes, of course.

“He just. He’s just always been around,” he says. “Came through one time needing something, yeah, and he stuck around when he found it. Like any of us would.” 

“You mean Kathy?” 

His face screws up, sort of like a wince almost. “No—me, the club. He needed someplace to be. Something to belong to, you know?”

“Yeah.” You know. 

“All just gotta have somewhere to belong.”

“And you ain’t let go of him since,” you think, not meaning to say it aloud, but saying it anyway, cause Hell, it’s the truth, whichever way you wanna look at it. 

He don’t like it of course. Tightens up right to the sides of his neck, and wrings his hand around the strap of the bag on his other shoulder. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You shrug. “Nothin. It’s good he’s got you guys. And Kathy.”

Johnny nods. That, he can agree to, though he don’t look happy about it. You caught him and let him right back out again, cause you’re not looking to pick fights, and that bothers him as much as if you were, apparently. Keeps him all quiet and rigid as you finish up the trek to where you oughta be. 

The closer you get, the less barbaric it seems. Picnic benches, coolers, brave sorts on tartan blankets right on the rain-wet floor, but still, that sticky, dirt bike track in the middle, winding all over the place.

Not bad, all in all, suppose it is somewhere you don’t mind spending your Saturday so much. 

“Sorry,” you tell him, “for always poking my nose in.”

He squeezes your hand. “S’nothin. We’re mixing it up, right?”

Yeah, Vandal stuff and you stuff. Two hands at once. No more juggling. But, obviously, there are some Benny shaped parts of that, that don’t seem to be mixing too well at all.

You know, you and him haven’t talked once, or so much as breathed the same air at the same time, right, which isn’t too crazy, but would be if it goes on much longer than it has. Cause one time, when Johnny came by, he had Cal with him. And you said hi and stuff, before he went on again—well, it was real heavy on the stuff cause Cal talks exactly as much as you do—and another time, Wahoo and Corky were with him, yeah? And sorta, somehow, you met a few of them; not all, not properly, but a few, and never having more than a bit of small talk, you know, but it was something. 

But you never even got introduced to Benny, so you asked him once, and Johnny said that’s cause Benny is either with his lady, Kathy, or with the guys at the club, or on his own, doing something he shouldn’t. That’s it, supposedly. Course, you said, wait, what? You ain’t never gone nowhere alone with him, just you two? And he just shrugged and made a noise like you should quit talking about it, like you were asking something of him that he couldn’t explain. Like Benny was some sort of mystical kind of guy, like he wasn’t really all the way real, or something. Just a guy you only see when the light’s hitting the right place, or the stars are in a line, or some shit.

Well, today, you decided it’s gonna be different, and you’re gonna talk to him. Properly. You don’t got a choice, right? Cause you figure, you don’t know Johnny ’til you know Benny, and you’re getting real hungry for the full picture of him, if he’s gonna be around so much, that is.

“You mind sitting here while I…?” He points to the bikes, angling you toward the bench he’s apparently picked out for you. Front row, not even a splinter. High prize for the VIP. 

“Yeah,” you throw him a good smile, an easy one, “you go ahead. I’ll watch.”

He looks back at you, all sweet, lips curling, then pulls a helmet from that bag of his—cause apparently, these ones need ‘em, but the other kind don’t—and then he’s off, going like a kid. Half jogging, half walking, and heading right over there to the rest of them. 

They’re skinny bikes, these ones, kinda looking like street dogs. All wiry and bite-y, and a whole world different from the big, hulking, spoiled dogs of his usual sort. No shiny curves and nice painted metal here, just rahh, and grrr, and all that sort of shit. You know which ones you prefer just by looking. And you really know which ones you wouldn’t be caught dead riding on. 

You put your hands in your pockets and wait, looking all sorts of all over the place, cause the racers are chatting still, and no-ones going yet, and that bench actually looks as wet as it is rotten, so you got nothing much else to do other than stand there, looking about you some. 

This can’t be all of them, you don’t think, cause you see some faces you know, and a whole load that you don’t, but no where near enough to be their chapter and the new one combined. But then, is it really all that surprising that Vandals, wherever they’re from, aren’t used to turning up on time? It’ll be nearly evening before it’s a full turn out, no doubt, and, God, standing in a field that long? You had no idea what was coming when you agreed to this.

You look down at your boots, splattered with mud, and try to remember the last time you wore them for longer than a few hours. Which was a long while ago, or maybe never—though you do remember how bad the blisters were, whenever it was, so it must’ve happened once—and you suppose Johnny’s worth living through that again, just about, so you decide to stick with what you were doing. Accepting your fate and that, in with a bunch of people you barely know, looking round ’til one of them knows you too—and then you spot Benny.  

And he must’a saw you before you saw him, cause he’s coming right on over. 

He doesn’t say nothing, so you stay standing with your hands in your pockets, wondering if he was looking at you at all, or if he thinks you’re just some tagalong from Milwaukee, waiting for a bike to polish. But then he stops right next to you, and turns back facing the way he came, and puts his hands in his jacket like he’s copying you or something. 

So you stand, and it’s quiet, and he looks at the guys getting onto their bikes, engines growling and barking all at once, and you think, my God, you have never survived a silence like this. You wanna wait him out, but he could be a mute for all you know. You never even thought of that. He could’a taken a hit to the head coming off his bike and lost his nerve for speaking, or maybe he’s from Europe. Maybe he don’t know a lick of English, especially not the kind you’re gonna be talking, you never even thought to ask Johnny about that—what if it’s that? 

And the longer it goes without him saying nothing, the more certain you are that whatever you end up spitting out is gonna be the most insane thing a person could say to someone they never spoke to before. Like how’s your relationship with my maybe sort of boyfriend going? Anything I should know?

“Think the green’s got this one.”

“What?” Not mute. Not mute, and not European. Talking and pointing and waiting for you to say something back, even though he’s not looking at you, up there, under the flop of his dirty blonde hair, but waiting all the same. Like he’s fly fishing and you’re ignoring the lure no matter how much he flicks it. “Green who?”

“The bike,” he says, “don’t know his name.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Green fucking bike, what do you know? You can’t even tell the colour of the one Johnny’s on, you can’t even see him no more really, not when they go up there by that corner there. 

“Sorry, wasn’t paying attention,” you tell him, and you know you don’t sound sorry, but him talking like he knows you has thrown you all the way off. Your big scheme to get in and get cosy now seems real dumb and real pointless. “You’re Benny, right?”

He nods. Then he pulls his arms tighter, denim pockets bunching above his waist, like he’s freezing—which he might be, cause his jacket don’t have sleeves like Johnny’s does. 

“Feels like you’re the last one of them that I ought to be meeting,” you say, and cause you’re still good mannered and things, you throw your name out for him afterwards. 

“I know,” he says back. “Johnny talks about you.”

“He does?” 

He nods again, which is real great, cause it means he talks just as little as Johnny does, but instead of humming and making noises, he just nods and looks at you. Jeez, he really does look at you. Not too long, nothing creepy, you know, but long enough like he might’ve flicked through the file-o-fax in your head and plucked out exactly what he wanted. 

“Johnny doesn’t talk about anything,” you tell him, hoping that whatever he thinks he saw, is the opposite of what you actually said. “What’s he say, ‘I’m seeing somebody’?”

To your surprise, Benny laughs at that, and shit, he’s as movie star pretty as you’d expect with a smile on his face. It just gets worse with this dude. “Yeah,” he says, “thats, er, that’s pretty much it.”

“Figures. I gotta get him in a headlock before he says shit about you—or anyone else that means something to him.”

He’s looking ahead again, but you can see he’s smiling still, even if it’s small. He really is a quiet type, two minutes in and you’re realising as much already. Even when he’s talking, or doing anything, there’s a real quiet to it, which is probably the last thing you expected to learn about him. None of these biker guys are ever like that, not even Johnny, somehow, he’s loud even when he’s saying nothing. It’s in the face, in the way he carries himself. But Benny? You could switch his colours for a church suit and believe that he was a good kid Sunday through Friday, never speaking back to no-one.

Which makes no damn sense, and can’t be the fucking case, and makes you realise all at once that he’s the sort of person you keep around just to try and solve the puzzle of him. Shy smiles and listening ears in a guy like him, riding bikes like that? Yeah, sure. The club might not be doing much as far as you know, but it sure is doing more than that, and yeah, you remember, he said it once, Johnny said Benny got all wrapped up with some cops a few times, so who the hell is this?

“You like the picnic?” he asks, flicking his head that way.

“Depends on whether there’s any actual picnicking, or if it’s just standing around watching stuff.”

“Yeah, there will be. Kathy, she uh,” he rubs his face on his shoulder, like he’s getting an itch and the itch is small talk, “she brought some stuff,” he says. 

“Then I guess I like it,” you say back. “Skipped breakfast.” And real surely suffering for it, stomach aching like you’ve not even sniffed food in years. 

He puffs a short breath through his nose, like he’s laughing without trying to. “Don’t think I’ve had breakfast since the fourth grade.”

You can’t help it, you answer like you’d answer anyone else, Benny or no Benny. “That’s sad. You know that’s sad, right? No breakfasts, not even as a kid?”

He shrugs, and he don’t seem offended, but he don’t seem amused so much anymore either. He certainly ain’t knocking back with a joke like Johnny would have. 

“I think waffles are a fundamental necessity,” you say, just to say something again. Then you put your focus on the track, cause the wheels are back now, spinning and spitting up wet dirt, and the looped route they took might’ve gone around a couple times without you noticing, cause it seems like they’re done. Like someone’s kicked a stand and thrown his helmet and started shouting like he’s a winner.

“Green,” Benny says, like you might’ve been betting against him. 

“And Johnny—?”

“Third place.”

You find him in the group, grinning like he’d won, helmet on, goggles pushed up over the curve of it. “Used to be faster, right?”

Benny shrugs. “I wouldn’t know.”

“You been with the club long?” you ask.

He chances the air, pulling his hands free and a pack of cigarettes along with them. “Feels like it,” he says.

You laugh, though it’s mostly sort of a scoff, and probably sort of rude, but, come on, what’ve you gotta do to get a real answer round here? “Jeez, between your riddles, and Johnny’s half sentences, I don’t know how you guys even found yourself to be friends.”

He cracks a light and takes a drag and you’ve pretty much given up on getting anything more out of him, when he says, “Johnny’s only like that when he’s talking to someone with more to say.”

“Yeah, yeah,” your eyes roll, “Lips, I get it. Course he’s been spreading that around already.” 

“Lips?” He tweaks an eyebrow, looking at you through the smoke.

Great. So you really are just like that. “Dumb name he’s come up with,” you say, though you’d rather not, considering he didn’t know about it until you brought it up. You and your lips. “Why don’t you have one? Don’t seem fair to me. I mean, you got Cockroach, walking round with a name like that, and you get to be just Benny?”

“Things like that aren’t planned.”

“Feels like they are.”

He smirks like you’re real crazy. “And you think I’m a special case?”

“I think you’re the favourite,” you tell him. May as well come out with it.

He snorts. The cigarette smoke goes like an ink spill around his head. “You never figure they don’t give names to people that might not stick around?” he says.

Well, that gets you, because no, you never did think of that. And now that you are thinking bout it, the truth feels like a jackhammer against you and him both. Him, who hasn’t got a name and you, who has one already, willing or not. Johnny wouldn’t stumble into a thing like that by accident, would he? 

“You move around a lot?” you ask, with all interest and no attitude. Cause if he’s right, and that is the reason, he must’a done something to make them think as much.

“Used to,” he says.

“Me too.”

“You miss it?”

“Fuck no,” you laugh, “no, I’m planning to spend a real long time in one place from now on.”

He nods, but he doesn’t comment any more on it, and you take his quiet to mean that he thinks the opposite—well, that and the way he’s looking off now, smoking like he never asked in the first place. All of that seems to you like someone who’s planning on moving around some more, some time, whenever it is, and, if you’re real honest, for a second it reminds you of Mom, and that way she’d be when she started itching for it again. Something new, something unattached. You near enough shiver at the thought. Last thing you want is to be drawing a line between Benny and your mom, at your first big meet-the-family picnic of all places.

“I better check on Kathy,” he says, pointing that way with the red end of his smoke. 

“Yeah,” thank God, “yeah sure, nice meeting you.” You smile, waving as he goes, and he takes all that weird, creeping feeling along with him. 

Half successful, half fucking weird. Benny ain’t the sort you thought he was, but you don’t like him and you don’t dislike him neither, which is probably music to Johnny’s ears, should you ever tell him that. But as he walks away you find yourself watching the back of him, and as dead-ended as the conversation was, you feel like you’re wanting to make some more sometime. Just to work him out, you know? Just to see what Johnny sees. 

* 

“You could’a gone again, if you liked.”

“What? No, nah, one’s alright by me.”

“Got it out your system?”

“Yeah, yeah, couldn’t spend all day away from you, could I? Leave you standing up there all alone.”

Couldn’t, but would’ve, if you hadn’t caught his eye over the way there and given him a look like you were real thirsty for him. Took some fighting inside, you know, to take his helmet off and leave the racing to the rest of them, but he did, sweet as he is, and came and swept you up with all the other guys that are more keen on picnicking like you are. 

And he’s sitting beside you now—well, you sat down on one of them benches there, expecting him to come right up next to you, but he went and sat on the table part, still clearly with you but above you, you see, so that his thigh’s resting against your shoulder and your neck’s half breaking just to look at him. But you kind of like it. Having the head dog sitting over you like that, hand resting on the little bit of skin between your hair and the collar of your shirt. Sure, maybe it’s possessive, and maybe he really is worrying about you seeing something in one of these other guys that you’re never gonna see. 

But the more he does that, running a couple fingers over your neck like that, the more you’re thinking he’s worked out that it gets your stomach doing all sorts of summersaults, and that’s why he likes sitting up there like that. Hell, he can sure enough feel how hot your skin’s getting, so it wouldn’t take a scientist to figure out what it’s doing to you, and at the end of the day, a man’s a man, you know? 

“You not finishing your…what was it again?”

He’s pointing over your shoulder now, at the napkin-rolled parcel of good fucking food waiting there on your lap. You had only put it down for a second to get yourself situated. Would’ve eaten it in two bites if you didn’t have Johnny to think about. “Some kind of sandwich,” you answer. “Though it’s more like a burger in a home that don’t fit it—and yeah, I’m finishing it. It’s good. It’s alright.” 

You can hear him smiling, feel it without even looking back at him to check. “Just alright?” he asks. Then his head’s down by your head, ear by your ear, eyes across the way to where Kathy and Benny are snuggling on the opposite bench. “Now don’t let Kathy hear you saying that.”

Which he says altogether too loud, exactly as he planned to do. 

“Hey, no!” And you hate to admit it, but you’re talking louder like she might’ve heard, just to cover your back that don’t really need covering in the first place. “I mean it’s good. It’s real good! They ran out of regular buns is all.”

Kathy smiles, you think, and Johnny laughs at you relaxing at it—and you would’a liked a kiss or something as an apology for getting you to fret like that, but he just leans back again and runs a thumb down your cheek at the same time, like that’s near enough the same thing. Real charmer. So comfortable already, you know, so sick that he thinks that’s enough, and so perfect and fine and sweet, that it has you smiling while you un-peel the damn napkin. You seem to be taking turns these days, over who has who wrapped round their little pinky, and today it’s your go around that bent little finger of his. Broke it coming off his bike, he says, but you know a fighting injury when you see one, and he’s certainly no type of guy to be avoiding a bust up when it’s put in front of him.

“John, who’s that skinny, mousey looking dude over by Wahoo?” you ask, before taking a mean bite of your sandwich-burger. Then you chew and chew and and God, if Kathy weren’t married, you’d be asking her yourself, before licking your lips and clarifying who you mean, “The one with the camera and the tape recorder?”

“Oh.” He clears his throat, fidgeting enough to make his leathers creak. “That’s Danny. He’s a… I dunno, a sort of journalist, I guess. Yeah. Scouting out stories and things. Been riding with us for a while.”

“Yeah?” Your brows go up, ‘cause that’s the last sort of answer you thought you’d be getting. “He’s out here interviewing you guys?”

“Putting together a book, he says.”

“Hmm.” S’all you can manage to say to that, Hmm. 

On that second or first date of yours, Johnny was real antsy about the idea of you going home and typing out his secrets, and you had to be seeing each other for weeks and weeks before he wanted you to really meet everybody here, but now you’re learning that this whole time they’ve had a walking talking wire tap rolling with them? Asking Q’s and getting A’s? Yeah, feels like something that makes no sense to you, coming from the big boss himself. 

“He’s from New York,” Johnny adds, like he don’t like your silence. Like he thinks you’re weighing this Danny guy up, or something. “S’a good kid.”

“You speak to him much?”

“Nah. Spends a lot of time over at Kathy’s place.” 

Figures. He probably wants to work Benny out the way you and everyone else does—and what better way to work him out, than to get talking with his lady like that?

“Maybe he’ll want to talk to me,” you say.

“Why’d he wanna do that?”

And you don’t like the joke in his voice, so you turn right round to face him, elbows sitting on his thighs. “Why wouldn’t he? I got stories to tell.”

He’s not looking at you, but looking over your head at Danny and Wahoo still. “You’re new to the Vandals,” he says, “you don’t know nothing about it. What’ve you got to say to him about all this?”

You agree as much as you don’t. And you’re itching at the principle of it anyway, so you were planning to keep on going, agreeing or not. 

“I know you, don’t I?” you tell him. “Plus new people got as much to bring to the picture as old people, you know, and when you’re writing something up you gotta have the whole entire picture from as many people as you can get, right—and I know, I like to write too, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“So why wouldn’t he wanna talk to me? I could tell him a whole load about all sorts of things—how someone like me got all wound up with someone like you, for starters—“

“Alright.”

“And how it feels to be fitting in with a bunch of people that are as much like you as they aren’t like you, you know?”

He’s looking at you now, and in the break you take to get some air and another point lined up, he asks, “You done?” Like you’d been talking forever or something.

And you’re surprised enough that you can’t say whether you are or not. 

“I don’t want you talking to him,” he says, “about us. Can I ask that? Am I allowed to ask that of you?”

“Sure you are, Johnny.” That was beside the point. You was just giving an example, you know, of why Danny might wanna point that microphone of his in your direction. 

Johnny’s looking down at you in one of those sorta ways that reminds you he’s a father still—and a father of two girls at that. The kind of look a guy might give a lion after kindly asking him to put his teeth away. “Feels like maybe you got a problem with it,” he says.

“You don’t want me talking to him about you? Fine.” You shrug. “I don’t mind.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I mean, come on, I just don’t like the implication that I got nothing interesting to say to someone like that.” Which is the truth, and you aren’t anyway shy of admitting it to him. 

He hums in response, and you don’t know if it’s a ‘you’re so funny’ kind of hum, or a ‘you’re getting on my nerves but we’re in public and I can’t say nothin’ kind of hum. And you don’t get to work it out neither, cause Cal shouts from the next table over like you’d been listening to his conversation, and not your own, this whole time.

“You coming, Lips?” he says.

“To what?”

“Car show, couple weeks from now.”

Right, cause that clears it up. “Why’d I do a thing like that?”

He looks down a little, like you caught him feeling nervous about the thing. Like it was prom and you were waiting for him to ask you, or something, lone earring swinging while he doubts himself. “Well, usually,” he says, “when a guy’s going steady with someone—not to assume or presume, Johnny, every journey is a beautiful one—but, well, usually they bring ‘em along to these things.”

You’re laughing. Well, trying real hard not to, cause he’s trying so hard to be… whatever that was, and you don’t mean to come off as rude so early on, y’know? “No, I mean, you bike guys go to car shows? Where’s the sense in that?” 

“S’more of a wheel show,” Cal says.

“S’more of a something to get drunk and start fightin’ each other for no reason,” Kathy adds from across the way, conversation travelling like a bunch of fish going upstream, “you don’t wanna be there, trust me. They just like lookin’ tough to all those nice boys in the 4-wheelers there.”

And you believe her, having said no more that a few words to her in your life, cause if anyone knows about these things, you kinda figure Kathy does. 

“You wanna go?” Johnny asks, before you can say anything about the drinking and fighting part. 

You look up, and he’s frowning like he might’ve asked you something real troubling, or like he’s trying to suss you out, even though he’s already done that and more, you reckon, sussed you out down to the parts even you don’t like thinking about. 

“D’you want me to go?” you ask.

“Well, yeah,” he says, easy but hesitant, “I do, yeah.”

“Then sure.” You turn back to Cal, who’s smoked up like a teenager in the brief moment you looked away from him. “S’pose I’ll be there, then.”

“S’pose we’ll be glad to have you,” he says back, and it’s probably only the weed, but he’s smiling like he means it. Like you’ve spent a whole lifetime with these guys, and not just one muddy afternoon in a fucking field in the middle of nowhere. 

Funny how it works sometimes, ain’t it? Johnny spent so long trying to balance things between you and the Vandals, when all he really had to do was stop worrying so much, and let everything fall together. One big pile of imperfection is a Hell of a lot easier to deal with, and you don’t mind being a part of that. Dirty boots and Benny included. 

>>>>>>next part

~~~~~~~~

taglist: @drabbles-mc @hausofmamadas @garbinge @raven-black102 @lyralu91 @hoodeddreams13 @businesscalamity (pls let me know if i forgot you or you no longer want to be tagged!)

[aylish91]

Dancing With Shadows? It caught my attention for sure!

Oh~ Good choice!

In this wip, the reader has been having a hard time of things. After the power goes out in your apartment, you decide that the only thing you can do to ease your mind and boredom, is to practice the dance for a performance you had taken a class to do. From there, you find out some things were more than you thought...

It was a slump, you know it was. How you were feeling. How you have been feeling for the last couple months. Vivid nightmares of an old imaginary friend, work becoming increasingly stressful, the days were darker sooner, it was always cold, ect. A pile of things that seemed to get increasingly bigger. At the moment, it was the power going out in your apartment due to heavy snow and the shadows tormenting you from the flicker of your candles. [..] “If you insist on being here right now, then you could at least help me instead of tormenting me. Mr. Shadow.” Your hallucination didn’t talk back of course, but you didn’t expect it too. Instead, you focused on pretending it had come forward to bow, curtsying back to fully start the dance. After a few steps, you giggled to yourself. “It’s awfully hard to follow without my lead. What’s wrong? The waking world not to your liking?”

[wurm-food]

This Christmas, put that 40 year old man in a sexy reindeer outfit. or else.

[court-jobi]

Trustfall

(gif from Pinterest)

Pairing: Din Djarin x biker!Reader

Words: 8,865

Rating: Teen & Up, (mature themes, but not graphic)

Warnings: canon-typical violence, chase scene action, catcalling, skeevey sleemos, brief descrip of injuries/roadburn, consensual touching, injury care, FEELINGS, fluff to intimacy, first kiss #thehelmetcomesoff ((fem reader, mild descriptions of features, hair etc.))

Summary: Most jobs' occupational hazards may include some warnings for heavy machinery: not 3rd degree roadburn and blaster shots to the face. Just your luck, that's what happens in your line of work.... While your partner-in-not-quite-crime Din Djarin has quite a bit of on-the-job experience with patching himself up after his skirmishes, tending to yourself after a shitshow like this is new territory. Some things are just too tender to see from behind the helmet-- and need the naked eye.

Sounds like he really needs to trust you if he's going to give you help with this one...

"I'm not going without you- -and you're not going alone" -P!nk, 2023

AN: thank you from the bottom of my heart, internet strangers, for the love for my little stories... this is a long one! here's to the countdown to season 3 finale, and a dose of feminine rage, badassery, and fluff to soften the landing~

For my Star Wars | Mandalorian Masterlist, check it out here!

Read on AO3

Anywhere in the galaxy you turn, there's a place you can navigate like the back of your hand: simply find where the drinks are flowing. Every watering hole may have its tricky language and even trickier problems, but the money's always good, and no questions are asked of you. 

At a cantina, you rely on this. Here, you know you can easily fall back to old habits in an instant. Safety first, of course. 

The rundown: where's the doors, where's the bouncers, where’s the barkeep and where's the biggest guy in the room. You've trained yourself to  look for gaps, low traffic areas where you could make a quick dash out if things are looking sideways. Do all those things as fast as you can, too, because everything can change in a second. Tables can flip over like a credit chip– tempers, all the more quick to the draw. Oh, and don't be suspicious. Give a little smile if you can chance it– unassuming glances always make folks feel better.

But it's a bit different now. You don't bother to look up when you cross the threshold of a new place. You don't dissect all these fine details. After all, you've got a green baby that's twisting in his sling across your hips that has your attention split, and he comes first. 

That's a full time job on its own… and whenever he comes along for the day, you don't forget the best part of the arrangement you find yourself in. 

You've got a bounty hunter in stride. Worry is the furthest thing from your mind. He’s got you. 

Upon first entry, the Mandalorian you've been hyperspace hopping with comes in like he'd likely done hundreds of times before. He's no stranger to reading a room, either. Though this time, with you and the little one tucked away in your crossbody, the company he keeps is completely different. This dynamic is far from your norm, but there’s so many things you love about it– and as it turns out, the feeling is mutual. He tells you so, that you don’t have to worry when he’s with you. 

You buckled in the kiddo yourself– a break for Mando's still-tender shoulder. The scuffle you'd just come from not twelve hours ago was still fresh in both your minds– not that your sabacc face showed it. He appreciated your offering to keep tabs and hold him today. Still gotta fix his pod after the 'swimming incident' last week… after this payday, maybe you two could swing it after your winnings arrive. 

Heading towards his unofficial corner of this planet's best underground lounge, Mando picked up through his peripherals the bits of chatter– no… -hunger- coming from some of the smaller pods of wranglers. Their attention wasn't due to the shinier beskar plates he wore. No, it was all aimed at his newfound companion. 

They're all looking at you… not that you notice.

One in particular caught Mando’s honed attention as you neared, passing him to the bartop while he waited. The man wasn't the biggest in size, but Mando knew this type; that smarmy smile told him he’s thinking himself roguishly handsome, but made of complete slime and bantha-shit.

“Bike’s out back~” you paused by the bar to pick up the drink you’d nodded for, and made a convincing-looking fake sip while sticking close to his side. “-unregistered. Pokka dropped it off this morning for a nearby delivery run. It’s not the prettiest thing, but it’ll do in a pinch for a two-seater.” 

Just after that line left your lips, something in the schmuck’s eye and his low murmur to his buddy. A near growl about the ‘not the only thing I'd pinch– pretty thing, coming right up’ made your partner turn with micro-precision in the direction of the smugglers–

–and catch your hand with a fierceness. Right in front of their table.

You're surprised by the sudden gesture. 

When he did let go around the back of the row of booths, the Mandalorian more or less guided you by the small of your back instead. If anyone were invested enough past their drink's contents to be watching, they’d find you in a half embrace. This move allowed Mando the space to tuck you into his side with a corralling arm. You'd honestly not registered what he’d witnessed until he fell back to your pace with a gentle ‘this way’. A pod of spacers were gawking– at the shiny guy loaded to the gils with blasters, you thought. 

Now closer, you had less room, but still managed enough to swing the munchkin to your front. The ‘bag’ made a little noise- an indignant question at your description of the ride you’d secured.

“Sorry, excuuuse me- three seater! Two and a half more like, with your size...”

Situating yourself with some disappointed looks your way, you took the near end of the bench Mando directed you to. Didn’t take much to know not to keep eye contact too long with any of these unsavory characters around you, so you kept to yourself. Once Mando slid in from the opposite side, you asked him, 

"Quite the crowd huh?--oof–"-

Rather than allow the space for the little guy in between you, Mando slid in right beside you: an arm behind you and a small thud of his heavy fist on the table. The tracer clacked as it landed in front of him.

Someone's got him acting testy. You eyed your hunter as he brooded; a small twinkle flitted behind your eyes, 

“See someone you know?" you asked.

"No." the Mandalorian spat out, curtly.

"Then what's wrong?"

His helmet turned to you, then ahead again.

"I didn't like how they were looking at you."

You bristled, really checking the room for the first time, managing the kid in your lap with a little glance. From the moment you took stock of the table nearest you, their quick darts in your direction told you just how rusty you were. They’re all locked onto you. 

The whole point of your taking the kiddo for Mando was to seem less out of place, not a target.

“You don’t– think folks all the way out here are gonna go after him?” Nervousness flared in your voice, though for the sake of appearances, you didn't dare let it show on your face, “Who even reads the Imp notices anymore? This whole town’s a glorified farming dustball-”

Mando corrected you, “Not him.” 

He murmured that into your shoulder like it was obvious.

A stunted breath tripped up your budding confusion. 

"Well, if it's not the sight of a baby in a bar making them creep, what then?”

“You.”

Not for the first time, you checked the look of yourself. It’s what you faced from the reflection of the beskar cheek looking back at you when you addressed him– never his face, but yours. Then, to the room. Sure, you weren’t so rough-and-tough looking from the outside, but–

"..Hold on." Flatly, you turned towards him; a quarter turn from your cozy spot. "You're saying I'm the distraction here."

All you got  in response was a little quirk of the helmet. 

You bristled, “I’m not the only-”

“I know you’re not,” he hushed you again, still scanning his sights across the venue like a sentry camera, “but these bantha-breaths are all the same when it comes to- distractions.” 

Your eyes fluttered in a muted roll. “And you think that’s new?”

“New to me.”

“Cmon. All this? You’ve gotten plenty of looks before.”

“Not the way they were watching you. The kid had nothing to do with it.”

You never take having such protective company for granted, but Mando's insinuation that you're bringing unwanted attention was surprising– and irritating.

“Please. You flatter me, I hardly think I’m the biggest draw in the room, hon.” you settled in. Harmless, but indignant, “You want me to really up the appeal? Then we should have planned ahead, and set up a rotation for me in the dance schedule.”

His gloves crackled at the creases– their grip unmistakable, “That’s an invitation for trouble.”

“No, messing with you is an invitation for trouble. I’m not trouble.”

“May not mean to, but you might cause us some.”

In truth, this observation wasn't unfounded; of the scarred, sweaty hunters and mechanics that filled this bar, you'd likely look out of place somewhere half this packed… and there’s no mistaking with the way you’re dressed that you are no fair-eyed performer like the real beauties in here. Sure your face under the visor shield might tell a different story when you appear more intimidating on the road, but here on this world, you passed over the need for even a 

This was your job, and not your first time in this line of work. You wore the kit, you didn't strut or flaunt your stuff around, and you certainly never drank on the job either. Just looked and played the part you needed to. If he didn’t want you to come meet the contact, then why ask you to join him? The whole point of this plan was to be seen very publicly as a united front, so you wouldn't be suspected of funny business; even if that was going to be your specialty after you start phase two: divide and conquer, as you always do.

Plans change, sure– but only when things turn sideways… not when he’s got some alpha male jealous streak going on behind that bucket of his. That hand grab earlier proved it.

Mando just took centering deep breaths while you ran out of accommodating alternatives. 

“Well, then, what do you want me to do?” the short candor that came out of your mouth wasn’t in your nature– but this was getting annoying, how short he’s acting. He’s not normally this snippy with you… “What, ‘wait by the tram’ till you come out, so I don't tinge that reputation of yours?”

The helm regarded you, then shook off– like he was redacting on the spot.

“I- didn't mean-”

And the backpedaling,

“-Fine.” 

No use fighting for a place you shouldn't be in the first place, because it would only make his job more difficult. Feelings or not, you weren’t out to throw a wrench in the operation just for the sake of your involvement. 

And even if your reason hadn’t won out, you sure weren't up for a soapbox moment either– despite its occupancy in your chest. 

You unstrapped the kid from yourself and placed him in your spot, 

“See ya in a bit, bud,” you laced a kindness into your voice- a sweetness just for him, “Maybe your dad will get his job done better without 'arm candy' throwing off his mojo."

Beelining it to the backdoor, you carried on steaming. You didn't bother looking back, which also meant you missed the Mandalorian’s lock on you the whole way across the rounded bar. Not that you had any doubts that he would be watching you; in fact, you counted on it. But you knew with even more certainty that he wouldn’t stop you. Not when there’s a job to do. You’re just going to set out on yours early. 

Though you may not always see alike, there’s yet to be a final say that makes you not trust him so far. You’ll change the plan, call ‘plot twist’ and go right along with him.

Maybe one of these days he’ll begin to trust you at your word… do Mandalorians even do that with folks who aren’t their kind?

It's a job. A job you can do damn well. So, back to old habits it is. Keep the bike warm and ready for go-time.

In your retreat, you caught a comm from him. Just a blip and slight vibration that caught your attention on your wrist: 

/be careful/

– and just like that, all the temper heating your neck and chest: shocked by a bucket of cold, graciously vigilant water.

Your Mandalorian couldn't resist.. and you really couldn't fault him for it. 

You stopped at the door, slowing as the two words staring back at you made you come to a standstill. Checking back and finding that the man's brilliantly shiny helmet had indeed stayed tracked on you the whole time sent that pang in you alive and burning. A little breath huffed from your nose, but you didn't scowl at him. 

It's just in his nature, he can't turn that off. 

You looked back and nodded.

'I will'. 

“Fancy seeing a livin' breathin' angel who knows her way around a rig~” 

Outside, the smarmy man you'd missed noticing before made good on his interest in you and racked up his courage to act on it. He swaggered over to you by the open air skybike model you’d secured. 

As aloof as he could seem, with that peacocking chest on full display…. He’d even set one of his holsters off to the side, a clear invitation for you to notice another package. Ugh. 

“Vision a’ beauty in a dark, little corner like this, too…" he layered on the sugar,"Must be my lucky day, I tell ya!”

You weren’t having this pathetic attempt. 

“Does this actually work on women…” You leveled your face.

Felt good, giving him a stare down before going back to your solid watch of the back door. 

“C’mon now, pretty thing,” more swaggered steps towards you had your insides cringing– and had you moving ‘round the speeder to the mount side, “Couldn’t keep my eyes off’a ya in there– yer a stunner!”

And you don’t take a hint. “Not interested– I’m working.” Kept talking, too, like your words had just been a sneeze. 

“Thought you was that bounty hunter’s girl, but ah-” he comically searched the perimeter of the garage, “--don't see ‘im nowhere.”

You scrolled through your wristcom, “If you did, I’d be sweating if I were you.”

“Got the hots for him, do ya? ‘R are you just friendly is all?”

It took every ounce within you not to react. Don’t give him fodder, just watch the door and keep a  level head. Like he does. 

You cursed yourself. Mando really did have the eyes of a hawk-bat inside. Meanwhile, you were getting rusty– or just far too comfortable. 

Still, this moron was clearly set on poking the still-tender temper inside of you.

“Thinkin,” he made every move to sidle up to you, “I don’t have yer name, sweet’art- whaddthey call ya?”

“Look– I’m not here for my health. Buzz off.” You won’t be getting it.

And another step, to come lean on the front dash- “Right then– I get to guess. Sweetie, it is~”

Some sanity passed through your head, and you figured… the more you talk to this joker, the more he’ll try his luck. A hand on the palmbar, you revved the bike to full power; making your ‘Leech’ jump back, immediately floundering–

“Hey, hey, hey!!” and his sights roved over you, and in an instant, you equally revved his engines, “Ah, bit of fire in ya, huh? Like that in a bitch… Sure you know how to ride this beauty? or I can show you the ropes~”

You finally let your disgust show.

-and thank the Maker for the comm beep to save you. Your partner’s speech-to-text came through on your wrist tab,

//Making an exit//

//Which bay did you clear//

All too grateful, you typed back the number plastered on the overhead air systems installed above you. 

It took a bite of your tongue to keep from writing back a fuller response:

/Listen to the sound of this skug-bag’s jaw hitting the floor- that’s where I’ll be/

but instead you mounted after a quick couple letter keys.

“Well, it’s been a not-so-lovely chat here,” you upturned your own helmet with a flourish, “But after the loss of these braincells I can never get back, I gotta run and make my pickup now.”

The man made a last attempt to lean in over your from the front handlebars, 

“Nah, c’mon, gorgeous, I’ll make it worth your time real good. What’s the hurry? Sure there’s no harm in a bit a’ hooky?”

You laughed high in the back of your throat, giving gushy-sweetness back, with a side of ice–

“Not on your life, sleemo. Door to Hell is open, I hear.”

Then with the pop of your helmet on, you floored a fast reverse and drove off to leave him in the dust.

It almost occurred to you when you paused again to see what became of him, but you were shocked that he was in fact coming after you– with a gang of about four other men. Not that you could make out clearly what they were joshing about in the metallic hangar, but the slang they used about what features were hidden by your clothes was obvious…

The door you parked by remained silent when you rolled up; meaning you’d probably met Mando too soon. He likely wasn’t ‘a few moments away’ after all. And the gang who’s laughing so boisterous was nearing the exit ramp that would take them straight to you.

You tapped the wrist comm again, speaking directly. 

“Got company out here too, Mando,” you firmed up, “Bit of nasty company if that makes a difference!”

In a blink’s time, the audio came back, blaster fire sparkling through the speaker, 

“Same shits from the bar?”

You chortled, then answered clearly,

“Yup. Bold guys, up close.”

“I’ve got their buddies inside too.”

“Well kriffin’– do you need backup in there then?” Your slow reverse and frantic scooting along the floor looking for someplace inconspicuous -and quick- to hide your ride flew through your mind as you came up with plan ‘B’. “I’ll stash this, and lay lower inside.”

“No time– Take a lap– don’t stay where you are–” the Mandalorian blurted out.

You heard the rev of the gang’s engines as they idled around the exit ramp, “Or could you just put a rush on it? I’m already right here–”

“I’ll find you,” he stressed. “DO NOT engage them–”

But before you could snap back with–

“Guess you’re in need of a new boyfriend after all, Sweetie Pie!”

The crass voices appeared from above. While you’d slowed and chatted, they’d hopped the roof and made to bear down on you. The newcomers to the group, a couple Trandoshans and another Kel Door with a new retrofitted mask roved over you like you were a batch of Quarren hot-pot.

Oh, that blaster at your side was tempting… but you revved into top gear, and changed the route again. 

Keep away it is. Just ‘till the boys show up. 

In the end, you lose your seedy admirers after your third pass around. Touch and go driving proved in your favor, messing with their sloppy sense of acceleration with each lap around the back parking area. That was perhaps your saving grace– letting their inebriated states affect their pursuit instead of performing on the offensive– but it was short lived. 

Your first chatty Leech gets a corner up on you and forces your trek on the inner wall, where the backdoors line the complex. At this stretch of buildings, there weren’t any more service ladders like where Mando was going to meet you. 

Coincidentally, there were garbage units separating where that former landing zone was to where you are now. So when you skidded to a perfect stop, Leech rammed into the back and managed to jam his front end into the back of your second-seat attachment. Lovely. A flare of alarm chilled your back– feeling him far too close for comfort. 

The blaster you carry is holsted between you- he’d see if you turned to grab it. You’ll have to slip down for your vibroblade if he tries to grab you.

And of course now is when he comes out of the far backdoor– 

The Mandalorian burst from the firefight in the back door and -0ki whipped around the railing looking for you. The munchkin spots you first, and with your visor’s magnification, you see his smile- and subsequent squeal- which drags the Mandalorian’s attention to you.

From clear across the divide, his blaster raised and you leveled down with your handlebars: like he showed you.

“Hey now, friend! I was just returnin’ yer lovely thing to you!” the man’s voice flipped up several octaves in defense. 

The maglock between your bikes activated, and he dragged you in reverse ever so slowly, 

“Been runnin’ me and my crew like wild around the place. Been a fun chase- yeh must have yer hands full of this girl-”

Mando shot the man’s acceleration chamber till it hissed– stopping him in his tracks.

“You stay.”

You bashed the man’s face with a harsh elbow while his sights are down.

“YOU CRA-”, he recoiled with a bear swipe while you dismounted to try and fling him off– “--AH!”

But another shot grazed the man’s foot, making him slump onto his speeder.

He’s buying you time. 

Running through your mental catalog, you risked the man’s pain-induced split focus to detach your bikes from his panel’s shortcuts– but didn’t miss the Mandalorian’s next shout,

“Touch her and you lose your head next.”

You smirked under your visor. He’s gonna take him out anyway, you just know it. Swinging your ride back around to where you can remount never felt so good. 

Now, you really did try to avoid close calls like this as much as you can manage. But if nothing else, this run-in proved you could always learn a bit more, should spare reading up on grav separation, and maybe outrig yours a bit better when you get the chance…

A spared nod to the Mandalorian while you backed up– and his nod back– gave you the confirmation from the high ground that you needed. 

From your angle down low, your helm didn’t have the scope for it. But Mando’s does; you’re cleared to run the gap.

Against the exasperated Leech’s expectations, you jumped it. Sure enough, when you landed, no more jeers followed. Only yells of surprise from the guy’s crew, who were screaming around his form laid flat on the ground, some to call for a extinguisher droid for the speeder fire, another calling out for a medic…

Under the railing where Mando stands, blaster shots chink off his backplate again, signaling him to get out of there. A perfect land later, Mando mounted behind you and wedged his foundling between the both of you. 

“I take it you got it?” you asked, your modulated voice still perking up the Child’s ears.

He answered with arm wrapped tight your waist, “Got it. Drive.”

With the Mandalorian and the kid’s padded sling strapped tight to him, the three of you dipped off the ledge of the garage, leaving the bad vibes- and big paycheck -secured. 

–However, there's a gap in the antigrav you don’t account for. Turning sharp back to the main road, you slip off a level, and wipe out. Happens so fast, you don’t even breathe– just feel a punch to the gut where the front end of the bike lurches back against you when you curl forward around it as it spins against the momentum.

 The acceleration drones when it falls off kilter, the compressors go creepily silent, the metal plates grind against your eardrums, scrapes and crashes, and so do you.

The Child’s fine; if just a little dizzy when Mando curls away from his landed position behind you. Made of straight beskar steel everywhere it counts, he’s perfectly fine too. 

You? Not so lucky… You can count on one hand the amount of times over the age of fifteen where you’ve had a messy landing– and this makes the top ten. 

Crashing feking hurts. But you can still feel your legs; that’s good.

You rolled onto your back at Mando’s yell for you. He’s calling for you by name– louder and longer each time it leaves his vocoder– before you can reorganize your rattled brains enough to make any noise. A test of tilting your head proved you had range of motion. An adrenaline-high hand simply gave a thumbs up to him, even though your cheek burned. 

White hot sting radiated across your face even when you chucked your helmet off with gasps of breath, as fiery steam and dribbles of blood were dangerously seeping close to your eyeline. From your good eye squinting to the side, you caught the remnants of your smoking, stolen ride spun out amongst some employee’s stash of speeders. So much for returning that poor two-and-a-half speeder back in one piece…

The Mandalorian led you out of the hangar with a steady hand on your back- for support, this time. 

Even through the leather, you felt the pressure he gave as a buffer between you and any lingering watchers. Out in the bustle of a crowd should have provided a comforting white noise to be moving along in, fading into their routine existence through the foot traffic. But not this time; not with your ear still ringing and ears popping every time you swallow. Instead you were still shaking off the chills that creep sent when he was starting to block you in.

That hand on your back slid onto your waist, tucking you closer to him as you walked and merged with the crowd. Then, while your attentions moved to the booths, he slowed a bit and moved up to your arm.

"Are you alright?"

You lifted up, that soft tone a sharp contrast to what you’d just witnessed: as he made his threats and his kills like the hunter he was. It hadn't bothered you, in fact the protective nature of him made you feel slightly good. 

You smiled and fell into his side. You didn't realized how tightly you'd crossed your arms over your fractured helmet. His touch alone- brief as it was- encouraged you to release the tension.

"Yeah... Thanks for that." You sunk a bit. With every breath, the adrenaline ebbed more and more from you, and your cheek stung.

You both could bicker about how you had it covered another time. When there was some distance between this incident, maybe, but thanks was due here. There was no game of ‘I told you so’ between you; it was unspoken- but the care won out over any personal beef.  

Your ego is plenty bruised over having a wipeout in front of him. And yet, even as he'd brought you to your helmet, the first comment he made wasn't about how reckless you'd rounded that corner, or how you got yourself into a chase scene picking a petty fight… 

Mando was by your side the instant your hand fell limp after your cheery hand signal, and said something about how this helmet saved your life. In the moment, you were just sad its visor shattered. 

"Spent a lot of credits on the tint job…" you groaned. 

"You're bleeding. From the head."

"Fine, fine," you waved him off, "I'll spring for substance and not style next time."

"Thank Ashla her humor's intact," Mando bemoaned to the Child. "C'mon, let's get you up and out of here."

"Ow, shit– that's gonna bruise…  all down here, too.." 

"I've got you."

He looked ahead and motioned with a little nod to the corner of the side street. Once under a pavilion cover he loosened his hold on completely in favor of facing you.

"I'm.. I'm sorry that happened."

"Yeah," you sighed back, "Wasn't the finest show of my skills. Even stellar  have bad days too, see?"

"N-. Not that," he shook his head a little, "When I found you, out back."

You stood confused. "What, that a creep wanted to get in my pants? It's not the first time, and probably not the last." 

What started as a quip in your voice turned more genuine as you admitted the truth, 

"You uh… had that part right at the bar. How they're all the same, y'know."

He bristled, the turn of his helmet evident.

"That's happened to you before?"

You shrugged it off, a little surprised that he hadn't been privvy to that kind of scene.

"Just read the stats. It happens more often than folks care to admit, honey,” that sick feeling returned, the one that made even your toes lurch.The sourness of your memories made your broken helmet decidedly more interesting to look at,  “Dregs say whatever they want in these parts, really anywhere from Mid-Rim out. Don't like being told 'no' for the most part either… It just depends on how far they'll go to try and ‘convince you’." 

He really must be all business in establishments like that to never see those locales from another's perspective… But you grin back up at him while he stared speechless. 

"...I haven't ever had someone come to my rescue before.." you admitted. "That was– welcome. Appreciated."

As expressionless as the helmet made him, the slight tip of the head spoke wonders for you. Mando's hand rose to catch your top wrist and rubbed his thumb against it– solidifying those feelings he didn't dare speak in public. Without any facial features to go on, you relied on these touches and read into every little thing: chipping up your chin is an encouragement, a pat on the shoulder is a quick ‘atta girl’ or ‘stay put’ depending on the situation. And this little hold on your wrist spoke equal wonders, a hidden language of care:

 I’d do it again in a heartbeat, cyar’ika. Simply say the word, and it’s done.

Your pause was a quick one, and with no more words shared, he simply took claim of your hand, adjusted your fingers to work together, and led you back to the shipyard. 

The Child would peek his head out now that the action was over. He’d crane and lean up at you both as much as his sling could afford him– though he was most interested in what sight was in front of him: your hands now fitting together like they belonged. 

His buir was currently holding your hand, like he’s reached out to hold his own three fingered claw when they first met. He hoped this meant you'd stay, too. With his green-skinned hand, he could almost reach yours and add it to the pile.

......................................................................................................

The Mandalorian was quiet that night. The quiet itself was not unusual, no not that– setting a course and spending his time in the cockpit making the adjustments he wanted was a completely normal task for him. He always knew where to go, which route to plug into the navicomputer to coast comfortably in this hyperspace lane for the next few hours so he didn’t have to stay up there and babysit it. You left him to it; this brand of silence was nothing really out of the ordinary for him.

You thanked his strictly-taught discipline tonight. While he stayed busy, you were able to clean yourself up without an audience. 

After an indulgent sonic shower by his insistence, you fiddled around in the small kitchenette. The domesticity, the residential feel you’d fostered on the ship piece by piece was a sharp contrast to how the bar made you feel. The security of this place; you fall back into the feeling of ‘home’ here everytime you come up the ramp. So far tonight, that’s meant heating up a few bean rolls, monitoring the data cells you’d comped from your intel, and watching the kiddo roll around that little knob he was always sneaking off with. The minute after you’d realize the twist top of the gearshift throttle in the cockpit was missing, you’d smile. What thievery, at such a young age… at least your pilot didn’t have need of it yet.

You shook your head and laughed when the Mandalorian sighed behind you– clearly finding it, too.

"What am I gonna do with you, pal..." He wrestled with himself more than anything- begging the odd baby for reason, and picked him off the floor.

After setting him on the crate, the Mandalorian came up to the side of the sink. You didn't move much from what you were doing, but looked up when he just stood there quietly for too long.

"--What's up?"

“Really need to clean that.”

At the nod, you knew what he meant– the split brow and cheekbone.

Your instincts flared- hedge away. 

You fanned your face,  “I was just getting him settled first. It’s clean, I was just letting it cool down a minute.”

Your name left his lips. Firm as steady morning rain, and in a similar hush. You didn't need to see what color they were to know they were set on you and only you.

“Look, it’s only this much, see?--AH! Oof, nevermind..”

At your cheek’s lift, the fire came back. The move brought a tear to sting your eye. 

In a second, the Mandalorian came to your aid, a bracing hand on your waist as his hand cupped your chin to see the damage himself. He asked you to take another step towards the light, so you did. It seemed like he was tilting about a bit, even as he tested the touch around the roadburn. You winced at it each time- from both the poking and the bulb of the overhead glaring into your eyes. 

“It’s pretty bad, huh.” you mumbled out.

Guilt came through the sigh as a little exhale. You barely caught it, but it struck you in the stomach. The night, its quiet, and the privacy of hyperspace allowed you to bring your favorite secret to your lips–

“How bad is it –Din?”

“I can’t see it too well.” Mando -by his true name- told you, a skosh gentler. “My scanner doesn’t always allow me to see the debris from the clotting clearly. Hard to tell,” he weakly let go of your chin. 

“Damn,” you sniffed and looked about for the tabletop lantern back by the kiddo, “Do I need to get the handheld?”

Then, with a little look back to the hull where he sat occupying himself sleepily by the towel pile, your Mandalorian took maybe his largest risk ever:

“-I need you to close your eyes for me.”

“Huh?” 

“I need to see it better. Need– you to close your eyes for me to do that.”

Realization punched you again. Made your ears prick– and gooseflesh chill you.

You can't let him do this... You know he would. 

“We can get a medscanner, Din. It's not too late to stop somew-.”

“No,” he caught you again, “I can do it; need to do it. I just– I need to trust that you’re hearing me.”

It's less of an order and more of a curated ask, one that begged for assurance. This man would always do his best to help you– but you never imagined he'd go this far… what he's willing to do for you. 

It's the most vulnerable request he'd ever made of you; a Mandalorian's trustfall. 

Now? You took back every doubt you had in the bar about him. You looked him straight in the visor –while you still could.

“...I hear you, hon.”

It nodded back to you; just one, solemn motion.

“Okay. Come sit here.”

You obeyed and locked onto the sight of the child while the Mandalorian fell to a knee in front of you, then propped himself up on both to match. With prepped gauze and tools to extract the pebbley shards, you winced at the canister of bacta being shaken up in his palm. A gloved palm came to caress your thigh. It’s meant to soothe.

“It’s ok. Gonna get you taken care of.”

“Yeah,” you feigned a brave face. 

But every nerve ending fluttered at its tips when you felt it: his now bare hand brushing your good cheek,

“Do not open them, please.” you heard him whisper in the helmet. 

The already low-lit vision of the cabin fell dark at your will. And you nodded– any reaction of his, unseen.

With the latch release and depressurization, you knew the helmet was off. And without meaning to, your ears prickled at every breath, every swallow, every ounce of sound that man was making – now naked to the hallway of this ship.

“Okay,” a gentle baritone spoke in the air between you. It’s new, like a stranger.  “Hm– looks like we’re out of the stim solution, I don’t have any numbing cartridges. But I have the wipe kind. Gonna do that first.”

You hummed your agreement, then immediately whimpered at the first dab.

The Mandalorian froze and detached.

“It’s just a wipe…”

“Tell my face that.” You cringed. “Sorry, juss' stings.”

“I know,” he soothed, “T’sgonna be alright. I’ll make it as quick as I can. There. Gonna get these pieces out now.”

He did work pretty quickly now that he’s out from the helmet. You barely felt the edge of his tweezers as they scooped the wedges of asphalt from that high point of your cheek where the visor of your headgear had shattered. Before you could hedge away from one particularly deep poke, you heard him speak again, 

"I've been thinking about what you said earlier,” Mando peeped up from his quiet, “About... men who've said those things to you before."

You softened. Was he still thinking about it? That was hours ago.

"And.. I know I've said things like that. I just wanted you to know, I can't stomach the thought of you feeling that way. And I apologize if I have ever done so, even if you'd never said a word about it. If you want me to stop, I will."

Kriff, this man. You’d sooner lay across an electrode-fencing rig than ever make him stop. You sighed, and not simply from relief as you heard him switch tools.

He’s a man of few words, but not meaningless ones. The first compliment he ever paid you was about your fire- your heart, your will, and how strong you were and how you believed. Later when you had to doll up for that ridiculous undercover function, he finally spoke his mind in the moment and said you looked ‘stunning’. He calls you 'pretty thing' often; mostly when he's giving you a hard time. Truthfully he'd called you all sorts of things, both in Basic and not– which likely gave him this pang of guilt all the more.

But those endearments were just that: things that gave you joy, a peace and comfort with him. A sweet word here or there? It's born out of familiarity- the ease of tongue that comes with living in close quarters. The draw between you two is perfectly synchronous– it is an unexpected bond through bizarre shared experiences in an infinite galaxy that inevitably brought two rough-and-ready folks together and practically conjoined at the hip. To   

Your Mandalorian is not a man without faults, but he'd never once made you feel filthy.

"Oh stars above, you sweet man.." you chuckled a little, wrenching your palms from your shirt hem and blindly batted up in the air to find his arm. "You've never made me feel like that. It's different when it comes from you. You know that, right?"

He huffed out of his nose. Relieved, if his trigger fingers were any indication as they tilted your cheek again, 

"I didn't want to assume. You're always so collected. Talented, confident.. But you're– painfully polite."

You giggled at that. All of his touches that root you to the spot when you least expect them are anything but unwanted. Of course you were polite when he jumps the gun on grabbing you while out in traffic, or whipping a hand in front of you at a hard stop– but you've never once taken offense to that. 

With a tentative reach, his fingers brushed the line of fine little curls by your ear, relishing in your smile at the touch.

"I don't just want you in safe places. I can’t always promise our adventures will grant us ideal jobs," In the dark, you envisioned his solid, pitch black visor giving a barely there shake… "But I want you to feel safe when you're with me."

You turned your head and kissed the palm of it. 

"I do feel safe with you. You'd be the first to know if I wasn’t–NNGH!"

"Be still."

"Shit… m'working on it… this whole thing's new to me, y'know?" Your mouth wandered like your frantic mind, blitzed with stinging pain. "My visor's never shattered like that before," You clenched your fists against the picks made at your browline, "I just fill in the scuffs with some epoxy usually, but it's never broken like that. Frikkin’ hurt."

Mando hummed in sympathy and merely added, "Gotta fit you with some beskar one of these days."

"Oh, sure, for half my year's portion of – nehNGH!"

“Shh, I know. Last bit’s over. Just gonna clean it up before the spray.”

With a water’s dip and wrench out, Mando made a little cleansing exhale before dabbing over the whole area. Didn’t hurt as much of your face other than the center of the wound because of the sedative, but it certainly made your eyes squeeze shut. No worries of opening your eyes for a peek when it stung so badly.

Your gentle angel in beskar whispered a quiet ‘m’sorry’ for the repeated flare of pain. His nervousness was palpable, regardless of how confident he was at this job. A jostle of your leg at calf-height told you he was checking around for dry gauze. 

“Almost done,” he cooed, “You want a break?”

You hummed and gave your pitiful nod to agree. The barest turn of your head caused little pops in it from craning so much. The pressure would take a while to dissipate and you know that when you open your eyes, they’ll be bloodshot. But the pain would be over soon.

Pleased enough to give you a minute, Mando released your chin in favor of brushing another bit of hair back. Due to taking your own helmet on and off so much, the wisps of curls were bouncier than normal like this, with just enough length to give you some fun bangs. You smirked with a tight-lipped smile, as you did not want to bother and pull your cheeks too much. 

It’s kinda beautiful, this. Having this closeness, sharing in a horrible task but in the best of conditions imaginable– being cared for by the one you adored most. Who wouldn’t crave that when it’s what the heart screams for? 

And with this new secret shared between you, this loophole in Din Djarin’s creed… this isn’t a moment you took lightly at all. 

With a little shaky exhale of your own, you searched for his hand again in your bubble of darkness. Now, it met you fully–and linked your fingers together. 

And then, what shocked you the most: steady fingers supported your jaw again, and a slight breeze to cool down your enflamed cheek rushed across your face. 

Din is here. Kneeling before you and blowing on it– just for your comfort. 

You welcomed the cooling flow; your brows showed it. Every ounce of tension left you while dragging heartache into its warm spot. Emotion flooded every corner of the body. It nearly hurt: how it compressed your chest into submission and brought loving tears behind your eyelids.

You didn’t deserve him.

“We’re almost there, sweetheart. Finish line,” he squeezed your hand before lifting it to his lips. He spoke gently to the fingers, "Keep those eyes closed for me."

"Promise." You squeezed them again, bracing yourself for the final burn.

And there it was– freezing and sealing all at once. A white, blinding sensation like what you’d feel from a lightsource turning on overhead, but all over your skin. Each pore was touched by the bacta’s strange magic without warning- and perhaps it was better that way to get it over with. Your breathing raced in that short time until the spray set, but you made sure to mute any noise with angry focus. Fighting the aftertaste, only a small moan eeked from you while the medicine reacted after your nurse had done his job covering the area. Darling thing, he even shielded the mist from getting directly into your eyes. 

Mando's hands left you only to set its things down. This, only in favor, of cupping your face evenly to hold you still when they returned. They warmed what once felt so cold. His forehead met yours in a tender touch as your tears spilled over from the edge of your eyes. Not to worry, for his thumb wiped them up straight away. 

Hair caught in every which way brushed along your slightly damp brow- his. Matched yours, in a way. 

"All done.” his words danced just over your nose, “You can smack me away now, if you want." 

You gave a wet little laugh as you settled into him. Slapping him is unthinkable to you. “Never.”

No, this was a perfect feeling that you’d never wish an end to. His caresses surpassed that of strict medicinal care and turned intimate, rendering your insides limp and on their way to healing already..

The urge to finally cry hit when you parted… when you felt his lips meet your unharmed cheek in a plush, hot kiss.

You whispered in reverence: Din. Desperation for ‘more, please Starborn, more’, an equal measure of shock had you squeezing his wrist, pinning him to you, 

"Should– heh- sh-should you be doing that?"

He kissed you again. Again. Like he’s addicted to the touch, like it’s his favorite vice to pass the time; soft, loose, sighing up to your temple. You know he must be taking in this sight of you now, before the analytics of heat sensors block him from vivid color and dynamic shadows once the helmet returns. 

"Probably not,” he admitted without true remorse– his voice turned soft and delicious, "But I've always wanted to. And right now, I can–" he pulled away at your forehead, "--Should I stop?"

"Oh, please don't stop–"

Your urgency, his delight. Mando chuckled, and kissed your forehead next: with such love from him, you could never doubt it. Enjoy this, honey. Take it all in.

The moment could have lasted forever. You'd about blindfold yourself for the rest of your life, for all you cared. If he just kept kissing you; lower, lower, lower–

–your lips fit against his, and you burst like a case of firewhiskey spirits poured on a flame. It engulfed you both, and he latched on– to burn right there with you. 

Your hands flew to keep him close, fingers finding a hold through the whisps of his hair he kept short that curled in choppy, sweat-licked parts. He sighed so heavenly when you touched him skin to skin. And easy to please, it seems, since he matched you move for move– threading through your feather-soft waves like it was second nature for him to hold you so close. 

Oxygen and a too-full heart demanded you part for a breath, your pulse going rapid fire in your throat. 

“Thank you.”

“Thank me? Thank– I should be thanking you,”  For caring, for the space to exist at his side, to have his loyalty in your back pocket and in your very soul, “For… everything today.”

“Nothing special about that. You thanked me already.” he said so with such frankness. “We have each other’s backs. We’re on each other’s sides. No, this–” 

His shield dropped from your browline, replaced by his whisper over the lid of your eye–

“–this means everything, mesh’la.”

The honesty of this man wrecked you. 

You found yourself pressing your forehead into the space by his neck to hide. Your Mando petted through your hair like a lovestruck man- desperate and wanting and content with every intention to keep you there for the rest of Time. By how this killer matched your breathy giggles, you had a clue that he wouldn't mind that idea. 

"So," you broke the quiet with a small question, "is that what I can expect every time I get a punch to the face?"

Din huffed. 

"You start poking around for trouble, we're going to have an entirely different problem on our hands,” he mumbled back hoarsely, “Don't you dare get any ideas." 

“Even if they get me kisses?”

“Nothing’s worth you getting hurt, cyar’ika,” those indulgent lips pressed to your hairline before he reached down- to get his helmet. 

At the lean, you panicked a second, and flung back again with a rush for him to wait. 

At your word, he stilled for you to speak your peace. Happy lines greeted your fingertips as you caught the edge of his smile with a blind-man’s reach.

You fought through your elated headspace and begged, "One more?"

Praying to every heaven out there, you were blessed when Din graced your mouth again without any teasing. Kiss after kiss, you melted into each other in this place where nothing hurt– though who did the falling first, you genuinely didn't know. 

Must have been a hell of a numbing wipe. 

After breathless kisses later, stolen tokens as they were, you both felt and heard the Mandalorian shudder and he moan back,

"Gotta stop.." he flipped up the helm with expert precision. It found its home again with only another blip of static when the seal reanimated. "You can open your eyes now."

"Stop…" you managed your beating heart and blinked open your gaze, straight up to the reflected 'T'-shaped gap of his visor. The pupils that looked back at you were straight dilated. You asked out of the haze of your bliss, "Why ‘stop’?"

Still ungloved and with sleeves rolled up, the Mandalorian’s head lolled in a little shake. 

"If I didn't stop right then," Mando caressed your good cheek, "Don't know if I ever would…"

"Would that be the worst?" You hoped for the chance again.

Mando sweetly answered, 

"No.."

It was the kind answer he knew you wanted, to wish for more kisses from you. But he wasn't completely convinced. Not with that lilt in his voice that left a question to be answered. 

He slipped a hand around your waist,

"No, I think.. if I never saw your eyes again, that would be the loss I'd suffer the most.”

Lucidity came back by the moment, your sense of confusion officially returned.

“See me? But you just did, for the first time, right?”

“Couldn’t see those pretty eyes though.”

“Well, tough.” you sassed, “Now you know how I feel.”

You tried to make it sound bossy, but the dig left your mouth too sleepily for him to take it. Behind the metal, his rough rush of static resounded his chuckle.

To further prove the point, you mimic the motion you do for your eye contact removal with a bright, goofy smile,

"It's just retinas, you know,” you shrugged, “Mine don't even work."

"Your loss is my gain, all the same." Mando fell back to only one knee again, to get comfortable at your level. "I'm almost glad we didn’t pass a med droid in town, or else…” he curled an arm around you again, “--this might not have happened any other way. I count your poor excuse for headgear as my blessing this time."

You glanced at what was left of your helmet, but fell into good humor with his warmth bringing you close again.

“You’ll be all too glad to see me walking around a beskar cyclehelm, won’t you? Gonna take a while to find that much to make one, if you’re serious.”

“Oh, I’m serious,” the helmet nodded, chipping your chin for a moment, “But we’ll manage until we source it. Always do.”

You’re still reeling over this; over what this means, him offering you the most prized form of protection. To give you comfort by shedding down to his most vulnerable state. The complete faith he has in you by doing so... It gave your nervous anxieties ballasts on all sides. 

You’d keep your wits about you better next go round, so this doesn’t happen again… but you knew the word ‘partnership’ had a different meaning between you, from this night onward.

Din continued past your mind’s lovely spiral, 

“You won’t need to worry about finding a better replacement before we head to Bespin with this package; we'll just let you heal. No sense pushing it.”

"Probably for the best, yeah," you nuzzled back, "I clearly have issues keeping a helmet on my head as it is."

The helmet giving you a kiss of its own shook side to side. That gesture all but begged ‘what am I going to do with you’.

"So we stick in our lanes for now?” you whispered your hope, “...Try my luck and steal chances whenever I can?"

Instead of a quick nod, the man who’d just kissed you senseless gave you a promise again,

"We can work something out."