#second- this comic is more than twenty years old

[tiger-in-the-flightdeck]

.... Roy, you're supposed to be explaining why people think Connor's gay, not why they think you're gay.

[finelinefae]

tongue-tied

synopsis: y/n has a stutter and harry likes to hear her talk

word count: 3.1k

contains: fluff, highschool romance, harry's a football player, popular boy x shy girl, brief mentions of bullying

a/n: happy soft girl Sunday !! I wasn’t planning on posting just because I posted the second part of the aviator a little later than I was meant to but I could resist putting this one out <3

. . .

“E-excuse me!” Y/N weaved her way through the mass exodus of students heading in the opposite direction to the lunch hall. She had tried to leave class a few minutes before the lunch bell to avoid the large groups of people but she had been so invested in writing her essay, she’d lost complete track of time. 

She was running as fast as she possibly could to get to the library, knowing the person waiting for her wouldn’t get too impatient but she didn’t want to waste a second of their lunch break not being with him. Her bag slipped from her shoulder, her braids flying behind her and her knee-high socks falling down her calves. 

Y/N barely registered the people around her, wondering where she could be going in such a rush, until her face collided with soft, grey fabric. Before she could even get embarrassed and profusely have to apologise for bumping into them, long arms snaked around her, hands clasping behind her back. She caught a whiff of his woody cologne and the floral fragranced detergent his mum always used to wash his school uniform.

“There y’ are, Dove.” He murmured, “I was starting to get worried.”

Y/N looked up and settled on those familiar green eyes she loved so much. She relaxed into his embrace, “Harry,” She sighed. 

Harry and Y/N had been dating since they were fourteen. If it weren’t for the fact that their parents all worked together at the local hospital, they probably would never have met at all, although Harry liked to believe they were fated to be together so they would have ended up meeting each other some way or another. 

Harry had always been popular at school. For one, he was on the football team which instantly made him a name within their year group. He was also very handsome for his age. Girls would whisper and giggle whenever he passed by in the hallways even those from the lower years. Despite the fact they had just turned seventeen, Harry could honestly pass for an almost twenty-year-old with how tall and mature he was. 

Y/N was the complete opposite. When it came to her social life she was shy and not often one to make friends easily. She was part of the arithmetic club and had made a few friends there and in some of her other classes. She liked to keep to herself and struggled to talk in class not only because she was quiet but also because she had a particularly bad stutter. 

It had developed when she started High School. She had been to multiple speech therapists to help her get rid of it and although it wasn’t as bad as it used to be, it still never failed to make her life all the more difficult than it already was.

A lot of the other kids liked to pick on her for it too. Whenever teachers picked on her in class and she’d reply, the rest of the class would start snickering, whispering in each other’s ears. She wanted to be invisible to everyone but it was her stutter that made her stand out.

When Harry’s family would come over to Y/N’s house for dinner, her parents would often force them to go off together whilst the adults spoke in the dining room. She remembered the first time she invited him into her room and how embarrassed she was when he saw all her comic books lying on the floor that she had forgotten to put away. But it eventually became the seed of their relationship, the common ground that allowed them to bond. 

Soon Harry was inviting Y/N to his football games and up to his room every other weekend when she’d come over with her parents. They’d exchange comic books and talk about their favourite characters. Y/N was always apologising for her stutter whenever she’d ramble on for too long but Harry never cared, he loved hearing her talk. 

Their first kiss was on her bed whilst their parents were in the room below them. Harry was the one to initiate it and Y/N hadn’t been expecting it so it was slightly awkward at first but then she got used to it and eventually all she ever wanted to do was kiss him. Every weekend, whether at her place or his, all they did was sneak around and kiss each other, giggling and falling in love all at the same time. 

Now, three years later, things were still the same except they were older now and more in love than they were yesterday. 

Wherever you looked, Harry was there, and Y/N was never too far behind. Students had grown accustomed to their relationship, and the bullying Y/N endured wasn't as severe as it used to be. Even teachers couldn't help but be enamoured with their young love — how fortunate it was to find love at such a young age. 

Things were great, everything was great and Y/N had hoped she could finish her last year of High School on a high note. That was until she entered her English class on a Friday afternoon when the teacher announced it was time for their presentations which would go towards their final grade. 

“I can’t Harry!” Y/N cried into her pillow after school, Harry was sitting on the end of her bed with his back against the wall as he rubbed his hand up and down her back. 

“I know Dove,” He comforted her, already knowing the reason she was so upset over it.

“Everyone’s going to l-laugh at me,” She could already picture herself standing up in front of her class and everyone pointing and laughing at her. 

Harry sighed, “Dove,” He shook her gently, “Will y’ look at me?” 

Y/N hesitated before turning her head so her cheek lay against the pillow. Harry smiled and lay on his side in the spot next to her, their faces inches apart, “There’s m’ pretty girl,” He cooed, his heart hurting at the tears on her cheeks. He cupped her cheek in his big hand and wiped some of those tears away with his thumb. 

“I-It’s not fair,” She huffed, “Why’d I have to have this stupid stutter.” 

“Hey,” He frowned, “Enough of that hmm? Everything about you is beautiful, y’ know I love to hear y’ talk. Could sit here for hours and just listen.” 

“But you’re d-different,” She whined, shuffling closer to him so she could hide her face in his grey jumper. Her stutter was rarely ever that bad in front of Harry which was why he was the easiest person she could talk to. 

Harry laughed breathily, his hand going to her hair to play with the strands, “Would it help if I helped you a little?” 

“How?” Y/N asked, her words muffled by his jumper.

“We could practise in the library at lunch, y’ could read me a few things and it might help your stutter.”  He thought.

Y/N’s head looked up to his face where she could count every mole and freckle on his nose and cheeks. She couldn’t help but pucker her lips to kiss his jawline, “That’d be nice,” She murmured. 

“Yeah?” He smiled, kissing the top of her head in return, “I only want to help you so if you don’t enjoy it or you’d rather practise alone then y’ can tell me,” 

She shook her head, “N-No, I want to do that with you. I’d like it very much.” 

So it became a daily occurrence, five days a week during lunch hours when Harry didn’t have practice, they’d sit in the library and Harry would pick out a book for them to read. They started with simple YA books with less complicated words. 

“Good job, Dove!” Harry cheered every time Y/N finished a chapter. 

“Wait I’m not done,” She huffed and then said the last line just for Harry to cheer for her again just as proudly as the first time. 

Now that the day of her presentation was getting closer, they had finally made their way onto Classical novels which Y/N had come to despise. 

They walked with their hands intertwined to the library after Y/N had bumped into him in the hallway. It was natural as they stepped into the library and headed straight to their table in the corner hidden away by two tall bookshelves. 

Y/N placed her bag under the chair whilst Harry unzipped his to pull out the book they were currently reading. It was Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte, even looking at the front cover made Y/N’s stomach turn. 

“A-Are you sure we can’t go back to YA books?” Y/N huffed, taking the book and opening it up to the chapter they were last on. 

Harry laughed, “But you’re doing so well, Dovey.” 

“I-it’s hard though and the w-words are so tiny.” She pouts, Harry can’t help but lean forward and kiss her. 

“C’mon, jus’ a few pages and then I can show y’ something I got for you.” He tried to persuade her, knowing the surprise would be enough to win her over.

“Fine,” She sighs dramatically. 

She read for five pages, Harry listening intently to every word. His eyes focused on her lips as she spoke, stumbling over a few words here and there. He tried to hold back from smiling so much with how concentrated she was on each letter of every word. He thought it was adorable how her eyebrows creased and her hands gripped the book. 

Eventually, she had enough, placing the book down on the table and closing it shut. “Good job baby!” He cheered, pressing multiple kisses to her cheek, “M so proud of you.” 

Y/N giggled, “Thank you, Harry.” 

Harry smiled and reached into the pocket of his blazer for the surprise he had promised her. Y/N looked down and saw a small, black pouch in his hand. He gave it to her, her fingers carefully pulling on the ribbon before pulling out the small item inside. 

“It’s an anxiety ring,” Harry explained as she held the silver ring in the palm of her hand. He picked it up and slid it on his pinkie finger to show her, “Y’ can twist this band whenever you feel nervous, thought y’ could wear it on the day of your speech.” 

He passed it back to her, Y/N narrowing her eyes to look at the spinning band which had a small inscription written on it, ‘i love the way you speak almost as much as i love you, your harry.’ 

Y/N’s eyes watered, unable to come up with the right words to say how much she adored it as well as the boy sitting in front of her. Instead, she leapt forward and wrapped her arms around his neck, “Thank you,” She murmured, “I love it. I love you.” 

Harry softened even more from her embrace, “I love you more, Dove,” He whispered. 

Y/N pulled away enough to kiss his lips, she was thankful for the privacy they had in the back of the library since she was never that good with public displays of affection and all she wanted to do now was kiss him because she was so grateful for him being there all the time. 

It wasn’t long before the day of her presentation. After school, Y/N had been working on a short essay. She was going to speak to the class about her favourite comic books and why she loved them so much. She had recited the words out loud to herself and Harry and even her parents, that she could probably speak it off by heart. 

Harry and Y/N stood outside the school. Her English class wasn’t until the third period but she knew she wouldn’t be able to concentrate in her morning classes until the presentation was over. Harry was wearing his football uniform because he had a game against another school in the morning. Y/N had been with him after school as he practised for it, wearing his coat as she wrote out her speech on a notepad. 

They stood side by side facing the school building as if it was some kind of beast they had to tackle, “O-okay,” She huffed, “I can do this,” 

Harry looked down at her smiling and then reached for her hand, “You can do this,” He squeezed her fingers in encouragement. 

“Good l-luck with your game today,” She grinned, standing on her toes to kiss his cheek. 

“Thank you, baby,” He spoke softly, “Y’ can tell me all about your presentation and how well it went afterwards.”

“Okay Harry,” She nodded, completely determined despite how nervous she was. She had spent weeks preparing, she couldn’t let fear get the best of her. 

“Good luck kiss?” Harry grinned, cheekily. 

Y/N playfully rolled her eyes and craned her neck to kiss his lips. Harry held her face in his hands, unable to pull away from her even when she tried to, “I love you,” He murmured against her lips.

“I love you too.” She sighed, blissfully. 

When third period came around, Y/N stood outside her English classroom, counting to five in her head. She clutched onto the piece of paper where her speech was written out in gelled ink, spinning the ring Harry had gifted her on her finger. With a deep breath, she opened the door and stepped foot into her classroom. 

. . .

Harry could hardly concentrate during the football match but he was trying his best. His team were two points ahead and it wouldn’t be long before the game was over. Since it was the morning and the game was mostly practice for the two schools competing, there wasn’t a huge audience watching them. 

He was glancing down at his watch every few minutes when he was supposed to have his eye on the ball, checking to see whether third period was about to start. All he could think about was his little dove and how nervous she was when they stepped into school this morning. 

She had been working so hard on reading things out, even stopping in shops when they went to town together to read the labels on the backs of food containers. He fully believed in her and her ability to speak in front of the class even when she didn’t and it killed him not being able to watch her do it. 

So when the whistle finally blew marking the end of the game, Harry ignored the celebrations with his team after they won the match and ran across the field through the entrance of the school. He raced up the steps, his football boots clicking against the crowd. He knew he probably didn’t smell the best and his knees were muddy from falling over but he didn’t have much time to think about it as he searched for Y/N’s English classroom. 

“Y/N?” He heard the teacher’s voice call her name as he approached. 

“A-Already? O-Oh, O-okay.” He could hear her nerves just by listening to her speak. 

Harry was about to knock on the door but he hesitated, wondering if it would worsen her nerves if he was in the classroom watching her. He knew how much of a big deal this moment was for Y/N and he didn’t want to intervene or make a spectacle of the moment especially since he wasn’t in her class. 

He lowered his hand and instead pressed his ear up to the door. 

“H-Hello,” Y/N started, “My name is Y-Y/N and today I will be sharing with you m-my love for comic books,” Harry’s heart ached as her voice came out quietly. 

“C’mon Dove,” He whispered, wanting her to do well. 

Y/N cleared her throat and let out a shaky exhale, “A-As you can probably tell, I-I am not all that good at speaking. I s-stumble over letters and sometimes even have to replace words with o-others because my mouth t-turns into mash potato and I can’t seem to get t-the words out.” People chuckled and Harry’s heart began to beat against his chest, “T-That is why I love comic books so much because of the l-lack of words. Instead, there are pictures,” Y/N continued, her voice gaining strength the more that she spoke, “T-They tell stories without the need for p-perfect sentences or flawless speech.” 

Y/N continued her speech and Harry spent the entire presentation with his ear pressed up against the door. He ignored the looks of teachers and other students walking past as a huge grin spread across his cheeks the more Y/N spoke in front of the class. 

By the time she had finished, it fell silent before the class responded with a round of applause, “Brilliant work, Y/N,” Her teacher said. 

Y/N felt like she was floating on a cloud as she left her English classroom. Even if her speech wasn’t perfect, she had done it and gotten through it all in one piece. As she stepped out, two arms snaked around her waist and lifted her off the ground, “Harry!” Y/N giggled as he spun her around.

“M so proud of you, Dove.” He kissed her softly, lowering her to the ground but refusing to move his hands from her waist. 

“I-I can’t believe I did it, Harry!” Y/N almost squealed. 

“Heard every word, y’ did so good, M so proud of you.” He rambled, unable to cease his admiration for her. 

“You heard?” Y/N’s eyebrows creased, her lips pouting slightly. 

“I ran here as fast as I could and stood outside to listen to you,” Harry explained, “Y did perfect, honestly, the best speech I’ve ever heard.”

“You really ran h-here to listen?” Y/N asked, still in disbelief.

“I did,” Harry smiled, “It was all I could think about when I was on the field.”

“Did you win?” Y/N asked. 

Harry pulled her flush against him, “You already know I did baby,” He smirked, kissing her. Y/N smiled against his lips.

“Let’s go out tonight,” Harry murmured, “To celebrate.”

“And do w-what?” Y/N wondered, even though the idea of spending any time with Harry was always her favourite. 

“Maybe go to the bowling alley and get dinner after,” He shrugs.

“O-oh and maybe we can stop at the comic book store on the way home!” Y/N said, excitedly. 

“Course m’love,” Harry’s smile widened the more she spoke, “We can do whatever you want as long as I get to hear you talk.” 

Y/N grinned broadly as Harry interlaced his hands with hers, feeling the cool metal of her ring against his skin. Together, they walked hand in hand down the hallway, Y/N unable to stop talking the entire time, while Harry hung onto her every word.

[ssentimentals]

seventeen members as love tropes: yoon jeonghan

fake dating

'and if only you looked me in the eyes, you'd see the truth - i'm hopelessly in love with you'

jeonghan is cool about this. he goes through his checklist: suit? check. nice bouquet of flowers? check. car keys? check. his logic? gone since the moment he agreed to accompany you on this event as your 'boyfriend'. painkillers for a splitting headache you're going to have by the end of this night? check. his sanity? gone, long gone. in all honesty, jeonghan doesn't think he's ever been sane since the moment he realized his feelings for you. you know, the ones that are very fit for a 'boyfriend' type but don't really fit for a 'good friend' type. anyways, jeonghan is cool about this.

'i am insane,' he says out loud, looking at his reflection in the mirror. he looks good because of course he does, this event is important for you and he'd rather eat shit than fuck up anything for you. 'this is insane.'

he spends next twenty minutes on his way to your house by assuring himself that everything is going to go well. so what that just the thought of having his arm wrapped around your waist has him squealing like a five years old boy? that hearing you call him your boyfriend has goosebumps breaking out on his skin? that having an opportunity to take care of you in a more romantic, intimate way has him shaking a little? and so what that when you walk out looking gorgeous his heart stops for a second? he is cool. jeonghan is cool about this.

'you don't have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable,' you say, taking his hand when he opens the door for you. 'i'm so sorry for dragging you into this, hannie.'

'you owe me,' he jokes, throat tightening when you let him pull you closer. 'feel free to kick me in the balls if i say or do something wrong there.'

'noted!' you agree cheerily and god, he can just kiss you right here, right now. how is this not a crime for being so cute?! 'let's go then, my boyfriend.'

jeonghan's heart doesn't skip a beat at this because he is cool about this. and he tries his best to be there for you for the whole evening, turns on all of his charm to be liked by all the guests and poses prettily for all pics. your hand in his feels right, you leaning on his side for support feels right, him as your boyfriend feels right. you two fall into this 'fake couple' thing surprisingly easily, everything goes without a hitch - you glow, jeonghan stays right next to you and if anyone dares to tell him that it is not right, he'll commit murder.

'hannie, i never thought it'd be that easy with you!' you exclaim in his car, getting comfortable on the seat. your relaxed posture like you belong here, the way wind plays with your hair - jeonghan has trouble focusing on the road ahead. 'you are the perfect fake boyfriend, my friend.'

and that shouldn't hurt, right? only it does. a lot. jeonghan gulps, speeding through the streets. 'should i be offended that you thought i'd be anything less than perfect?' he asks, going to a familiar trope of jokes and laughs with you. 'you know me!'

'i know,' you agree, turning over to look at him properly. jeonghan notices how you frown a little and he points at the armrest. 'what?'

'painkillers are there,' he answers, watching you light up. 'you always forget to take them, silly. you know you get headaches from being exposed to loud voices for too long and yet i'm the one who always has your meds with me.'

you chuckle, grabbing water bottle from backseat. 'i know-i know! you are a life savior, hannie. really, you're so thoughtful, you'd make someone so happy one day.'

there it is. jeonghan thinks once, twice and- he's cool about this, remember? 'it can be you.' it's a red light, he stops and turns to you, calling out for all bravery he only has. 'that someone can be you. if you want.'

you don't say anything in the first tree minutes and jeonghan has half a mind to jump out of the car, but then you hiccup comically and bubble of tension bursts, making you both laugh. 'i-' you start and then shake your head in disbelief. 'wait, is this how am i getting my confession?'

jeonghan fears his heart will burst if he looks at you right now. instead, he grips the steering wheel tighter and mutters: 'you'll get a better confession if you tell me right now that you're going to accept it.'

'what a silly boy you are,' you say and it should be offensive, but you say it with so much fondness that he can't find this comment hurtful. 'of course i will accept it, hannie. you don't think i would've asked anyone else for this 'fake boyfriend' thing, right? i would've just gone alone.'

and it's -wonderful. sense of relief floods his system and hope bubbles in his stomach. 'i'm about to pull over and kiss you right now,' he announces, turning to look at you seriously. 'blink if you agree.'

you laugh and flowers in his chest bloom. 'i'm blinking twice just so you could be sure.'

jeonghan is very cool abut this situation, so he pulls over in the first corner and kisses you like a boyfriend would've kissed you. like he would've kissed you because he thinks title of 'boyfriend' is his for now and for ever.

a/n: squealing, kicking my feet. this is for all hannie stans, who are having hard time due to latest news. i'm here for you! 🫡 - nini

my other works are here

[shewroteaworld]

Unsub Bait

Premise: For the fourth time, brilliant sunshine!reader is asked to bait the unsub. For the first time, Spencer has a problem with this.

Word count: approx. 2,000

Tw: canon-typical discussions of violence

Author's Note: Welcome to the second installment of brilliant sunshine!reader (meaning highly intelligent sunshine!reader) x Spencer Reid! While you don't have to read my first brilliant sunshine! reader fic to understand this one, I would highly recommend reading it. It's titled "I'll Hold Your Weight When You Can't." Hope you enjoy! :) <3

“Here’s an overview of the first phase of the operation: (Y/N) will go undercover as a college student at Yale. She’ll get acquainted with the unsub at Speakeasy, the New Haven bar where he assesses potential victims. We’ll apprehend him in the act of attempted kidnapping.” Hotchner listed for the team.

You’d played unsub lure almost a comical number of times. Once? That’s a once in a million task required to capture a once in a million unsub. Twice? You’d only have two nickels, but it’s weird that it happened twice, right? But four times? 

You’d already joked to Hotch that you should add “professional unsub bait” to your resume. 

It would’ve been more comical if it wasn’t so scary. 

You took a deep breath as you stared at the photos of the victims on the mahogany conference room table. Melissa Grey. Audrey Bernstein. Alivia Johnson. You could see your 21-year-old self in their eyes. You remember being so young and full of anxiety; you were near graduating from MIT. You couldn’t sleep at night from worrying if you had already lived up to your potential and would spend the rest of your years a washed up gifted kid– an academic has–been. After graduation, you proved to yourself your worth.

The college juniors in the photographs had their lives cut short by the unsub before they had the opportunity to find out what amazing places their brilliant minds could take them. You were about to allow said unsub to nearly kidnap you. 

That is, if you didn’t blow your cover. Then, he would hold you hostage or attempt to kill you as soon as possible by skipping his usual "kidnap and torture" routine.

Rationally, you knew your field experience more than prepared you for this task. Also, you knew your team had your back. They always kept you safe and healthy. The one time you were put at serious risk, you had to fight to be left alone after the case closed. But, you’re not sure if all the facts in the world could adequately calm your adrenal glands.

“Is this necessary?” Spencer suddenly interjected.

You turned to Spencer in surprise. “It’s the quickest way. We have twenty-four hours,” You said.

The unsub had a pattern; a girl was dying once every two weeks, and, when the the local and Connecticut police force combined failed to contain the situation, the BAU was brought into the case 36 hours before the next killing. With his eidetic memory, you were certain Spencer couldn't forget the time restraints if he tried, hence why you were stunned by his sudden brazenness. However, given Spencer's traumatic relationship history and your budding romance, Spencer's behavior was a lot more likely.

You and Spencer had been dating for a couple weeks. Despite being certain the team had their suspicions, you kept your relationship on the downlow. Strong boundaries were a good thing to keep when your relationship was in its fragile, formative era. Plus, you both agreed it was best to keep a high level of professionalism. 

This was the first time Spencer broke protocol.

“I think there’s another way.” Spencer continued. “It’s unsafe and illogical to put anyone’s life into considerable risk if there’s another viable option.”

“Are you implying I’m being rash, Reid?” Hotchner asked with a raised eyebrow. 

Usually, Spence would look away and take a breath. He’d at least have the decency to act timid, especially given the fact the entire team pulled multiple all-nighters in an effort to catch this serial killer. Instead, he leveled with Hotchner’s glare and asserted himself further. “I just think we’ve gotten a little too comfy using (Y/N) as an unsub lure. The more we do, the more probable a disaster will occur with her in the line of fire.”

“Spencer,” Morgan cut in gently. There was sympathy in his eyes. “We’ve done this with (Y/N) before. We’re good at reading her. And she knows the drill. We’ll keep her safe.”

“Yes, because that’s something we can certainly guarantee when she’s 3 inches from a serial killer.” Spencer deadpanned. 

“Reid. A word.” Without waiting for Spencer’s reaction, Hotch left the meeting room. With a hard look in his eye, Spencer filed after Hotch. You were relieved he was still obedient despite being ornery.

For a few moments, the team sat in silence. 

Rossi broke the spell with the scrape of his chair. “Well, I for one, am going to take this impromptu intermission as an opportunity to grab coffee. Any requests?” Rossi asked. 

“I’ll take a barbajada.” You joked half-heartedly. 

“Very funny, (L/N). Any requests the office Keurig can complete in less than five minutes?” 

The team rattled off their go-to office drink orders, but it faded to white noise. During your friendship, Spencer would always care for you when you had to lure the unsub. He’d be more attentive on the jet ride in and out. He’d check in on your mental state directly after the unsub was arrested and always called you once you got home. Once, after the particularly stressful unsub encounter, he sent you links to PTSD articles and even offered to help you schedule an appointment with a specialized therapist through the FBI’s mental health services.

But he’d never once intervened with a plan for you to go undercover. You knew Spencer Reid was nothing if not rational. He knew Hotch valued every member of his team. He knew Hotch would never send you undercover if it wasn’t necessary to stop a killing spree before more young women became statistics. 

Therefore, you knew Spencer was thinking about Maeve. 

You stood. 

“Where you going, Beauty Queen?” Morgan asked.

“Just heading to the restroom.” You lied. 

You walked down the hall and crept up the stairs. You tiptoed down the east wing of the second floor to avoid clicking your heels against the concrete. 

You crept to the side of Hotch’s office. You pressed your back to the wall.

Hotch said something indecipherable. An angry Reid answered.

“And all I’m saying is, she is not a cat with nine lives! She has one life. One precious life, that I think we’ve been a little too careless with.”

“Reid, you know I would never risk putting (Y/N) in harm’s way if it wasn’t the best course of action. She’s experienced with this. The team is experienced with this.” 

A beat of silence passed.

“Promise me that if you have so much as an inkling her life is in danger–”

“We’ll do everything in our power to get her out of there.”

“That’s the thing! ‘Everything in our power…’ It’s not enough. How many times have we told families we did everything we could when all they have left is a body bag?” 

Your heart froze. Both of the voices lowered. You could only catch bits and pieces of Hotch’s speech. You were never an eavesdropper, but despite your better nature, you crept around the corner towards the door.

“I know what it’s like to lose someone to an unsub, Spencer. I know how it sticks with you. I know how it changes the job. But you have to trust us– the team. We’re going to protect her. And we’re going to be there for you,” Hotch said. 

Spencer sighed. "How did you do it?" Spencer's voice cracked. "After Haley, Hotch? I’m not sure if I can survive this.” He sounded seconds away from tears. 

At that moment, you knew you would not sleep comfortably at night if you continued to be a fly on the wall.  You tiptoed back down the east wing and waited for Spencer at the bottom of the stairs.

Ten minutes passed before Spencer appeared at the top of the staircase.

“Spencer?” You called. 

His hazel eyes were tinged pink. He walked down the stairs nonchalantly. “Hey, um, would you mind if we discussed part of the case file real quick? Privately? It could help, um…” He cleared his throat. “Develop your persona.”

“Yes, of course.” 

Spencer didn’t look at you as he power walked down the hall towards the janitorial closets. For the first time since you started dating, he didn’t adjust to your walking pace. 

He flung a door open and yanked you inside. 

Carelessly, Spencer slammed the door behind you. Before you could get a word in, he pulled you into a bear hug.

“Spencer.” You whispered. “I’m here. I’m okay.”

He nuzzled his nose into your hair. 

You stood in the statue of a hug for two minutes.

“I can’t lose you.” Spencer whispered.

“You won’t.”

Spencer pulled away from you. He bent down to look you in the eye. He squeezed your shoulders. His eyes danced with emotion. There was a deep ache, a whirlpool of sadness that you knew a lifetime may never heal. What perplexed you was the hardness that you could only read as anger. 

“I…” He sighed. He hung his head. He dragged his palms down the slope of your shoulders to your forearms. It was like he was taking a cast of you with his hands. 

“I’m not dead on arrival. I’m still here. I’m coming back on that jet ride home with you. I’m going to be okay.” You reciprocated his shoulder squeeze. “You’re going to be okay.”

Spencer shook his head. “Don’t worry about me.”

“I care about you. It’s a part of the girlfriend package.” Spencer pulled you into another constricting hug. 

 “I can’t fathom how difficult this must be for you.” You whispered.

Spencer pressed his forehead to yours. “Promise me when you go out there, you won’t worry about me. I want you to only focus on you, your surroundings, and making sure you get out of there.”

“I promise, Spencer.” You said, though you weren’t sure if that would be the truth.

“And one more thing,” He said. His irises were so close to yours you could pick apart the layer of green and brown. “As soon as you feel unsafe, you call someone. If you have any inclination he’s going to overtake you–”

“I call the team.”

He took a step back and ran his hands through his hair. “I know you’re strong. I’m not trying to insult your field work.”

Your heart cracked. “Spencer, love, I know that. I’m so happy you care about me. I just wish this situation hurt you less.”

He dropped his hands to his sides. His brows furrowed. He stared at a random point to the left of your face.

“Can you do something for me? Before we leave?” He asked, still not meeting your gaze.

“What is it, Spence?”

He took a deep breath. He met your eyes again. “Dance with me.” 

“What?”

“Dance with me. I…” He inhaled deeply. “I never got to dance with Maeve before she…I barely even got to hold her. I won’t make the same mistake twice.” 

You closed the distance between you and Spencer. You cupped his face in your hands, and he instinctively leaned into your touch. His eyes shone with tears. “I’ll dance with you for the rest of my days, Spence.” 

He whipped out his phone. He turned on a slow jazz song you played for him last winter on an impromptu hot chocolate date. 

Your heart skipped a beat. You could go on that same date again, but it would have a whole new color to it. 

He slid his phone onto a cleaning supply shelf. He pulled you to his chest. Your head nestled right beneath his collarbone. You wrapped your arms around his mid back.

You danced, bodies pressed together like puzzle pieces, in silence until the song ended. The symphony of emotions didn’t cease with the final brush of the snare. 

Spencer continued swaying with you.

“I’m going to be okay.” You whispered.

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “You can’t promise me that.” He held you even tighter. “But I can promise you I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you come home to me.” 

Author's Note: Hello to all my new followers! I'm so glad you're here! I'm so grateful for the overwhelmingly positive reception to "I'll Hold Your Weight When You Can't." Hope you enjoyed this piece as well!

I hope you have a great day or night wherever you are in this crazy world.

xoxo,

shewroteaworld

[ropes3amthoughts]

I know people are just joking when they say stuff like “Mithrun is an old grandpa he doesn’t know he can’t say those words anymore he doesn’t know they don’t have any book tokens anymore” because of these extras below:

and whatever but like it honestly drives me kind of crazy. Like can we look at this for a second.

He was the lord of the dungeon for five years. Then he was being rehabilitated for TWENTY YEARS. That’s not super long for elves, that’s like four years for us, but that’s still a long time. And then he was the captain for another fourteen years, but he didn’t have any desire other than getting revenge on the demon.

Mithrun hasn’t really been properly socialized for a total of FORTY YEARS, which is like eight years for elves. He was totally shut off from the world, then he was rehabilitated, and then he was with the Canaries on a onetrack mindset to go after the demon. Mithrun was doing bad, he was recovering, and then he was better enough to be the captain of the Canaries again, but he was still not “better.” In all that time, the world didn’t wait for him when he was at his low point. It didn’t wait for him when he was spending all that time recovering. And by the time it’s near the end of the story where these comics take place he’s just been so far detached from the world. Like he’s most likely never tried to go buy a book token after becoming a dungeon lord. He’s most likely never talked to people and learned the new slang of the time, he’s never been caught up which words are good versus outdated. Mithrun is technically better enough to be captain, he’s better enough to have reintegrated into society, but he’s not quite adjusted yet. He’s been out for so many years suffering under the hands of the demon and scraping his way through recovery and trying to work to get to the demon that by the time he’s stopped and done stuff like gift exchanges or whatever many aspects of the world are vastly different from what he remembers. I think that’s a lot like a lot of people in real life too who have similar experiences. People in mental health centers or hospitals who spends even just months recovering can miss out on so much.

Does this make any sense? It’s kind of late so I don’t really know what I’m saying and I’m probably repeating myself but like Mithrun was at a low point and then he was recovering for so long!!!! And then when he’s reintegrated back into the world it’s changed without him!!!! He’s not some racist old man!!! The world just kept on turning when he was struggling and how is he even supposed to deal with that? Like he doesn’t have much desire but everybody is so upset with him for not knowing things like outdated terms or using cash because he didn’t know there were no more book tokens and he just can’t have known that because he literally wasn’t in a state to keep up with all of the stuff like that and now everything is different and maybe he doesn’t care because he has no desire to but like aghhhhhhhhhhhh sob sob sniffle oughhhhh 😭😭😭😭 Mithrun 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 imagine I’m shaking him back and forth that’s how I feel right now oughhhhh

[pers1st]

JUST A SPARK... PROLOGUE - leah williamson

it's never quite as it seems

warnings: death, grief, this is pretty angst tbh

master list / next chapter

It rained again. Ever since you had moved to England, the weather seemed to taunt you for leaving the country you actually considered to be your home. Your nonna, your mamma, and even your Dad stayed behind in Italy, and just like that, every dream of what England should’ve been was crushed between your tight fists. It rained. Every single day that you had lived in England, it rained. Today was the tiniest bit better than what yesterday’s clouds had provided. Instead of furious down-pouring that almost silenced your every thought and made the pitches impossible to train on, the water was splashing from the sky rhythmically, staining your windows as it peacefully dropped.

You were sitting on your couch, a mug of tea in your hand that you found oddly comically typically English, watching as the weather let you down once again. You missed Italy then, more than you usually did. Dreams of your summers spent in Tuscany, sitting on the terrace with your friends, sipping on a pearly white wine as the birds breezed past you cascaded in your mind as you stared out of the large, rain-stained window of your living room. Reaching for your phone, you huffed, realizing the closest you could come to being back home was a phone call. Although it wouldn’t be enough, it would certainly have to do.

The first sign that something was wrong was the way the ringing of your phone wouldn’t stop for far too long. There was very little time difference from England to Italy, and if it was an hour earlier, you would have believed your parents would’ve laid down for their daily nap, but it was almost six in the evening and there was no way they weren’t awake right now. When the call was finally picked up, the second sign hit you like a truck. Instead of your mamma’s sweet voice, you could hear a total mess unfolding, a sob ringing through the line, a dish being thrown to the floor.

“Mamma? Mamma, cosa non va?” (What’s wrong?), you asked, panic striking your tone as you sat up, gently disposing the mug of tea to the very edge 0f your couch table. 

“Mamma?”, you repeated as any clue of what was going on was still withheld from you.

“Morto. É morto” (Dead. He’s dead), your mother cried, and at once, the oddly comically typically empty English mug fell to the floor, shattering into a thousand pieces.

The flight back to Italy was painfully silent. You didn’t allow yourself to listen to music, too scared to listen to anything just in case you forgot your father’s voice. Your train of thoughts was absolute nonsense, to put it into harsher words, but it didn’t matter to you.

After speaking to both Emma Hayes and other officials of the club, most of whom you had never met, you had voiced the will of your mother to be buried in Italy rather than in London, where he had been born, and had taken the next flight out to your home country, ignoring the protests of men who had never truly known your father, claiming they wanted to come with you. You knew, however, that your father wished for more. The legacy he held at Chelsea wasn’t unknown, but you knew that none of the men in suits had ever mattered to him, and that none of them would have known him truly. It was quite ironic- the fact that you were defaming the very club that had raised not only you but your father as well, and that he had only left behind once you had been old enough to live on your own, and watched as your family moved back into the country you so desperately longed for.

Being back, now, felt like a slap to the face. Your mamma was still inconsolable, although your nonna tried her best to pick the broken pieces from the floor and hold them together just to take another weight off your shoulders. No twenty-three year old should watch as their father was buried, but life was not fair and you had no way to deal with it other than to just deal with it. Silent tears crept down your cheeks as you listened to Father Marcus tell anecdotes of your father’s life, and of his career, and you wondered whether he would’ve liked to be buried nearer to his own home. Italy had always been your mamma’s, but after witnessing the agonizing love between your parents for a time that felt far too short now, you figured that he would want to be wherever she was. The cemetery was only a five-minute walk from your parents’ casa, but it was a three hour flight from your flat. 

Still, the walk felt painfully long as you followed most of your parents’ friends to your childhood home, and rain began to softly splatter from the sky as you trotted among the crowd. For the first time in a long time, you didn’t fight it, rather grateful that anyone was unable to tell whether your cheeks were wet with the rain or stained by your tears. You wondered whether this was your Dad telling you to get your act together. It certainly seemed like something he would do, and the thought put the faintest of smiles on your lips. Afraid to seem like a mad woman to the rest of the grieving crowd, you slipped past Father Marcus, away from the procession, as you fiddled your phone out of the pocket of your coat, watching as rain wet the screen.

Another smile crept up on your face at the multiple messages you had received over just the past few hours you had neglected your phone. 

Most of your Chelsea teammates were sending you their wishes, along with Emma, but what interested you most was a missed call from an unknown number. An unknown English number.

Silently, you glanced towards the front of the procession, seeing they had almost reached their destination as you found your mamma at the very front, weeping in your nonna’s arms. You should be there, right now, with her, but you simply couldn’t. 

Instead, you reached to call the number back. The other line picked up surprisingly fast.

“Hello, Y/N. I was hoping you would call me back. I hope it’s an okay time for you”, a woman on the other line spoke. Furrowing your eyebrows, you nodded, forgetting that whoever it was couldn’t see your movements.

“Oh, sí. Yes, it’s a perfect time, actually?”

“Really? Because I was informed by your club that you were… back in Italy. For…”, the woman trailed away, and you exhaled shakily.

“No, no, it’s okay. I just saw your call, so…”, you tapped your foot against the wet pavement rhythmically, eager to know who you were speaking to.

“Well, it’s Sarina Wiegman here, I’m sorry. I should’ve started with that. Anyways, I was wondering whether you would be interested to join the Lionesses for the Arnold Clark Cup, this year. I know of  your circumstances right now, so I don’t need an answer right away.”

You let out a shaky exhale at her words. You had always thought about playing for England, as you had joined both their youth teams as well as Italy’s, while you had still played in the country. They had offered you a place in their senior team far earlier than England had, and although you couldn’t have been sure whether England would ever offer, you had always held out for something. For what, you didn’t know. Although now, it suddenly seemed to make sense. 

Your father had played for England, had even captained his country for a short while, and although you had always dreamed of playing for Italy when you were younger, infatuated with their men’s team’s success, much to your father’s dismay, you had not agreed yet. The reason only came to you now. And suddenly, it was so painfully clear.

“Yes, yes. I would really like that”, you smiled to yourself, glancing up at the cloudy sky to clear your teary vision. It didn’t help in the slightest.

“Great! The call-up will be published tomorrow, we’ll send you all the details in an email. I look forward to seeing you in camp!”, your manager cheered, and although it tasted bitter-sweetly in your mouth, you voiced your excitement as well before hanging up the call. 

You would play for your father’s country, if all went to plan. You would finally step into his footsteps. You would continue his legacy, whether you really wanted to or not.

[gffa]

Guess who fell right smack back into BATFAMILY feelings hell?  Who has two thumbs and really thought they were truly out of the DC game, that it had been like ten years since they’d read a single comic, that they were finally safe from crying about stupid bats and birds?  Yeah, that’s right, this nerd.  And now I’m waking up and choosing violence on the rest of you by throwing every I’m Having Dick Grayson Feelings Fic at you that I can find, because this fandom is fantastic for it.   This list will skew towards my fave, but I hope there will be some good Jason, Tim, Damian, Cass, and Steph fic for anyone who wanders by for them!  You just have to scroll for a second first. I probably tend towards a slighty softer view than canon always provides (I will grab hold of Nightwing #100 with both hands and a death grip, though, and you can’t take Dick & Bruce hugs away from me now) but that’s what fic is for!  All the emotional resolution the source material cannot give us itself and I am GOING to inhale all of it like it’s oxygen and I’m on a run.  And then shove it at everyone I can while crying on them, too. BATFAM FIC RECS - BABY DICK IS THE CUTEST FERAL ROBIN I’M NOT HEARING ANY ARGUMENTS: ✦ Stay a Child by ijustwanttodestroy, dick & bruce & alfred, 2.2k      “Redo it,” Bruce orders. “Aw, come on!” Dick dares to pout — a thing that he uses often, and would work on anyone but Bruce and Alfred. Sometimes. Bruce gives him a look. “I’m not going to do it for you.” “I’m going to misdo it until you do,” Dick threatens. ✦ Sweater Weather by MashpotatoeQueen, dick & bruce, 2.2k      Dick Grayson is eight, Bruce Wayne is trying, and there’s a walk home in the rain. ✦ Hay Is for Horses by lurkinglurkerwholurks, dick & clark & cast, 2.7k      The sleepover had been Dick’s idea. In which Clark is a good but very overwhelmed uncle who is Trying His Best. ✦ Eye of the Storm by Janie__loops, dick & bruce & cast, de-aged!dick, 2.5k      Dick Grayson becomes once again a traumatized volatile murderous eight year old, and the only thing more surprising is how adept Bruce is at handling him. ✦ A Blur of Spinning Wheels by chinuplilpup, dick & bruce & alfred, 10.1k      Dick is on the chandelier. An eight year old. A genius gymnast, to be sure, but a child, small for his age and under Bruce’s legal care. On the chandelier. Twenty five feet above the ground, surrounded by glass and kept up by a single fifty-year-old chain bolted to the ceiling. Bruce is going to have to check his blood pressure after Dick is safe on the ground. ✦ The Flame and the Night: A Bedtime Story by WingFeathers, dick & clark, 1.8k      Dick’s thrilled to stay with the Kents, but they go to bed far too early for him to sleep. It turns out to be a job for Superman, who shows Dick the Kansas night sky and tells him a story from Krypton––a story about two gods, called Nightwing and Flamebird. ✦ (T)his Child by shanahane, dick & bruce & alfred, 2.1k      ”I’m here for the elephant,” Bruce says bluntly. ”Elephant?” Haly says. ”We haven’t had elephants in over two decades, what…?” ”The toy. That Dick left on his bed.” OR What wouldn’t Bruce do for… this child? ✦ 5 Times Dick Grayson was in the Newspaper Because of Bruce Wayne by Engineerd, dick & bruce & alfred & clark & cast, 4.7k      Batman and Robin are Gotham’s urban legends, and Bruce wants to keep it that way. “I know that,” Clark said. “But when Robin eventually goes officially public, I want to be the one that does the interview.” ✦ we don’t allow monsters in these walls. by thychesters, dick & bruce, 1.8k     New dad Bruce is still trying to figure things out with Dick. He’s not his dad, not his brother, he’s just … he’s B, the guy Dick runs around with at night fighting crime. He’s worried, and he’s scared, and he’s too protective. Tonight the protective side just won out. ✦ shades of monochrome by renecdote, dick & bruce & clark, 6.1k      He can’t even think, let alone think how to act. His brain is like a broken record, stuck on a loop of blood and ringing gunshots and Bruce is going to die. “It’s going to be okay,“ Alfred says. But it isn’t. How can it be? Dick takes a deep breath and screams for Clark as loud as he can. (The one where Bruce gets shot and Dick cries a lot.) BATFAM FIC RECS - ADULT BATSON AND BATDAD ARE MY KRYPTONITE, I FOLD LIKE WET CARDBOARD FOR THEM: ✦ Ghosts by fanfictiongreenirises, dick & bruce & batfam, 2.5k      “Nights like this, when everything was balanced on the edge of a knife, when Bruce could feel Gotham clawing at them with her claws, he could feel their gazes scraping his back.” Bruce waits for backup with an unconscious Nightwing tucked in his cape. ✦ When I Touch the Water by audreycritter, dick & bruce, 2.7k      Bruce is trying to deal with an old injury alone, and alone is exactly the opposite of how Dick Grayson is willing to let him handle it. But Bruce can’t really complain because it’s nice to see his son again and not fight for once. ✦ Making Time by CaptainOzone, dick & bruce & cast, 6.5k      Bruce does not remember anything leading up to this moment. He does not remember teaming up with Superman recently, nor does he remember being anywhere but Gotham proper. He does remember having Robin at his side. Robin, it turns out, is not there any longer. God does he hate magic. ✦ to love is not to leave by daringyounggrayson, dick & bruce, 1k      Dick called Alfred for a medical consult last night, so when he hears someone at his door, he’s not exactly surprised. What does surprise him is that the man who came to check in on him isn’t Alfred: it’s Bruce. ✦ Olive by Ptelea, dick & bruce, 1.5k      In which Dick and Bruce catch up in the kitchen sometime after episode 11, “Not It,” Dick peppers his speech with condiment-related puns, and Bruce is sort of amazed by his life sometimes. ✦ too lost and hurting to carry my load by daringyounggrayson, dick & bruce, 1.8k      Dick is sick and feverish, and those two things are forcing him to face some previously-stifled fears and insecurities. He really just needs someone to take care of him. ✦ No Other Songbird Like You by SilverSkiesAtMidnight, dick & bruce & damian, 8.5k      The difference between grappling off a building and free-falling off a building is actually a very small difference. Really, it’s just the difference between firing your gun before you jump, like Bruce always insisted on according to safety protocols, and firing after you jump, when it’s more fun. The fun way, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, is totally fine and has absolutely no consequences. ✦ mid-May’s eldest child by one_step_closer_to_death, dick & bruce, 1.2k      Dick’s sick and Bruce takes care of him. BATFAM FIC RECS - EVERYBODY LOVES DICK: ✦ Handle with Care by takadainmate, dick & bruce & damian, 3.4k      Dick is sick. Alfred isn’t around. Bruce and Damian do their best. Damian had known something was wrong. ✦ Off The Record by amathela, dick/donna, NSFW, 1.2k      Dick and Donna work off the aftereffects of a mission. ✦ Rejoice in Youth by FlashThroughLight, dick & bruce & tim & damian & jason & alfred, 6.1k      Dick has been regressed to the age of four, now Bruce and the rest of the family has to look after him until he returns to his rightful age. If Bruce thought teenage Dick Grayson was unruly, nothing could prepare for the storm that is Dickie Grayson. AKA Dick cons his family into giving him hugs. ✦ The Real in Funereal by lowflyingfruit, dick & damian & alfred & tim & jason & barbara & selina & cass & cast, 9.3k wip      Batman is dead. So is Bruce Wayne. And the Bat-family is struggling to cope, both publicly and privately. But crime in Gotham waits for no Bat, and like it or not, new grievances and old, the family must pick themselves up. Gotham needs its defenders, before their grief tears them apart. (Battle for the Cowl AU) ✦ Visions of Sugarplums by CamsthiSky, dick & bruce & damian, 3.7k      See, it happens like this. Everything’s normal for them all—or, well. As normal as a family full of vigilantes can get. But things are running smoothly. He keeps his head up and his ears open, though, because he may be able to move forward, but he isn’t stupid enough to think that he’s not going to hit a bump in the road. He always hits a bump in the road. He just hadn’t expected this. ✦ Safety First by SuperWhoLockianFangirl, bruce & dick/babs & dick/roy & dick/wally, 2.6k      Bruce Wayne can handle lunatics like the Joker without even flinching, but the hurtles of raising a teenage boy prove more daunting. When it comes time to give Dick the “Talk”, he has absolutely no idea what he’s doing. And unfortunately for him, he finds himself repeating the experience multiple times over the years. BATFAM FIC RECS - BATKIDS ALL HAVE MANY SIBLINGS AND THEY’RE ALL PETTY ASSHOLES AND/OR WONDERFUL BABIES AND I LOVE THEM WITH MY WHOLE BEING: ✦ Catch by Ptelea, dick & jason & tim & damian & bruce & cass & steph, 13.7k     Five times Dick caught one of the younger Bats, and one time he wasn’t the one to do so ✦ Stubborn by audreycritter, dick & jason & tim & damian & cast, 20.3k     Dick is usually the one taking care of everyone else and he’s bad at asking for help. So bad, in fact, that he never even actually asks– but Jason shows up anyway. And then Dick returns the favor. And then they both do for Tim. And it’s just going to keep going from there. It’s probably Alfred’s fault. When your butler mom calls and says, "Go check on your brother,” you don’t argue. You just do it. ✦ Without Question by lowflyingfruit, dick & jason & tim & damian & bruce, 6.2k     There is something very wrong with Dick at the moment. He’s doing everything Bruce says without a hint of protest. Tim’s going to get to the bottom of this. ✦ Ranking Robins by Beauty_In_Her_Darkness, dick & jason & tim & damian & bruce, 5k     Buzzfeed has been cranking out quiz after quiz about Gotham’s Bat-themed superheroes. When Jason shows them to his family, him and his brothers decide that not only should their adoring fans get to rank the Robins: Bruce should too. ✦ Carry by Ptelea, dick & jason, 4.9k     Whoever said, “He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother,” didn’t have to haul you around. ✦ a pointless resistance by emavee, bruce & dick & jason & alfred, time loop, 26.7k     It starts with a news report running in the background of a greasy little diner, but it ends with Dick dead. Except, it doesn’t stop there. It keeps on ending, over and over. Bruce’s son keeps dying, and nothing he does seems to make any sort of difference. ✦ while you see it your way by irnan, bruce & dick/babs & tim & cass & damian & alfred, 4.5k     Wherein Damian acts his age for once, and - to the astonishment of absolutely no one - it’s all Bruce’s fault. ✦ Manor-Dad lets me drive the Batmobile by loosingletters, bruce & dick & jason & tim & cass & steph & damian & duke & cast, 21.2k wip     Bruce had two options when Dick found the Cave. 1) Tell him the truth. 2) Go along with Dick’s excited “You’re dating Batman!” until he figured out the truth. Several children later Bruce wished he’d gone with option 1) or he wouldn’t have to deal with all his kids believing he and Batman were separate people. ✦ Bomb Sing Se by Cephalogod, dick & jason & tim & cass & steph & damian, 2.2k     The thing was…it wasn’t actually the worst idea. (The bombs in the gauntlets part; Jason had vocally disapproved of every aesthetic decision Dick had ever made since they were teenagers, Dick wasn’t going to start listening to him about that now.) ✦ Above Any Price by centreoftheselights, dick & jason & tim & damian, 1.6k     Dick gets the news that Jason has been taken hostage. This time, he’s going to save his brother. ✦ Upside Down by withthekeyisking, dick & jason, de-aged!dick, 2.1k     Something that was not on Jason agenda for the night, but somehow now is: take care of the de-aged version of his big brother, who is—in his tiny mind—apparently running away from juvie. Because, sure. Why the fuck not. ✦ straight up, what did you hope to learn about here by irnan, bruce & dick & damian & barbara & jason (background dick/babs), 3.8k     (or: Three Conversations Dick Grayson Has About Jason Todd, That One Time A Couple Years Ago When Jay Was Dead, And How Talia Al Ghul Is Why Dick Can’t Have Nice Things.) ✦ Now Comes Good Sailing by geminus_17, dick & jason, 2.3k     Dick and Jason escape to Walden Pond and have a healing talk about the meaning of life and death, and insult Henry David Thoreau. ✦ on the other side by MermaidMarie, dick & jason & tim, 3.6k     In which Tim and Jason are staying up all night in the hallway, after Dick gets his memories back. ✦ Control Alt Delete by audreycritter, bruce & dick & jason & tim & damian & cass & stephanie & riddler, 1.9k     Sometimes the only way to solve an impossible riddle is to give up. ✦ Extension by smilebackwards, tim/kon & dick & jason & bruce, 5.9k     Tim’s going to need to learn to be less conspicuous about this hopeless crush he’s developed; he lives with an entire family of detectives. Or: Tim has a crush on Conner and everyone has something to say about it. BATFAM FIC RECS - JASON TODD IS AN ASSHOLE CAT, I’M GONNA THROW HIM AT DICK BECAUSE IT’S FUNNY (AND MAYBE SOME OF HIS OTHER SIBLINGS TOO): ✦ The 70 Days After Groundhog Day by Ptelea, dick & jason & batfam, time loop, 43.9k      There’s a time loop that only Jason remembers. It acts as a catalyst for changes within the family. Some arguments, some misunderstandings, some bonding, some healing, and quite a lot of conversations that mostly take place over food. Dick POV, focused on Dick and Jason but with the other Bats around and very present. ✦ Fair is Fowl by Lysical, dick & jason & batfam, 4.3k      Dick Grayson is visiting the Manor. Jason Todd has the chickenpox. They might not be brothers, but maybe they can get along for one evening. ✦ Ensemble Performance by lowflyingfruit, jason & damian & batfam, 4.8k      Damian has a deep, dark secret he needs kept from Grayson, his father, and most of all Drake, at all costs: he has, quite unwillingly, been volunteered for a part in his school’s annual musical. As a grouchy dinosaur. This is now Jason’s problem. Or his blackmail opportunity. Whichever. ✦ Home Intrusion by daedalusdavinci, dick & jason & cast, 7.2k      There are moments when the… everything of Dick’s life catches up with him, and exhaustion sinks deep into his skin. However, when he goes dark on everyone else, Jason doesn’t quite get the memo. Rules never seem to apply to little brothers. After two weeks of little more than clipped texts, Jason shoves his way into Dick’s life and gets him up and moving again. BATFAM FIC RECS - DICK AND DAMIAN WERE THE BEST BATMAN & ROBIN, I’M NOT HEARING ARGUMENTS ABOUT THAT EITHER: ✦ 3:16 by partingxshot, dick & damian & alfred & stephanie & cast, 70.7k      The knife pushes thin along Dick’s carotid artery, cupping the indent between neck and jawline—forcing him to angle his chin. The metal is warm, pulled with execution speed from under Damian’s pillow. “Okay,” Dick says quietly, tracking the intricacies of his own heartbeat—counting the space between breaths. “Guess I did need a shave.” (With faltering steps, Dick and Damian become Batman and Robin.) ✦ The R Stands for – by Cirth, dick & damian & bruce & talia, 5.8k      Damian pretends to focus on lacing up his boots as his father tugs Drake to his side, plants a gruff, casual kiss in his hair. Drake’s lips curl into a pleased smile, and Damian yanks the strings so hard his palms burn. ✦ The Rule Stands by Engineerd, dick & damian & bruce & tim & alfred, time travel, 11k      Damian meets a 10-year-old Dick Grayson, and they become best friends. ✦ this tiny little space by Alienu, dick & damian, 2.1k      The landing on his fire escape is nearly silent. Nearly. ✦ waiting for the tides to meet by partingxshot, dick & damian, 2k      Grayson behaves like this sometimes: like Damian needs to be protected. It twists his stomach in sharp and unfamiliar ways. “You leave, then!“ Damian spits. "I’ll—I’ll track Clayface on my own.” Another shudder takes him. The pain floods him all over again. It doesn’t matter: he won’t cry out. The rain pelts the dumpster behind him. It pools in cracks in the concrete. ✦ the city without stars in its skies by Alienu, dick & damian & batfam, 18.5k      (Or, in a world where he was never sent to live with his father, Damian al Ghul is contracted to assassinate one Dick Grayson.) ✦ Catch Me (All Records Indicate) by Engineerd, dick & damian & batfam, 9.5k      Damian had studied each of his father’s prior proteges briefly before he’d left the League of Assassins. Somehow, Grayson in person is nothing like Grayson on paper. OR “Are you sure you can catch me?” Grayson asked. Damian could hear his heart beating. He wasn’t sure. “Yes,” he answered anyways. ✦ Even in the Midst of Grief by Ellegrine, dick & damian, 4.3k      Richard Grayson has never hurt Damian. It’s unforgivable that anyone should believe otherwise. BATFAM FIC RECS - TAKE THE ANGST DIAL, TURN IT UP TO ELEVEN, AND BREAK THE KNOB OFF, MAKE ME CRY ABOUT BATS AND BIRDS, THAT’S WHAT I’M HERE FOR: ✦ Second Generation by lowflyingfruit, dick & bruce & tim & barbara & jason & alfred & cass & cast, aftermath of rape + depression, 108.9k      Nine months after the ‘Blockbuster Incident’, a call from Lockhaven Penitentiary regarding Catalina Flores brings all Dick Grayson’s plans for his future in Bludhaven crashing down. Thrust suddenly into parenthood and hiding what happened to make him a parent in the first place, Dick must decide, adjust, and accept - and no matter what, the family has to pull together to help him. ✦ Savior Complex by Arwriter, dick & bruce & barbara & tim & jason & damian & alfred & cast, 11.6k      “All I did was disappoint you.” He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t catch his breath. “I just wanted to do good. I just wanted to be better and all I did was make everyone angry.” Or: When Bruce comes back from the dead, Dick goes nonverbal. Nobody seems to have the time to notice. ✦ Essential Actions by CKBookish, dick & clark & bruce & wally & cast, 8.8k      Clark shifted his weight making the floorboards creak and groan under his feet. “Dick I hate to see you–” He paused searching for the right word. Dick snorted. “Wallow?” Clark sighed. “That’s not what I was going to say.” “I know. I can go to the barn and hang out there if I’m bothering you and Lois.” Dick pushed himself up. Of course he should have thought of that. Lois didn’t want some random teen laying around her home on Christmas Eve. Dick’s first Christmas without Bruce after he’s fired. ✦ The Night It All Came Crashing Down by chibi_nightowl, dick & jason, rape aftermath/read the tags, 4k      After a difficult night on patrol, memories Dick would much rather forget come to the surface. Thankfully, Jason’s there to catch him before he falls. ✦ The Winter of Our Discontent by BloodFromTheThorn, dick & bruce & jason & tim & alfred, 10.2k      Why did criminals always think that the best time to make a disturbance was in the middle of winter? Between the snow, Clayface and Scarecrow, Dick’s having a really bad day. It really doesn’t help that Batman’s late. ✦ The Universe Doesn’t Get to Take This by fishfingersandjellybabies, dick & bruce & damian, 1.9k      “And they’re so important that you don’t come home to check on your recently un-amnesiac brother? And here, I thought I was your favorite.” BATFAM FIC RECS - THROW BABY DICK AT BATTISON, C'MON DO IT, IT’LL BE HILARIOUS: ✦ In This or Any Other Universe by wildsofmarch, dick & bruce & alfred, 33.4k      Dick Grayson (DCU) accidentally lands himself in Battinson’s Gotham. ✦ I’m a Good Pretender by shipNslash, dick & bruce & alfred, 40.4k      Dick’s mother raised her son to be a star. Dick’s father raised his son to be an athlete. Bruce’s new ward is charming (manipulative), dedicated (obsessive), and way, way too smart for either of their own good. ✦ take these broken wings and learn to fly by fishingclocks, dick & bruce & alfred & cast, 45.5k wip      or, How Dick Grayson Burrowed His Way Inextricably into the Heart of Bruce Wayne ✦ i turned around, there was nothing there by lwbones123, dick & bruce & alfred, 3.1k      the batman got me thinking about battinson with a robin. this is that. ✦ Robin’s Light by iammadeofmemories, dick & bruce, ~1k      ‘Lies still’. Murder weapon still missing, Why riddles? Why leave a code? And why— “B! Whatcha working on?” or, in which I throw nine-year-old Dick Grayson at Battinson.

[im-a-wonderling]

Rescue Me, Part 4 ~ Obi-Wan Kenobi

If I didn't have @writing-on-the-wahl's help, this part would've taken so much longer and would've been so much worse. As always, my friend, you are an angel, and I adore you.

Summary: Now a Jedi Knight with her own padawan, Y/N gets an individual mission unlike anything she's done before.

Warnings: Yeah, this one's dark, so bodily harm and mortal peril and possibly more?

Word count: 9.8k

Rescue Me masterlist | Main masterlist

“Why does the council want to see us?” Ghon asked, keeping up with my brisk pace as best he could in spite of his tiny stature. It likely looked comical, but none of the Jedi we passed gave us a second glance. 

We’d landed on Coruscant not ten minutes before, and the waiting attendant had immediately informed us the Jedi Council was waiting.

The guilt of dulling my feelings for Ghon’s benefit weighed on my mind, but my padawan didn’t deserve to feel my anxiety as well as his own. Perhaps a day was coming where I would be able to stand in front of the council with confidence, but it wasn’t coming any time soon. “Likely to debrief us on our mission and brief us for the next one,” I replied, answering his question as calmly as I could. 

Ghon frowned. “But we just got back!”

I didn’t bother admonishing him for the complaint, not when I was also weighed down with a fatigue that seeped through to my bones. There was very little time for rest since I’d become a Jedi Knight, and it was almost too much for me to handle at twenty-two years old. Ghon was only eleven. 

“Such is the way of war,” I sighed as we stopped in front of the sliding doors. As we waited to be called in, I resisted the urge to smooth down my robes. My appearance did not matter. In fact, the more ruffled I appeared, the more humble I appeared. 

The Force buzzed to my left, and I glanced at Ghon to see him chewing on his lip.

He’d barely qualified as a padawan, evident by his deep-seated need to please. He needed lots of encouragement, but he made it easy to give. Everything he needed to be doing, he was. If only he could believe it.

I reached out and tugged lightly on his braid, making him smile. I barely had time to drop my hand at my side again before the doors slid open.

Each face expectantly watching us featured grim expressions with worry lines. The tension in the room was palpable, and I knew it had everything to do with the war tearing the galaxy apart. Every Jedi felt it, the pain and death radiating off each planet, and there was no solace from it. 

But the most depressing sight was the empty seat.

The seat which had been empty the day I cut off my own padawan braid with my lightsaber, and empty every time after. I knew better than to ask. Once in a while, a story drifted my way of some daring escapade, and I would know that my old master was still alive. 

I couldn’t lament it, for it was as he said: this is what we were made for. 

I bowed once I reached the center of the room. “Masters.”

“Congratulations on your success on Rodia,” Master Mundi said, mustering a smile. “Senator Farr thanked us on behalf of his people.” 

Senator Farr, leader of the swampy, waterlogged planet of Rodia, reached out to the Republic to ask for aid after he defied the Trade Confederacy. The Republic obliged, sending relief aid in the form of supplies and a Jedi healer. 

Me. 

I inclined my head. “I was gratified to be of help.”

The Force rippled as the attention in the room shifted to the young man beside me. “And your padawan seems to be learning quickly,” Master Mundi added.

I opened my mouth to agree, but the words died.

The humming of a light. 

Instantly, my insides were all aflutter. I hadn’t felt that light in months, and yet I could never mistake it. On every planet I’d been dispatched to, I searched for it and never found it. The sparse amount of times I’d been on Coruscant even, the light was nowhere to be found.

But now there was no mistaking it: the light was here. The sensation grew steadily, the source far too close to be anywhere farther than Coruscant's atmosphere.

I looked around at the council members to see if they’d felt it too, but none of their signatures seemed any different than they had before. 

“Yes,” I cleared my throat, “he is eager and very intelligent. He was of great assistance on Rodia.” 

“You picked your padawan well,” Master Fisto said, smiling at Ghon. 

“That I’ve never doubted,” I managed to say in spite of the humming. Maybe they would think me arrogant for saying it, but I never wanted Ghon to feel he stood alone in front of the council. 

Master Windu leaned forward, dousing me in the full weight of his skepticism that momentarily drowned out the humming, bracing his elbows on his knees. “How is Padawan Ghon’s learning going?” The light drew nearer, its humming filling my ears like the buzzing wings of a Grutchin. Ghon shifted beside me, reminding me of the question. 

“All things considered, I couldn’t ask for more. I look forward to the day when he doesn’t have to learn during a war.”

“As do we all,” Master Mundi murmured. 

The light grew louder still, loud enough for me to hear the exhaustion and anxiety within it, echoing the stress already present in the room.

“And what does your padawan think?” Master Windu asked.

Overwhelmed by the light as I was through the Force, I could still feel the flash of uncertainty fill the room and knew the council could feel Ghon’s reaction as strongly as I did.

“It’s been an honor to learn under Y/F/N Y/L/N.” He lifted his chin even as his hands shook slightly. “I’ve learned much.”

The light was shouting now, making it impossible to perceive anything else. “Well, it seems you’re a good teacher,” Master Ti's lips formed, his voice lost within the volume of the Force.

And then the humming cut off, beautiful silence caressing me. And into the silence came the words: “I should hope so.”

My breath caught in my throat. That voice. I could be dead and buried six feet under the ground and still recognize it. Still want to run towards it. 

Slowly, with my heart hammering in my chest, I turned to look.

In the open doorway of the councilroom stood none other than Obi-Wan Kenobi. 

His hair, neatly sheared, was far shorter. Instead of being combed back with the tips resting on his shoulders like normal, it laid on his head, making his forehead appear smaller. His beard, however, was fuller than before, giving his face a longer look. He too wore the worry lines every other master sported, far deeper than I'd last seen.

And yet with all the differences, his smile was the same as always. 

I almost started to greet him with an “old man” and a smile, but stopped myself. This was no longer my master with whom I could joke around with. This was a master, a member of the Jedi council who was only to be treated with respect and formality. “Master Kenobi,” I said. The honorific felt strange coming off my tongue.

His face pinched, as if the formality of his title filled him with as much strangeness as it did me.

“Ahhh, Kenobi,” Master Windu sounded about as pleased as he ever did, which wasn’t saying much. “Join us.”

Master Kenobi glanced over my shoulder at Master Windu and gave a quick nod, before brushing past me to sit in the empty seat. Remembering myself, I bowed respectfully, and Ghon followed suit as Master Kenobi settled into his seat.

“As it happens,” Mace Windu said, drawing my attention, “we have your next mission.”

Ghon straightened. “Are we going back to Rodia?”

“Appreciate the enthusiasm, we do, Padawan Ghon,” Yoda said, chuckling. “But a mission for your master alone, this is.” 

A mission of my own? If it was too dangerous for my padawan, was I capable of it myself? Ghon looked at me, the uncertainty lining his features reflecting what I felt in my gut. “There’ll be stuff for you to do,” I assured him in spite of my misgivings.

“I think Master Yoda could use some help with the younglings,” Master Fisto said kindly. “Until then, you can get food and perhaps some sleep.”

Ghon didn’t move. 

I nudged him, and he reluctantly bowed to the masters and left the council room. 

As soon as the doors shut, I turned back to Master Yoda. “What’s the mission?”

“To go undercover, you are.”

Surprise bloomed in my chest, but I remained silent, trusting the council to elaborate and alleviate my confusion. 

Master Koon leaned forward in his chair. “We’ve received intel of a Separatist trader that spends his evenings in one of the clubs here. We want you to meet him there for some business.” 

“I don’t have any experience with undercover work,” I said slowly, taking great care to sound confused and not defiant. 

“Experience you have not,” Master Yoda agreed. “Skills you do.”

“We would not have chosen you unless you were the best fit for the job.” Master Windu’s tone left no room for argument. “The Republic is running low on PLX-1 and PLX-4 missile launchers. We want you to make a deal with this trader.”

What? 

Paying for weapons? From a Separatist? 

This was not the kind of mission I’d expected. Master Windu continued, talking of the money I was to offer and how many launchers I was to ask for. I kept my eyes on him, but I shifted my focus to the no-longer-empty seat.

The turbulent light of Master Kenobi’s Force signature only made me more wary. 

“Conflicted you are,” Master Yoda said, drawing my attention. “Unsure of the mission’s integrity, hmmm?”

“It feels odd,” I said slowly, “to be a peacekeeper and be dealing weapons. Wouldn’t it be better if one of the senators met with this buyer?”

The light shifted slightly, a little more desperate than before. 

“We believe this buyer would prefer a transaction off the record,” Master Windu said. “We’ve also received intel that he prefers human women of a certain…physique.”

Discomfort roiled in my gut like acid. The council was giving me this mission because of my physique? “How dangerous is this man?” I asked carefully, and the light flickered. 

Master Windu’s impassive face did not inspire any confidence. “We have no reason to believe there’s any additional danger in this mission than any other.” Considering a significant amount of my missions involved outright combat, that wasn’t as reassuring as he likely meant it. Or perhaps he did not intend to comfort me at all. 

But Jedi were called to obey, regardless of and even in spite of comfort. 

“Wherever I’m needed,” I said slowly, meeting Master Yoda’s gaze, “I will go.”

The light flickered again, but I kept my attention on Master Yoda, who did not react. Master Windu sat back in his seat. “Then you are dismissed.”

I bowed and left the council room, mind buzzing. 

Ghon leaned against a wall outside the council room, eyes half-closed with exhaustion. He needed to sleep, and yet he was waiting for me. This would be our first time since becoming Padawan and Master that we would be separated. There was bound to be some strain. 

He stood straight when he saw me. 

I reached out to rest my hands on his shoulders. “It’ll be okay,” I said softly. “My mission won’t take very long, and then we’ll likely be off to the Outer Rim again.”

Ghon did not look comforted. “What will I do if it takes longer?” 

“There’s plenty to be learned right here,” I told him. “You can meditate, and there’s plenty of people for you to practice your swordplay with.” 

“But what if…it takes longer than that?”

I watched him, feeling the waves of anxiety pouring off of him and realizing it wasn’t just anxiety at being separated. “I will be alright, Ghon. You don’t have to fear for my safety.” I smiled comfortingly at him. 

“Don’t worry about your master, young one.” The comfort infused into the familiar voice made my eyes flutter shut. Opening them quickly, I turned to see the council all filing out of the councilroom. And strolling towards us was Master Kenobi, smiling kindly at my padawan as he said: “She can take care of herself.” 

Ghon bowed in respect, but did not say anything. 

There was a silence where I felt Master Kenobi’s eyes on me, where I watched Ghon…who was gazing at Master Kenobi. My padawan heard his fair share of stories about Master Kenobi, and not just from me either. The awe radiating from him was justified.

“Master Kenobi,” I stood behind Ghon, my hands on his shoulders, “this is my padawan, Ghon Laster.”

A strangely fond smile on his face, Master Kenobi held out his hand. “Pleased to meet you.” 

I couldn’t see Ghon’s face, but I could feel his shyness as he shook Master Kenobi’s hand. “Pleased to meet you,” he echoed, likely not knowing what else to say. 

“I can sense your worry.” Master Kenobi’s eyes flicked up to mine before returning to the young man. “It’s natural to feel such things, but trust in the Force. It will look out for your master the same as it does for me or you.” 

It wasn’t just my own apprehension that eased. Even if I couldn’t feel Ghon’s feelings through the Force, the slump of his shoulders made his relief clear.

“Ghon, why don’t you go rest before joining Master Yoda with the younglings?” I said. “We didn’t get much sleep last night, and this is your chance to get some.”

“Yes, Master,” Ghon said, bowing his head towards Master Kenobi before walking off in the direction of his quarters.

My eyes lingered down the corridor even after he was gone from it. Look at him, I told myself sternly. Acknowledge him. I managed to turn my head, but somehow, my gaze lowered. Why? It wasn’t as if the floor was particularly interesting.

“Knight Y/L/N.” 

I could tell from Master Kenobi’s tone that it wasn’t a goodbye. He was waiting to talk to me. Steeling myself, I finally looked up at my old master.

He tilted his head. “I haven’t seen you in months.”

“Yes, well, the council keeps me busy.” I flashed him a tentative smile. 

“We have a knack for doing that,” he replied loftily, but the jovial look in his eye told me his pretention was teasing. 

I fished around for a snippy reply, but it didn’t leap into my mind as it used to, the rules of our engagement covered in dust. I realized that the awkward silence had returned, and yet it was too late for me to reply to his snark.

What could I say? What was I allowed to ask? 

“I was about to go to the gardens to meditate,” Master Kenobi said before I could figure out whether to extend or end the conversation. “Would you…care to join me?”

The light flickered. Was he…uncertain? What could he be uncertain of? “I would appreciate a chance to meditate with my old master.” I smiled at him, and the light steadied. Master Kenobi gestured down the hallway. We started walking together, taking every stride together with such ease, neither one having to adjust their pace for the other. 

The Jedi Temple gardens were one of the only green places on the planet of Coruscant, and it took a lot of work to keep up. But having a space where a Jedi could reconnect to the Force through plants, the most innocent of living things, was worth it. 

“I must say,” Master Kenobi finally said as we reached the courtyard, “I’m curious.”

“About what?”

Master Kenobi clasped his hands behind his back. “I…hear stories.”

“What kind of stories?” I replied, reaching out to brush my fingers against a leaf. 

“Stories about my wayward padawan.”

I pursed my lips to keep from smiling. To some, it’d be insulting to be called padawan once they’d ascended to being a knight, but being Master Kenobi’s padawan was always a good thing to me. “Oh?” I asked vaguely, even though I could probably guess some of what he’d heard. “What do they say?”

“Well,” Master Kenobi ran a hand over his beard, “they say you fought a whole pack of Nexu on Cholganna.”

“Grossly exaggerated,” I said lightly. “I only fought three.”

Master Kenobi snorted, and I felt suddenly too warm for my cloak as I grinned back at him. “And your run-in with Aurra Sing? I suppose the two of you didn’t actually resort to fisticuffs?”

“Well,” I lifted my chin, “that’s true, but she was asking for it."

“No doubt you were also.”

“Just the opposite,” I replied. “I was trying to heal one of her coworkers, but some people just won’t be told.”

Master Kenobi’s merry laughter filled the hall, and I couldn’t help smiling at him. Was it possible that our old normal could return so quickly? Just as I thought the thought, his smile faded. “I also heard you lost part of your hearing in one ear.”

Had he truly been keeping such close tabs on me to know about my hearing? I nodded, solemn. “An explosion on Bora Vio.” I swallowed, looking down at the leaf as I remembered the pain of the blast. “I’m lucky a bit of my hearing is all I lost. Not even the best of us can make it through a war unscathed.” I glanced up to see Master Kenobi smiling down at me in a way that reminded me of our past. “Unless, perhaps, you’re Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

Master Kenobi’s face fell. “I’m far from unscathed.”

Panic flared in my stomach. “Is everything alright? Are you injured?”

“I’m quite well,” Master Kenobi assured me. I instinctively reached out with the Force, searching for any sign of pain or damage. Master Kenobi raised his eyebrows. “I see the healer training has paid off?”

My cheeks warmed as I quickly withdrew the Force. “Yes…it has. Vokara Che has been a wonderful instructor.” 

“Well?” Master Kenobi turned, holding out his hands. “What’s the verdict?”

I gave him a sideways look. His light seemed brighter than it’d been when first I sensed it before he joined the council meeting. The exhaustion was still there, as was the fear, but somehow the light gave off more warmth than before. “You’re not injured,” I replied, the only thing I was sure of.

“As I assured you.”

We reached the center of the courtyard, which was a plain yet polished marble circle. Master Kenobi sat down, and I sat across from him. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply.

The awareness started with myself.

Then it crept along the floor around me, the radius spreading until I was aware of the dozens of lives around me. Plants. Creatures. Jedi. I could sense the movement of the transits and speeders, carting people around this planet bursting with life.

But none of it compared to the light that sat directly in front of me.

Truly, I’d never felt anything more vibrant or mighty through the Force than Master Kenobi’s signature. If he ever happened to step foot on one of the dark planets like Dagobah or Mustafar, I was certain the planets would have a historic appearance of sunshine. 

Somewhere deep within me, there was a pull towards that light. Was it in my stomach? Or in my chest? Or perhaps even my head?

I couldn’t tell, but the Force seemed to sort of gather in between myself and the light, growing more and more dense.

Then a sharp tug came from nowhere, and because I was so in tune, I couldn’t stop it. 

My head jerked forward, only to collide with something so hard, I saw stars. “Ouch!” I blurted, opening my eyes and rubbing my smarting forehead. 

Master Kenobi mirrored me. “What in the blazes?” he muttered. 

“I don’t know,” I replied. I hadn’t leaned close enough to invade Master Kenobi’s space, unless…he leaned too?

With my eyes open, I couldn’t see the strange collection of the Force anymore, but I could’ve sworn I felt the Force laughing, and if I could feel it, Master Kenobi could feel it too. From the looks of him, he didn’t understand it any more than I did. 

The comm at my wrist dinged, and Master Windu’s voice filtered through.

“Knight Y/L/N, the attendant has arrived to dress you for your mission tonight.”

Head still aching, I pressed the button on the comm. “I’m on my way.” I gave Master Kenobi a quick, apologetic smile as I started to get to my feet. “Duty calls.”

“I’ll see you tonight then.”

I froze, paused in a sort of awkward crouch. “Tonight?” I echoed.

Master Kenobi’s mysterious smile filled me with the feeling I stood at the edge of a cliff. “I volunteered to be your backup for the mission.”

-

“The council agreed to this?” I asked for the millionth time as I looked at my reflection. 

“Yes, ma’am.” The attendant didn’t falter in her…attending.

Truthfully, I couldn’t explain what she was doing. She whirled around with brushes and bottles and sparkly adornments. Every movement she made directly correlated to my reflection morphing from a humble Jedi Knight to a midnight woman of decadence. 

The deep blue velvet dress clung so tightly to my body, I felt like it was strangling me. Draped over me were strands of precious stones of white, blue, and silver that caught the light every time I breathed. A matching hairpiece rested in my elaborate hairdo. The white, translucent gloves the attendant helped me put on helped me cope with how bare I felt, but the feeling of air against my collarbones and my back made me periodically shiver.

I’d never had this much of my skin exposed, nor the outlines of my body so easily made out. As the attendant had told me, the council approved, but I didn’t know if they’d seen the dress and approved it. Somehow, the idea of them all discussing the garment I was now wearing made me more uncomfortable in it than before and even more uncomfortable than when Master Windu commented on my Separatist-buyer-pleasing physique. 

And yet, strangely, as my appearance distanced me from the Jedi Code, the Force remained steady. It was comforting to know the Force could recognize me in spite of the sudden splendor.

I might've looked like someone else entirely, but I was still me inside.

The brush strokes on my lips ceased, and the attendant stepped back to study my reflection in the mirror. “You look perfect,” she said with great satisfaction, closing her trunk of paints and jewelry. 

I wanted to argue, but what did I know about such things? I rose from the chair and nearly toppled over, reaching out to steady myself. “How do I walk in this?” I grumbled, shuffling forward.

“Gracefully,” the attendant replied. “Here are your shoes.”

My eyes widened as she held up the platforms.

-

I stood nervously at the top of the stairs, looking down at the distance I somehow had to cover. I had a sinking feeling that these platforms made stairs dangerous, but there was no other way down. 

Lifting the skirts up enough to be able to see my feet, I stepped down, not looking away from the floor. I knew the moment I lifted my gaze, I would trip and ruin the attendant’s hard work as well as breaking my neck. 

Only halfway down the stairs, the Force shifted around me, as if it were parting for someone’s gaze. I stopped where I was and looked up.

Master Kenobi stood at the bottom of the stairs now, gazing up at me with an odd expression on his face. His expression resembled Ghon’s whenever I tried to explain that a visible lightsaber could be perceived as a threat to non-Jedi. 

“I know, it’s strange,” I said, redirecting my gaze downward to resume my treacherous descent. “I don’t even look like myself.”

“No,” Master Kenobi slowly said as I finally reached the bottom of the stairs, free to look up again. “No, you don’t.”

I nodded, pleased that he agreed. But when I opened my mouth to say something along those lines, I noticed how Master Kenobi’s eyes seemed to linger on the necklace around my throat. I lifted a hand to make sure it was still in place. “Blinding, isn’t it?”

“It certainly…demands…attention.” Master Kenobi cleared his throat, meeting my eyes. “The buyer will be pleased.”

I cast about for something to say in response, suddenly feeling my cheeks warm. “Hopefully Master Windu was correct about the type of company this buyer prefers.”

Master Kenobi’s face didn’t change, but the light took on a slight yet sickening green tint. He stepped to my side, turning to gesture down the street. “Shall we?”

“We’re walking?” I glanced towards the path and the great yawning distance before us.

“Is that a problem?” Master Kenobi asked.

I looked down at my shoes. I’d never walked long distances with them before. Surely it wouldn’t be an issue, even if I had to take smaller steps than I was used to. 

Quickly, I was proven wrong. 

I was moving slower than a Hutt, and it only took maybe twenty steps in the ridiculous shoes before my feet started to hurt. 

Night was falling in Coruscant, and the bustling nightlife didn’t seem to take much notice of a beautiful woman walking beside a Jedi Master. I envied Master Kenobi for being able to remain in his normal attire, but I supposed he wasn’t the one executing the mission. 

I opened my mouth, ready to ask Master Kenobi where he would be while I was in the club, but just then, my ankle wobbled. I flung my arms out to catch my balance. 

Unfortunately, the jerky movement sent my elbow flying into Master Kenobi’s gut.

“Oof!” he grunted, his hands coming up to grab my arm, helping me stay on my feet even through his pain.

“Sorry!” I said quickly. 

Instead of falling away, his calloused hands gently moved up my arm, offering me aid in my balance and offering something else entirely. “Here,” he said lightly. “Lean on me.”

We walked the rest of the way with my arm tucked into the crook of his elbow. 

With his aid, it was much easier to stay on my own feet, and I wished we could’ve walked the whole way arm in arm. Strange how being with him made me feel like a padawan again, as if with him, I had the option to not be strong. It felt almost like a luxury.

Master Kenobi stopped me when we were two blocks away from the club. “Here.” He dropped a comm into my hand. “I’ll stay here, out of sight.”

The sudden reminder of the situation made my chest tighten. I swore off all luxuries when I became a Jedi. It was time to be the Knight I’d been trained to be, the Knight Master Kenobi trained me to be. I squared my shoulders, gave a short nod, and then made the rest of the trip on my own. 

-

The novelty of my midnight dress had worn off. The cocoon of soft fabric against my skin felt wrong, and I missed the telltale scrape of my roughspun tunic against my skin. This self-serving grandeur wasn’t in line with the vows I’d taken. As I glanced around at the expensively clad bodies and breathed the air rank with alcohol, all I wanted was to be back in the temple.

Back in the garden. 

Master Kenobi wasn’t my only back-up. Alateen, a Rodian male I'd first met on his home planet, stood behind the counter. He also had a comm linked to Master Kenobi, and it was him that supplied me with the blue-tinted, tasteless and non-alcoholic drinks that matched with liquid sloshing around in the glasses of everyone around me. While drinking wasn’t expressly against the Jedi Code, I needed all my wits about me tonight.

“When was the senator supposed to get here?” I asked, lifting my glass to my lips to hide their movements.

“Fifteen minutes ago.”

I could tell from the edge to Master Kenobi’s serious voice that he was approaching no insignificant levels of stress.

I set the glass down, lifting my hand to delicately brush at invisible drops on my lips. “How long are we going to wait for their appearance?”

“At least a little longer.”

“You’re lucky,” I grumbled. “You can’t hear all the clammer and clatter.” The dull roar of music, conversation, and laughter was overwhelming. Master Kenobi couldn’t hear any of it and as a result wouldn’t have a raging headache later.

I missed the calm of the temple garden, meditating in silence, feeling the Force all around me. This place was so crowded, I barely felt like I had room to exist.

A Vurk male stumbled against my table, hitting it with such force, my drink toppled over, dumping half the contents onto my lap. “Ugh!” I grunted.

“What’s wrong?” The immediacy with which Master Kenobi’s voice came through the comm made me smile softly. 

“It’s okay.” I grabbed the cloth napkin and started wiping up the liquid. “Someone just knocked over my drink.”

“Do you want me to tell Alateen that you need another one?”

The Rodian male was leaning over the counter, talking very animatedly with a grinning Twi’lek female. “I think he’s otherwise engaged.”

“I’ll tell him,” Master Kenobi said gruffly.

“No, don’t.” I sighed, tossing the wet napkin onto the table. “There’s no point in having back-up if–”

“Well hello.”

That voice...the voice from many a nightmare I’d had in the past few months.

I jumped to my feet, whipping around to face the speaker. My heart kicked up into a ratchet pace, making me breathless. I stared into the soulless eyes I’d dreaded seeing since the first time I looked into them.

“Dooku,” I whispered in horror. 

“WHAT?!” Master Kenobi shouted into my comm.

Dooku’s hand shot forward, clenching my wrist before my fingers could graze the knife I had concealed. “Don’t say a word, or my agent will kill yours.” I glanced over at Alateen and noticed, for the first time, the way the Twi’lek’s hand lingered over the blaster strapped to her thigh.

“Y/N?” Master Kenobi’s voice asked. “Y/N, what’s going on?” I remained silent, staring at Dooku.“Talk to me! Where do you see Dooku?”

Dooku let go of my hand and pulled out my chair, a gentlemanly action to all those watching, but I wasn’t fooled. Alateen’s life depended on my cooperation. 

“Can you hear me?!”

I did my best to ignore his voice as I sat. Dooku took a seat across from me, looking as stiff and yet put together as he did while standing.

“I’m on my way, Y/N, just tell me if you’re alright!”

Dooku slid my drink across the table towards me. “Pull out your comm. Drop it in.”

“Y/N!”

My head urged me to obey Dooku, but my heart shouted back, begging me to say something to Master Kenobi. Dooku lifted his hand to his own ear. “Stoma, Y/N needs convincing.”

My eyes darted over to the Twi’lek, who gripped her blaster with her hand out of Alateen’s sight.

“No!” I burst out before clapping a hand over my mouth.

“Y/N, are you hurt?! Tell me–”

I yanked the comm out of my ear and dropped it into my drink. “I’m sorry, okay? Call off your agent.”

Dooku rested his hand on the table, palm down. A miniature countdown projected above his hand where a small black gadget rested. “In a moment, you’re going to stand up and follow me into the backroom.”

“Where are we going?”

Dooku fixed me with a look and said nothing. 

“What do you want with me?”

No reply.

“What about Alateen?” I asked. “If you hurt him–”

“Obey me and he won’t come to any unnecessary harm.”

“Unnecessary?” I asked, eyeing the numbers above his wrist. I had less than ten seconds left.

“One has to make sure your agent isn’t in a state to follow us.”

He’d thought this through. Everything had been accounted for. 

My heart sank. This was a trap, and I was already caught in it because all I could do was watch as the time counted down.

Three.

Two.

O-

With a loud boom, smoke filled the club. Screams reached my ears as the smoke made my eyes burn enough to make tears well up. Before I could reach up to rub at them, Count Dooku had firmly grasped my upper arm, leading me towards the bar. He didn’t drag me. He didn’t need to.

I reached out with the Force and immediately felt Alateen’s beating heart. With a bit of exertion, I could feel his unharmed body. He was unconscious, but so far, Dooku was telling the truth. 

My platformed foot ran into the doorway Dooku pulled me through, making me trip, but his death grip on my arm kept me upright. Once we were through, I turned to ask Dooku what was next. 

Before I could, I felt his hand on my shoulder and a sharp prick in my neck.

The last thing I remembered before my vision went black was the floor rushing to meet me as my knees buckled.

-

My head pounded. 

I squeezed my eyes shut tighter against the pain, but it didn’t lessen. 

As more awareness returned to me, I noticed the strange, aching position of my shoulders. I tried to shift, but I couldn’t move more than an inch. What was happening? 

“You’re awake.”

I jolted, my eyes flying open as I tried to step back. 

And didn’t get very far.

My heart sank as I looked up at the reflective surface of the metal chains which trailed from the ceiling and bound my wrists, keeping them aloft above my head. I looked down to see the dress, the jewelry, the gloves, and the sparkling strands of stones were gone, leaving me only in undershorts and a thin undertunic that I definitely hadn’t been wearing under the dress. My bare feet were freezing against the floor. I studied the wall in front of me, which seemed made of stone, but not smooth stone. It felt like the room was a cave, reinforced by the only source of light in the room being the open doorway behind me.

And when I twisted my neck, straining against the chains to give myself room to look, a figure stood in the doorway. Based on the silhouette, which was all I could make out, it could’ve been anybody.

But I could feel that same signature I’d felt before and knew exactly who it was.

Where were we? How long had it been since he’d knocked me unconscious in the club? Why had he taken me?

“What do you want with me?” I asked. He wasn’t the Jedi council; it didn’t matter if he judged me for asking questions. Dooku didn’t answer, and I felt nothing shift in his emotions. Either my questions didn’t matter to him or he was shielding himself completely.

He seemed to be in no rush. He just stood behind me, watching me. I could feel the weight of his gaze on my face. The weight turned into a distinct probing through the Force.

I let him probe away.

I wasn’t going to resort to Sith techniques.

Dooku walked slowly around, his face now illuminated in the light. “Apologies for the crude bonds. This planet doesn’t like technology, so we had to be a bit primitive.”

We were on a planet with high moisture then. Or perhaps a heavy gravitational pull?

“It’s high moisture,” said Dooku, making me pause. He was tapping into my thoughts. I stiffened, turning away from him, as if it were my face he gleaned the information from, not the Force. Why couldn’t he just hurry up and tell me what was going on?

The probing increased.

“Do you think I can’t feel you?” I asked.

“Why aren’t you stopping me?” Dooku asked. He stepped closer. “Push me out.”

I settled my gaze on him. So this was his game. He wanted to bully me into using a Sith technique. “No.”

A sharp searing pain shot through my head, and I sucked in a breath. As quickly as it came, it left. I’d only felt something like it once before.

“You felt me,” I blurted out. “On Taris. When I meditated, you found my signature and you cut me off.”

Dooku’s face remained impassive. “I assumed you were Kenobi.” 

How was that possible? Dooku said himself that I had darkness in my signature, and Master Kenobi’s signature was like pure light.

The pain lanced through my head again, cutting off my train of thought. “Push me out.”

“No.”

The pain was worse this time, enough to make a strangled groan leave my lips.

“Ahhh,” Dooku said. “I had a feeling Kenobi wouldn’t let you do such a mission on your own.”

I jerked my head up at him, feeling suddenly as though I were going to throw up. “What are you doing?”

"Imagine what he must've felt, storming into that establishment, only to find you were already gone." Dooku clasped his hands behind his back. “A worthy opponent is no good if there's no one to fight."

“If you wanted to fight Master Kenobi, you should’ve stayed on Coruscant.”

“And fight on his home turf?”

“I never took you for a coward,” I replied.

“Only a fool would fight a battle he does not need to.” The probing resumed, and Dooku tilted his head. “You have a padawan waiting for you on Coruscant, do you?”

My shields were half up before I even realized it. I forced them down. 

“He’s quite attached, is he not? The council doesn’t like that.”

I kept my shields open, silently apologizing to my padawan for putting him in danger. I could only hope that I returned to him in time to keep him safe.

“He’s young. Impressionable.”

An image formed in my mind, an image I hadn’t created, of an older Ghon dressed in black, wielding a red lightsaber.

“Stop that!” I blurted. 

“Do it yourself,” he replied. “Push me out.” I shook my head.

This time, the strike of pain spread down through my neck and into my chest and lingered longer. I let out a pained hiss as my heart contracted painfully under the strain. “What do you want from me?” I cried out in desperation.

“I want you to be the Jedi your master raised you to be!” Dooku thundered back.

I blinked at him, not understanding. Why would he want me to be more like Master Kenobi? Why would he want me to be more of a worthy opponent when he already had me where he wanted me?

Then it clicked. 

Pong Krell.

Of course.

Because everything always came back to him.

Master Kenobi was right on Taris; the attention Count Dooku was giving me stemmed from both of my masters. I looked at Dooku with new eyes. “You set a trap for me.” The ripple of darkness told me I was right. “You planted the information about the buyer and the type of women the buyer liked. You knew the council would send me.” They’d unknowingly delivered me right to him, gift-wrapped in a midnight blue dress.

Not even a hint of a victorious smile lingered on Dooku’s face. He didn’t revel. He only fixed me with a determined look. “Show me you’re Pong Krell’s padawan.”

I released a long breath. “No. Because I am the Jedi my true master raised me to be. And I will remain that Jedi until the bitter end.”

The pain reached all the way down to my hips this time. 

Again and again, Dooku repeated his command. 

Again and again, I refused.

Each time, the pain increased. When my body started to shake, rattling the chains above my head, I stopped keeping count.

-

There seemed to be no pattern to Dooku’s appearances. 

Now, whenever I refused him, I felt the pain from my head to my toes, and I was sure that every visit, the pain increased. Dooku didn’t seem amused by the pain nor did he seem to enjoy inflicting it. He was dogged in his pursuit of getting me to push him out.

Every time I almost broke, I thought of Master Kenobi, who’d hidden himself from the Force on Taris to protect me and wondered if I was endangering Ghon by not shielding. 

But I’d worked so hard to undo what Krell had done. How could I revert right back to it?

“No one’s coming to rescue you,” Dooku said during one of his visits. “You can feel the council’s doubt, don’t you? They see Krell in you just like I do, only they see it as a weakness.”

“That is their responsibility,” I’d replied. “Mine is to be the best Jedi I can be.”

The pain was horrid…but being left alone in the darkness was worse, because with the darkness came the scratching sounds.

There must’ve been some kind of rodent in my cell that came out in the dark because I never heard the scratching sounds when Dooku was there. That or I was starting to hallucinate. It wouldn’t be too far-fetched a conclusion; my hands were starting to shake from lack of food, and there was an unswallowable pain in my throat from lack of water. Three times since I’d woken up the first time in this cell, a human male brought me enough water to sate my thirst. Once he even brought some rations. When I tried to ask questions, he just stared at me and did not answer.

I had no way of knowing if Dooku sent him or if he was defying Dooku to help me. Either way, the food was only enough to remind me just how close I was to starving.

Unfortunately, even if my hands were free and a Jedi healer could heal themselves, hunger couldn’t be healed. I’d treated enough starving citizens throughout the Clone Wars to know that. 

As I listened to the horrible scratching sounds, I wondered if I would ever get the chance to heal someone again.

-

My head lolled back, and I stared up into the darkness where the ceiling was supposed to be.

Dooku had been more forceful this time. Perhaps he hadn’t expected me to hold on so long, however long I’d been here.

I had no way of knowing how much time had passed. There was no window for me to see day or night passing. If Dooku came into the cell once a day, it’d been a least a week since I was taken, but I had no way of knowing for sure. Perhaps he came twice a day. Or even every hour. Every period alone in the dark felt like ages. 

The longer I spent in this cell, the more my hopes of being rescued dwindled. If I was simply a hostage, I would’ve been returned or killed by now. If the council were organizing a rescue, would it have taken this long?

I was certain that the remainder of my days would be spent in this cell. I wished I felt the peace of the Force, but I could only feel the trickles of desperation Dooku clearly wanted me to feel. When would this end? Would it end with Dooku’s lightsaber buried in my gut? Or would it end with my body surrendering my spirit? 

-

My head lulled forward, breaking me out of my light sleep. I groaned as I lifted it to stretch it out. Now my neck ached as much as the rest of my upper body, but I still didn’t have the effort to hold it up. I could only rest it on one of my shoulders. It was freezing, but my body was too tired to shiver.

Today was surely it.

I could feel the Force in me going out like the ocean tides of Pabu, as if it were preparing me to leave myself and unite with it once more. 

As Jedi, we strived for the peace that came with the acceptance of death, and yet facing the prospect of my own was only wearying.

Had the council told Ghon of my capture? Probably, considering my mission was only supposed to last for an evening. Stars, I hoped that whoever told Ghon did so gently, for it was a heavy burden for any padawan to bear, and he was so young.

Well, my second master had far exceeded my first one. Maybe Ghon would get lucky in that way too. 

The sound of the door behind me scraping open reached my ears, and even with my eyes closed, the light of the open doorway was blinding.

“Y/N.”

The sound was far away, yet I shrank from it, expecting the pain that swiftly followed any sound. 

“Y/N.”

I knew that voice. My eyes fluttered, but it hurt too badly to keep them open. Something tugged on the chain holding my left arm up, and I let out a whimper as it pulled on my desperately sore muscles. 

“Y/N, it’s Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan.

Not Master Kenobi.

Obi-Wan.

“Obi…” My scratchy voice sounded like nothing I’d heard before.

“Shhhhh, save your strength, it’s alright, I’m here.”

I peeled my eyes open again, fighting the drag long enough to catch sight of the deeply concerned features of my favorite face in the galaxy.

My eyes fell shut again.

My body and mind had officially given up if they were conjuring such a welcome sight as Obi-Wan. Yet the impossible granted me an inkling of peace. Thank you, I said to the Force. For letting me say goodbye before taking me. I tilted my chin down to the ground, ready to give up.

The door scraped shut, throwing me back into darkness. Fingers tilted my chin up once more. “Open your eyes,” said my master’s voice. Instead of his voice getting further and further away, it was getting louder.

Confusion swirled, giving me enough strength to obey. I blinked but there was only darkness again. “I’m getting you out of here.”

Was this…could it be…?

My hopes rose.

“Darling, you have to hide your feelings,” Obi-Wan’s voice hissed. 

The hopes fell dead, dashed against the rocks of reality.

I’d never once known Obi-Wan to call someone by a pet name.

This was another trick, a new strategy of Dooku’s to get me to comply. How cruel, to take advantage of my failing mind to summon the image of my master, the very man I would never be able to resist. 

But resist I did.

If I’d made this far, I couldn’t cave now, not when the peace of death was so near.

“Y/N,” said the equally blessed and cursed voice. “Please, you have to hide yourself or he’ll find us.”

No. I am a Jedi.

“I know, but if we’re going to get out of here, you have to.” The sound of his pleading voice was far worse than any other pain Dooku had inflicted on me. I felt a mouth hovering by my ear. “Y/N, if I ever earned your trust, listen to me now. You have to raise your shields.” Even the graze of his beard against my cheek felt real, dwarfed only by the wave of despair crashing over me. “C’mon, honey, do it for me.” 

I let out a whimper, knowing there was only one way to make this vision stop.

I’m sorry, I thought miserably, I can’t take anymore. I squeezed my already shut eyes tighter, shrinking away from the Force and waiting for the cruel vision to fade.

It was like losing one of my arms. Or cutting off a friend. Or falling with no hope of ever hitting ground.

It’d been only seconds of separation, but my body was colder, weaker, and hurting more and more every second. How had I survived cutting myself off from the Force under Krell?

I didn’t like it.

I didn’t like it at all.

But the fingers kept stroking my cheek. “That’s it, that’s it.”

Why was the vision still here? Dooku could only project it through the Force, and I’d pulled away from it. The vision should’ve faded, which meant…

My eyes flew open, and I wished more than ever that there was light so I could see my master. I tried to say his name, but my voice failed. 

The finger underneath my chin disappeared, and once again, there was a tug at my bindings. A strained whimper broke through my lips. “I know, I know it hurts, but I have to get you out–” He froze and then whispered under his breath: “Hells, he’s coming.”

Before I could muster up any thoughts or movements, all of Obi-Wan’s touch disappeared. I struggled against my restraints, the despair returning. There was a tiny, invisible caress on my cheek. “I’m here,” he whispered. “I’m here, but you have to shut yourself off.”

I hadn’t realized, in my panic, I’d reconnected with the Force.

I had barely enough time to lift my mental shields before the door scraped open again.

“Oh,” Dooku said from his place in the doorway. “Today is the day, then?” I heard the silent scraping of Dooku’s boot against the floor, drawing nearer and nearer. “Today,” he murmured, his voice far too close for comfort, “today, you give in.”

I managed to lift my head to see his keen eyes watching me.

I wanted to hurl a statement at him or even spit on the dungeon floor. I wanted to show him defiance, to tell him that he didn’t get to revel in my pain. But there was none left in me. I didn’t even have the energy to speak. I simply lowered my head again, shutting my eyes, hoping his visit would be quick today.

“You know you can’t live much longer.” His boots walked slowly around me. “Are you trying to die privately?” he asked. “Or are you trying to protect Kenobi from feeling the moment your life ends?”

I didn’t answer, even as my heart twinged in my chest.

There was a pause as the sound of his boots finished his rotation. He didn’t speak the words, but I felt the hidden message: join me.

My lips parted as I mustered all my strength. “I'm...” The word sounded no louder than a gentle breeze. “I'm a Jedi."

Dooku pushed his face close. “Jedi don’t shield themselves from the Force,” he said. “You’ve already given in. And for your submission, I think it’s time you got some food.” 

Guilt stabbed at my gut, and I was not comforted by the fact that Dooku couldn’t feel it. 

Dooku walked out of the room, the door sliding shut. 

Obi-Wan, wherever he was hiding, let out a long breath of relief. 

My body couldn’t even flinch at the blinding blue light that suddenly flashed through the chamber, nor at the screech of the chains as Obi-Wan’s lightsaber cut clean through them. 

For the first time in I didn’t know how long, my arms lowered past my shoulders. Unable to do anything, I collapsed, closing my eyes in preparation for hitting the floor. 

Instead of cool stone, however, my shoulder collided with a warm body, my head falling to rest on a broad chest. 

“I’ve got you.”

Obi-Wan lowered me to the ground. I had many questions, many expressions of relief ready to leave my tongue, but all I could manage was a high-pitched: “ouch.” It ripped through my dry throat, and I swallowed hard, trying to gather myself to say more. 

Obi-Wan wrapped his arms around me, offering me a modicum of warmth. “Where’s your dress?” he whispered.

I managed to shake my head. I don’t know.

Obi-Wan rubbed my arms up and down. He was probably trying to generate warmth, but the feeling of his hands on my skin was strangely painful. Then, his hands disappeared for a moment before wrapping a cloak around me, perhaps the one he’d been wearing himself. 

How long? I strained to ask as he wrapped the cloak around my neck, the clasp laying cold and heavy on my bare skin. I croaked twice, the croaks somewhat resembling the words. 

“Too long,” Obi-Wan whispered. “Eleven days.”

Eleven days.

My head felt too full and too empty to process the weight that came with the timeline. 

“Come on, up you get,” he said lowly. His arms hooked under my arms, pulling me upright. Another grunt burst through my lips as my muscles lit up like fire. “I know it hurts.” Obi-Wan pulled my arm around his neck, his steady body keeping me straight. “But we must leave before Dooku returns.”

He pulled me to my feet, and I nearly buckled.

“I know, I know, but I can’t hold my lightsaber if I carry you. You have to walk, Y/N, I need you to walk.”

And then we were walking.

Even as my feet and legs moved, my eyes fell shut, too tired to stay open. If it had been anyone else, I would’ve just laid on the floor, but it was Obi-Wan, so I would keep going.

I heard an electronic ding, and I opened my eyes just in time to see a door sliding away to reveal a barren, frozen wasteland I recognized.

No.

Not this infernal planet again.

The cold Neftali wind blew past my body, and my shivering began anew, but no complaint of any kind could pass through my lips before Obi-Wan dragged me into the snow.

Oh, it was so much worse than my memory made it out to be.

My bare feet were numb in almost an instant.

Obi-Wan couldn’t move carefully, not if he was going to get through the snow, but every movement of his body pulled at a part of mine that ached even as my body was quickly going numb. “Just a little further,” Obi-Wan kept saying as he half-led, half-dragged me. “Just a bit further.”

I pulled the cloak as tight around me as it would go. Even though it was thin, it was better than the brutal winds on my bare skin. I didn’t know where Obi-Wan was leading me, and without the Force, I couldn’t sense anything about my surroundings. 

“Just a little more.”

“Stop,” I panted. I felt horrible for saying it, considering Obi-Wan was practically carrying me, but I couldn’t walk anymore.

Obi-Wan came to a stop, gently lowering me to sit on the snow. I clutched onto his arms with my weak grip, which wouldn’t have kept me upright at all, had he not held me up. I desperately tried to catch my breath.

While my master’s appearance revived my spirit, my body was still shutting down.

“I’m…okay,” I managed to say. “Need…breath.”

Oh, every word was a colossal effort, and judging by the speed with which Obi-Wan’s eyebrows drew together, they weren’t as comforting as I’d intended.

“We need to–” He broke off as the distant sounds of voices reached us.

I wanted to cry. I couldn’t go any farther yet, not one single step, but our enemies drew ever nearer. The longer we stayed here, the more likely we were going to get caught. Between the snow and the dungeon, I would rather perish in the snow than be dragged back to that place. 

I couldn’t let Obi-Wan get caught, not when he came to rescue me. I looked up into his worried face, trying to summon the strength to move. It didn’t matter if I died on this planet, but if Dooku captured Obi-Wan, he’d subject him to the same pain he’d subjected me to. 

Clutching at Obi-Wan’s arms, I tried to sit up. 

Obi-Wan’s hand shot out, pressing down on my shoulder. His expression was pinched and cloudy with thought. “Okay,” he said to himself, seeming to come to some decision. “Okay, Y/N, you need to stay here, I’ll draw them away.”

“No!” My arms were weaker than my voice, but I still managed to grab ahold of him before he could slip away. Don’t be an idiot!

“I’m sorry, Y/N, I thought we’d have more time, but I have to lead them away.”

“Don’t–”

“Wait here for me.” Obi-Wan easily peeled my hand off his arm, squeezing it tightly. “I’ll come back, I promise.”

“Obi–”

Obi-Wan lurched forward, resting one hand on each side of my head as he pressed a kiss to my hairline, his beard scratching against my skin. And with that, he took off running. Blue light appeared as he activated his lightsaber, but soon, he disappeared altogether.

Even as my terror about Obi-Wan’s safety ricocheted through my brain, my eyes fell closed.

I’d seen many bodies suffer too much to hold on, but I’d never experienced it. Is this what it’d felt like for every patient I’d ever lost? Was this how much energy it took simply to hold on?

A grim certainty settled over me. If I stayed here in the cold much longer, my body would officially give up.

The sound of more voices became discernible over the roaring that could’ve been from the storm or could’ve just been in my own head. The voices grew closer. 

Did it matter much if they found me? 

No.

But would Obi-Wan endanger himself again to rescue me and get captured himself?

I couldn’t risk it. 

The desperation got me moving. Slowly, I managed to get to my hands and knees and started to crawl. 

I didn’t look up, not wanting to know how far I still had to go. I just kept crawling and crawling and crawling. 

The bunker, I remembered. But where was it? And how could I find it without the Force leading me?

Without the Force, I had no idea if I was even headed in the correct direction. If I’d been thinking clearly, I would’ve waited for Obi-Wan, but I didn’t, and now I was lost. He wouldn’t be able to find me when he was cut off from the Force, but reconnecting to it would bring Dooku right to him. 

Too tired to do anything, I half rolled, half collapsed onto my side, my arms falling limply to the ground as my head came to rest. The biting cold snow against my face hurt, but I couldn’t muster up energy to lift it.

Soon enough, I didn’t feel the cold anymore, nor the wet snow against my body, not even the thumping of my headache.

Everything was silent.

Everything was hazy.

And then everything was nothing at all.

-

Part 5

Overall tag list:

@thelastpyle @valiantlytransparentwhispers

Rescue Me tag list:

@penfullofwordsaheadfullofstories @starlazergazer @blackqueengold @ajwild220 @exploringalaxiesfarfaraway @mortallycrispyglitter @nerdory10 @shinybananapastanickel @sassysaxxy @sunshine-girl013 @fablesrose @marrily @friskynotebook @burnthecheshirewitch @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @thriving-n-jiving

[gazsluckyhat]

Sarah's House

One - Russian Spies

Masterlist

This kind of started as a ear worm to be honest. Just a simple idea that decided to take root. Any advice is welcomed!

Price knew he shouldn't take the mission. The outcome seemed obvious, or so he thought. Until he wasn't anymore.

or

Like calls to like. Or something of the sort.

Price knew he shouldn’t agree. It sounded like a no brainer. Soldier taken after a mission gone wrong and  no contact for almost two years now? Sounded cut and dry to him. It would put his team in danger and there was no promise they'd find them. They had most likely been killed within the first month. No doubt they'd tourtured them. But still he listened, read the file of intel they'd dug up. Blue eyes scanning for any sign they'd missed.

"I know it sound straight forward, Captain. But the dad is a old family friend and even if its just her body, we'd like her home." Price's eyes snapped to the mans face. He had worked with Price years ago but now worked behind a desk.

"Her?" He wasn't informed it was a woman. The man nodded.

"Yes, I must have forgotten to mention it. Sarah Jakobs. She's twenty-seven. Climbed the ranks when she joined the marines. Takes after her mama. She was always a damn good shot. Sarah was supposed to be the sniper on the mission. Apparently the intel they got was bad and they knew where she was at." He looked away before he spoke again. "When her captain finally got to her position all they found was blood and signs of a struggle. They're wanting to mark her as KIA." Price started at him for a moment.

"I need to speak to her parents." Lewis, the man, shook his head.

"I can get her father, but her mother passed some years ago. He's very adamant that she's still alive. Says he can feel it." He'd heard that before, and more than once the body was always found. Lewis dialed the number and within two rings a man picked up. "I've got the Captain I was telling you about. No, he wants to talk to you first. John Price." And the sleek smartphone was being passed to him.

Ghost was leaning against the wall when Soap strutted into the room. A gleam in her cerulean eyes. He spotted Ghost and walked his way. Gaz followed minuets later.

"Hey LT, looking good." Ghost was not expecting the slap on his ass that followed. So the responding backhand that he delivered to Soap was almost comical. Gaz chocked out a laugh as Soap bounced against the lockers. Ghost standing straighter. "Fuck."

"Oi' Johnny!" The can Ghost was nursing bonked the bloke in the head before gracing Gaz's feet. "Keep 'ur hands to 'urself." Soap stifled a laugh as he rubbed his cheek. Gaz just chuckled and shook his head, the lucky hat he always worse throwing a shadow across his face.

"Didn't 'ave to hit so hard, LT." The wounded puppy look clear on Soaps face. Ghost almost felt bad for hitting him. Almost. But he caught the tiny upturn of his lips before rolling his eyes.

"Take it to HR." Then he was walking away, leaving Gaz smirking and Soap pouting.

  The air in the room was thick. The boys picked up on it the second they stepped in. Price stood at the left side of the rounded table, papers and pictures spread out around him. Gaz read the body language immediately and adjusted his posture, knowing the incoming information was gonna be extra bad.

"What is it Captain?" Johnny eyed the older man as he pushed a picture forward. Johnny caught sight of it and scrunched his brows. "Who's she?" Price's face was solemn.

"Sargent Sarah Jakobs. Twenty-six. Certified sniper on a classified mission in Russia. Except the intel they got was bad, they got the location of the sniper and bombarded her. Took her team almost two hours to realize it was a set up and check on her. All they found was her gun, her comms, and blood. There was clear sign of a struggle and even a body not far from the hideout. But no sign of her after ten feet. Just gone. That was almost two years ago." Ghost eyed him and the picture.

"An old friend has asked me to try and locate her, even if its just remains." Gaz looked up. "He says the family will pay even if we find nothing."

"Has there been any recent updates?" Gaz watched as Price slid another paper across the table.

"Some inside information says there's been talk of a American prisoner up in a northern base." Price pointed to the area on a map.

"Could be anybody." Ghost added eyes glued to the picture of the smiling soldier.

"The insider says its her, mentioned a scar on her leg, some accident she got in as a teenager." The room was quiet. Everyone thinking over the idea.

"'S'not proven though?" Soap hoped they would have a stronger lead. This was mostly nothing. A ghost trail.

"No. Nothing solid." Price knew what they were all thinking. She was most likely dead.

"What's really gotten to you?" Ghost spoke up, finally looking up from the picture. There had to be something he was missing. Price sighed and took a seat.

"I spoke to her father. I know I shouldn't 'ave." He looked around. "He's convinced she's alive. Swears he can feel her. He honestly believes that. And I do too." The boys all snapped to look at him. "I know how it sounds but you should hear the way he talks about her. He just wants his daughter back."

"When do we leave?" Gaz trusted his captain and if he believed then so did he.

 The snow was thick and fluffy as they trudged through it. The location of the base still twenty minutes out. The white of their suits blended right in, the group standing close together to keep in sight. It was cold, the wind still cutting through the insulated fabric. Johnny never got used to the cold and was clenching to keep his teeth from chattering.

"Aye' Johnny! Do you see that up ahead?" He focused his eyes and the area Gaz was pointing at. The night vision goggles outlining the block. Up ahead not even fifty feet was a small cut out in the snow. Looked to be a cave almost.

"Yeah, could be a entrance?" He wasn't sure. "What do you say Captain?"

"This is the area where the base is supposed to be located, let's check it out." And so there they where huddled together in the alcove where a door was hidden away. Ghost and Johnny guarding the others. Kyle was focused on the sensor, surprisingly it was old and simple. The technology clearly hadn't been updated. With a few taps and some elbow grease he bypassed it and the door slid open.

"Well that was simple." Johnny mumbled as he headed down first. His superpower was clearing rooms. "Clear." He waiting for Ghost to bring up the rear before he took his gun off the stairwell. It took them fifteen more minutes to even locate the main entrance into the base, another sensor Gaz cracked, another room Soap cleared. The building seemed deserted, most of the rooms empty and left messy. Two floors down they located the hub. The building was deserted, except for the lab. The entrance was glass doors where two people could be seen mixing chemicals together. There were two guards at the door and at least two more inside. Their odd weren't the best but they'd dealt with worse.

"Soap, Ghost take out those two. Gaz you're on me." And with that two nearly silent shots rang out and the corresponding bodies hit the floor. Price and Gaz already breaking through the glass. Two more shots and one of the guards was down, the other catching price on the jaw. Before he could land another hit Gaz had him on his knees with a bullet in the back of his head. Ghost and Soap had the two scientist tied up and on their knees as well.

"The girl. Where is she?" Price was shoving the picture in their faces. Gaz could see the recognition in the eyes. The oldest man grunted. His English patchy.

"Whore. American Whore." A quick slap from Ghost had him on the ground. Price setting his knee on his chest.

"American soldier. Who you've kidnapped." His eyes burned. "Where is she?"

"Cells. Two doors to the left." The younger of the two sobbed out. His frame shaking as a wet spot gathered underneath him.

"Fucking prick, soiled himself." Soap scoffed. Price stood up.

"Does it take a badge Gaz?" Gaz rushed over his eyes scanning the sensor and seeing if he could bypass it. "Dimwit has a badge on him" Gaz nodded.

"Toss it 'ere." He caught it easily and slid it across the panel, the grey door sliding open into a hallway. His gun up and Price behind him he snuck down the hall. Following the light and the faint smell of cigars.

"How many you thinking?" Soap mumbled to Ghost behind him.

"Dunno, at least two from the sounds." Ghost quipped back. The end coming nearer. Gaz peeked around the corner, his eyes catching the cells and three guards hanging around a middle one. They were mumbling in Russian.

"Three total. All around the middle cell. Doesn’t seem to have any weapons." Priced nodded.

"Johnny stay back and try to get into that cell. Ghost yo go left, Gaz right. I'll take the middle." And then they were off. Gaz was right, none of the guards had weapons except a baton. Ghost took one over the head after his gun was knocked out of his hand, choosing instead to tackle the man. Throwing his elbow into the mans nose it took said baton and pressed into in the mans neck until he heard a tell tale snap.

  Gaz aimed at the mans head, his bullet hitting home but not before Price's kicked him in the back. Hitting the ground he rolled as the middle man wrapped his hands around the mans throat. Prices shot twice, blood spraying over Gaz's face as the man slumped forward onto him.

"Oi' can someone get him off. He smells." Ghost kicked the body away, Gaz grunting as he took Price's outstretched hand. Johnny was fidgeting with the door.

"No guns? Why?" Ghost looked to price. Gaz's question ringing.

"Whatever is in here must not pose a threat." Johnny said as he straightened up.

"Or they're playing with there food." Ghost spoke. The other cells were opened each in various degrees of horror. "Think there's a mechanism over there." Price followed him to the board. Most of the controls were in Russian but they assumed the only one lit up red was the closed cell.

"Are you ready? We don't know what's in here." Johnny nodded.

"Oh, I 'an handle it Captain." Price smirked and hit the control. The door slid open and with it a vomit inducing smell. The room was dark the hallway the only light. Johnny stumbled back as the smell hit him. "Smells like shite."

"Because it is shit." And Gaz was right. There was a bucket full of human excrement on the righthand side. What had to be vomit seemed to cover the floor in patches along with dried blood. Ghost clicked on his flashlight and shined it into the space and even his stumbled back. A figure, no bigger than a large child was curled into a ball in the corner. Matted hair gave way to sunken dull eyes. The mouth was pulled back in a snarl as a growl emitted through the concrete room. It was naked. Body rail thin and covered in grime. They could see fresh wounds and even some large scars. They all stood frozen as the figure tried to crawl farther into the corner.

The scar is on her right thigh. About the size of a bottle." Price stepped forward then froze as the figure hissed and sunk back. Their back flat agaisnt the wall. It was a woman, only the nether regions proving it as there was no fat on the body.

"She's covered in grime, can't see anything." Gaz spoke low, as not to provoke her.

"Have a feeling she's not gonna comply." Ghost said as Johnny started to step forward.

"Hi, names Soap. Can you.." He was cut off by the woman throwing herself at him in a fury of gnashing teeth.

Hi! Thank you for reading. It means alot! I honestly think this garbage and hate it but im going out on a limb and posting it. A little scared to see what you guys think. 😬 If you have any advice or any comment feel free to send them to me! My box is always open! - Bunny

Credit to @superawesomelurkaccount for the cute bunny divider

[court-jobi]

We Have Time

Pairing: Din Djarin x reader

Words: 4,661

Rating: Teen/Mature (spicy second half) 18+ to be safe, my lovelies

A/N: the helmet comes off, separation anxiety, comfort comfort comfort, oral (fem receiving), hand-holding spicy times, my love language is Mando'a, Mandalorian partnerships are top tier, Soft!Din Djarin

Summary: Your heart is torn in two, where your past life and the one you're living in now come to a crossroads and you need to make a decision. Temporary as it is, the stakes feel higher than ever. You're asked to take part in an incredibly lucrative job-- one that'll bring home the biggest paycheck of your life-- at the expense of six weeks of your time, and away from your life partner for the first time in a year.

Now that you have a home, something to lose... something to miss.

But if there is one man who can make you feel like the only creature in the galaxy he would drop anything for, who would support you and your brilliant mind, who would encourage you to the edge of Wild Space and back-- it is your riduur, Din Djarin.

And your Mandalorian is top knotch at keeping his promises and pleasures to you; will give them to you in equal measure:

--in the light of day, and in bed if you ask...

Read on AO3

"That was quick. Back already?"

You'd stopped under the repulsor grille of the Razor Crest, shuffled about until he wheeled himself out from the underside of the ramp. The moment he saw your face, he sat to attention on his knees. 

"--Cyar'ika?"

"He offered me the job."

"Thirty-five…" He repeated, stunned, "thousand credits?"

"--A week;" Dead serious. "Thirty-five, a week."

Din swayed a moment, elbows to his knees; presently, reevaluating all his life choices. “I sure got into the wrong business, didn’t I.”

“Not to brag or anything,” you gave a dazzling smirk his way, “but your girl is a badass when it comes to making the big bucks~”

"What kind of freighters are these?"

"Really kriffing big ones." You gave a smirk, "This is an investment that's gonna take boss-man to the next level of bacta distribution."

"Damn right. It has to be."

How could you not become a mogul with twenty of these freighters in your fleet?

"How long do they need a mech there?" Din asked next.

"Corbyn said the initial contract request outlined work for 4 weeks.." you tweaked the timeline, "-maybe a more realistic five, depending on the speed of things. If they have to order more parts than expected, it could add a couple day’s labor in the meantime. That's not too uncommon."

Din's helmet bobbed around amazed- the tone flowing through his helmet to show he was impressed, 

"That's a hell of a job. You handle things like that?"

"I've done it before. You fill 'other duties as assigned' to kill time while deliveries show up. Things that need the human touch, y’know? Not droid repairs or anything. He's probably got plenty of odd projects I can wrap for him in the shipyard. Speeders, junkers, old gunships he likes to restore and lease out."

Comically, Din looked around to the Razor Crest- his own old girl  that could use a 'bit of work'.

"If I'd known you could handle fleet tech," he rose to his feet to join you, "I'd have given you the bigger bunkroom from the start. Experience like yours deserves better perks than just any ride-along mechanic. No wonder he wants to lock you in."

"C'mon, don't be dramatic~" You laughed. "I don’t need fuss. I might be in demand right now, but m'not that impressive."

"You are impressive.” Din pressed, “I'm not shocked at all."

His confidence in you never failed to make you beam… though it carried weight this time around. The biggest paycheck of your life is on the chopping block in front of you.

The Mandalorian wrenched the tool against the base of his palm. All teasing aside, the stakes were setting in; you can tell by where he looks off now. He asked the biggest factor:

"...And the start date?"

"Well:" you bit the bullet with a gnaw of your teeth against your cheek, "end of this week." 

Din nodded. Brief. Accepting.

"Think you'll be ready in that quick of a turnaround?" 

You froze– that assumption was a mega leap. You hadn't even gotten that far.

"He– didn't really give me a chance to ask what I'd need to wrap up; he went to catch someone else before they left the hangar. But good grief, Din," you crossed your arms and furrowed your brows to confusion, "I wouldn't have given him an answer even if he asked– I'd never just do something like this without telling you!"

He seemed to straighten at that. Surprised for some reason, that you would think this way when it was all obvious to you.

You caught yourself– no sense in unpacking that to death. Next question.

"How did you leave things then?"

"Said he'd check back in the morning for my decision either way. He recognized the ship, knows where to find me.." you gestured lightly beside you, the booster you stood beneath. 

The tense proposition buzzed around your head. This job looks on flimsi to be the makings of a good deal, a strong as hellfire tick on your winstreak, and one you wouldn't have blinked at six months ago. 

But you knew what that would require: leaving. Both your Mandalorian and the Child. Your beloved boys that roped you in and made you their family.

It's funny, the last time you took a job like the old days, things went completely wrong from the start and ended before it ever got off the ground:

It was only a short time after you'd met, but sparks had already begun to fly between you and this Mandalorian; you'd worked so perfectly together so far. In tandem, each other's missing piece. And what's more, you found yourself enjoying the company, knowing you didn't have to go it alone anymore. That was so refreshing– and unheard of. Like the oddest pairing of hard to soft, a sun-warmed kitten to cold humanized steel, you were drawn into each other's orbit to thrive better than you might have alone. This was a partnership, truly. And you saw a solo job as a way to contribute, pull your weight. 

So you agreed to one that came your way one day, and called it an easy win- he'd drop you off, pick you up, same time next week. You'd felt a little funny leaving him, even then. In this time together, you knew you’d surely miss his company, but denied yourself any true separation anxiety: it’s not like it was earned. How could it be? You'd just met. 

But you'd parted. Gone your separate ways with a rendezvous plan already in the forefront of your mind as you went to meet your ride– 

–when an explosion along the tram you were set to board sent a crowd hurtling towards you. If you hadn’t said a long goodbye like you did, if you’d stalled just two minutes less… you'd have been on that train. 

It was pronounced a cylinder misalignment, diagnostic fluke or something like that– and not intentional. But you didn’t know that at the time. A sudden burst of fuel setting the entire transport dock ablaze had you shook.

You'd turned tail to run straight back towards where the Mando had left you– only to hear your name being shouted from a clouded receiver, encased in a beskar helmet, somehow rising loud and strong over the swarm of panic-ridden pedestrians… 

He was running to you, too. 

Didn't bother making other arrangements for the job call in all the chaos, after that. But given that little scare, you both decided to just cut the losses and try again next time the opportunity presented itself. Bad luck, eh? Next time, for sure.

…That was eight months ago. You ruled out any solo jobs, and so did he.

If only for a short tenure, the op; and this time wasn't unheard of or impossible.. But not only were you rusty, but the timing was horrible. And long.

Din set his tool down, finally rising to come up to you.

“We can talk it through all you like…" he posed to you, "But you’ll need to listen to your gut in the end. What do you think?"

You looked back wildly. He was leaving this huge decision up to you?? Did he seriously think you'd blindly accept?

"What do I think?" You started defensive, then… stopped. 

Considered, and easing up, you sighed. 

You eyed the split in the exhaust somewhere over Din's head, the one on its last leg. 

"I think... it would be enough to fix her." You scanned the Razor Crest, her makeshift patches along the outer shell of the thruster. "-And then some. I know money isn't everything, but.. It's a shit-ton of money, babe. It's... doable." you laughed nervously, thankful Din finally joined your side as you explained the pros.

Doable was an understatement. This was more than agreeable, at this paygrade. You'd be a dikut to turn down even half that price. 

After he brushed them off a bit, his hands came up to hold your cheeks; visor trained on you, unreadable. But you knew better. He was assessing, looking for the hesitation, the test of any doubts.

"You could stop taking pucks for a while," with a small smile, you caught his wrists in return "Skyborn knows you deserve a break. You can rest up for once..."

He made a little sound, stroking your cheek in a gentle show of thanks. You were considering you both in this, which broke you more to think about going separate ways for a while.

You ran through the logistics, too– the loose ends.

"And– I figured you'd be off to find that Jedi anyway, and I know how you get about worlds I haven't been to before. This would be an easy one. Just your average, smoggy, Corellian garage.You've seen one? Then picture it, filled with bubba Rhodians and Keshiris, and that's the home away from home." You joked gently.

There were plenty of benefits to this arrangement and Din nodded curtly to acknowledge them, but a gentle shake of his head showed he was still pondering some things, unseen..   You really wished you'd told him all this inside, where you could read his reaction better. 

The quiet from him was beginning to make you doubt your good reasoning at all. 

"Please say something?" You begged softly.

Only one thing came to mind- by the way he was likely running through the script of his whenever he thought of you, you had a good idea what he’d say. 

His aliit. His creed. Your safety, above all else.

"This Corbyn... Do you trust him?"

It was a loaded question. Trust was rare for him, yet you earned his. But Din couldn't be responsible for you while in the care of someone else, which clearly had him on edge about all this. He’d surely wanna meet the guy before you shipped out. While that thought seemed parental, you understood it- and would expect no less from the man who valued you like the finest of beskar ingots.

You braved a little smile.

"I do. He's a good guy. Bites off more than he can chew but--- but it's the same setup as I did back when he hired me for the baby stuff,” you squeezed his wrists, “It would be safe.”

A careful thumb came to your temple, brushing the beskar steel adorning you. Pushed your hair back in a stylish fashion, it did– but in reality was your beautiful proposal gift. Then Din traced the skin just below it, raking through your hair. The touch ached.

"I didn't think this would ever happen. Didn’t know he docked this far out for fueling anyway,” you absently studied you Mandalorian’s thick cowl from your spot here at chest level. “I haven't had a way to contact Wid in forever. Hell, I know I used to do this all the time before, but… It's just different now.” you sunk into him. Your gut deflated, sadder the more you spoke. “And if all goes well at the next stop, well… the kiddo will be gone too."

That still made you sick to think about. Your voice was catching and you hated it.

"It's just a lot think about, leaving you right now. I don't know what my gut thinks about it." 

Fortunately, he soothed you like no other: at the first sound of distress, he’d slid a steadying hand down to your waist and pulled you close to accept his touch. His forehead met yours.

"Mhi solus tome, mesh’la, bal dar'tome" He spoke softly. "We vow these words for this exact circumstance." 

It meant so much more to you now: one when together, and apart.

"My kind, we grow up with buirkan. Our carers have no formal roles. They are buir. They both share the load, they both meet the needs of their ad, their tribe. That’s what partnership is; I… I ask what you want to do, because I know no other way.” 

Din caressed down to your chin, taking in your fully torn expression. 

“I trust your judgment here, mesh’la. I leave this one to you; you know this kind of work better than I do. If you're comfortable.. and -only- if you're comfortable, and you -want- to do this, you have my support. Always."

You wanted to break at this trust, crush and crumble at his bouying nature. He was handing you the reins as equals, despite the hushed strain he said the words. He could say all the right things, but by no means did he not feel. You knew it wasn't easy– not even for him.

Up the repaired ramp, you caught sight of the child peeking out from the ship’s open door. He called in that funny little chirp– trying to sing again.

You smiled, despite the lurching feeling in your chest shaking you. "Hi, buddy."

He waved and watched his own steps as he hurried down the ramp.

You met his short arms just a step out of Din's hold, and brought the child up to you. He seemed to know something was wrong, because his ears fell back the moment his settled at your chest level where he'd reached up for your face. You shut your eyes at the touch.

"This won't be a forever goodbye." Din soothed you, “You know that, right?” 

Din must be forgetting how poor the reception on Corellia is.

You chimed back, knowing the truth for yourself. "Gotta prepare myself as if it is, though."

"We don't know what we'll find there." Din set a hand to your low back again, unable to keep from you for too long. "The Jedi may not even be in Calodan. We could be back before you know it; and we'd wait here until your work term is done."

The optimistic thought did sound better and helped you swallow. 

"That's fair. Stranger things have happened."

Your Mandalorian. Sweet, sweet Din. Under the hum of the air reserves cycling outside the ship, he cupped the back of your head and leaned against your temple. 

"I know you're torn. But you don't need to worry about us in this. We’re behind whatever you decide."

The child looked to his buir. He reached a bit to his shoulder strap for Din, so you passed him over. That helmet of his hid a lot– but not tone. He clearly didn't like the thought of this either; having to explain to the kid why you’d be gone by the time he wakes up in the morning in a few days. 

So he treated it like any other trip. 

"How bout it, pal," he spoke with a quirk of the helmet to the Child, "Would you be ok with a solo trip for a while? Just like old times."

The munchkin cooed at this, fingers raking over the notches. He seemed happy, if he understood at all. Good thing he’s young, you thought. A peaceful hope, at the very least.

It gave you a happy comfort– for now.

The real churning would hit you when you gave Corbyn your answer. When he gave you the gameplan for the rest of the team he’s hiring, and when he got to meet your very intimidating Mandalorian husband– who he profusely sucked up to when he observed how protective he seemed of you. 

When that last night came and you tucked in the kiddo and realized you'd be packing up for your first real time away from your Mandalorian: your husband. 

…for the first time in over a year.

The Mandalorian brought you to bed in the most tender, gentlest way he ever had that night. In complete darkness, the way he did before he'd shown his face: where your senses would be sharpened and you'd feel everything he did, and take your time doing it. 

Maybe it was a comfort for himself too, out of an old habit to shield himself while next to bare that you didn't seem to mind. Through little noises: elated, pleasurable, heartfelt, tickled sighs and begs, he always found his way across you.

–But he heard the difference between a gasp and a cry. 

At the second you inhale sharply in a clear watery sniff he stopped giving kisses down your ribcage. Where he'd been massaging you with careful, trigger steady hands tucked under your sweater, Din climbed back onto his knees and shifted up to cradle your face with those same warm palms.

"Hey.. I'm right here. What's wrong?" Din asked gently.

You process by his tone that he'd halted altogether–

Hands clawed for his arms to come back around you,

"Nono no, don't stop!"

He thumbed beside your eyes, meeting wetness.

 "Riduur.."

"I'm fine, jus-- just keep going, please." your snivels did little to convince him you were okay. Desperate for him as always, but not out of pure lust anymore.

Above you -practically blind- the Mandalorian tensed. Worried for your heart above all else. Testing light, brushing fingers along your neck and onto your chest, he strove to feel past your flushed, quivering shield. To soothe your skin, but also check your heart rate.

He avoided the suspicious edge in his chest with a calm, doting voice,

"We have time, cyar'ika."

"No, we don’t!-- I--"

There it was.

A kiss graced your crown to still you, then a longer one over your lips. He leaned his forehead to yours, calming you with strokes through your hair until you gathered your true thoughts. Naturally, he'd wait as long as he needed to let you continue, but he didn't need to wait long to hear your whisper. 

"Tell me again this is a good idea…"

Tell me I need to go through with it, or else I'll talk myself out.

You felt lips trailing lower in soft presses, taking all your piqued attention while they went on the hunt for a sweet spot. Din’s unfiltered voice made you shiver with each bit he’d speak against the column of your neck… down and up again.

He whispered, beyond tenderness and into reverence, 

"This isn't going to be forever.” A kiss to your cheek briefly, “You're going to do a great job and you're coming through for a friend. Won’t just help you, but millions in the galaxy who will benefit from the work you’re doing. This is something big, and you're being rewarded for it. This is a good thing." 

You heard the smile in his voice and thanked Ashla -once again- for the Grace given to you to have a man like this in your arms. 

"You're brilliant, riduur.” Din sang your praises, “You're giving up so much. But I'm really proud of you... This isn't too big for us."

You nodded, getting a grip and gaining a controlling breath.

“It’s not too big for us.”

“That’s right.”

"I'm gonna miss this." You touched his cheek, craving this proximity while you had it. 

He leaned into it and kissed the palm when it slid into reach.

"I'm right here."

He is here, and the words warm you through, sending a heat wave that buzzes around your spine when you let yourself believe it.  He's right here, and he is all yours. Would be, too, even if you were jumps away in the stars. 

You were one when together, and you would be one when apart. 

The latter would be tested soon, but that creed? You'd take both truths with you as your own. 

He's right here. 

And he proved it. 

Din's tongue made a few kitten licks as he kissed your wrist next; then down, and down, until he merged both your fingers and pressed where you joined into the space above your head. His order, to stay there, while his left yours to send sparks down your arm on the underside, to tease. 

"You know," Din's adoring tone dripped with doting interest while he resumed mapping out your body.   "Just like with 'love', there's not really one word to say 'im sorry' among our people."

"You can't– say– just 'sorry'?" Your voice still sounded wet at its edges, but your chest clipped with interest. "What do you say when you kriff up, then?"

Din laughed with a rasp, but answered, 

"Depends how big you kriff up. Something small, that's nothing. You'd let it go. No harm done."

–Then Din's hands made a parallel move behind your knees, pulling and pinning them up with a sudden fierceness. 

Talking about a tangent: he’s talking about apologizing, but for what… He'd done nothing wrong, you thought. But you let him speak; he's enlightening you. Surely to distract, but by chik it's working. 

From where he sat, he was fully between your legs and about to bow over you.

"But when I need forgiveness, true forgiveness–" 

You hummed for his answer.

"Ni ceta," Din kissed your sternum. The lips dragged downward in a slow crawl, then nearly growled from the deepest part of him: " 'I kneel.' "

You gasped when his tongue swiped up your core. Every end of your body sang out its pleasure at the touch– his tasting you while on his knees. The heat made you keen. Your sweater didn't stay on for long once he started. 

You shucked out of the rest of your nightclothes as easily as you could, then let your arms fall lax above your head again. He wasn't checking that you were holding onto anything, but you minded where he last left them. When you ground up, he pressed you down. When you moaned, he copied you- right onto your clit. And when you sighed his name, those expert hands massaged you within every inch of his reach. 

By all means, you should be on your knees for him for as good as he felt, how he was treating you… falling only just short of worshipping you without words. 

Your drop was coming, coming, coming, and you were about to completely fall apart by that tongue of his. You told him so, with a quiver to your voice and hands shooting down to stroke along his head between your thighs. 

"Din– Din, Din honey…"

He purred into you with a few rounding nudges of his head. 

"Yes, m'angel," he whispered in the space between you, between his kisses, "Lemme kneel for you. Lemme send you off right t'night– straight to the stars, cyar'ika."

The telltale sign was your quick breaths and baby whimpers, so Din doubled down and tamped his arms down on your waist– until you came, hard.

You cried out of complete pleasure now, your sobs turning into pitiful begs with a dazed smile that betrayed any tear at the edge of your eyes. You tried to push Din's head away entirely, but he didn't let up until he heard the actual words, 

"Please!! Please, n-no more, baby–"

You minded your volume only for the sake of the kiddo outside the door; you didn't want him thinking you were in pain and taking it on himself to investigate (like last time). 

Released and limber, you panted as your adoring husband simply took a hand to your core and rubbed it slow and steady to quivering calmness. He licked his own lips with a satisfied sigh in cleaning himself up. 

"There she is." Din's praises returned, "There's my happy Love…"

"You're–" you wheezed, "youh-what’dya do wrong… that y’needed forgiveness?..”

He nuzzled into your neck, pleasure and prayers coating each of his kisses: to cover you with his love before you go.

“I’m a selfish man,” Din craved the warmth he found there, “Tempted to devour you where you stood, watching you run through those schematics with your boss today… Had to hold myself back by a rancor’s leash. Can only hope-” he nibbled at your ear, “-that this is enough to atone for this covet’s heart.”

Pride flooded you, invigorating. Filling you even more than his words usually did.

“Well fuck,” you sighed again, “You’re forgiven…" 

Din's hands petted you, while he dropped kisses up your body this time, starting to settle. Before he got too far, you halted his ascent by his shoulders, 

"But… you don't hafta leave your knees yet.."

With a warm smile you know would be there, you could only feel in the dark how Din’s loving laugh came with its teasing caress to bless you. To wish you only good memories, good thoughts, the things he promised to give you in droves. The love you so much deserved and what he was all too passionate to give you as he knelt between your legs filled you completely, the tale of which came through his tender reach: pulling your thighs back to him– one hanging clear up to his shoulder.  

Delicious scratches made by his fingers skirted down that leg. ‘Want’ screamed its way through touch. Touch that you would miss so badly… touch you would crave when you laid down alo-

"Liser ni ceta, ner mesh’la? Cin vehtin, gedet'yu gar se ner riduur ru’kir?”

Din’s words sent you shivering– of course, you had no clue what half of those meant. And he knew that. Cheeky. 

But it worked, you know. It always did pull you from your misery– curiosity for this man and everything about him. 

“You’re tryna kill me with that mouth, aren’t you?” you chuckled. “Take my heart right outta my chest before I can even think?”

Din kissed your ankle while he teased the soft, supple core where you were about to join– the ‘last chance’ moment he always gave you. Encased in darkness, your sign of ‘yes’ in lieu of a nod was a wiggle to ‘get a move on’. 

“Have that already, I think. Just as you have mine,” Din slid home and relished your sigh at the intrusion. His own groan sent his breaths reeling at the new closeness.

“Really not fair I–  (ahhh) can only catch l-like– two words outta that..”

Din ground up into you. He’s not really setting a pace yet– just getting comfortable and giving you time.

“You know me. I prefer to show you what I mean anyway, Angel-Eyes.”

God those pet names… You’ll miss them as if you’re missing a limb. How will you manage..-

“Gotta remind you of what’s waiting for you when you come home to me,” Din broke you from your thoughts, “...N’... have something to remember you by.”

Relaxing around him, your eyes fluttered shut. Home– that sounded heavenly. And if you had more of this– a lifetime of it, even– well that sounded worth it to you. 

And that little comment told you everything: he’s going to miss you, too.

You moaned lightly, reaching for his shoulder to pull him down. So, he released your leg to make room, and gave you a full, searing  kiss once he laid flat. Even if your positions were reversed, he couldn’t meld with you any closer. 

“S’this ok?” he whispered.

You whimpered your ‘yes’– a happy one, now. Full. 

So you didn’t bother asking what that string of Mando’a meant– but gave your best guess.

“Then– f’you’re asking to make it last… so I can’t forget…” you begged with hands locking onto his, “then yes. Please, riduur–”

Heart thundering wildly in your chest, you caved when Din leaned in and started kissing your neck so deeply, and so strongly, that you knew you’d have no trouble remembering him for the next several weeks. 

Surely it would pass quickly- life had a way of doing that. All was going to work out. 

He would be here for you– together and apart.

He only broke off from the dampened skin of your neck to bow into the curve of your shoulder– before throwing his entire self into your loving embrace from the power of his hips. He kneels there, just long enough to hear you:

“Make this last for me.”

[saint-oleander]

The English title of “Questo mondo non mi renderà cattivo” misunderstands fundamentally the core theme of the series.

There, I said it.

Now a step back.

Italian comic book author Zerocalcare’s second series after “Strappare lungo i bordi” ( “Tear along the dotted line” ) is now streaming on netflix and, while I can’t swear by the translation for I haven’t seen it in English, you should go watch it.

Both of the series are funny and heartbreaking in equal measure, and exist as tales from Zerocalcare’s life as a jumping point to explore more existential topics.

Now, if you haven’t seen them yet, go and do so for spoilers await you under the cut.

The English title netlix chose for the series is “This world can’t tear me down”.

I get that they wanted to draw a connection to the first series (Tear along the dotted line), but the choice is so fundamentally at odds with the message of the series that I’m going to scream into the void about it.

See, a way more actual translation of the title could be “This world won’t make me cruel”.

You’re going to ask yourself how nitpicky can I possibly be. They are close enough, aren’t they? WRONG. And the problem is optimism.

If you’ve seen the series you’ll know that the setting is this: an old friend of Zero comes back after twenty years in rehab. Zero is forced to try and re-acquaint Cesare to the world despite his (perceived) inadequacy. Meanwhile, a neonazi movement is pushing to get a recently opened refugee center closed, and Zero is shocked when he discovers that Cesare has fallen with that crowd.

Sure of the fact that they preyed on his alienation after his many years in rehab, Zero confronts Cesare, who tells him that since he has it all (especially a job) Zero has no right to tell him how he should behave in his desperate situation.

And Zero does believe him, and becomes doubtful of his right to point out what someone in a worse situation should do.

If the point were about resisting in the face of an evil world then the title would fit. But it’s not.

The point, the actual point, is that in the face of evil we don’t have to become evil too. That no one has a monopoly on what’s right and wrong. That the line we must draw is that even in the face of hardship is that we don’t get to kick down who has it worse than us, just to stand a little bit taller than someone.

That’s why “this world won’t make [us] cruel”. It’s not because we are in a righteous fight, withstanding the elements. It’s because we must have a last shred of dignity and courage, to help who has it worse. It won’t be an easy fight, and perhaps not even a successful one.

To believe that the world won’t tear us down is irrealistic, and far to optimistic.

"The world won’t tear me down” is the story of someone’s lonely and rightful stand.

“The world won’t make me cruel”, instead, reminds us that we don’t live in a vacuum, that we are not alone. And that we can’t be right and be cruel to those who are more vulnerable than us.

Even when everything is out to hurt us, we still have to resist the temptation to be cruel.

Mi hanno spezzato le ossa, hanno brindato, e sono vivo.

Questo mondo non mi renderà cattivo

“Questo mondo non mi renderà cattivo” - Path

[pluckyredhead]

Did I just read your Super Sons primer from 2020 at 3 am on a Monday morning because I'm having a real normal one? Maybe?! I'm wondering how you feel about how they and their relationship has developed since then. IMO it's... Pretty bleak. 😩

I HAVE A LOT OF FEELINGS ABOUT IT. (Also here's the primer for anyone who missed it.)

So I will say that 95% of everything Jon has been in since he got aged up has been hot garbage, but I do think the exception is when Damian is around. But let's take it from the top!

First of all, I don't necessarily think they should de-age him again. Generally speaking I think it's better storytelling to focus on fixing things moving forward, rather than undoing things moving back. Sure, if DC came up with some big cosmic event that reset Jon to 11, I certainly wouldn't complain, but I'd rather see them, uh...do literally anything with Teen Jon that doesn't suck.

But yeah, aging Jon up to begin with still makes me livid because:

I want my baby to have had a childhood.

It's fully character assassination for Lois and Clark. They would NEVER let their 11-year-old go to outer space with a supervillain. Lois would NEVER just abandon him out there, and Clark would NEVER respond with "Well, I'm sure he's fine, wanna have marathon sex?" I honestly have no idea what Bendis or his editor were thinking.

They have not done a single interesting with him since!!!

Putting this behind a cut because it got LONG. Also spoilers for Beast World in there.

I've said this before, but I have to assume that Bendis wanted to age Jon up because he wanted to write a Legion book. But he also in his wisdom decided to bring Kon back into continuity at exactly the same time, which means we have two nearly identical Superboys that DC didn't and still doesn't know what to do with. Kon clearly couldn't have joined the LOSH because he already had a team, but you know what Super teen was available, and not 11, and who has a history with the Legion that goes back almost as long as Clark's? KARA. But I will save that rant for another day.

And honestly, Kara dodged a bullet, because that Legion book was unreadable. Bendis at his most Bendis-y wall of text interrupt-y conversations and no plot. If I give Tom Taylor any credit it's that the second he got his hands on Jon, he torpedoed Jon/Imra as a ship. GOOD.

And when the LOSH book finally went out with a whimper (that JLA/LOSH miniseries! what was that!!!), we entered the Taylor Era. Taylor's quirks are less stylistic and more narrative than Bendis's. You can spot Bendisian dialogue at twenty paces, but a Taylor comic tips its hand when it sets up a really interesting premise or a really high stakes threat and then immediately undercuts it with a little wet fart noise of nothing. To wit:

Jon's starting college! This will be an interesting challenge for him to readjust to normal life after six years in a torture-volcano and an indeterminate amount of time in the future, and also considering he never graduated from sixth grade. I wonder what will - oh no he dropped out after three pages. (He has done NOTHING in his civilian identity since, btw. I guess he's too busy hovering just behind Dick at all times to work on his GED or whatever.)

Jon is going to confront Ultraman! Finally the comics will have to engage with all the trauma he must have - oh no Ultraman's dead.

Jon is trapped in the Injustice Universe! This is a really dangerous universe that might make him question everything he knows about - oh he just lectured everyone and flounced off home.

Beast World is a perfect example. Taylor seems to think that having a hero effortlessly solve a problem makes them look badass, but it's actually the effort that makes them look badass. So like, we spent five months keeping the Kryptonians and other A-class heroes away from the spores because the spores are attracted to power and if a Super got spore'd everyone would be in big trouble...but then in the last issue, they just have Jon fly up to everyone with a spore in them, wait for the spore to jump at him, and catch it? That doesn't make the Titans look smart or Jon look tough. It makes all of them look like idiots because it it was that easy, why didn't they do that in the first place?

On top of that, Taylor doesn't ever really earn relationships. Jon and Jay is the obvious one. Jay has no personality. There's no chemistry between the two characters. Jon might as well be dating a cardboard cutout labeled "Proof of Queerness." (Or "Bernard." Ahem.) But we're supposed to be like, yes, give Tom Taylor a GLAAD award for using queer characters as props, when he's going to turn around and kiss Chuck Dixon's ass on social for being homophobic about Jon? UGH.

Honestly worse for me though is the Jon and Dick relationship. Because Taylor is writing both characters, we're supposed to believe that there's this close mentor-mentee bond there? I don't think they EVER interacted before the Taylor era. (And don't even look at me with that retconned-in scene of Dick finding lost baby Jon. You're telling me that Superman, with his X-ray and telescopic vision, needs to call Bruce and Dick for help finding his own son? Fuck off.)

Anyway it all combines to make basically every Jon appearance for the past three years profoundly unsatisfying. Even the stuff that isn't by Taylor never goes anywhere. Remember when he was jealous of the Super Twins for two panels? And then everyone forgot about it forever? SIGH.

HOWEVER.

However.

If there is one thing that Bendis and Taylor and every other writer got right, it's that Jon is crazy bonkers in love with Damian always and forever. Jon has been written like shit since 2019, but he has also not wavered in his devotion for even one single solitary second.

THE EVIDENCE:

This is the first thing Jon does when he gets back to Earth:

He then tells Damian he's contemplating not joining the Legion because he'll have to leave Damian behind. Damian tells him to go and then come get him if it's cool.

Turns out the Legion is cool. Jon comes and gets Damian. The Legion isn't happy about it and Jon threatens to leave if Damian can't stay, while gazing adoringly at Damian's unconscious body cradled in his arms:

Eventually LOSH is canceled and Jon comes home and starts following Damian around by listening for his heartbeat. LIKE PALS DO!

Then Damian gives him a pep talk!

Then there's this ABSOLUTE CUDDLE:

The way Damian nuzzles into Jon's shoulder! Can you even stand it!

And then there's this:

The climax of Son of Kal-El, btw, is one of the several times Jon is saved by Damian and confides in Damian and turns to Damian for comfort or advice...and Jay is just sort of standing there off to the side. I am fully aware I have ship goggles on but the degree of emotional investment Jon has in these relationships is not the same.

Then they had a special issue teamup:

Then we got Dark Crisis, and I actually love this interaction between them, because they are very different people with very different upbringings and this feels extremely in character to me for how they would both handle the loss of their fathers:

But even when they disagree, they still instantly support each other. Jon comes back with information? Damian makes a plan:

Also, we got the 2022 Pride issue where Jon, Jay, and Damian go to Pride together. I know that story is...contentious...but leave me here with Damian sulking while Jon and Jay kiss, okay?

Then we get Adventures of Superman, which is objectively awful, but Jon does spend his whole time in the Injustice universe thinking about Damian like the seagulls in Finding Nemo saying "Mine? Mine? Mine?"

This whole arc is truly hilarious. Jon finds out that Damian accidentally killed Dick and his response is to a) go find Batman and yell at him for not supporting Damian enough for accidentally killing Dick, and then b) go find Damian to be like "Wow, that must have been really hard for you (accidentally killing Dick)." There's being ride or die for your BFF, and then there's whatever the fuck Jon has going on.

(Meanwhile there's an incredibly uncomfortable scene with him and Injustice Jay where Jay "tests" him by trying to get Jon to cheat on regular Jay. So. That happens.)

And then just this past month we got Nightwing #110, where we learn that Jon is still listening to Damian's heart:

He completely freaks out watching Damian in danger, and immediately intervenes when it looks like Damian is about to kill someone because he knows what matters the most to Damian. Also, this happens:

YOU WIN THIS ONE, TAYLOR.

AND THEN THEY BICKER I LOVE IT WHEN THEY BICKER:

AND THEN DAMIAN LETS HIMSELF BE VULNERABLE BY ASKING JON IF HE HURT ANYONE WHILE HE WAS A KITTY, AND JON GIVES YET ANOTHER SPEECH ABOUT HOW DAMIAN HAS NEVER DONE ANYTHING WRONG EVER, IN HIS LIFE, AND DAMIAN STAGGERS OFF, LEANING ON JON.

This isn't even getting into the Trinity backup stories in Wonder Woman, which, like...Tom King is not valid but Jon and Damian are such an old married couple in them? It's truly incredible?

It took me like 45 minutes to parse Jon's line here as the general 'you" and not specifically Jon saying Damian wasn't straight. But like..."That's for straight people, which has nothing to do with us" is a hell of a thing to say, Jonathan.

I ALSO haven't even talked about DCeased because it's a different universe, but! Jon sitting with Damian while he dies??? MY HEART.

IN CONCLUSION:

Yes, they should never have aged up Jon.

Yes, most of his appearances since have been terrible and bland.

But OH BOY, do he and Damian remain in love.

[conartisthaiji]

[image description: 9 slides from a slideshow. The slideshow has a white background with black text in comic sans. Each slide is as follows.

Slide One: Witch Hat Atelier, by a little witch academia fan (sorry in advance)

Slide Two: Basic Overview

NOT to be confused with Little Witch Academia 

yes, they both have a cheerful bad-at-magic lesbian who is in love with a grumpy magic prodigy lesbian (...i think) and yes, the uniform features cute little hats and robes and yes they are at a magic school and yes the two main teachers have homoerotic tension and…huh.

Just don’t call it witch hat academia (<-has done that)

Next to the words is the cover for the first volume of Witch Hat Atelier, which shows a blonde girl, Coco, cheerfully jumping down.

Slide Three: Blonde Akko Kagari

She’s blonde 

Her name is Coco 

Very sweet looking like i bet she’s just the nicest 

Probably had something tragic happen to her i bet it’s qifrey’s fault

Oh my god maybe this IS little witch academia 

Next to the text is the cover for the first volume of Witch Hat Atelier.

Slide Four: Not Olruggio

Lesbian (my mutuals told me so) (okay actually one of them had Agott over a lesbian flag as their profile but that’s basically the same thing) 

I did confuse her with Olruggio wha but no, she is a lesbian and her name is Agott. 

Rhymes with fa-i am forcibly removed from the room.

I just know she’s emo as hell like she looks like everything thirteen year old me would LOVE. unfortunately I am in my twenties. 

See next slide for blorbo.

Next to the text is the cover for the second volume of Witch Hat Atelier, which shows Agott sitting in a chair and staring out with a bored expression on her face.

Slide Five: Richeh!!!!!!!!

Blorbo-in-law 

I mean, she’s gonna be my blorbo now.

Look at her i love her she can do no wrong.

Her eyebrows are my fave thing about her like they are so expressive

Next to the text are two manga panels of Richeh, one showing her eating noodles from a bowl, and one showing her cheering with her arms raised. Text behind her says, "Riche is sold out!" Next to these panels is the cover for the fourth volume of Witch Hat Atelier, which shows Richeh sitting on the side of a cliff.

Slide Six: The little pink one

She’s…pink 

I hate to say it but i do not know anything about her 

Not even her name

Sorry to all fans of the little pink one 

I bet she’s the energetic/upbeat one of the group though

Next to the text is the cover for the fifth volume of Witch Hat Atelier, which shows a pink-haired girl leaping gleefully into the air.

Slide Seven: Qifrey without a U

It’s QI-FREY. No u. 

Now why is he wearing a one-lens sunglasses. Sun monocle. 

It’s probably just the cover art sorry Shirahama

Gay and sad i just know it 

Honestly i got nothing on this man

Next to the text is the cover for the third volume of Witch Hat Atelier, which shows Qifrey holding a book in one hand. One of the lenses on his glasses has been darkened.

Slide Eight: Not a teenage lesbian

So Olruggio is actually a teacher.

Upon closer inspection i see that his hair is not curly. I truly thought it was. Sorry Agott.

Qifrey may be gay and sad but Olruggio is gay sad and tortured about it 

Whatever is wrong with him has nothing on whatever the fuck is wrong with Qifrey i bet

Why is this picture so fucking pixelated.

Next to the text is the cover for the sixth volume of Witch Hat Atelier, which shows Olruggio jumping with his cloak flowing behind him. The picture is far more pixelated than the other images in this slideshow.

Slide Nine: Ok the end because i don’t know who else is part of witch hat! But go read witch hat atelier! Or just wait for the anime but i’m gonna go read the manga (and maybe i’ll rewatch little witch academia too teehee) /end id]

so sorry wha mutuals i didn't pay enough attention to your wha lectures 🙇🙇🙇

[gainingfiction]

Suitable

Summary: Patrick doesn’t believe in curses. He certainly doesn’t believe that the oversized suit he bought as a gag costume is cursed to make him gain weight. And yet….

(Enjoy my 2022 Halloweight-gain-story! Better late than never, right?)

~

There’s no such thing as magic suits.

At least, that’s what Patrick told himself as he donned his Halloween costume for the evening. The idea was downright laughable. He wouldn’t have given it a second thought, if it wasn’t for the serious expression on the old salesman’s face when he issued his dire warning.

That guy was just weird, Patrick rationalized. It was true: the suit had been purchased from the octogenarian proprietor of an unkempt second-hand store, a heavily-accented man named Yuri who had sworn up and down that Patrick’s prospective Halloween costume was bound by some mysterious curse.

It was literally just a suit. A very big suit, to be fair, but that had nothing to do with magic: its former owner was just fat. Massively, enormously fat, judging by the way Patrick’s slender, athletic frame was drowning in yard after yard of Italian wool.

“You are warned,” Yuri had said. “You will grow into it. Will make you big man. Very big man.”

Patrick scoffed at the mere suggestion. He’d never weighed more than 180 pounds in his whole life. Well, 183, as of this morning. There was no way he’d ever “grow into” such a comically large outfit.

Feeding his belt through the loops, Patrick felt… nothing. No supernatural tingling, no sudden urge to gorge himself at a buffet. He just felt like a fit guy in a big suit. The old man was clearly trying to deploy some strange reverse psychology as a sales tactic. And, to his credit, it had worked. Patrick shelled out twenty dollars just to prove how ridiculous he found the idea of a so-called magic garment, even if it meant that he had no idea how to describe his costume. Sexy Biggest Loser contestant, perhaps?

He studied himself in the mirror, shirtless beneath the gigantic blazer. It wasn’t his usual slutty Halloween apparel, but foregoing a shirt allowed him to show off his tight little pecs and toned abs. Patrick was proud of his hard-earned body, and the way his sculpted jawline and strong cheekbones turned heads wherever he went. No “magic spell” was going to take that away from him.

With a smug smile adorning his perfect pink lips, Patrick left for the party.

The evening wasn’t as awkward as he’d feared. The host, Priti, was an old friend from his college days, and they hadn’t seen much of each other in the two years since graduation. But she welcomed him with enthusiasm, faithfully introducing him to his fellow partygoers: her coworkers from the pharmacy, a few college classmates Patrick had long forgotten about, and, most excitingly, her absolutely stunning cousin, Arjun.

To call Arjun a hunk would be an understatement. He was a walking deity, a 6’2” sculpted fantasy clad in a form-hugging Spiderman suit. If Hollywood needed a new Peter Parker for its endless reboots, they could scarcely do better. His white teeth almost sparkled, his eyes were as warm and deep as the summer sea, his glossy hair perfectly trimmed.

Patrick was smitten from the moment Priti introduced them, and he spent the rest of the evening practically hanging off Arjun’s big, brawny biceps. He was a personal trainer, of all things, and Patrick was quick to point out how much he looked the part. But Arjun didn’t seem put-off by Patrick’s incorrigible flirtation; in fact, he gave as good as he got, trailing his large hands across the lapels of Patrick’s massive suit and praising the quality of the fabric… and what lay underneath.

They were terrible guests, lingering by the snack table, locked in their own smouldering back-and-forth to the exclusion of everyone else in the room. But Patrick didn’t care, guzzling lager after lager and making come-fuck-me eyes at his sexy new friend.

And come-fuck-him Arjun did. They left the party as soon as they could without being rude, practically running to Arjun’s tidy apartment a few blocks over. And boy, did Arjun fuck him. He was a phenomenal lay, a deft top who could throw Patrick around like a ragdoll, bending him over and absolutely railing his toned, slender ass. Patrick came like a geyser, and, after a brief respite, came again.

When they finally collapsed into an exhausted pile, both men resolved to see each other again very soon.

“Very soon”, it so happened, was the next day. And the day after that. Arjun didn’t just look like a god, he fucked like a god, and Patrick couldn’t get enough.

As the weeks passed, Patrick caught himself snacking more than usual. He never kept junk food in the house, but whenever Arjun came over, he always brought something to eat: a bag of chips, a casserole dish of homemade lasagna, a box of fresh eclairs from the bakery down the street. For a personal trainer, he certainly had a taste for fattening treats. Not that he ever ate them himself: after their marathon lovemaking sessions, when they lazed on the couch, Patrick made short work of whatever offering Arjun laid out on the coffee table, while Arjun treated himself to the most occasional of bites.

Patrick knew he was overeating, and he tried to make up for it at the gym, but the weather was getting colder, and he often found himself skipping workouts in favour of a lazy afternoon with his insatiable fuckmachine. By the end of November, Patrick realized that his pants were getting tight.

He didn’t think much of it. It was winter weight, and he’d seen plenty of guys put on a few pounds in the early days of a happy relationship. And things with Arjun were going so well. He was a trainer, after all. Surely he wouldn’t let Patrick get doughy.

And yet, as the end of the year approached, Patrick was looking very doughy indeed. He was stunned when he stepped on the scale a few days before New Years and saw “197” flash across the display. How could he be almost 200 pounds?

He took a hard look in the bathroom mirror, still steamy from his morning shower. Pudge had piled up around his middle, hiding his abs and broadening his torso. And his pecs were looking noticeably puffy.

He turned around and studied his ass. Patrick’s butt had always been his favourite feature, kept trim and perky through years of dieting and rigorous exercise. It was still round and pert, but it looked bigger, now, and softer. There was more to grab and play with. Patrick cupped a handful, eyes widening as soft flesh gave way beneath his fingers.

“I need to go on a diet,” he said, frowning as he emerged from the bathroom.

Arjun looked over at him from the bed, his muscular body splayed out amid the messy sheets. They had been seeing a lot of each other, hooking up almost every day of the week, and Patrick knew that was part of the problem: Arjun was generous with food, and his visits were wreaking havoc on Patrick’s usual gym routine. It had been nearly two weeks since his last workout, and he was starting to feel soft and flabby.

Arjun’s eyes ran across his body, and he gave a small frown. “You look great to me,” he said, trailing a hand over his own abs. Patrick could see Arjun’s boner starting to tent the bedsheets. That was a little confidence boost, at least.

“I’m almost 200 pounds,” Patrick said. Saying it aloud felt shameful, even if Arjun was used to training far larger clients at his gym. But Patrick had never been big in his life. Even spread over six feet of height, 200 pounds felt like a bigger number than Patrick was comfortable with. “I’m getting chubby.”

Arjun shook his head. “I don’t think so. I think you look sexy. Lots of guys are going for that beefy look, anyway.”

Patrick wasn’t sure about that, but he didn’t want to be argumentative. Arjun was so easygoing, the last thing Patrick wanted was to seem high-maintenance. They hadn’t talked about labels yet, but Patrick was hoping to have that conversation soon. And if he wanted to be exclusive, he didn’t want to kill his chances by broadcasting his neuroticism to the hottest guy he’d ever dated.

But he couldn’t let it go completely.  “Still,” he said, laying a hand over his heart and feeling the flesh that gathered around his nipple. “I need to start working out again. It’s been too long.”

Arjun gestured to his erection, and then patted the bed next to him: “Well, how about we have a little workout of our own?”

Patrick grinned, and nearly leapt into bed.

By mid-January, Patrick absolutely couldn’t avoid buying new pants. His usual rotation now dug into his waist almost painfully, the button protesting against his excesses. And his ass and thighs were an existential threat to the seams, which looked about one wrong move away from total collapse. 

Patrick briefly considered a return trip to Yuri’s messy boutique, but he had no desire to see that weird guy again, or get another warning about magic spells. So he ended up at his favourite thrift store, where he was helped by a very handsome Middle Eastern employee in a Blondie t-shirt.

Patrick had to admit, size 34 fit a lot better than his usual 32s, and he felt his old confidence returning as he strode into the restaurant for a hot date with Arjun.

That confidence began to wane as he sat across from his jacked dinner companion, leaving Patrick feeling distinctly unimpressive. While Patrick had opted for a loose-fitting t-shirt, hoping to disguise his winter weight, Arjun filled out a tailored button-down like he was modelling it for a catalogue.

That night, they made their relationship official. They’d been practically exclusive since Halloween, anyway, spending almost all their spare time together. They fucked relentlessly, but they were also starting to act more like a couple: cuddling on the couch, window shopping downtown… and eating. Well, Patrick was eating, whether they were dining out, or staying in for the elaborate dinners that Arjun carefully prepared. A stud who could cook: Patrick felt like he had hit the jackpot. And now that stud was all his.

He was so excited to have locked down such a catch that Patrick didn’t think twice about polishing off Arjun’s half-finished chicken parm, and then eating 95% of the cheesecake they had planned on “splitting” for dessert.

As it turned out, Arjun was quite the romantic. Now that he was Patrick’s boyfriend, his generous doting ratcheted up to the next level: other couples might swap boxes of chocolate on Valentine’s Day, but Arjun started showing up with heart-shaped boxes of chocolate truffles four weeks before that. Big boxes. Patrick didn’t want to seem ungrateful, so he dutifully munched his way through each one, even as he started to tire of so much chocolate, even as he grew uncomfortably full.

Patrick knew he should have been watching his weight, but his commitment to Arjun (and Arjun’s commitment to him) acted as a safety net, a way to avoid taking a hard look at the consequences of his new relationship. And those consequences were starting to grow: Patrick’s sides now sported a small pair of love handles, just big enough to overhang the waistband of his briefs, and a small dome of fat rested atop his torso. His ass swelled, his thighs thickened… he wasn’t just growing a gut, he was porking up all over.

When he stepped on the scale on Valentine’s Day, the number nearly made him faint. 213 pounds. This was bad. This was very, very, bad. Patrick knew he was gaining weight; his 34-inch jeans, not yet a month old, were already feeling snug. But to have stacked on 30 pounds of pure blubber in just three and a half months… Well, it almost defied belief.

For an instant, Patrick thought back to Yuri’s warning. Will make you big man. He shook his head. Surely this wasn’t the work of a magic suit. He had just gotten lazy, and perhaps a bit gluttonous. He had been to the gym exactly twice since New Years, but he was eating far more than he used to, even when he worked out almost daily. Of course he was bound to gain weight.

He broached his concerns to Arjun over dinner. “I really need to stop pigging out,” he said, eying the bread basket that the waiter had just set in front of them. He wanted to grab a piece of bread, but he restrained himself.

Arjun looked bemused. “What do you mean?” he said, as if he genuinely hadn’t noticed Patrick rapidly gaining 30 pounds.

Patrick rolled his eyes, and gestured to his middle. “Look at me. I told you I was getting chubby, and now I’m getting fat. It’s gross.”

Arjun’s face fell. “Don’t say that,” he said, reaching out to rest his hand on top of Patrick’s. “I think you’re every bit as hot as the day I met you.”

Patrick scoffed. “Yeah, right,” he mumbled, avoiding Arjun’s gaze. It was embarrassing: Arjun looked as perfect as ever; clearly he could control himself. And yet, Patrick had done nothing but laze around, sitting on his ass all day at work and then going home to eat. Having sex was about the extent of his physical activity, these days.

“I mean it,” Arjun said, firmly. “You’re gorgeous. I’m lucky to have you.”

That coaxed a smile out of Patrick, but he was still embarrassed. “Even if I’m letting myself go?”

Arjun’s face took on a defiant quality. “I hate that phrase. ‘Letting yourself go’. It makes it sound like you’ve given up on life. But you haven’t. Look at me, are you happy?”

As he gazed into Arjun’s eyes, Patrick considered it. He had the man of his dreams, things were going well at work… finally, he nodded. He was happy.

“Then you haven’t let yourself go. You haven’t given up on life, you’re enjoying life. And if it shows, it shows. I could not care less,” Arjun said, stroking Patrick’s hand, his eyes searching Patrick’s face.

“You work at a gym, though,” Patrick said, resting his free hand on his stomach. His belly now rubbed against the front of even his loosest shirts, making itself unignorable. “You’re surrounded by guys who are way hotter than me, hotter than I’ve ever been.”

“Honey,” Arjun said. “Stop. Let me tell you what we’re going to do. You’re going to eat that bread, because I know you want to. We’re going to get a bottle of wine. You’re going to order the fettuccine, because it’s your favourite, and I’m going to treat you to that lava cake you love for dessert. Then we’re going to go home, get naked, and I’m going to show you how sexy I find every single inch of you. I know we said no gifts, but… I hear I’m pretty gifted.” He smiled.

Patrick had to admit, that sounded pretty good. 

Over the following weeks and months, the pattern repeated itself. Arjun showered Patrick with love, in the form of massive meals and piles of snacks. Patrick outgrew his 34s, and then his 36s. His weight slipped up to 224 pounds by the end of February, and 231 by the end of March. Even as “winter weight” ceased to be an excuse, and sunny April gave way to May, Patrick’s weight climbed beyond 240 pounds, and his 38-inch pants were getting uncomfortable.

He was confronted with a twinge of apprehension every time he checked the scale, every time he had to buy clothes in a size he never dreamed he’d need. And Arjun faithfully assuaged his anxieties, his gentle touch and loving words so soft and soothing that Patrick’s fears melted away.

But it wasn’t Arjun’s gentleness that made the biggest difference, it was his forcefulness. In the bedroom, his enthusiasm only seemed to grow alongside Patrick’s body. In the early days of their relationship, Arjun had been smooth and methodical, confidently gripping the firm edges of Patrick’s muscular frame. But lately, his lust was palpable, almost animal. Patrick could feel Arjun losing control as he gripped and squeezed Patrick’s broad, round stomach, cupped his budding breasts, slapped and groped and generally manhandled Patrick’s ever-fattening ass. There was a new intensity to their sex, already intense to begin with, that filled Patrick an unfamiliar, slightly disorienting sensation: excitement about his fattening body. A desire to grow.

He tried to deny it, at first, to dismiss it as a side-effect of the consistently Earth-shattering sex he was having. But even when Arjun wasn’t around, when he was all alone with just his fat belly to keep him company, that excitement didn’t abate. Something was happening to him. When he stepped on the scales on May 14th, his birthday, and saw that he weighed 251 pounds, he did still feel a little pang of anxiety. But he also felt something else, a distinct and undeniable stirring in his crotch that could only be arousal.

“Happy birthday,” Arjun purred, as they lay in bed that night. Patrick had just enjoyed the absolute best rimjob of his life, a sexual experience like no other. Arjun may not have been a big eater, but he ate ass like an absolute glutton, planting his face firmly between Patrick’s big, round buttocks and going to town with insatiable vigour. “Did you like that?”

Patrick could only nod, still trying to catch his breath. His extreme sedentariness, on top of gaining almost seventy pounds in less than 7 months, had left him seriously out of shape. His old workout routine wouldn’t just be a challenge for him, it would be an impossibility.

Arjun must have sensed how spent their sexcapade had left Patrick, since he gave a slight chuckle. His hand was draped across Patrick’s chubby chest, his nimble fingers stroking Patrick’s perky nipple. Patrick was acutely aware of his double-chin as he lowered his face to look down at his tits; he hadn’t expected that even his nipples would grow, but he was certainly enjoying the added sensitivity.

“You’re really good at that,” Patrick said, lamely, still trying to bring himself back to Earth. “Like, really good at that.”

“Well, you have a very delicious ass,” Arjun said, giving Patrick’s nipple a tweak and making him shiver. With a smirk, he added: “Like, very delicious.”

“Well there’s a lot of it, these days,” Patrick said. He didn’t even know how he felt about that: bitter? Gleeful? His emotions were so muddled, so clouded by his libido—especially in the afterglow—that they had become a Gordian Knot.

“More cushion for the pushin’,” Arjun said, simply, and patted Patrick’s gut.

“So you really like fat asses, huh?” Patrick said. Arjun’s inclinations had been obvious for months, but Patrick had been avoiding the conversation. He knew he was falling for this guy, but he was afraid that Arjun just saw him as a kinky sex-toy, someone he could fatten up and discard before moving onto the next unwitting twink. He knew that was irrational, and horribly unfair to a man who had been nothing but good to him, but he couldn’t stop looking for a catch.

“I do,” Arjun said. He looked Patrick in the eyes, and Patrick looked back. No matter what Arjun’s body looked like, those eyes could make any man fall in love. “But I specifically love your ass, fit or fat.”

“But you prefer it fat,” Patrick pressed on. He wanted an admission, tangible proof that Arjun had been knowingly spurring on his explosive weight gain. Surely it couldn’t be—

Patrick nipped that train of thought right in the bud. It wasn’t the fucking suit. There’s no such thing as a magic suit.

“Yeah, I like it fat,” Arjun said, biting his lower lip as he glanced away. It was a very cute look. Bashfulness suited him.

Patrick had his confession. Arjun was a chubby chaser, and Patrick was getting chased. He was quiet for a few moments, deciding what to do. Did he want to be thin again, an archetypical hottie who lit up a room? If so, he could destroy everything that might have caused this slide into obesity—because that’s what he was, now, fully and definitively obese. He could burn his old Halloween costume, kick Arjun to the curb, and diet interminably until he could see his abs again. It wasn’t too late.

He could also try to lose weight with Arjun; if he was telling the truth, if he really did appreciate Patrick’s body at any size, he would support him. He’d probably still burn the suit, in that case, just to be on the safe side.

But then, there was a third door. A very wide door, beckoning Patrick to step forward until his steps became a heavy, lumbering waddle. He could keep eating. Keep gorging. Keep gaining. Let himself blow up like a balloon, pack on the pounds until Arjun’s handsome face was entirely lost in a sea of ass-fat.

Patrick stepped towards door number three. Maybe he could try it, just for a while. What harm could a couple more pounds do, on top of the 70 he’d already gained? He smiled, lopsidedly. “How fat do you like it?” he asked, finally. “How fat are you gonna make it?”

Arjun looked up at him, mouth agape. “I—You—What?” he stammered.

Patrick doubled down. “What are you gonna do to my ass? How big are we talking: pumpkin? Beach balls? Minivan?”

Arjun inhaled sharply, no doubt surprised by this turn of events. Patrick could feel his boyfriend’s cock swelling against his pudgy thigh. The fact that the suggestion of a minivan-sized ass inspired that sort of arousal told Patrick all he needed to know. Surely he wouldn’t get that fat—it was a little bit of anatomically-implausable sexual hyperbole—but he definitely wouldn’t mind giving Arjun a bigger ass to play with. At least a little bigger.

Patrick didn’t give him a chance to respond. “Why don’t you go get the rest of my birthday cake and you can show me again how much you love fat asses?”

Arjun leapt out of bed like the athlete he was, bare cock standing proudly at attention. “Don’t move a muscle. I’ll be right back.”

Patrick grinned. His 25th year was off to a very good start.

It was hard to get used to the idea that he might actually enjoy being fat, and want to get even fatter. He was naturally thin—he used to be, at least—so the concept that weight gain could be something fun, something to be encouraged, was alien to Patrick at first. And yet, he couldn’t deny his body. His belly was growing accustomed to eating big, and his dick was clearly enjoying it. With those two powerful appendages urging him on, compounded by Arjun’s relentless feeding, Patrick continued to balloon.

I’ll gain maybe five more pounds. Ten tops, Patrick told himself the day after his birthday. And yet, a month later, the scale said he had gained 12. Okay, maybe ten more, he reasoned. 260 didn’t feel as big as he thought it would, anyway. Sure, he was huge, but he didn’t feel that huge. 250 and 260 weren’t so different, right? And besides, what was he supposed to do? Stop eating the food he’d come to love? Go back to the gym he’d abandoned months ago? Deny Arjun the great pleasure of his growing body?

He still had moments of uncertainty. When he couldn’t button his pants, and he realized that he had hopelessly outgrown anything smaller than a 42-inch waist, Patrick felt a pit in his stomach. What am I doing to myself? He wondered, as he made one last feeble attempt to stuff himself into a pair of 40s. 

But when he gave up, and let his hands roam across his gut, his nervousness evaporated. It was so soft, so fun to knead and fondle and play with. He’d gained so much, so quickly, that it still held its round shape, but rolls were starting to crop up, with a noticeable one forming between his breasts and his belly. His love handles expanded, too, and he realized how apt that name was: they really were like handles, slabs of side-fat that he could wrap his fingers around and properly squeeze, feeling the give of so much stretch mark-lined flesh. And he really did love them.

He let his hands slip up further, cupping his breasts, bouncing one and then the other. He felt like an absolute cow as mammary fat spilled between his fingers. Those last 12 pounds must have hit his chest and upper belly hard.

By the time Patrick stood, kicking off the jeans that could no longer handle him, he wasn’t anxious at all: he was horny.

Arjun took care of that.

Over the following months, Patrick felt like a kid who couldn’t go to bed. But instead of “ten more minutes”, it was “ten more pounds”. His ass, a feature that Arjun adored even more than Patrick himself, spread and swelled, and he found himself bumping into things constantly. He could still remember what it was like to have small, hard glutes, but that memory was starting to fade as he buried those glutes deeper and deeper under an ever-growing layer of pure, unadulterated lard. His perky little ass, the crown jewel of his twinkish body, had given way to a pair of vast, juicy buttocks. It was still holding its round shape, each cheek almost perfectly globular and still pert. But as he passed 280 pounds, Patrick could tell that gravity would have the last laugh.

By early July, he’d gained exactly 100 pounds, sitting pretty at 283. He hadn’t expected that gaining weight would make him hairier, but it made sense. More surface area needed more fuzz to cover it all, and his gut was getting massively fuzzy. That was one of many unexpected changes. Others weren’t quite as fun, like the soreness he felt in his lower back when he had to stand for more than 20 minutes, a side-effect of living life with a 50-pound medicine ball strapped to his abdomen. But even that wasn’t so bad: it gave him an excuse to live an even more idle existence, with Arjun happy to indulge him.

The sweating was another unwelcome companion. In the summer heat, he could really feel the hundred pounds of added insulation. He used to love going to the beach, playing volleyball with his friends and flaunting his slender body for admiring onlookers. This year, he preferred relaxing indoors, where he could let it all hang out and feel the cool AC on his sprawling belly. Arjun joked that his house was like an icebox, and Patrick pointed out that that was where a pig belonged.

They did make it to the beach a few times, including on Labour Day. Patrick shied away from taking off his shirt, at first, but Arjun talked him into it, and his expression of unrestrained adoration made it all worthwhile. They must have made quite the pair: the personal trainer, 200 pounds of rock-hard muscle, walking hand-in-hand with a red-faced porker who outweighed him by a hundred pounds, rolls of fat bouncing and wobbling as he ambled down the boardwalk.

“I think we’re confusing people,” Patrick said. He lay in the sand, tonguing an overloaded ice cream cone. A middle-aged couple openly stared at him as they walked past, looking from Arjun to Patrick and back again in search of a logical explanation. The explanation was obvious, but clearly beyond their comprehension.

“Well, you’re due for some more sunscreen. How about we really put on a show?” Arjun suggested, licking his lips.

Patrick leaned back, flicking down his sunglasses, and kept working on his ice cream as Arjun slathered his belly with creamy lotion. It was a blatant belly rub, and heads certainly turned at the sight of the stunning jock basting his beloved pig, but Patrick was so focused on the pleasurable feeling that he barely noticed the slack-jawed onlookers. Arjun pressed his fingertips deep into Patrick’s flab, a skillful massage that left Patrick wanting more.

When he finished his ice cream cone, he got his wish: “Roll over,” Arjun said. “I’ll do your back.”

Another shift occurred when Patrick crossed the 300-pound mark. He’d expected 300 pounds to be incomprehensibly fat, a size beyond all reason, but it didn’t feel that much bigger than 250. The difference between 250 and 200 had felt much more pronounced. Sure, he had more rolls now, and his gut hung out well in front of him, but he wouldn’t mind being bigger. He did dispense with the fiction that he’d stop in another ten pounds: he’d reassess at 350. That was a nice, round number, and it wouldn’t sneak up on him the way 10 pounds always seemed to.

He thought back to January, just nine months earlier, when he’d been terrified of crossing 200 pounds. It was an amusing thought; that version of Patrick was positively tiny compared to the man he now was, and he was far from afraid of growing. He was actually looking forward to it. Dating an incredibly sexy feeder had grown his confidence. It had changed him.

Or maybe it’s that suit, a nagging voice in Patrick’s head said. Sometimes, when he was self-conscious about how quickly he was ballooning, he fell back on that old line: it wasn’t his fault, he was the victim of paranormal forces beyond his control. But he knew he couldn’t blame a stupid Halloween costume for his out-of-control gluttony. It was all on him, and his encouraging boyfriend.

Changes were occurring in the bedroom, too. As fat became a bigger driving force behind his sexuality, Patrick leaned deeper into his submissive side. He liked feeling Arjun’s forceful hands all over his bulging body. He liked to hear what a fat, out-of-control pig he was becoming. Just hearing the word “hog” leave Arjun’s lips was enough to ratchet up Patrick’s arousal by an order of magnitude. He was a pig, a desperate little piggy who needed to be stuffed from both ends.

When he could feel Arjun inside of him, his voluminous belly tantalizingly close to brushing the bed, his fat jiggling with every forceful thrust… that was pure heaven. He honestly wasn’t sure he could go back to sex as a skinny boy again. Now that been told that he was Arjun’s pig, felt his hundreds of pounds shake and bounce as he bottomed, he didn’t see how it could compare.

“Can you believe we’ve known each other for almost a year?” Arjun asked one day, in mid-October. He was nearly done unpacking the last of his boxes, having moved into Patrick’s apartment as soon as his lease was up. That had been the source of some debate: Arjun’s place was nicer, but it was a fourth-floor walk-up, and Patrick didn’t think he could handle all that cardio. The rent was cheaper in Patrick’s building, anyway, and between the elevators and the air conditioning, it felt like a better fit for a growing fatboy.

“It feels like we’ve known each other forever,” Patrick replied. He meant it. He thought back to the person Arjun had met, and how much he’d changed in their time together.

There had been one other change since last Halloween: Patrick was starting to wonder if maybe there were such things as magic clothes. Rationally, he knew he couldn’t blame his weight on a spell, but still… Yuri had said Patrick would get fat, and fat was exactly what he had gotten. He was shirtless, his heavy thighs overloading a pair of stretchy basketball shorts. He eyed his gut, admiring the way it bounded forward into his lap, a crop of hair covering his impressive collection of stretch marks.

“Priti’s throwing another Halloween party this year,” Arjun said, as he shelved some of his books. “Any couple’s costume ideas?”

Patrick mulled it over. Just six months ago, he would have been embarrassed by a costume that emphasized his fat. Now, he wanted to display the full magnitude of his size. “Farmer and prize pig? Fat guy, hot wife?”

“Oh, I know. Jabba the Hutt and Princess Leia,” Arjun said, smirking.

“I would love to see you in that metal bikini, but you might get cold,” Patrick said. “We have some time to think it over, at least.”

Arjun nodded. “We could always just repeat our old costumes,” he said. “But I think ‘Biggest Loser contestant’ might take on a new meaning, in your case.”

“That may have been my worst costume ever,” Patrick said. “But I do remember one guy seemed to appreciate it.”

“Well, he sounds smart, and very handsome,” Arjun said. He tossed himself onto the couch, slinging his arm over Patrick’s protruding keg.

“Yeah, but he has a bit of an ego,” Patrick teased, kissing his man on the cheek. “Thank God he’s great in bed.”

Arjun snuggled in closer, and Patrick melted beneath his forceful touch, delighting as his bare belly was kneaded and rubbed. Whatever the costume, Patrick couldn’t wait to spend another Halloween with Arjun.

~

“I really don’t think it’ll fit,” Arjun said, staring at the suit that Patrick had worn for Halloween just three years before.

In that time, he’d gone far beyond doubling his weight: he’d shot past 400 pounds, and now hovered—or rather, sprawled out—around 460. Naturally, his gains had slowed down, but he was still growing at a fairly rapid rate, and he could see 500 pounds in the not-so-distant future.

“Just let me give it a try,” Patrick said, feeling defiant. The suit had been so outrageously large on him, swallowing his lean body. But as he held up the pants, each leg larger than his waist had once been, he was forced to reckon with the fact that they looked smaller than anything he usually wore.

He stepped into them as gingerly as a man of such impressive proportions could hope to, and started to pull them up. But as the fabric gathered around his thighs, he could feel trouble brewing. As he started to tug them over his ass, he knew that this was a fool’s errand.

Too proud to quit, he kept trying, his enormous gut swaying and wobbling from the motion, the exertion starting to take his breath away. He could feel his rolls quivering and his ample breasts bouncing as he pulled pointlessly on the waistband. He’d covered a little over two thirds of the sprawling hillsides he called an ass before he finally surrendered, out of breath and sweating.

He sighed defeatedly. “I definitely can’t wear this to Priti’s wedding.”

Arjun rubbed his broad back. “Hey, no worries. We can give it away. And who knows, maybe we’ll find a tailor who can turn a canvas tent into a kurta big enough to fit you.”

Patrick laughed. “Or maybe we can just go shopping at Big & Tall. And as for getting rid of this suit, I think I know where to go.”

He had to go back to the place where it all began, the source of this mysterious garment. There had been a brief window of time where it had actually fit, but for most of the time Patrick owned it, it had gathered dust in his closet, either too big or too small for public consumption, taunting him all the while.

He’d told Arjun long ago about Yuri’s bizarre warning, and Arjun had dismissed it as quickly as Patrick once had. Patrick knew it was nonsense, but still… if he had the opportunity, he wanted to hear it from the source.

He paused to rest and recover for a bit once he’d stripped off the pants, sitting on the bed as Arjun carefully placed the massive outfit on a hanger. Finally, Patrick got up and stuffed himself into an enormous pair of sweatpants, before pulling on a colossal t-shirt that nevertheless failed to fully contain his girth, leaving sizable swathes of fat exposed at the front and on the sides.

He waddled his way to the elevator, different rolls and bulges shifting and bouncing with every step. Finally, he reached Arjun’s car, relieved to be able to sit down again. He dropped himself into the passenger seat, and the car dipped to the side beneath so much added weight. Driving him to work must have been hell on poor Arjun’s gas mileage, but Patrick was getting too fat to safely operate his own little sedan.

He gave directions to the shop, eager to see if it even still existed. Perhaps that was part of the magic, and it had never existed at all… but no, eventually Arjun turned onto the quiet street at the edge of downtown, and parked mercifully close to the store’s shabby storefront. Somehow, it was very much still in existence.

Patrick lumbered through the doors, expecting to see Yuri doing some sort of mysterious ritual. Instead, he saw a handsome young man in a purple tracksuit, staring distractedly at his phone. The store was empty, just as it had been last time, and no neater than Patrick remembered.

He bellied up to the cash register, resting the frontmost portion of his gut on the counter to take some of the load off his back. “I’m—” he paused, realizing that the short walk from the car had left him out of breath. Jesus, I’m out of shape, he thought. He looked around for Arjun, who wore an unimpressed expression as he browsed one of the disorganized racks. “I’m here to donate this,” he managed, his breathing having slowed enough to converse.

The guy looked up from his phone, awestruck. Patrick was used to being the fattest person a lot of people had seen in a while, sometimes ever, and he had acquired a taste for their shocked expressions. He liked to watch their eyes try to explain to their brains the full scope of the human being in front of them. Patrick sat the suit down on the counter. “I bought it here a couple of years ago, but it doesn’t fit anymore.”

“Uh, okay,” the guy said. Clearly this was TMI. The cashier at his go-to thrift store always seemed excited to hear about Patrick’s escalating poundage, but he was a rare breed. “You can just leave it here.”

Patrick couldn’t just leave. He’d come here for a purpose. “But… I’ve got to know,” he said. He glanced around the store, still empty, and lowered his voice. He leaned towards the cashier, who looked more confused than ever. “Is this thing really cursed?”

The cashier goggled at him. “Cursed?” He repeated, probably questioning his hearing.

“Yeah. That’s what the old man who works here told me, but I didn’t believe him. I was smaller than you when I bought it, but now look at me.”

“Wh—old man? You mean uncle Yuri?” The guy said. His face broke into a broad grin and he covered it with his hand. “Okay, I’m sorry, but that suit is definitely not cursed.”

“Look at me, though,” Patrick repeated. “I’m a whale!” To drive the point home, he grabbed the part of his belly that poked out from under the hem of his shirt and gave it a shake, sending waves of gelatinous motion through his rolls of flab.

“Okay, but…” the cashier sighed. “Yuri is a weird guy. He likes fat guys. Half the clothes he sells are supposedly ‘cursed’ with some spell that makes guys fat. But it’s not real. He just thinks he can fatten guys up with the power of suggestion. I don’t know why he does it, it’s not like they ever come back.”

Patrick folded his chubby arms, forcing his voluminous cleavage together. “So the ‘power of suggestion’ made me gain 275 pounds?”

The cashier’s eyes widened. “Well, what have you been eating?”

Patrick considered his consumption that morning. It was only 11 AM, but he’d already eaten two breakfasts. The first was a handful of sausage McGriddles with a half-dozen hashbrowns, washed down with a large iced mocha, and followed up with half a dozen powdered donuts. “But… maybe it’s the suit that’s making me hungry,” he said, halfheartedly, realizing how ridiculous he sounded.

The dreamboat behind the register arched an eyebrow. “C’mon, dude. You seriously believe in magic clothes?”

Patrick hesitated. It all seemed crazy, to him, but how else could have turned into such a fatass? He’d been a hunk! There had to be a supernatural explanation.

The cashier picked up the suit and studied it. “I remember this. People don’t bring us bespoke Italian suits very often. The guy who gave it away lost a bunch of weight, he said he wouldn’t need it anymore. Does that sound cursed to you?”

Patrick frowned. His ego compelled him to come up with some explanation other than gluttony and sloth, something that would absolve him of responsibility for his own fattening choices. “Well, maybe Yuri put a spell on it.”

The cashier rolled his eyes. “Listen to yourself, man. Yuri was a professor of statistics at Lomonosov. Not some wizard. He moved to this country to hit on chubby American boys, like yourself, not to hex twinks, or whatever you think happened to you.”

“Chubby” seemed like an understatement, given Patrick’s current state of morbid obesity, but he appreciated the guy’s generosity. “So I’m… just fat, for no reason?”

The guy smirked. “Well, I’m sure there’s a reason, but it’s not this suit.”

As if on cue, the reason for Patrick’s staggering size appeared at his side. “So, no curse?” Arjun said.

The guy rolled his eyes. “No, no curse. I can take it off your hands if it doesn’t fit anymore, but I wouldn’t expect anything to change.”

Patrick was pensive as they left the store, contemplating what he’d just heard. So Yuri had just… made it all up? Because he was kinky? 

Then what was this all about? Patrick wondered. Surely there were more direct ways to indulge in your kink. It all felt a bit strained.

“I don’t know,” he said, as he waddled over to Arjun’s SUV. “I still think the spell could be real. I mean, I was wearing the suit when I met you, and you’ve been a horrible influence.”

Arjun seemed to consider this theory. “Eh, come on. I’ve dated gainers before, and they’ve all gained weight without magic clothes to help them. And now that the suit is gone, do you really think you’ll stop gaining?”

Patrick sighed. Was he the author of his own massive fate? Was there really nothing supernatural at play? He felt like pointing out that those guys had been gainers when Arjun met them, but he continued before Patrick had the chance.

“But…” Arjun rubbed his chiselled chin as he reached the driver’s side door. “Maybe you’re onto something. Maybe our relationship is the spell, the thing that’s turned you into such an insatiable gainer. Maybe it’s our love that’s magic.”

Patrick laughed out loud as he started the process of heaving himself into the passenger seat. “You’re so damn cheesy. C’mon, man. ‘Power of love’ my fat ass.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Arjun smiled. “Speaking of cheesy, want some poutine?”

Patrick pawed at his massive gut, which grumbled its demand. “That depends, lover boy. Is it magic poutine? Will it make me even fatter?”

Arjun’s smile broadened. “I think we can figure something out.”

[snifflesthemouse]

Nonsense, A few things on My Mind, Etc.

Hello lovely readers! This author wishes you the very best, and this rodent has finally had a moment to catch a break. I wanted to talk about a few things I've noticed lately...

I know a lot of people don't believe Maz and Heg live at the house. I want to remind everyone that City National Bank technically owns the home, as they hold the mortgage. I would also like to remind people that the interest rate they agreed upon back in 2020 during the Pandemic was 2.48% for the first ten years, then the fixed interest rate would become variable depending upon the market for the remaining twenty years.

So, that would mean that they have an interest rate of 2.48% right now and until 2030. In 2030, the rate will go to whatever the market is. If they were smart, they'd be paying down the principal while the interest is 2.48%. After 2030, the rate can get as high as 7.48%.

City National holds the mortgage, and Alma D. Buenos was the lady who signed all paperwork.

AS THIS AUTHOR TOLD YOU ALL, back when this author shared the mortgage docs which are still on here... the Bank reserves the right to rent out the property or do whatever else they deem necessary to recoup and/or meet some or all of the debts owed. This means City National can come on Maz and Heg's property at any time and see any changes and make any changes. If they see stuff is damaged, they can bill the purchasers and demand reimbursments. Heg actually may be able to get out of financial liability due to his immigration status, but that would also mean Maz may be able to own the property.

BETCHA the property goes into Frim Fram LLC.

I wouldn't be surprised if they aren't staying there always. The bank may be renting out their home so much to make up on alleged missed payments, they have no choice.

If anyone knows if the kids are real, it would be the bank people. This author saw an article speaking about Maz having a full hysterectomy at 28. If she did, so what? People don't give a hoot if those children are surrogate children. They care they were lied to, so the rules could be bent for the King's second son is all.

If Maz came out and said she had used surrogates, even if the kids lost their spots in the LOS, she would become a Saint de Surrogacy.

And another thing... we keep getting these half-cocked business ventures done where paperwork is missing, checks are missing, signatures missing. That IS Maz's MO though. Remember how many times her registrations for the US Trade and Patent Office were rejected due to missing signatures or payments? Other times, applications entirely expiring or going dead on the search because of being abandoned.

These remind me of stories being told to daddy for money. Heg telling old Pops they'll shut up for three months if they just inject capital into this latest venture. Yet there are so many allegations of fraud surrounding Archewell.

Now if she named her secondborn after the Queen's beloved pet nickname, why Archie Harrison? Well this author has discussed this all before. Whether it was George's security code name, an anagram of the name Rachel, from her favorite comic, or whatever, does it matter? He is Prince Archie until someone can prove something.

Oh, and let this author remind everyone here reading this that if the children were made using BOTH mom and dad's zygotes, it would genetically test as MOM and DAD'S bio child. Only if there is another mother or father is there any proof of potential foul play; even then, it would only surmise infidelities. I personally feel it's odd the two haven't tried to cash in on them much more than usual.

They need a ton of cash to sustain just the mortgage, like an annual income of the mean resident of a rural state cash.

American Riviera Orchard is a ripoff of so many other companies. It's like these are all fronts and half-arsed efforts to make it look like they are using ALL of someone's money instead of just very little of it on a business.

OF COURSE ALL OF MY WRITINGS, FROM THIS POST TO EVERY SINGLE POST, ARE FOR PURE ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES. I write to entertain you all, my posts aren't even worth sharing or discussing... But I've heard they are entertaining.

Oh, and it isn't looking good politically for them come November. One already said he would do something. We will see.

It is late, and novels do not write themselves. I write without an agent or editor, but one day I pray to get signed.

I am working on several stories. Talk soon, loves!

[coraniaid]

One of the things I like best about the second half of Season 7 -- one of the few things I like about it at all, if I'm being honest -- is the fact it lets Buffy accept that she's still growing up and figuring out who she is as a person.  "I'm not finished becoming whoever the hell it is I'm gonna turn out to be", as she tells Angel in Chosen.  She doesn't have to have all the answers, she doesn't have to be defined by the choices and mistakes she made when she was a miserable and lonely teenage girl, she doesn't have to have found a perfect relationship or future life partner before her twenty-third birthday.

The show ends with Dawn asking Buffy what they're going to do now that she isn't the singular Chosen One, and she doesn't offer an answer because she doesn't know yet!  "That's kind of the point," as she also told Angel earlier.

I think that's a really good and emotionally satisfying place to end the series on -- with Buffy finally free of the destiny that she's been forced into ever since we met her, not because she's been forced to stop being a Slayer or because she’s sacrificed herself to save the world, but because she's no longer The Slayer but merely one of many.  The story of Buffy the Vampire Slayer is over, but the story of Buffy Summers has just begun.  Who knows what will happen next?

It's why I've never been at all tempted to read the post-Season 7 comics, because there's no way that they -- or anyone -- can better that ending. By definition, a future of infinite possibilities is better than any concrete suggestion.  (Also, yes, lots of the specific details I've heard about the comics make them sound pretty bad anyway, that's also a factor.)

It's also why I think it's kind of pointless to spend time arguing that Buffy definitely would or wouldn't end up in a relationship of some particular type, with somebody she knew before she was old enough to graduate college.  Maybe she does get back together with Angel or Riley or Spike.  Maybe she finally realizes she's attracted to Faith, or to Willow, or somebody else she met before the show ended. (Maybe Owen Thurman is still alive.)  Maybe she meets somebody new. Maybe they get married, maybe they don't.  Maybe they have kids, or adopt, and maybe they don't.  Maybe Buffy decides she's happier single. Maybe she doesn't get to have the sort of romantic relationship she'd want at all; maybe other things get in the way.

Some of those possible futures sound like happier endings to me than others, and some seem more in keeping with the direction I'd like to imagine the story going if the show had continued.  But anyone who tries to argue that they know which of those things would or wouldn't happen because they know what the sixteen or nineteen, or twenty-one year old Buffy would have wanted is, I think, not being serious.  The show itself explicitly rejects this idea. Even though her mother's death has forced her to take on more adult responsibilities, Buffy herself is still growing up.   We don't know what will happen to her a year, or five years, or ten years after Chosen.  We don't know what she'll want, we don't know who she'll be.  Buffy herself doesn't know that, so how could we possibly know?

As Buffy said, that's kind of the point!