#i want to be there even if your at your worst or struggling to make words or passionate about the dumbest thing ever idc if i dont like the | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

revelboo · 1 day ago

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I'm soooo obsessed with 'Skin and Bones' it makes me look stupid. I daydream about it at work lmao. Honestly fantastic

For me, it’s as fun to write soft Megatron as it is to write feral TFP Megs. Mass displaced mech 18+ 🌶️

Skin and Bones Pt 9- extended cut

IDW Megatron x Reader

Servos trembling as they curl into fists, he shrugs off Soundwave’s hand on his shoulder. Knows the communications officers is concerned, but the energon splattered on his hands and chassis isn’t his. It rarely ever is.

“Leave me,” he growls, wishing he could gentle his tone. But that fury is a living thing inside his spark. Another failed coup to put down. It’s not like it’s anything new, but he’s just so tired of it and violence is the only way to keep his throne. The only thing his followers respect and he hadn’t been able to temper his blows, because betrayal always brings out the worst in him. Those memories always too close to the surface.

Drags him right back to the gladiator pits, struggling and clawing just to survive, because one wrong move will cost his life. Never being able to relax, not even during recharge. Being the strongest had placed a target on his head. Made him plenty of enemies.

And finally alone, that rage shakes him, sinking into his spark. Because everything he’s done has been for them. Fighting for freedom, to not be leashed by the aristocracy ever again. Dragging his chair away from his desk, he slings it across the room. Wants to tear the walls down around him, but it’s the sharp cry from his berth that freezes him. Chains that fury.

Spark constricting as he realizes he’d forgotten all about you. Head turning, he finds you pressed against the wall on his berth, eyes wide with fear. Seeing the real him for the first time, the angry mech who’d fought so hard just to survive, who’d grown bitter and determined. And you’re terrified.

“Little one,” he growls, voice too rough still as he approaches. The chair didn’t land anywhere near you, but he’s been so careful to not show you the worst of him, because around you he can relax. Remember that there were times before the fights that weren’t easy by any means, but were almost happy. Companionship found with the other miners, a sense of family that had been taken from him. Reaching out a hand, he doesn’t try to touch you as you flinch back, little hands curled against yourself. Afraid if he tries to touch you, it’ll send you running. And he’s afraid of what he’ll do in turn if you reject him. He’s just so tired of it all, but you give him comfort. A little spot of trusting warmth.

Eyes shiny, you look from his outstretched hand to his face. Slowly letting out a breath and coming to him to lay a warm palm on his servo. Still trusting him even if you’re scared.

“Everything okay?” You ask, looking up at him as a single tear slides down your cheek and you reach up to scrub it away. Afraid, but asking him if he’s okay and your concern aches in his spark.

Knows how dangerous it is after the brawl he’d just had. If anyone comes looking for him, if they get past their fear and come at him together? Knows he shouldn’t risk it even as he places his ped on the berth, leaning forward and mass shifting. Closing the distance between you as he shrinks and seeing your eyes widen as he carefully grips your little hand. Even like this, you’re so much smaller than he is, fragile. But as you look up at him, he’s snared by those eyes, the little flecks of color in them he’s never noticed.

“You’re little. Smaller,” you whisper with a soft, awkward laugh, eyes dropping to stare at his hand gripping yours. “Didn’t know you could do that.”

He needs to see those eyes again, his free hand reaching to cup your soft cheek and tip your face up. Feeling when you lay your palm on his hand as he slides a servo along your cheek. Accepting his touch despite the faint tremor he can still feel, those trusting eyes seeing him. The good and the bad, and not running. Venting sharply when his touch leaves a smear of energon on your cheek, marking your skin with his sins.

Because that’s what he’s always done, isn’t it? Every time he reaches out, he just ends up destroying what he’s trying to protect.

He’s frozen, those red optics fixed on his servos against your cheek as you try to calm your racing heart. That had been the other side of the coin, the vicious warlord that the Seekers had whispered about. Feared. Red optics glowing, denta bared as he’d seized his chair in energon wet hands and thrown it. That hatred twisting his face mixed with despair, cutting you so deeply, piercing the fear.

Those wet servos are touching you, dampening your skin. And he’s just staring, venting raggedly like he’s about to lose it all over again. That’s what makes you catch his hand between both of yours when he tries to snatch it away. Eyes dropping as he hesitates and you pull, turning yourself so your back is to him, his arm under yours and pinned to your body. So you can examine that big hand. “I like when you touch my cheek or play with my hair,” you begin, unsure of how to say what you need to, what he needs to hear. Playing with a servo to curl it slightly and amazed that he’s letting you. “These hands don’t scare me, they’re warm against me when I sleep. They’re strong, but they keep me safe.”

“They destroy, too,” he murmurs.

He’s so close he’s almost touching you and you feel the warmth of him when he vents and it stirs your hair. “Mine can, too.”

He huffs out what might be a bitter laugh at that, but he would think you’re too little, too fragile to do any harm. Giving in, you lean back into him. Soaking in his warmth and safety and realizing how attached to him you are. That you like that rumbling voice, like those big, gentle hands. It’s not like you’d ever deluded yourself into thinking he was safe, but he’d made you feel seen and cherished. He’d felt safe even knowing what he was and what he’s capable of.

“I’m not afraid of you.” Tugging his hand up, you press a kiss against the center of his palm. You can’t look at him, can’t risk seeing the surprise or worse, the disgust on his face. Cause to him, you’re a pet. A weird little alien he adopted as his. So you brace yourself when he turns you, those red optics searching your face.

“You should be,” he says, cupping your face in those warm hands. “I terrify myself.” And his head dips, his mouth brushing against yours.

More of a question than a kiss, a warm stroke of his lips against yours and he’s lifting his head. Going up on tiptoes as warmth spreads through you, you catch his helm and drag him back so you can mold your own mouth to his. Wanting this, him even though it’s crazy. You’re two very different species, but being held by him, drowsing to the thrum of his spark under you, it feels like coming home. And you want all of it. Want to hang on with both hands so you’re not left alone again, because after him? You might not survive that loneliness.

His glossa slides against the seam of your lips entering when you part for him. Those big hands sliding over you, dragging you closer as your feet leave the ground. His mouth moves against yours in a hungry demand and one of his arms cages you to him.

Your mouth is all heat and hunger against his, those soft hands clinging to him as if afraid he might stop. Even if he’d wanted to, he’s not sure he could now. Because you’d reached out, taken what you wanted and given him permission to do the same. No, there’s no stopping until he takes everything he can, loses himself in whatever comfort you’ll allow him. Because you? There’s no conniving or plotting in those warm eyes. Pinning you to his frame, he goes down on his knees and lays you down under him, head lifting slightly so he can find those eyes. Reassure himself that he can have this without destroying what little he has.

“Don’t go,” you whisper, face flushed as you reach for him and how can he deny you?

Slowly do he doesn’t scare you, he finds the bottom edge of your shirt and slides it up to reveal soft skin. “I’m here,” he says and you smile faintly, little hands moving to help him strip you. And only then, bare underneath him, do you avoid his optics as he surfs a palm against you, mapping you out with his servos. “Look at me.” It’s a demand and not as gentle as he’d meant, but you hesitantly meet his optics. “We’re very different.”

“I know,” you say, reaching up to skim your fingers over his chassis in barely there touches. As if not sure if you’re allowed.

Catching your wrist, he presses your palm more firmly against him. “I like those differences.” Shifting slightly, he continues his slow exploration. Finding where he can touch you to make you shiver, squirm away, or gasp. Then his servos find you, cup you and stroke that wet heat. Realizing that as different as you are, it feels like you’re made for him as he presses a servo inside you and you arch. Primus, help him as he frees his spike. Needing to be buried deep inside you even as he strokes that servo deep.

“Don’t stop,” you protest when he pulls his hand away and he laughs softly. He can’t even if you asked him to as he shifts to cover you. Little eyes widening as you feel his spike slide against you, then slowly press inside. “Oh.”

You’re so tight and wet wrapped around his spike as he sheaths himself. He can feel you clench on him before you relax and soften as he cups your cheek. Rocks himself against you with a growl, savoring the feel of you. “I love those differences,” he snarls, beginning to move against you. Hips driving urgently against yours, still wound up with that anger from earlier. Taking that frustration out on you, claiming you rougher than he intended. And you hold onto him, murmuring against his neck. Right there, please, his name, falling almost mindlessly from your lips against the mesh of his neck. Accepting him even like this when you deserve gentle and soft.

And when you cry out and tighten on him, he keeps rutting against you. Denta bared as he thrusts and chases you over that edge. Feeling you milk his spike as he buries himself deep and releases. Claiming you as his. Needing you and those soft hands that had reached out, those eyes that had seen him and not turned away. Knows he doesn’t deserve you, but wants to hold onto this as long as you’ll trust yourself to him, because you feel more like home than anywhere he’s ever been.

#transformers x reader #megatron x reader #idw megatron

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euniexenoblade · 2 days ago

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I debated if I wanted to mock this post/screenshot for a couple hours and i decided I was just gonna go in line by line and dissect it

"being poly is a choice you make. not an identity you cannot change."

I disagree. I struggled with this through most of my teens and early twenties. The desire to be with multiple people was strong and the concept that I couldn't be with all of them was very confusing and hurtful not just to me, but the people I was with. Had I been taught what polyamory is younger and had known that monogamy is not actually the only way you're allowed to be, i'd have probably been able to stop struggling with this much sooner. Do I think this was as big of a mental struggle as being gay or trans? Nah. But it was certainly an issue that ate away at me.

As much as polyamory was a choice, so was me being trans was a choice. I would say both are inherent to who I am. Just because something isn't inherent to your identity, doesn't mean it isn't inherent to mine.

The second paragraph is a gross misinterpretation of what was said. I said abused poly people in relationships they cannot escape will likely cheat when they do find love. The same is true for monogamous people who cannot escape relationships. This happens all the fucking time. To women. To gay people. To trans people. To poly people. This is so utterly common it's an overused trope in story telling.

"OBVIOUSLY abusive situations aside"

The post was about abusive situations. You're already throwing away the core concept to the post.

"why are you staying with someone you are completely incompatible with"

This shows how this person has no value for relationships. Just because you realize you're poly doesn't mean your feelings for an individual disappears. You want to see if this relationship can still work, whether monogamous or polyamorous. Not to mention so many people would find themselves homeless or penniless by just leaving. There's no actual understanding of love and relationships and the heart here.

"you don't need to pursue any kind of relationship ever"

And gay people don't have to be in gay relationships. Trans people don't have to transition. Doesn't change the longing to experience what you want to experience.

"where exclusivity is agreed upon"

I know poly people who entered relationships under the premise the other person was poly, just for that person to decide "actually I'm monogamous, and I'll kill myself if you leave me." You have no understanding or empathy.

"wanting to be poly does not excuse cheating what is wrong with you people"

Look I agree cheating sucks and violates trust, but acting like it's the worst thing in the history of ever is just childish. I get it hurts but at the end of the day, you do not own another person's body and sometimes shit happens. I just do not care what other people do with their own bodies and you cannot make me believe I'm supposed to care. If my husband goes and fucks someone without my permission (which he commonly does) then that's rad. I hope he has fun. If my wife goes and fucks someone I don't know (which she regularly does) then fuck yeah I hope they both had fun. Y'all are too fucking uptight.

Also the tags

The "monogamous people are losers and shouldn't get a say in anything" was something I said in reply to a heckler on my 'monogamous people often abuse poly partners' post. To take it solely as 100% serious opinion is foolish and childish.

"I cheated cuz waaa"

I've never cheated on any partner. The post isn't even saying it's ok cheat, it's saying that poly people get branded as cheaters whether they do or don't. But I'll say it here just because it's so controversial that it pisses losers off: it's ok for polyamorous people to cheat on monogamous partners. Get out before they abuse you.

#monogamy drama #mossy-bush

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justbelievinginmagic · 3 days ago

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like a waltz⎯ part 1: brisé.

pairing(s): ateez ot8 x fem!reader; this chapter is seonghwa x reader focused & wooyoung x reader focused! series summary: when 8 mysterious bachelors arrive to town and fall for your charms, will you be able to reach your goal to be prima ballerina or be dragged into a selfish waltz between love and obsession? glimpse: the worst night of your life makes you recall what you thought was one of the best nights of you life - meeting jung wooyoung at the cromer opera house. warnings/tags: inspired by Ateez’s Ice on my Teeth MV & Teasers, Mafia AU, Ballet AU, early 1900’s AU with some divergences in tech advancements (i.e if i think itd be cool to include, this world has it earlier than irl), 3rd person POV, use of YN, mxm, polyteez, mature topics, strong language, ballet lore, angst, fluff, flirting, suggestive topics, violence, traumatic foot injury, unequal power dynamics, allusions to exploitation in ballet, pain, fear, injuries, alcohol mention, reader discretion advised. word count: 5.7k -> next chapter series masterlist

brisé ; french pronunciation: [bʁize]; literally 'broken'

All she had wanted her entire life was to be the ballerina prima. It was all she worked for. Every day she woke up to dance; she lived, breathed, ate for ballet. And she almost had it. It had been so close. The shining lights, the praise, the private dressing room, all for her. An escape from the shame of the petit rats, the groping from patrons, the reliance on a man’s wealth. She was going to be a star – in her own right. She was going to be a star.

Now, she laid in the dirty alley way, beaten and broken.

Through the torn bits of her hosiery, she could see her ankles were a purple-red color, splotched, like a gruesome Impressionist painting. The bones were at odd angles, too sharp, too extended for them to be not broken. Her hands shook as she tried to move them, tried to push at the pain that crept up her legs in a deafening manner. She could barely move them, roll them, anything without crying out in pain.

And cry she did. Wails escaped her chest in a mournful song. Her coal-mascara dripped down her rouged cheeks, melting into a mess and staining her mink fur coat. Their fur coat – their gift to her - that now felt suffocating around her, strands of the fur stuck to her sweatied skin and making her skin crawl with the feeling of maggots. She struggled to take it off, fighting with it as if it the animal had come back to life and was biting at her. Shoving it off and onto the alley floor with a huff, she moved to wipe her eyes with the backs of her hands. They too were injured. Her dainty fingers were scraped and cut up from the harsh cobblestone beneath her. Phalanges dripped ruby red, and most likely had been smudged over her face with a false rouge. If someone had caught a look, they’d be afraid her face was bleeding. Luckily, that had been spared; everything had been except for her feet. Just her legs were mangled, beaten, bludgeoned with bats, and crushed into the ground ‘til the bone creaked and shattered. Her poor dancing feet.

She hadn’t thought they would do it; she thought…

Jongho had cried for her the night before, pleaded with her as she told him her decision.

She should’ve known then.

Wooyoung advised against it after dinner, hissing out in fear that Hongjoong wouldn’t be happy.

She should’ve known then.

Yunho refused to see her that evening, locked away in his study.

She should’ve known then.

Seonghwa had even grabbed her hand this morning before she left the mansion; he had said nothing but his eyes were dark and cautioning as he pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

She should’ve taken his warning.

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. His footsteps were heavy as he approached her. The familiar scent of his cologne that was once reassuring, exciting even, now made her face scrunch up into despair. She tried to shift away from him, wriggling away like a worm. Each bend of her ankles made agony crawl up her spine. Her throat flexed in pain and a whine escaped her chest unwillingly.

She couldn’t go far and Seonghwa easily pinned her down with simply a cold look in his eyes.

His eyes were always serious, a shadowy thing that only lightened around his lovers. But they did not lighten with her tonight. In fact, she swore they were the coldest she had seen them like a cold star staring back at her.

Seonghwa stopped in front of her with his feet straddled her legs; his perfect new shoes smelled of polish, expensive and shining. With a tilt of his head, he stared down at her with his handsome face shadowed by a large brimmed hat. She stared up at him, her mouth a scowl-like grimace.

His cool gaze carefully left her tear-sodden face to graze over her ankles. Blood coated her nylon tights, her knees rubied and torn. Her ankles looked worse for wear, twisted, mangled, and beaten. He could see the bone pressing into her bruised flesh, painting it ivory white.

“My dove,” he hummed out in a coo. He knelt. “My pretty dancer. Poor thing.”

Poor thing, he tutted. Poor thing, they all tutted. The same pathetic words from the matching mouths of rich folk who wanted to play with her like she was nothing but a ballerina doll spinning on a music box. Watching her spin around and around like a chicken with no head, whirling, out of breath for their amusement. All she had been was a marionette for them to play with. That’s what she realized she was even to him, even to them.

She stared up at him with a glower. She thought they were different.

“You did this.” She growled.

Her tone was low and vicious unlike anything he had heard from her before.

Seonghwa simply smiled. His carved lips twitched up on one side of his beautiful face, forming a wicked half-smile. His diamond-inlayed teeth glinted in the gas-lamp light that dripped into the alley way from the main road. A leather-gloved hand reached out to grasp her jaw, not unkindly but certainly with a firmness familiar for him. He directed her gaze his way, taking in the dripping stage-makeup. Surely it would leave oily remnants on his fingertips. Surely his touch would leave watercolored bruises on her jaw. He tutted again at her swollen waterlogged features. A smear of blood cut across the bridge of her nose. With the utmost care, firm and slow, he brushed away the grime. Blood seeped into his leathered gloved. Her blood.

“This is why Wooyoungie likes you so much,” he chuckled lowly. “You’re both brats at heart.”

Her mouth sneered in annoyance, mimicking a sneer she had seen him flash far too often. He thought this was nothing. That she was being disobedient for fun. Like this was just a horrible, horrible game. Despair filled her eyes as she tried to shift her jaw out of his hand with that, baring her teeth like a mongrel would. He caught her chin between harsh, gloved fingers again.

“But, like Wooyoung, I love you nonetheless,” he confessed. “Would do anything for you.”

His eyes were dark, inky, like tar swallowing her whole. But they were serious. Deadly so. Just like Hongjoong was when he had promised she’d regret her decision if she followed through with it.

Still, it ached like a lie. It ached bone-deep like her injuries. (She had seen the attackers’ tattoos on their skin. The word ‘A T E E Z’ inked onto their knuckles; ‘BLACK PIRATES’ on some of their bared arms. Their suits they wore were of the men at the mansion. The ski masks covering their features from view didn’t make them ghostly attackers like they had wished. She had seen the masked men before creeping out of the mansion’s office at the order of Yunho or Mingi.)

She wasn’t dumb.

His thumb caressed her cheek fondly. Expensive, freshly cleaned leather smooth and soft against her make-up muddied features.

“Let’s go home, hm?” he hummed. “You look like you need a warm bath and plenty of rest. We’ll have a doctor come assess your injuries, dove.”

And in a mimicry of a gentleman, he shrugged off his long coat to wrap around her – rather than grab her now-dirtied fur coat from the cobblestone floor. In fact, she bet he’d find it so filthy he’d leave it for the rats. Maybe another petit rat of the ballet would open the doors of the backstage only feet away and steal it away. With words of ‘oh, a patron gave it to me’ after she scrubbed and scrubbed the blood, the makeup, the grim away. Just as he’d do with her, wash it all away until she was shiny and new again.

With ease, he lifted her up into his arms, cradling her close as he rose to full height once more. There was no discussion. No mention of her apartment on the far side of town, her home; no, they would be heading to the strange mansion the Kim clan called home. His grip was firm on her as he exited the alley way of the Cromer Opera House.

It was on this day YN wished she had never met the charming second-youngest of the Kim clan that day in the foyer de la danse. Then, her life and livelihood wouldn’t have been stolen by the ones who had once admired her.

The foyer de la danse was known as simply the ballet boudoir to the ballerinas. While it was a sort of dressing room, sort of practice room all-in-one, it was also dreadfully unprivate. The intricately decorated room of gold and glamour was the perfect frame for a pretty picture. Tall mirrors enclosed the room on all sides as new gas-powered chandeliers high above lit the room in a bright golden glow, highlighting each of the girls in view. There were no dark corners, no privacy screens, just mirrors, gold, light, and pretty girls.

None of the male dancers were allowed here. None of the female patrons either. But men who had high-status or who scraped up enough money to spend to stare at the young girls prepare for the show would promenade around. Freshly pressed fine linen suits, luxurious watches on their wrists or in their breast pocket, expensive cologne mingling with the aroma of their expensive liquor. Greedy eyes scanning up and down the ballerina’s half-naked forms as if they were just meat at a butchery.

They’d sip their bourbon leisurely, and approach the girls no matter what they were doing. If they were warming up at the barre, lacing up their shoes’ ribbons with patience, pressing fine powder over their face, or even mid-adjusting their costume with a costumier, they’d drop everything to smile coquettish and bite back the annoyance of disruption. In the ballet boudoir, the men were king, and the ballerinas were nothing but jesters for their amusement. The boudoir - it was a cruel nickname to taunt the young dancers who didn’t know any better. This was no private place. No, it wasn’t a dressing room like they’ve heard of.

If it was a less-than-full audience at the Cromer Opera House, there would be only familiar men in the room – who oftentimes already had their eyes on their prey. Lord Frederickson favored Julia with the red hair. Mr. Takahashi was leering after Mina. Kim Dohyun had been pursuing Imara for a year now; she had saved almost enough money to be out of the boudoir and have her own personal dressing room, maybe by next season! They were unfortunately lucky.

Now, YN had been the fortunate unlucky girl. Throughout her time at the Cromer Opera House, she had only a few male admirers. All who had little money and would spend most of their wealth getting into the boudoir and have none left to ‘woo’ with gift-giving or patronage. Even so, she had to act friendly. Smile with your cheeks, YN, an older ballerina had advised once. They can tell when there is nothing behind your eyes.

YN had been part of the corps de ballet for over a year now because of this. A petit rat at her age was mocked. She had no debut, no prospects. It wasn’t from not trying. She had practiced since she was three after all. She was an urchin with a seamstress mother and forgotten father who had passed in the war. It was typical of girls like her to try to seek fame - the easy-way - her mother claims. But there was no easy way in ballet.

Decades of training resulted in swollen purple toes, aching muscles, millions of destroyed ballet shoes, and countless inquiries to the choreographer to let her have a chance. The choreographer who had something against her. Maybe it was from when she was a child and would rather play than practice on the barre or maybe it was when she was a teen and had begun to read at breaks rather than continue to strain her muscles like some of the girls. The Madame hated her.

Regardless, she had never danced on stage alone, never was stand out. Her golden hour had yet to come. And with that, she wasn’t pursued by patronage suitors seriously. A blessing and a curse. She avoided wandering hands, wet mouths, and nasty tongues. But every costume had to be commissioned with her own coin (most often, she would sew it in the dark of night, icing her feet as she snipped at scrap fabric her mother owned.) Each ballet shoe’s cost was taken from her meager wages. The fee of practices, the fee of using the opera house’s rehearsal room, the fee of utilizing the boudoir’s accommodations like powder and rouge and candlelight if they could charge for that, all laid on her shoulders.

A true petit rat, lowly and searching for scraps. Digging her nails into opportunities where she can shine. But not from another’s assistance. No, her pride was too heavy on her back now for that.

“YN, YN, YN!”

There was a chatter – giggling and chittering between the younger girls – as they came padding into the boudoir before show-time. Tip tap, tip tap, tip. Around the corner of the opened grand doors, they came waddling in like a flock. Their swan costumes made them truly look like little ducklings; white feathered tutus leaving stray feathers onto the wooden floors as they scurried her way.

The one yelling her name was young, not even ten years old yet. She was short for her age too, a thing she despised. Only tall girls were prima ballerina her fellow ballerina friends taunted. She slid to her knees beside YN.

She smiled up from her spot on the ground, one pointe shoe on and the other resting beside her.

“Tiny, hello,” she greeted, finishing tying the ballet shoes’ laces up her legs.

“Have you heard? Have you heard?” Another of the young ballerinas chimed as she rushed forward as well, her dark hair tumbling from her half-up bun.

“Jane, your hair,” YN half-scolded, half-warned.

Her eyes glanced away from the youngers towards the grand gold-gilded doors of the boudoir, half-expecting their Madame to walk in and lash at them for looking so untidy. Despite this being a dressing room.

Pausing in tying up her laces, she gestured for the girl to join her on the cold wooden floor (they didn’t utilize the radiator heaters until mid-act 1, so it’d be warm for the patrons during intermission.)

Jane was thirteen and, with a huff, she plopped down, bony knees clanking as she did so. Her costume splayed out in a feathered mess. Her little fingers began to pick and fluff the costume. Her head lolled back, and YN began to untangle the pins from her curls.

“YN,” the one she called Tiny whined.

“Okay, okay,” she chuckled. “What’s so exciting?”

“There are new young bachelors in town!”

“What?”

Cromer wasn’t a tiny coastal town anymore. It was bustling with people and money and trade. New buildings were popping up more and more, growing taller and taller by the day. The high society they were aware of was growing larger and larger until the folk they thought were rich and powerful weren’t all that rich and powerful anymore compared to the new conglomerates. But unfortunately, these millionaires were often married, unhappily.

“You know the Ateez House?”

YN laughed at that.

Everyone in town did. It was their most favorite ghost house. It was the largest sprawling estates in Cromer with the spooky story that all knew. The story went it was once owned by a pirate captain, the only Captain of the Black Pirates. They pilfered and ravaged ports one by one until they were known across the seas as a brutal blood-thirsty crew. No coastal town was safe from them. Until one day, they stopped sailing mysteriously. The story goes that the captain settled in the town of Cromer under a false name and built Ateez Mansion – a sprawling estate built with blood-soaked gold and diamonds. Some say its haunted with the deaths of the captain’s victims; others say the entire house was cursed from the stolen treasure hidden within.

All just tall tales to try to explain why a beautiful mansion remained unhoused yet perfectly taken care of. Sometimes you could see candlelight flickering in the foyer through the grand stained-glass windows or even ghostly figures with no faces walking about.

“Yes,” she replied. “I’m the one who told you the ghost story about Ateez House.”

One of the youngest curled closer to her side, shivering a bit as she thought of the scary story.

“They moved into the Ateez House!” Tiny exclaimed, slamming her hands down on the wooden floor in excitement. Tiny loved to gossip and this was like Christmas. New bachelors meant new flings which meant new gossip!

“Was there a sale of the estate?” YN wondered as she finally got all the pins from Jane’s hair out and in a small pile on the floor beside her.

“No,” one of the other young teens said. She wasn’t even among the clambering youths around her; she was on the nearby barre stretching out. “No sale had been published in the papers. I heard from June who heard from Martha who heard from Wendy who heard from Lorelai who heard from her current suitor that the bachelors already owned the house but never stayed there.”

Now, that was news. YN’s brows rose in surprise.

“It’s been their house?” she repeated as she paused in gathering Jane’s hair into a bun. Another ballerina warming up nearby nodded enthusiastically.

“Do any of you tattletales know their names? How many are there?” YN asked.

Across the sea of swan-costumed girls, sparkling in gems and beads, their faces fell.

“That’s a no then… has anyone seen these mysterious bachelors leaving the mansion?”

There was a silence.

“Any proof of these men at all?”

Nothing.

YN sighed out. “Who would own that mansion and never live there? It’s been empty for decades now. None of us have known the owners. I don’t—I think it’s just gossip, girls.”

Jane wiggled in her grasp, bratty as she whined. “But YN,” she complained. She had been so excited to imagine and pretend and think of handsome suitors.

“I’ll believe it when I see it, hm,” YN encouraged as she finished wrapping the girl’s hair tight into a perfect bun. Pin after pin was slid in with precision. “For now, no more gossiping about ghostly bachelors in an abandoned mansion. Practice calls – Tiny, have you warmed up?”

Tiny furrowed her brow, her lips falling into a pout. Embarrassment heated her face as she curtly shook her head ‘no’.

“Go on,” YN encouraged the other with a smile before patting Jane’s shoulders to indicate she was done with her now-pristine hairdo as well.

“She acts like she’s the Madame,” Tiny mumbled under her breath as she stomped to her feet. “She’s not even a featured ballerina.”

The snide remark stung but YN tried to remember that they were young. Young and unaware of the hardships that awaited them. It wasn’t just dancing here. It was far more than that. YN returned to her shoes, tying them once more.

New bachelors in town. . . that’d be something. Far too often was it old men with oily money. But there is no way anyone truly owned that estate for all these years and no one in town knew it. No way. Somebody would know who owned it. It wouldn’t have become a ghost story. It was just silly gossip. Wishful thinking for a man to come sweep you off your feet.

She sighed and stretched her limbs before hoisting herself up to prepare for tonight’s show.

Swan Lake: a princess turned into a swan by an evil sorcerer's curse. She’d watch the prima ballerina, Odette, dance about gracefully from the wings each night. YN’s toes flexing at every movement, as if she were dancing it herself. She yearned for it. Ached to be the one performing. Instead, she was simply one in the crowd. The corps de ballet, the ensemble. She’d spin about in the back, pirouette perfect, leap lovely. Awe and comfort the lead throughout her struggle as a swan as she, YN, remained the ugly duckling.

Her gaze would dance throughout the crowd as she did an arabesque, slow and precise. There is Nikolai in his usual spot. There’s Mrs Lee and her young sons. Ariel and her suitor Sunghoon. Takahashi in Box 2 with his sisters. Box 4 had Fredrikson and his family. Box 5 was empty – wonder where Dohyun was, Imara would be relieved she could relax tonight she bet. Her eyes skipped over Box 8 because, of course, it would be empty. It was always empty. Except…

There was a quick plie of her knees before she had to jete away off-stage

Whispers consumed the backstage. Did you see? Did you see?

Box 8 was occupied.

Never had it been occupied in all the years of the Cromer Opera House.

Cromer held many superstitions even as a modern industrializing town. They had ghost stories about houses after all. But one of the strangest superstitions was the number 8. They skipped the 8th street; the eighth floor was unspoken in the tallest of buildings. No aisle 8, no 8th editions.

Box 8 of the Opera House was left empty strategically - for luck.

But now, there sat only one man. Shadowed by the dark curtains of the box, he watched the show from opera glasses and sipped on glittering champagne that would occasionally catch the candlelight of the grand chandeliers.

Did you see his face? Who is he? Is he handsome? Who could buy the box? Who would want to buy that box?

“Quiet!” One of the older ballerinas snapped at the youngers. “The audience will hear you!”

YN snorted behind a hand, standing ready in the wings. While she didn’t gossip, she listened. As if the audience was completely enraptured by their rendition of Swan Lake. The Opera, the Ballet, the Theatre: they weren’t to solely watch a show and be entertained. It was social. It was always social. Of course, the audience was wondering the same questions as they were.

Who was he? Was it a he? His form looked masculine.

She wanted to catch a glimpse.

It was a man she surmised after the next scene. YN was downstage this dance, sat among the young ballerinas and acting as a mother swan to them as they would do dramatic port de bras, arm movements. She had time to glance about once more.

In the shadows of Box Number 8 was a handsome man. Dark hair framed his face. He wore a suit that was a deep black velvet. And his eyes were glued to her, she swore it.

He was someone new. He was someone intriguing. And she waited to see if he was indeed watching her. Her group stood after sometime to chase after Odette, leaping this way and that until joining back in the right-upper corner of the stage on a lifted platform, stylized as a grassy hill.

She looked up at the box. He was staring at her. He was staring at her, opera glasses focused on her. They glinted in the candle-light. He disregarded the spotlit prima ballerina pirouetting around the lower left of the stage. For her. She smiled at him.

Tiny glanced her way with a giddy immatureness in her actions, breaking the elegance of a ballerina in her excitement. She could already hear Madame’s scolding at tonight’s debrief. But YN didn’t mind. Because he was looking at her.

And everyone knew it.

Act One finished in a roar of applause. Heavied red curtains slid shut for intermission as they hurried off stage.

“He was looking at her.” Jane exclaimed bouncing on her feet as she tugged her friend’s arm in excitement.

The corps de ballet was walking all together through the backstage halls of the Opera House towards the boudoir. The prima ballerina and the principal dancers escaped to their own private dressing rooms – YN watched as a patron, Mr. Kim, an older gentleman snuck into the prima ballerina’s room.

“No, he wasn’t,” another girl claimed.

“Yes, he was,” Jane defended.

“No, he wasn’t,” another snorted.

“Yes, he was!” Tiny yelled, indignantly.

“Tabitha!” the Madame rounded the corner of the boudoir, exiting out of its doors to meet the ensemble.

The Madame was a strict looking woman, tall nosed with her hair in a meticulous updo. Her cane did little to aid in her walking but much in discipline. Too many times had she felt the thwack of the cane against the back of her legs, her arched back, or her stomach.

Legs straight! Back straight! Don’t slouch! YN!

The group paused at her appearance; some of the girls bowed their head in respect; others hid behind taller legs.

“Miss Tabitha, must I remind you of your manners every day?” she queried, her tone loud and grating. “As a lady of this company, you must be a lady.”

“Sorry, Madame,” Tiny immediately apologized, head bending forward.

There was a heavy pause as the Madame’s fiery gaze lingered on the young girl before passing over the selection of the ensemble. She glared at YN pointedly. YN had long stopped trying to appeal to her; it never worked she had learned.

“Carry on, girls,” the Madame instructed.

They curtsied in unison before continuing towards the boudoir, hopefully with enough time to slip into their next costumes, if need be, before any patrons were lounging about. It was always uncomfortable to change with the men about – it made them feel truly like objects on display rather than dancers. Skilled ladies.

YN went to her shared vanity, glancing over her makeup. Dabbing at sweat that beaded at her hairline, she went to reach for a handkerchief but when she leant back up right was spooked by the sight of a man behind her.

Black velvet linen made up his suit; she had been right. It was perfectly tailored to his form, luxurious and hugging. His suit jacket was longer than typical but stylish with ornate, Greco-Roman inspired embroidered sleeves.

In the mirror, he was handsome. Strong jawline. Bare collarbones visible from his loose fitted button up beneath his suit jacket. With dark intriguing eyes that didn’t stray from her, a quirked brow, and delicate face-framing strands of hair, he stole her breath away.

“Hello.” He greeted coyly.

The boudoir’s chatter died down at his greeting. All eyes zeroed in on them. She stood to her full height once more, holding the handkerchief in between her hands. Sweat slid down her temple to her jawline delicately.

“Hello,” she greeted, patting down the sides of her face quickly before turning to face him fully.

His lips were plump, curling in a hint of a smile as he watched her spin to face him. He seemed to be examining her just as she did to him.

“You’re far more beautiful than any of these girls,” the mystery man commented leaning over the vanity to peer at her.

His fingers fiddled on the white vanity, making shapes this way and that. Knocking his knuckles against the wood, almost boyishly shy. But this patron wasn’t shy. She had seen men parade about and try every trick in the book with a girl. She could see it in the sparkle of his dark eyes. The curl of his charming smile.

He wasn’t shy. He was smart.

“You are a charmer, sir,” she complimented, opening a glass container holding puff powder.

She flashed him a cheeky smile before using the puff to powder over the sweat on her forehead, her cheeks. A jar of rouge was placed down near the mirror by another dancer. When she turned away, her tutu brushed against the mysterious patron’s waist. He didn’t take his eyes from YN all the while.

“I wish I was,” he softly crooned. So he wouldn’t have to watch her in the mirror, he turned to lean back on the ledge, fingers pressed behind him as he watched her touch up her lipstick with a delicate brush. “I’m only speaking the truth.”

It was a soft admittance. His eyes hadn’t left her features, darting from her eyes to the red petals of her mouth that pressed together in a pout as she finished apply the lipstick. Her finger went to dip into the pot before, with a quick movement, he grasped her wrist.

It wasn’t painful just surprising as she jumped in his grip. His hold loosened greatly, allowing her to pull away if she wished. She didn’t.

“Let me; don’t want you to dirty your hands,” he said.

She licked her lips; the heavy taste of beeswax and rosewater stuck to the back of her tongue as she nodded minutely.

The handsome patron’s cheshire cat grin grew. A dark mole on his cheek caught her attention the more his cheeks puffed up with his smile. Beautiful. He let go of her wrist. Long, long fingers dipped into the red makeup.

“What’s your name?” she asked, a first when it came to the patrons and male-visitors of the ballet boudoir.

Far too often, everyone knew everyone. They’d scratch and crawl away or towards certain men; attention meant everything to a beginning ballet dancer. It meant success. No one seemingly knew him, judging by the looks she caught the more experienced, older ballerinas throw her way.

“Wooyoung. Jung Wooyoung,” he answered her before tapped the blush delicately on one cheek.

His touch made her heart race. He licked his own lips, looking down at her through tussled dark locks. His fingers pressed another dot to her other cheek. His free hand moved to cup her jawline, forcing her to look up at him before, with gentle motions, he began to blend the rouge into a soft gradient. One cheek, then the other.

The room felt quiet. Burning eyes on them grazed her skin but it didn’t make her stomach churn with anxiety. It felt like only the two of them existed in a perfect bubble. His touch didn’t burn or disgust her; it tingled across her skin making gooseflesh crawl up her arms, up her spine. She worried he could see them through the sheer nylon of her long-sleeved costume. If he did, he didn’t comment on it. His eyes were focused on adding to her beauty, gentle and almost reverent.

“And yours, little swan?” he tilted her chin up as he finished with his work. He loved to watch the rubied glow on her cheeks grow and grow, and not due to his careful make-up’ed handiwork.

“YN,” she said.

He grinned before he repeated her name. His fingers trailed over her cheek, over her chin, his thumb ghosting over her plush lipsticked lips. Before he pulled away and leaned back on the vanity; rouge staining the pure vanity below his hands, sloppily.

“Pretty name for a pretty swanette.”

She smiled up at him, the building, bubbling excitement writhing in her throat. She swallowed.

“Are you new in town? I’ve never seen you at the Opera.” She commented offhandedly.

His grin remained, the corners of his lips curling cat-like. “Mmhm,” he hummed out. “You can say that. I’m from Aurora originally.”

“Aurora… the island Aurora?” she queried with intrigue. “I’ve heard its booming lately. The Jewel of the Atiny Sea.”

He nodded, his smile not fading but his eyes crinkled as he raised his unstained fingers to push her hair aside. Just as an excuse to graze her shoulder she bet.

“I grew up there before it became beautiful,” he admitted. “Its much nicer now – I like to visit on holidays but I don’t miss it.”

“But now you are in Cromer. For how long?” she continued.

He hummed again leaning close. “For however long it takes to woo you?” he flirted.

It made a whirlwind of butterflies dance in her stomach. He watched as her blush extended to the tips of her ears. He laughed lowly.

“You’re teasing me,” she warned with a smirk. “We barely know one another.”

“Maybe,” he retorted. “I know skill and dedication when I see it. I like that.”

There was a ringing of a bell, delicate but a familiar sound for the ballerinas. Some turned their heads towards the stage hand ringing it to give him a smile. Others remained speaking to their patrons or changing their costumes to Act 2’s ensemble. Most remained eavesdropping on their conversation.

“Do you need to hurry along, beautiful swanette?” he fiddled with the crown of feathers pinned to her hair.

“Soon,” she replied simply.

His fingers trailed over her hair, tucking some behind her ear delicately before he grazed his hand down the sleek nylon of her sleeve to take her hand. His hand was decorated in countless rings. Gold, silver, copper. One was a series of silver circles ( …or were they sideways 8’s?) with jewels placed in between stylishly. There was another that was a polished silver with the emblem of a letter she couldn’t quite make out on its face. The metal felt cold against her hot skin. Running a thumb over her knuckles, he squeezed her hand.

“Will you indulge me in another meeting soon? I regret to inform you I can’t stay late after the performance,” he admitted. “I would like to get to know you.”

It was charming the idea he proposed. As if she had any will or way in meeting him. But she was intrigued by him. He was handsome, playful, and new. He was mysterious with how he sat alone in the forbidden, unlucky Box Number 8. She wanted to get to know him… and if he wanted to pay for her time like the other patrons eventually did with their ballerinas, maybe this would be beneficial for the both of them.

She leaned in close like she had seen other ballerinas do with their patrons. Closer than what was appropriate for a lady, but not close enough to have their forms touch. She looked up and smiled, enjoying the way his own ears were beginning to tint a playful red. This was a fun dance between the two of them. She had never enjoyed her suitors so much.

“Yes,” she agreed. “I’d love to talk more, Mr. Jung.”

“Call me Wooyoung.”

#wooyoung x reader #jung wooyoung x reader #ateez x reader #atz x reader #seonghwa x reader #park seonghwa x reader #ateez fanfic #ateez angst #ateez fic #ateez fluff #ateez scenarios #written by haley

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kkayyerr · 1 day ago

Text

OBX characters taking care of Little!reader with anxiety.

Warnings: Age regression; anxiety disorder; slight dark!Rafe.

Author’s note: I’m gonna keep on writing headcanons about little!reader with mental struggles and characters reactions to that.

John B:

- He would be just as anxious as you when it came to something that scared you. His worst fear would be not being there for you at the moment, no matter if you’re regressed or not (but especially when you’re little).

- He won’t ever blame you for your fears or your tantrums; that would happen if you got way too overwhelmed. He would just be there for you, probably trying to console you or just giving you time and space to let out your emotions.

- John B would probably mentally note all your triggers and things that get your anxiety worse, so he and the Pogues would avoid those themes.

- He would help you fall asleep, holding you in his arms and feeling how your heartbeat was slowing down and your breathing was not so shaky anymore.

- He would probably also ask Sarah to share some tips with him about how to calm you down when things get really bad, because somehow she knows more about those things.

- Sometimes he would just call her, and she would show up immediately, helping you out.

- He would definitely learn some techniques to help you, or at least help himself stay calm because somehow your anxiety is sharing like a disease.

- John B would work on himself to help you as much as he could, and I believe after not so long a period of time it would work.

JJ:

- That boy knows how it might feel, trying to hide your anxiety so it won’t bother people around you, and it’s hurting him seeing your shaky hands and teary eyes.

- He would make sure that you'd understand that you didn’t have to hide your true feelings and emotions, at least not around him.

- Whenever he would see you getting at least a little bit anxious, he would immediately stop what he was doing and go take care of you, no matter if you wanted him to see you in that state or not.

- He doesn’t know how to deal with his anxiety, but he would make sure to learn how to help you deal with yours, even if that would increase his own struggles.

- Even though the boy is poor, he would still buy you everything that he thought might help you. Stuffies, pacifiers, coloring books, etc. He would buy absolutely anything just to make sure his little girl was happy and calm.

- He would deal with your tears and tantrums, just staying there and letting you yell, cry, and throw toys at him. It’s not like a little teddy bear is going to hurt him.

- No matter how bad he’s feeling, he would be there, trying to help or at least communicate to see what’s wrong and what exactly he could do to help you relax.

- For you, he would turn into a big teddy bear that you can hug and cuddle whenever you feel like it.

- He would always remind you that no matter what, he’s there for you. And he won’t ever break his words.

Rafe:

- It would be hard for Rafe to understand why exactly you’re getting so anxious sometimes, and maybe he would even blame himself for not being there for you enough.

- But when you finally explain your struggles to him, he’ll understand. Maybe he’s not the best at dealing with mental issues, but for you, he would try.

- The hardest part for him is to control his temper. It would take time, but he would learn how to not raise his voice around you after a couple of times when he would have to spoil you the whole day after a small yelling.

- He would buy anything, ANYTHING, to help you with your anxiety. No matter what that is, if that thing is helping you, then it’s going to be bought.

- Sometimes, when the panic attack would get bad, he would go as far as giving you drugs, calling it „medicine.“. He would make sure it’s the most safe ones, though.

- He would gently slap your mouth every time you would apologize to him, when there’s nothing to apologize for. And of course you would also apologize after the slap too.

- If someone had triggered you or just talked to you in the wrong way, they’re dead. Like actually dead.

- He would also learn not to tease you too much, just so you won’t fill your pretty little head with some stupid thoughts and insecurities.

- Even though his business is very established, Rafe would make sure to always, and I mean ALWAYS answer your calls. No matter if that’s a serious one or you just want to hear his voice and tell him about the drama between your stuffies.

- Rafe would protect his little one at all costs, even if that meant crossing the lines sometimes.

Pope:

- He would learn how to treat you right sooo fast.

- No matter what had happened, Pope would know what exactly you needed to hear in that situation or how to help you regulate your emotions.

- He would almost immediately recognize when you’re feeling anxious, and he would try his best to make those episodes easier for you, even if your fears might sound „stupid.”.

- He would be very good at communication. If you need to talk with him about something that’s bothering you for an hour, then he would sit there and listen to you for an hour.

- Probably he would be the only one who knows how to console you when you throw tantrums, just holding you in his arms or constantly repeating that your feelings are valid and it’s okay to cry.

- It would work, and a couple of minutes later you would be sitting on his lap or maybe even sleeping, hiding your puffy face in his neck.

- The one tug on his clothes would be enough for him to understand that you need his attention right now, and it would immediately become his number one priority.

- Honestly, he would be the best at taking care of his little one, no matter what they’re struggling with.

#obx #age regression fic #little!reader #rafe cameron x reader #jj x reader #john b x reader #dark!rafe cameron #headcanons

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scoobydoodean · 2 days ago

Note

is there anything you're critical of Dean for? not meant as a gotcha, i just haven't been reading your blog for long.

i just struggle getting out of the Doylist perspective and holding characters accountable. i'm annoyingly cognizant of the external factors like them not wanting to pay Misha or having to cater to a sizeable portion of their audience that preferred the easier digestible, more accessible "two bros in MotW episodes" that didn't serve the overarching storyline or relationships or if they did, didn't take up that much air time or did it superficially (flashback to Dean being called overdramatic in 6x20 because they just didn't. get. it.).

I think it's clear that Dean and Cas’s relationship issues involving communication are an active choice made by the writers that don't just exist because Misha isn’t in all the episodes. If the writers didn’t want us to pay attention to Cas’s absences, they would establish that Cas consistently keeps in communication offscreen over the phone and that things between Dean and Cas are good when they see each other in person. Instead, they choose to do the exact opposite. They show Cas being avoidant and hiding in episodes he's not in and in episodes he's in too. They emphasize that Cas's absences are more than physical—he creates emotional distance—he hides and lies and keeps secrets when he feels ashamed or has become convinced that he needs to handle things on his own. This is a very core character hangup for Cas. It also doesn't make him a bad person. It makes him (for lack of a better word) human. His flaws are understandable and tragic and rooted in trauma, and one of the worst parts about the end of Supernatural is that Cas never gets to fully work through these feelings and have his eyes opened to exactly how deeply he is loved and that his worth is more than what he can do for others.

To be quite honest though, I think people need to become more comfortable with hearing that Cas isn't perfect without jumping to conclude that he is being condemned for being imperfect. No one is perfect—especially not our Supernatural blorbos. That includes Dean who is also imperfect. I'm not sure exactly what post of mine prompted this ask, but I don't actually think I've been that critical of Cas or condemned him for anything. I've only shined a light on some of his flaws—particularly in episodes where fandom has tended to ignore them and condemn Dean as The One And Only Bad Friend.

I guess I just wonder why it has always been acceptable to highlight Dean's flaws (even ones that don't actually exist) without ever mentioning a single thing another character did "wrong" to contribute to a conflict, but when I highlighting anything Cas ever did wrong in a conflict with Dean without a healthy helping of deancrit, people feel I'm not being "fair" enough. It's very clear that people want me to protect Cas more—even against the lightest criticisms— but I'm not sure why he's considered more deserving of that than Dean. I'm also not sure why a doylist perspective would invalidate Dean's experience as a fellow character within the story affected by Cas's absences and not an omniscient viewer who's thinking about how many episodes the writers can afford to put Misha Collins in (and again—I do not think a doylist perspective explains Cas's behavior—the behavior is intentionally written into his character for seasons upon seasons).

I'm not going to fight it if people choose to call me "cas critical" or "sam critical" because that's their prerogative. To be clear though, I don't prefer to engage with stories as competitions where we count up who did the most wrong things and assign that person as The Bad Character Among The Good Characters. I can understand if it looks that way from an outsider's perspective, but I'm actually reacting to fandom largely deciding to engage with Supernatural as if it should be consumed as a story about The Bad Character Among The Good Characters and deciding that The Bad Character Among The Good Characters is Dean. I'm far less critical of Sam or Cas than I'll ever be of fandom’s need to make everything about keeping score of who did the most wrong stuff. It can be fun to shitpost about it to piss of crits, but the actual point of the story isn't to figure out which one did the most bad things and "hold them accountable".

#mail

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pentechnics · 3 days ago

Text

A Little Leap

Chapter 9 of Latch

Summary: The long-awaited night is here, and both you and Din struggle with casting your cautions aside. Will it hinder your time together?

Pairing: Firefighter!Din Djarin x f!Reader

Series Masterlist

Notes: Very long awaited, but hopefully worth it. And not even a power outage could stop me from getting it out today! Poured a lot of love into this one and I'm so excited to see what you all think of it! Sending you all so much love and well-wishes!!

Previous | Next

~~~~

A few days later, Din was stepping back into Lando’s shop and greeting him with a handshake. Lando led him to the back where a rack of black garment bags hung, plucking out two and handing them to him. “Here we are, all set for you.”

“Two?” Din pointed to the second bag. “I only bought one.”

“Luke had me make up another for you. He noticed you liked the brown one, too.”

Lando winked and pressed them into Din’s hands. Din glanced between him and the suits, unsure of what to say. How did Luke do that without him noticing?

“... Thank you. I appreciate it.”

Lando nodded and waved as Din made his way out of the boutique.

Din hung the garments in the back seat of the car and clambered inside with a huff. During the drive back he rehearsed what he’d say to Luke upon his return – why’d you do that? How’d you do that? What the hell, you didn’t have to do that.

Din sighed. That kid was too giving for his own good.

He tried to keep an air of authority as he stepped through the front door and dramatically held out his two garment bags. He threw a stern glare at a gleeful Luke, who was sitting on the couch, not affected by Din in the slightest.

“... I don’t pay you enough to be doing things like this.”

Luke just laughed. Din gulped down his annoyance, standing up straighter in an attempt to keep up his angry demeanor.

“Relax, it’s a gift! It’ll come in handy.”

“Luke,” Din warned.

“Mr. Djarin, I promise, that is the last sort of intervention I plan to do.” He lifted his palm into the air. “You have my word.”

Din gave him a solid nod and made his way to the bedroom.

“It better be.”

~~~~~

“Your nerves are understandable. Is there any specific thing you’re worried about?”

You shifted in your seat before returning Dr. Jinn’s gaze. Each little thing seemed to pile together: some rational, some very much not. And more came with each passing day. What if he stood you up? What if you said something stupid? What if you spill your drink all over him?

“I just… I’m not sure what to expect. I’m not a big date person, I haven’t been on very many good ones in the past.”

“Ah, so because you really like him, you’re extra worried about it not going well?”

A bullseye, as usual. But damn, did he have to say it so bluntly each time? You nodded.

“I don’t want to screw this up.”

“Let me ask you this,” he tapped his pen against his knee as he spoke. “Do you think you were the reason those other dates were bad?”

You thought about it. One person made offensive jokes. Another turned out to be cheating on someone with you. One stared at the waiter’s ass the whole time. You winced at the memories.

“I guess most of them were out of my control.”

He gave a slight grin.

“Then I think it’s safe to say you won’t screw anything up.”

“… But what if he does?”

He paused, taking in your expression before asking, “What do you think is the worst thing that could happen during this date?”

A bead of anxiety led to sadness, shame, and anger. It wouldn’t be the total end of the world, but it would hurt as if it was.

“... Him not showing up. Or changing his mind.”

“Okay. Solid concern. Now tell me this: when you think about him, what are the biggest traits that stand out to you?”

Flashes of his face and of conversations the two of you shared ran through your mind. Those kind eyes and warm smile took over your senses, sending a pleasant tingle down your spine.

“... He’s kind,” you began, “and smart.”

Grogu entered your mind’s eye.

“...And he seems really loyal to the people in his life.”

“Seems like a great guy.”

You smiled and nodded.

“So, you’ll just have to take a little leap. Trust that he’ll come through.”

You stared at your lap. He was right. But just how were you meant to do that?

“Is that something I can learn to do in two days?” you asked with a dry laugh.

Dr. Jinn shrugged.

“Personally, I don’t think it’s something anyone is ever done learning. But we all have to start somewhere.”

~~~~

Din straightened his collar in the mirror, letting out a huff that made the tip of his hair bounce up.

He took in the sight of the grey suit in the mirror, hoping to summon that same magical feeling he got wearing it for the first time in Lando’s boutique. He turned around to face Grogu’s crib.

“What do you think, kid?”

Grogu smiled up at him from his standing perch, patting the edge of the crib with his hand. Din chuckled and went over to lift him out and carry him into the living room.

“Luke will be here any minute. You better be good to him, okay?”

Grogu laid his head down onto Din’s shoulder in response, wrapping his arms around him as much as they’d allow.

Din stopped in his tracks. Little waves of warmth and love flowed through him; he held Grogu close and basked in it.

Something seemed odd – typically, Grogu would cling like this and whimper when he wanted support. Then Din would’ve doubled down and stay home for him.

But this seemed different. Grogu was silent, save for a few gentle, happy coos. It was as though Grogu was trying to tell him something else. To ease his worries. It had Din swallowing a sudden lump in his throat.

This was hard. Leaving him was always hard. But as Din ran his hands through Grogu’s little curls, the prickly, heavy anxiety began to slowly loosen its grip.

He gave Grogu a kiss on the cheek just as Luke knocked on the door.

Deep breath. It’s now or never.

“All right, buddy, wish me luck.”

Grogu giggled and tapped his hand against Din’s chin, making him chuckle.

During the drive, Din couldn’t help the way his muscles seized. Every alarm bell in his system was ringing – not the way they usually did when he was away from Grogu, but something insistent and foreign. Good signs or bad, he couldn’t tell.

The evening sent a chill through his half-open window. The sky poked through the high-rises, its colorful clarity a direct contrast to the electric storm brewing inside him.

His mind was jumping from place to place – anxious, guilty, excited – they all melded together and created a dizzying new emotion he wasn’t sure how to name. Din was no stranger to running into a situation he wasn’t familiar with, but something about this seemed so much more fragile. It had more variables than he was used to. Larger margin for error, and less room for it. He resisted the urge to hit his head against the steering wheel to get his brain to shut up.

When he parked in front of your building and stepped out onto the curb, he forced himself to take a breath. One feeling at a time, one worry at a time.

Grogu’s okay. Focus on her.

It’ll be good. She’ll be happy to see you.

You look fine. Stop thinking about your stomach.

The voice speaking to him was collected and confident next to his racing heart. He chanted the words over and over again in his head, breathing in time with them until he could muster up the nerve to pull out his phone. He glanced at the clock – per Luke’s instructions, he had arrived ten minutes early.

Won’t she feel rushed, though? He’d asked. What if she needs more time?

Trust me, Luke had said. You’re the one who’s going to need it.

Damn that boy. Why was he always right? Din allowed himself a few more minutes of nervous pacing and obsessive jacket-pulling before opening up his messages.

~~~~

You sat in front of your mirror, making your final preparations before Din was due to arrive. Dress was on, accessories were added, and now it was time to wait. Your phone sat on the bathroom counter, taunting you. He’d be texting you any second now.

You were putting essentials into your little wristlet purse. Your hands were shaking, each little item struggling to get into the opening.

A thousand pep talks and reminders to breathe from Harley couldn’t even scratch the surface of your brain without interference. It was like you were shut off from your fear sector, unable to soothe it even if you wanted to. You stared at their messages of encouragement blankly before shutting your eyes and heaving a deep sigh.

Even though he really didn’t seem like the type, you couldn’t shake your fears of Din running away. Deciding he didn’t want to do this, that he didn’t want to see you. It took everything you had to not cancel first and beat him to the punch. And yet every time you snuffed the temptation, part of you wondered if you’d regret it later.

‘You’ll just have to trust him a little.’

As if on cue, Dr. Jinn’s voice rang through your mind like a bell. A soothing chime that cut through all of the abrasive, self-destructive noise. It reminded you of what you were meant to be trying. The clog inside you was pushing to be cleared – you just needed to help it along.

You rose from your spot and wandered into the living room, phone now cradled in your hand. The evening was settling in and basking its iridescent glow upon the city, the buildings surrounding your apartment cloaked in its blues, purples, and pinks. You thought about Din, about the memories you’ve already made together. His smile, his laugh…

… His baby.

You clutched your phone in your fist as another wave of anxiety pulsed through you. What would you do if you messed this up? The mental image of Grogu’s smiling face had your heart singing – what if you never got to see him again?

But then again, when did this date become the make-it-or-break-it of this whole thing?

It’s not as though this would be the first time you and Din sat together and talked. You’d done that several times at Cal’s. You had no reason to believe this wouldn’t be just like that, right? Calming, fun, and easy. You let out a slow breath, shoulders drooping down with it.

Yeah, that’s all this is, you told yourself. Just another fun meet-up across the counter.

Your phone buzzed.

With a jolt, tension returned to your muscles as you looked at the screen. He was here.

It was time.

Shit.

You texted back with frantic fingers, running to grab the last of your things and put on your shoes before heading out the door – but not before taking one last glance out the window.

The calm of dusk, an everlasting being of promise and beauty. The dull quiet in your apartment, a guaranteed comfort when you returned, regardless of what happened.

Certainties you could hold onto in a world of unknowns.

You pushed yourself out the door.

~~~~

You focused on each breath as the elevator made its painfully slow descent. You patted your dress, your head, your purse, anything that could possibly fall out of place between now and the lobby.

Part of you began to wonder where he’d be taking you. Him taking the reins on those details was a welcomed surprise; you couldn’t help feeling pampered by the prospect of not having to make that decision.

A smile tugged on your cheeks as the elevator signaled your arrival to the lobby. You sucked in one more breath and squeezed your bag. Here goes nothing.

You walked out and made it a whole five steps before almost tripping over your feet.

He was a vision: standing outside beside his car, leaning against the passenger side. Hands in his pockets. Gaze turned to the side. His suit was perfectly tailored to him, outlining his broad shoulders and full hips. Those arms that could rip his uniform into shreds were less of a threat to the suit jacket, though still made their presence known. The stubble on his face was short but visible, and it gave his jawline even more of a sharp edge. He turned and gave a small grin at the sight of you.

You swallowed the lump that formed in your throat and regained your footing.

“Hi,” you greeted as you stepped out the door. “I hope I didn’t make you wait too long.”

“Not at all,” he said, hands slowly making their way out of his pockets. “You look… “

He trailed off for a moment, glancing down at your dress before meeting your eyes again.

“... Amazing.”

You swallowed again, the heat in your face making it harder to breathe.

“So do you.”

You couldn’t help stealing another glance at that marvelous suit, subconsciously biting your lips together in hopes of keeping your cool.

“Thank you.”

You returned his gaze upon hearing his voice, letting yourself get lost in them. Any semblance of nerves that had just been assaulting you were long gone, like you’d been in a crowded room, and he was the one to walk in and make every voice fall silent.

Who could blame them? He left you speechless, too.

After a moment he cleared his throat and opened the car door for you.

“Shall we, then?”

You smiled at the gesture and climbed in, your heart already aflutter. Who knew people still opened car doors for each other?

You watched him walk around and get into the driver’s seat, phone in hand.

“I’m a little embarrassed at having to use the GPS to get there,” he said with a chuckle.

“Don’t be!” You laughed. “Everyone needs the help sometimes.”

He glanced up at you before resuming his search, a small dust of color brimming on his ears.

Once the GPS began to speak, he pulled onto the road.

“I don’t recognize the name of the restaurant,” you commented, rubbing your thumb along the back of your opposite hand. “Have you ever been?”

“No, actually. I don’t go out very much.”

“Me, either,” you nodded.

“New for us both. That’ll be nice.”

He pulled up to a stoplight and turned away from the road to look at you.

“Yeah, that will be nice.” You said with a smile.

An unspoken feeling passed through you: uncharted, exciting, deep. By the way Din looked at you, you’d swear he was feeling the same thing. His eyes seemed to be speaking for him again – a language you were so desperate to learn. Yet at the same time, it felt as though the message was crystal clear.

The light turned green, but the spell didn’t break. Somehow, without even having to look at you, those eyes were still relaying their words. The comfortable silence between you was so loud with them that it was almost too much to bear.

Din ended up driving you to a separate sector of downtown from where Cal’s and the Mark were located. A spring of joy lit up inside you; this was an area you never got to explore.

When Din pulled into a parking spot, he rushed to undo his seat belt.

“Hang on.”

You halted your hands from reaching for the door handle and instead watched him jog over to open it again for you. A wide smile sprouted on your face. What a precious gentleman.

You glanced at the hand he held out for you before placing yours in it. Just as it had the last time, back in Cal’s, electricity shot through you. There was a slight jolt in his grip before he pulled you to your feet, giving your hand the slightest squeeze before letting it go.

You instantly missed his warmth.

He pointed the way after locking the car and the two of you walked side by side. You held tight to your bag, still unsure of what physical boundaries should be kept. You glanced at his hand, dangling along his side. It swayed with his movements.

How nice would it be if it just stayed wrapped around yours?

Upon approaching the restaurant, he opened that door for you as well, making you giggle.

“Will you be opening all my doors tonight?”

“... Is that okay?”

The concern that clouded his eyes made you wish you hadn’t said a word. You smiled and held out a hand towards him.

“Of course, yes! I’m just not used to it is all.”

You paused and looked at your feet, nerves threatening to keep the next words from escaping your mouth.

“It makes me feel really special.”

He let out a breath. You watched the tension dissipate from his shoulders and a calmness come over his expression.

“I’m glad.”

He turned from you and greeted the approaching waiter.

You took the moment look around. The restaurant was quaint and elegant, warm yellow lighting reflecting off the maroon walls. Wide open dining areas and a dancing area down a farther hallway. Shimmering chandeliers dangled from above and reflected constellations off themselves.

It was gorgeous.

When the waiter grabbed two menus, you began to prepare yourself. Your heart was pounding deep and loud – a boisterous show of its limits.

And the evening had only just begun.

~~~~

Light chatter surrounded you both as you sat at the intimate little table for two, waiting for your orders. The candle sitting between you made Din glow; specks of yellow danced across his face, making his eyes shimmer. He was looking out the window, his side profile made ever sharper by the contrasting shadows.

“It looks so other-worldly outside,” he said, “... does that sound weird?”

His voice snapped you out of your trance.

“No, not at all,” you shook your head.

You took a glance out the window, taking in the pale city lights as they twinkled against the dark backdrop of the encroaching night. As cars drove past, the headlights would briefly splatter the surrounding surfaces. It was like several little light shows just for the two of you.

“I see what you mean. It’s kind of magical.”

He turned to you and grinned. His eyes betrayed a hint of embarrassment.

The waiter came by and set your food before you both. Din cleared his throat and glanced about the room until they walked away.

The smell immediately graced your nose, making you breathe in a deep dose of it. Your stomach grumbled its approval just before you both began eating. You were grateful for the food – it gave you something to do when you couldn’t think of what to say.

Clinking silverware and padded footsteps of passing waiters filled the air. You glanced up at Din between bites – he would either be pecking at his food or glancing out the window, seemingly wringing his hands together.

Good to know he was also nervous, though it left you unsure of how to break the tension. You took another bite and thought back to the pep-talk you gave yourself.

Just another chat across the counter.

You took a sip of your water and set down your cutlery.

“How’s Grogu doing?”

His eyes darted to you, expression a little lost.

“Oh- he’s… good.”

“No more fevers, I hope.”

That got him to smile a bit.

“No, he’s okay. He’s actually been really active lately.”

“Yeah?” Tell me more.”

He did. And as he spoke, his demeanor shifted. The weight left his shoulders, the buzzing air calming. You could swear you were actually at Cal’s, and he was sitting at the counter. You couldn’t help smiling – at both his and Grogu’s cuteness.

Conversation flowed much more easily after that, the evening drifting along with it. He made you laugh, you made him blush, and everything in the world made sense.

Before either of you knew it, the waiter had left the check on the table and at least a solid two hours had passed. Din didn’t even entertain the notion when you lifted your little purse to help pay, giving you a good laugh and another flutter of the heart.

The two of you walked out into the night soon after, you nursing leftovers in your hand. The walk to the car was slow and peaceful, the breeze a relief on your beaming cheeks. When you reached the car, you stopped Din with a hand on his forearm before he could open the door.

“Hey-” you looked up at him. “Do you want to…”

You gulped. You didn’t want the night to end just yet. But what would happen if he said no? Just imagining the awkwardness made you want to run away. He glanced down at your hand before meeting your eyes again.

“... walk around a bit?” he finished for you.

You nodded with a smile, hoping the utter mental pain you were enduring wasn’t visible in your expression. He straightened up and took your to-go box out of your hands.

“That sounds nice. Let’s drop this off, then.”

The relief was so sweet yet drastic. You sighed with a small laugh and gave his forearm a little squeeze.

~~~~

The walk reminded you of that spontaneous arcade day the two of you shared, yet this was somehow even sweeter.

The night was rich with energy. Light spilled onto the sidewalks from the little shops that lined the streets, a slight breeze whisking around you, and a healthy flow of words still running between you. Din’s voice grew just a bit more animated than it had been at the start of the night, and you reveled in the soothing sound of it.

One shop caught your eye: a little ice cream parlor, painted in creamy pastels and boasting a host of flavors, with indoor decor that was reminiscent of a vintage diner. You couldn’t stop yourself from taking in the sugary vanilla scent. You turned to Din with a grin.

“Do you want some dessert?”

He stared at you with wide eyes and hesitated. A beat passed before he gulped and tore his gaze from you to look at the list of flavors outside the door.

“Sure—yeah, let’s do it.”

You insisted on paying once flavors had been selected, mirroring what he had done in the restaurant.

It took him all but five minutes to finish his. You weren’t even at your cone yet.

You looked between your hand holding your ice cream and his empty one crumpling a napkin across the little circular table. Gesturing between them, you gave him a puzzled look.

“How?”

He just shrugged with a chuckle. You shook your head and continued to dive into your cone.

“Oh, hey- you’ve got something right there…”

He gestured to the side of his lip. Fighting off the embarrassment, you tried to wipe it off with your hand.

“Did I get it?”

He shook his head. You tried again. Whatever it was continued to elude you, leading Din to reach for a new napkin.

“May I?”

You laughed at your own helplessness and scooched your chair closer to him.

He met you halfway and wiped at the edge of your mouth. Even through the layers between you, his fingers burned into your skin. You couldn’t help staring at the concentrated expression he held, your muscles freezing up under his touch. He drew closer and continued on his mission to clear off the ice cream, though the napkin just felt dry against your skin. His thumb darted out to caress your cheek, and you gasped at the touch.

He had to stop teasing you like that. You wouldn’t be able to help yourself otherwise.

His gaze slowly made its way up from your lips until it met yours, his eyes giving you that familiar sensation of being effortlessly dissected.

How do his eyes do that, you wondered.

“… How do you do that?”

You may not have meant to voice your thoughts, but no regret followed.

“Do what?”

“it’s just that- I don’t know, every time you look at me, it’s like you’re staring into my soul.”

He let out a soft laugh.

“It’s not a bad thing,” you quickly added, “I’ve just never experienced it before.”

He leaned back the slightest bit, his hand falling from your face.

“You do something similar, you know. It’s like there’s…”

He leaned in again and squinted a bit, peering even deeper. You jumped a bit in your seat, the sudden proximity sending a jolt through your veins.

“… I can’t quite explain it, but they’re pretty incredible.”

His voice was soft and quiet, as if speaking too loudly would break the moment.

You melted into his gaze, losing yourself chasing the shining stars that made up its inner galaxy. A deep warmth ran through you, and you couldn’t help smiling. He returned the expression, his eyes crinkling.

You could look at that face all night.

The rest of your ice cream sat abandoned in your hand, the slight sensation of it dripping onto your hand the only indication that anything else still existed.

“Oh-”

Din bounced back into action to clean you up, leaving you to careen back to Earth’s surface. The chatter of other customers, the faint music in the background, it all came rushing back too fast.

“Better get a jump on this if you don’t want to end up doused in ice cream soup,” he said with that beautiful grin.

It was hopeless. Hardly anything had happened, and yet… You were trapped in his orbit.

~~~~

Your throat was so sore by the time Din was driving you home, hours having passed by without you. You were certain you’d never talked to someone for so long before.

The fatigue was showing on his face as well, in the form of tired eyes and deeper sighs.

“I’m sorry to have kept you out so late,” you said.

“Oh, please, don’t be.” He stole a glance before returning his attention to the road. “I had a great time with you.”

Like a blanket straight from the dryer, you were wrapped in that sweet feeling again.

“Likewise.”

He smiled with his teeth for the briefest of moments.

Moments later he was pulling the car into park in front of your building and popping out to open your door one more time for the night.

You looked up to see him staring at the ground with his hand outstretched, that adorable red tint decorating his ears. You smiled and let him pull you out of the car, but this time he didn’t step away.

Your heartbeat quickened without your permission, sending a flurry of butterflies through your gut. You were craning your neck the slightest bit, eager to take in his features from this close up, despite the growing clamminess in your hands.

His gaze was slower to meet yours; he took his time examining you, starting from your shoes and working his way up. When he did catch your eyes, something in his stance deflated. And his smile once again took all the remaining breath from your lungs.

“I meant it,” he all but whispered, “I… had a really great time tonight.”

“Me too,” your voice came out quieter than intended, matching his. “Maybe we could do it again sometime?”

“I’d like that.”

He gave your hand a squeeze.

“I’d like that a lot.”

Your smile was hurting your cheeks, but the pain was barely registering. The crisp night air whisked around you both, as if sweeping away everything else until all you could focus on was Din.

He took up your entire field of vision, your every sensation, each breath you tried to take.

You couldn’t stand it anymore.

You placed your free hand on his shoulder, giving yourself enough leverage to pull him towards you and plant a kiss on his cheek.

Your entire body was heating up, your lips tingling. His skin was so soft, the slight scratch of his stubble a pleasant sensation.

His eyes betrayed surprise, blinking a few times before regaining their focus. He gulped and looked back down to the ground between you both, the red tint stretching to his cheeks.

God, he was so cute.

A big gust of wind broke the moment, making you shiver. His face immediately shifted to concern.

“Oh, are you cold?”

You let out a small laugh.

“Just a bit. I guess that’s my cue.”

You gave his hand one last squeeze before letting go and retrieving your leftovers from the car.

He closed the car door when you stepped away, stuffing his hands in his pocket.

“Good night, Din. Thank you for everything.”

He smiled at you, giving a small nod in your direction.

“Good night.”

One last look at him before you forced your feet to start moving. Every instinct in you tried to pull you back to him, but you had to press on.

The heated building began to thaw you out, but it was nothing compared to him. You didn’t stop until you got to the elevator, the curb thankfully out of view to keep you from running right back outside.

Every moment, every feeling, it all came crashing down on you all at once. Right there inside the moving metal box. You had to lean against the wall to catch yourself.

What a night.

~~~~

Your apartment was dark. The city lights still penetrated through your windows, illuminating select areas and helping your brain adjust, but you were still left fumbling for the light switch.

Your movements were almost robotic as you toed off your shoes, put away your food, closed the curtains, and made your way to the bedroom. You plopped your purse down and stared at yourself in the mirror.

Okay, I’m wearing the dress, so none of that was a dream.

You changed into your nightwear and took a seat on the couch, blankly turning on the TV and letting the white noise fill the space.

Your mind was so overwhelmed with how much the two of you had spoken, yet it still didn’t feel like enough. By the end of it all, you still wished it didn’t have to end.

You brushed your fingers over your cheek, where the invisible indent of his hand still remained. Warm, strong, and soft – that’s how his hands felt. Just the memory of them had your skin tingling again.

Magic. It was the only word that could describe the night. Something about it all was just pure magic.

You sighed. You’d never been more eager to see someone again. To feel that enchanting bliss again. It seemed so foolish, yet you couldn’t help yourself. You lifted up your phone – it’d definitely be too much to message him now, no matter how much you wanted to. Some self-control had to be practiced.

You elected instead to put on Golden Girls, your muscles relaxing as the familiar score began to play. You reached over to your side table and pick up your most recent read: Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand. Funnily enough, the story involved a new love for the titular character.

But for the first time in a while, the pages went on without you. You made it through the first few pages before the train derailed. The words were there, your eyes moved over them, but you weren’t encoding a single one. Your mind’s eye projected those eyes, that suit, the gorgeous smile, all over the page.

You shook your head. Maybe if this chapter involved Jasmina rather than the discomforting country club group, it would apply more to your mind’s incessant stick to the topic of romance.

“Sorry, Major,” you whispered as you closed the book. “Even you can’t compete right now.”

The girls were chatting over cheesecake when you picked up your phone again, scrolling aimlessly until you decided the only way to calm yourself down enough to go to bed was to expel everything.

The phone only rang twice before Harley picked up, skipping every pleasantry and going right into the, “Tell me everything.”

~~~~

Luke turned to the next page in his book, readjusting in the chair as he did so.

The apartment had been quiet, blanketed in the yellow glow of Din’s floor lamp since Grogu fell asleep. The perfect backdrop to get engrossed in a book and forget where he was.

The one thing to break his trance was the gentle rustling of the front door. Luke looked up and checked his phone – the 11:55pm timestamp had him slightly recoiling in disbelief.

When Din walked through the door, Luke closed his book and gave him a smile.

“Welcome back,” he said, “How’d it go?”

Din shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it on the sofa. He plopped down, leaned on his knees, and ran his hands through his hair with a sigh. When he sat back up, Luke noted the flush in his cheeks, the shine in his eyes, and couldn’t help grinning.

“That good, huh?”

Din shook his head.

“I don’t even know what happened. She’s… just incredible.”

Luke had never seen Din like this. Sure, he was quiet, but this was fully tongue-tied. A blissful tone was evident in his worn-out voice.

As quick as it came, though, it vanished. Din’s expression narrowed.

“Wait, how long has he been asleep?”

Ah. Dad mode was back.

“A few hours,” Luke said with a shrug. “It is almost midnight.”

Din straightened up.

“What? I was gone that long?”

“It’s okay, Mr. Djarin, he’s completely fine.”

“I’ve never missed bedtime on a day off. Are you sure he was okay?”

“Yes,” Luke said, moving to sit next to Din on the sofa. “I promise, he’s great. Besides, he goes to bed at eight. Even if you were home earlier, there’s no way you’d have been back that early.”

Din leaned back until he collided with the backrest, slightly shaking his head.

Luke internally sighed. Just when he thought the guilt would stay away…

He turned in his seat to face Din and got his attention with a hand to his shoulder.

“Mr. Djarin, listen to me. I want you to think about how you felt being out tonight. How you felt being on that date.”

Din eyed Luke before turning his gaze to his lap.

“You don’t have to say anything – just think.”

Din closed his eyes, his chest slowly inflating and deflating with deep breaths.

In the time he’d known Din, Luke had never seen him do anything for himself. Everything he ever did, he did for Grogu. It was hard to see him like this, almost punishing himself for the smallest deviation.

The best way out of this for now, Luke reasoned, was to reframe it in a way that included Grogu.

“Now, don’t you think Grogu would enjoy hearing about those feelings? Won’t it be nice to tell him all about this tomorrow?”

Din’s gaze rose back up to him.

“You’ll see for yourself, he’s going to love that you went out and did so much. He is going to love seeing you happy.”

Din gave a small nod, though there was still a hint of doubt in his expression. He sat up and let out a puff of air.

“Can I ask you something, Luke?”

Luke straightened up with a nod.

“Why are you helping me so much?”

“What do you mean?” Luke asked.

“I mean, I don’t understand why you’ve gone out of your way to do so much for me. Especially with all this date stuff.”

What an innocent soul he was. Luke smiled and shrugged.

“Because I want to.”

“But… why?”

Din looked genuinely puzzled. On the one hand, it was endearing, but on the other, Luke couldn’t help wondering why it was so hard for him to accept that people would just want to help him.

“Believe it or not, Mr. Djarin,” he started, “spending this much time together has made us friends. Friends help each other. If I needed something, we both know you’d be there for me. It’s the same both ways.”

Din’s expression relaxed a bit. A small grin pulled at his lips.

“Well, friend, I’m sorry to have kept you here all night.”

The swell of warmth that came from hearing Din call him a friend was unexpected, but not unwelcome. Luke gave him a pat on the shoulder.

“No worries, pal. I’m really glad you had such a good night.”

Din gave him a wider smile.

“You were right about getting there early,” he chuckled, “I did need the extra time.”

Luke laughed.

He sat back and listened as Din relayed parts of the night, pride growing within him with every moment, every story, every little hint of bashfulness and glee on Din’s face.

A happy Din was quite the sight to behold.

****

Additional notes: Major Pettigrew's Last Stand by Helen Simonson is one of my favorite books ever. Full stop. It's a beautiful, skillfully told story about an old man finding new meanings in life. The characters are so flushed out and amazing and they just tug at your heart. I am very picky about writing style and I just gotta say, Helen's is one of the most talented writers I've read. Only something like this date could've derailed my mind from her gorgeous words!!

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