#like a very sane and well adjusted individual

[joansblondells]

?!?!?!?!?

[robinsdearest]

Time is everything we may not have

Bruce Wayne x F!Reader

“You better not stay too late.” You glance up from your computer, smiling at the man in your office doorway. Lucius Fox has his jacket thrown over his shoulder. He taps on the glass door, most likely making a note to text your husband to check on you. 

Your laugh bounces across the room. “I promise. It’s not even ten, Mr. Fox.” You make a few unnecessary keyboard clicks for emphasis. 

“Well, Mrs. Wayne,” he pauses as he puts his jacket on. “It’s a Saturday. We shouldn’t have been here to begin with.” 

You pinch the bridge of your nose as you laugh again. Bruce had forgotten to submit a few government reports earlier this week, forcing you and a few select others to work overtime.

Being married to Bruce Wayne definitely had its overall pros and cons. Pro: wonderful, dutiful, and caring husband. Con: tasteless vigilante at night; you know, normal things. All bats aside, you loved your life. You helped raise some pretty amazing children. You worked at Wayne Enterprises alongside Lucius, one of the few sane people in your life. You and Alfred even had special weekly tea nights. The Dark Knight barely reared its ugly head on your side of the story.

You exchange a few more pleasantries before goodbyes, promising Lucius to text him whenever you head out. The morning light still illuminated your area, cascading to the corners of your top floor office. You finish all that your husband failed to do within the next two hours or so, swearing to yourself that you’ll have to keep him more accountable next time. You pack your bag, putting your heels back on before heading out. As you walk, your mind wanders to what tea Alfred has potentially left out for you.

You make it to the elevator when the lights start to flicker. Quite odd, there shouldn’t have been any maintenance scheduled. You pull your phone out to check the employee website. You truly become worried when you notice there’s no signal. You know damn well you paid to have enough Wi-Fi and cell service to power a small city. You sigh, shoving your phone back into your purse. No text to Lucius today. A sudden tremor shakes the skyscraper, forcing you to grab ahold of the nearest wall. The lights flicker again, and you make a beeline for the stairs. Fear and adrenaline course through your veins. At this height, an elevator ride to the bottom very well could be a death trap. There’s no immediate explanation for earthquakes in Gotham, but you don’t have time to question anything. 

Tremors continue to shake the ground as you run down the stairwell. The stairs appear sturdy enough even with the shaking. You drop your bag and shed your heels on the next landing. Workouts with your kids can help train for this type of endurance, however you don’t believe this exact scenario has been practiced. 

A few dozen flight of stairs later, an explosion rattles the entire building, and you’re sent to your knees. The blast seemed close, but the stairwell you were in seems untouched. Your breathing is labored, and your heart is beating in your ears. You check your phone again with no luck- still no service. You attempt to stand back on your feet, yet you’re stopped by another discharge. This blast is much closer as it tears down the walls around you. Individual stairs are rattling, breaking into pieces. The ground caves from beneath you and you’re sent plummeting. Your screams are drowned out with the sound of falling debris. The last thing on your mind is that your husband and children are safe, they have to be safe. Their lives flicker through your memories as your world goes dark.

****************************************************************

You wake with a cough. It feels as if a terrible weight has settled on your chest. As your eyes adjust to the darkness, you can barely make out your surroundings. A few steel beams create a makeshift roof, sheltering you from what you assume is the rest of the building you were just standing in. You can barely move your limbs, shaking a few pieces of destroyed building off of you. Thinking of Bruce and your birds, you know the pain now would pale in comparison to their’s if you were to stay here. Scanning your options in the darkness of wreckage, you finally spot a small glitter of light off to your left. Dragging yourself through the smashed concrete, you army crawl your way forward. 

The smoke outside is still settling as you inch from the rubble. The sun is visibly lower than it was before you fell, signaling that you had been out for quite a few hours. 

You look back to the path that you created, a trail of blood left in your wake. Peering down to your legs, the daylight finally illuminates your wounds- your clothes are torn and speckled with your own blood; glass shards litter your body; and a few pieces of concrete are embedded in dirty skin. You probably look as terrible as you feel. The only thought that crosses your mind is Bruce. 

You’ve crawled well enough away from the building to get a better look at the destruction. Wayne Enterprises- or at least what it used to be- is entirely reduced to rubble. The force of the explosion has leveled a block, only several other buildings are seriously damaged. Your corporate brain goes to the paperwork involved with repairing this Gotham district. You force yourself to stand and choose a direction to walk. A few cracked bones, maybe a broken rib or two, at maximum you decide. It explains the inability to breathe. You’re pushed forward by the sheer will to see your husband and your kids. Thinking of their lives without you brings tears to your eyes, leaving a clean trail down your cheeks. 

Despite your injuries, you make it surprisingly far. After several agonizing blocks, you finally see the mob. There are dozens of ambulances, several fire trucks, and more police cars than you can count with a blurry head. You’re acutely proud of yourself for choosing the correct direction to go. You can barely make out the metal barricades separating the emergency crew and the civilians. With the way things are situated, the citizens of Gotham stand between you and a much needed wellness check. Your mind drifts to think of where Bruce might be.

A traffic cone being thrown catches your attention. You strain your eyes and could collapse in relief with what you see. 

Batman has a finger in a police officer’s face. His other gloved hand is resting on another orange victim. You might need to remind him to mind his tantrums. This level of anger seen on the vigilante is quite uncommon. Your eyebrows furrow as your foggy mind attempts to find the reason. Beyond the need to smother Bruce, you know he’s exactly who you need right now. You’re alive and you have to reach him. 

You’ve finally made it to the large group of onlookers; startled gasps cause a path to be made for you. Your eyes are getting heavy and your legs are starting to slow. The adrenaline is wearing off, most likely, and there’s a particular large piece of concrete you can feel is digging into your thigh. You’re trying to not pay attention to the eyes on you. The finish line is right in your reach, the only place you want to be. The only place where you know you can be safe. This damn barricade is right in your way.

Superman’s hand is on Batman’s chest now. Wonder Woman has a hand on his shoulder, most likely speaking in hush tones in an attempt to calm him. Bruce’s cowl is not enough to cover the exasperation on his features: fighting back against Clark’s hand, he’s obviously yelling even if you can’t hear him exactly. What could Bruce be so worked up about? 

Scanning the other first responders, you eventually find Dick speaking with a fireman a dozen feet to your right. The boy you’ve helped raise is still in his Bludhaven police uniform. He looks like an old man with his brows scrunched together like that. You swear quietly, you’ll have to lecture him on his wrinkles later. 

Your ankle gives out as you take another step, launching you into the temporary barrier. The metal clangs too aggressively for your sensitive ears, and it has you swearing louder this time. Your bones seem to be getting heavier with time, and you lean more into the barrier to release some of the tension. 

Suddenly, you hear your name being shouted. Painfully, you raise your head to make eye contact with your favorite policeman. Dick is running towards you, speaking into his transceiver. He reaches you after a few seconds and is grabbing your shoulders to lift your head to meet his eyes. You decide to not call out the wetness of his cheeks, not in front of all these people anyway.

“Oh my god, where were you? You haven’t been answering your phone. God, B has been going insane. Why didn’t you pick up? Where have you been?” Dick’s questions hit your ears, but your brain is slow to process. Concussion, at minimum you decide. He’s still crying as he continues worrying. You mindlessly wonder if Dick’s reasoning for being upset is the same as your husband’s. 

You lift a hand to smooth down the wrinkles on his forehead. This seems to ease his mouth to a slow tremble as the tears continue. 

Dick finally takes an assessment of your current physical status, the tears stop and his eyes go wide.

“Mama.” You smile falters at how serious he gets. “You don’t look so good. W-we have to get you out of here.” He motions over to a pair of paramedics who rush to your side. Before you know it, you’re being carefully lifted over the barrier to be placed on a gurney. 

“No, Dickie.” You grab his hand so he doesn’t leave your side on the way back to the ambulance. Your throat aches but you continue, “I gotta see your dad. I gotta see Bruce.” You can feel the blood rushing to your head from laying down. Things are getting incredibly blurry. You just want to see Bruce, injuries can wait, they’re really not that bad.

Dick is shaking his head. He opens his mouth to say something, but instead turns his head as his name is being called. You crane your neck to see Barry speed to your side. The EMT’s are loading you in the car as Dick and Barry speak on the ground. You smile weakly at the speedster as the he turns his head to call the others.

At the height in the back of the emergency vehicle, you finally catch Bruce’s eye. 

Batman pushes off Superman’s hand. He breaks out into a sprint just as the ambulance doors close. Dick raises both hands to slow the bat down. Bruce is gesturing towards you and continues to yell. Barry is holding Bruce back this time. Even though you wouldn’t encourage how your husband raises his voice at your kids, you understand the anger, a lot is happening. You wish you could hold B’s stare longer, but your exhaustion takes over.

An oxygen mask is placed over your head as you slowly lose consciousness for the second time today. Realization hits you in the same wave finally: Bruce was worried about you. Bruce was ready to fight Clark, Diana, and Barry to come find you. The lack of service, the explosion, the hours that have ticked by. How long did Bruce think you were dead?

****************************************************************

When you wake again, it’s dark. The antiseptic smell of a hospital room is what you first notice as the rest of your senses follow. You hollowly feel the morphine in your system, a good solution to any potential pain. The beeping of the EKG fills the room, but is intermittently interrupted by slight snoring. Looking down to your side, there’s a small boy curled into you, his hands fisted tight into your hospital gown. The tuft of black hair tells all: Damian. Slowly wrapping an arm around your smallest bird, a gasp startles you. Whipping your head towards the sound, the sudden motion makes you flinch and swear once again.

“I told you we have to work on your language.” 

Your free hand goes to rub at the back of your neck as you relax. “And I told you to not yell at your children in high stress environments.”

You can make out the outline of a man standing from his chair, making calculated movements towards you. His weight settles on the other side of you, causing you to lean into him, Damian rolling forward as well. Bruce gently cradles your head, kissing your temple. There’s another beat of silence before he speaks again.

“Three hours.” You make a puzzled sound. He kisses your forehead. “How long you were missing. How long I thought you were dead.” Your sharp intake of breathe lets Bruce continue. “Kent threatened to fly me across the world if I didn’t calm down. Diana tried to convince me you weren’t at the office building when it collapsed.”

You stifle a laugh- he very well could have fought Superman to find you. You take his hand to kiss the calloused knuckles. Your head falls into the crook of Bruce’s neck as he explains the event. 

Low level punks thinking they weren’t going to do much damage to Wayne Enterprises or the surrounding business district. Too stupid to know what they were actually doing. You don’t know if it warms your heart or breaks it that you could have been lost to petty crime, not even a big name villain. 

Bruce is running fingers through your hair, the other hand drawing small circles on your hand with his thumb. He tells you about the first call to your phone, the second call to the boys, and finally the third call to the Justice League. He knew where you were; he instinctively knew by the twisting of his gut that you were there and he couldn’t do anything about it. Bruce mentioned how helpless he felt. Something about how Clark needed to check for more explosives before any rescue team could make headway.  

The freshly showered scent of your husband is almost enough to put you back to sleep. He whispers all his feelings and his fears from the day, kissing your head and holding you close. 

It’s an overwhelmingly tender moment. Damian eventually wakes up, hugging you and almost immediately crying upon seeing that you’re awake. At one point, the baby bird leaves to retrieve your other boys. This allows a small moment between husband and wife. 

Bruce cups your face with both hands and kisses you fully. His lips are soft and sweet, a bit salty from his or your tears you’re not sure. He rests his forehead against yours. 

“When I saw you being pulled into that ambulance, I wanted nothing more than to run to you and do just that.” He kisses you again for good measure. “I almost knocked down everything in my path to get to you.” You hum into his lips. 

“I was gross and dirty. You wouldn’t have wanted to kiss me then.” 

It’s Bruce’s turn to laugh. “No.” Another kiss. You can hear your boys on the other side of the door now. Bruce’s smile brightens your room and sends butterflies to your stomach. “Absolutely not.”

[darkfictionjude]

Related to the last ask, how would the Ro's react if MC was being sent to the hospital again? (Relationship stage, of course?

Hahaha ok now that is fun (not for mc of course).

Imre:

So he went directly to the powers that be that decided this and in a sharp but measured tone demanded that this course of action not take place. He was denied and so yes he is in love enough (and morbidly curious) that he’ll admit himself into that hospital with you. You won’t suffer alone. He has money to bribe anyway.

Nia:

She threw things. Expensive things, some belonged to her and some belonged to her father. After she calmed down she made a plan to gather information on whoever’s idea it was to send you back through her gossipy friends and joyfully blackmail them with it unless you are returned into her care promptly.

Lorcan:

He got horribly wasted. And in that state went marching over to your house and started throwing punches at whoever was there. After being arrested and released he went into his father’s old room, got his gun and impulsively stole his grandma’s credit card to a buy a plane ticket. He was going to get you out whatever it takes.

—————

Like I said these people are very well adjusted and healthy individuals who will totally become healthier sane people once in love 💜

[princelylove]

Your highness,

You made me think about Risotto Nero and I've went and re read what you had already written about him (which was really fun and lovely, as always) but I've noticed we never really got a proper analysis of him.

As I've said before, I am a sucker for random details and I was wondering if you would kindly share with us some of your headcannons on him, maybe less popular ideas or underrated aspects of him.

Just like with Leone, I feel like he's a very misunderstood, mistreated character and I'm dying to read more about *your* vision of him.

I will humbly take whatever you wish to share with us (me <3)

Heart <3

I’ll be writing for him when I add to my body interpretations, as la squadra esecuzioni is up next, but Risotto needs some more attention, specifically. I agree that he’s incredibly mistreated- that’s the price you pay when you’re that handsome. 

Risotto is quite the stalker. I think of him as the knight in shining armor type, your very own white knight obsessed with protecting you, but being with him directly means involving you in his work, so… from the shadows is fine. 

Risotto knows how to pay attention to the details, he’s a romantic in that sense. He’s very careful not to leave any trace- of course, besides from his ‘gifts.’ It’s nothing flashy, in fact, if you aren’t very perceptive, you won’t notice them at all. The dishes are done. There isn’t any dust. The contents of the refrigerator are all safe, and aren’t expired. Things to that effect. 

After Sorbet & Gelato died, he asked his unit to all move in together, but he isn’t very social, so… he just kind of locks himself in his office all day. They’re safe, and fed, and not miserable (hopefully), so it’s all fine. There’s no need for him to intervene. Prosciutto came a little late, but all’s well. (I should go into the group dynamic more.) 

He talks very slowly, and has a habit of mumbling. His voice is fairly deep, deeper than Leone’s, but it isn’t raspy. While the vowels themselves are clear, he makes his voice as ‘small’ as he can. Risotto doesn’t want to frighten off small, timid creatures. Nevermind the fact that there isn’t a timid soul in that apartment. The most mouselike individual is Pesci, or technically Illuso since he hides in his own world all day, and there’s no reason to speak like that to either of them.

Risotto doesn’t really talk that much, he prefers to sit back (not really, he’s always tense) and listen carefully. He nitpicks his words, although most of it is improv. His quick thinking has kept him his position as capo, and although he heavily dislikes his job, it comes easily to him. 

Metallica isn’t sentient, but he pretends it is, for amusement. He gets lonely easily, his ‘little friends’ keep him sane when the boss sends him on seven hits back to back.

Risotto strikes me as the type of man to have a lot of patience, but eventually, he'll snap. He's the protective type, plagued by 'what-if's and genuine threats to your safety. You can be mad at him, or have whatever feelings you need to have, just know that he won't let you go.

Whatever behavior you exhibit after he kidnaps you is fine. He'll suck it up and bear it until your shoulders stop tensing at his footsteps. Heavy, clear footsteps that don't drag or approach too quickly. He considered using his stand to take care of your needs, you cannot be frightened if you don't know he's there, but it's better if you associate him with safety. It's better if you have a familiar face, too.

You stay in his office, but you're free to wander all around his apartment. A large room that has his bed on one side, and his desk on the other. The bed does not fit him. It's yours until you'll allow him to share it with you.

Once you've adjusted to him... he'll shove his face into you and just breathe in as much of you as he can, before he has to go.

[shine-of-aldhani]

Daemon is an above average father to his daughters, and I'm tired of people pretending like he isn't. First of all, this is a world where fathers aren't expected to do any parenting, specially not of preteen daughters. In fact, there are no examples of fathers on the show who engage with their children in one-on-one positive manner, except for Daemon teaching Baela and Viserys talking to a much older Rhaenyra (and even that is about business). How easily some of you overlook this fact. In comparison, Rhaena's one line where she thinks Daemon ignores her because of her lack of dragon is blown up, but somehow Rhaena doesn't move to claim a dragon in the 6 years she lives near them. Not sure how relevant her one line was in the grand scheme of parenting. Much had been said about the aftermath of Laena's death... The most comparable scene here is Aemma's funeral, with Viserys completely checking out on Rhaenyra in his own grief. And everyone agrees that Viserys deeply loved her, and was overcome with is own emotions. Let's extend the same courtesy to Daemon, please.

The best indicator is that both girls grow up to be nice, loving, well-adjusted individuals. Both unweavingly support their father's cause. Compare this to how their cousins turned out and weep.

Daemon is also an above-average husband to both Laena and Rhaenyra (his marriage to Rhea happened against his will and he was very clear that he was never a husband to her). Laena is shown to have enormous power in her household, publicly speaking over her husband and rejecting a business proposal made to him, a wild breach of tradition to which Daemon didn't even bat an eye. She was comfortable enough pestering Daemon to go and live with his in-laws (nobody wants to live with in-laws; his is actually the sane reaction). And of course he treated her better on her deathbed than Viserys treated the love of his life.

As for Rhaenyra (Lady of Dragonstone and named heir, who had zero problems pulling rank on Laenor), they'd been together for 6 years and conceived 3 children, were easily physically affectionate and Rhaenyra called Daemon "my love". Objectively, the show has established that he'd been a good husband in the 6 years they'd been together. Acting like nothing of this ever happened because of a lapse made under mounting grief and extreme pressure to keep the family safe is simply disingenuous.

[chernozemic]

lunarscaled asked: PUSHES SEVERAL BEAKERS OFF A TABLE. >:|

@lunarscaled ／ unprompted ／ always accepting.

"..."

Disobedience was always such a disgusting sight on subjects. It was even more-so when they had no reason to act as such. Often times, it led him to wonder (it also makes him want to pat himself on the back; nemu would've never done this--) if they were in desperate need of discipline. Normally, this would only be something a "crazy person" was wont to do-- not that Mayuri would know, of course.

He's never felt more sane than he did in this very moment.

A look of mild amusement (or was it bemusement? they always tended to coincide at the strangest of times.) crossed over features upon the plethora upon plethora of destruction. He doesn't say much -- if anything at all, because he's deducing that Lyric wouldn't like if he spoke -- in regards to the glass shards piling up at a seemingly alarming pace. There's no reason to panic, because he's just going to fetch Nemu later on and let her tend to... whatever this was.

Lyric had a tendency to throw a tantrum whenever it was at their convenience and never at Mayuri's. That was to be expected. Did it make it any less easy to handle, though? Of course not. This was just something he's adjusted to, acclimating himself to it with practiced ease and simple maturity. If he were to return the same energy in kind then it would make all of his previous efforts for naught.

They were an emotional sort (unlike nemu. unlike mayuri.) and, sometimes, he detested working side-by-side with their ilk. There were too many possibilities; he's capable of just about anything but there were times where Mayuri preferred if things were a little more easy. Normally, he wasn't the sort to fraternize with the idea of "collectivism", but he was also highly aware that he wasn't the only one to feel like this.

He couldn't have been the only one to welcome peace and quiet. Especially when peace and quiet was well-earned and well-deserved.

"Allow me to end this prematurely--"

He's quick on cutting in once they're on the fifth beaker (nemu's got her work cut out for her, he surmises.) with little fanfare. All he does in the midst of this miniature hurricane that's decided to take place within his laboratory was snake his hand into its brother's sleeve. Fingers were nimble, sliding nicely up painted skin that, soon, transitioned into naked, vulnerable skin. It's concealed beneath a handful of layers, but there's a subtle bump that implied vague rummaging.

It's mostly done for show, however. Maybe he was intending on giving them a chance to end this farce while they were still ahead. However, it seemed that that only encouraged them. What a shame.

Eyes squinted, honing in on the individual of Lyric rather than a specific part. He's preparing himself for a sudden observation, a spark-- something that would give him anything that wasn't this childish display.

"--I think that it would be in everyone's best interests... that you settle down."

As soon as his tongue turned itself, angling itself into the backsides of his bottom row of teeth, a quiet click sounds.

At first, there's nothing. Absolutely nothing. Mayuri doesn't bother to try and fill the silence, neither.

He doesn't have to, not when several high voltages of electricity were suddenly sent Lyric's way. There's zero warning. No reason to. They weren't listening (so ungrateful, considering he's let them keep their clothes, keep their voice, keep their lungs, keep their eyes... keep whatever it was that made them a human being!) to reason, so why should he offer them the same? There was no reason to. At this point, there was truly no reason for him to continue talking to them like an adult... let alone a human.

If they wished to act like an animal then they would be treated like one.

"Sit."

[gemsofgreece]

well yannis keeps saying how white greeks are and how oppressive they are and how much respectful the nigerian culture is

Okay, where to start with this:

Yannis says ‘how’ white Greeks are:

I hope you realise this is a fact, not an accusation. Just like the vast majority of people in African countries look black, the vast majority of people in European countries look white. That doesn’t mean that a person looking different from the average but having spent their entire life there shouldn't identify as a national of that country. I also don’t know what “how” means in this context. a) How “white personality” they have? These are American concepts that mean nothing to the rest of the world. We don't connect skintone with personality here. We may connect religions and ethnic groups with stereotypes, but not skintone. b) How white they are skin-wise? Well there are others who are more, to be sure. Neither of these explanations of "hows" seem valid or likely to have been said by Yannis so I believe you are misquoting a bit there. If he meant how many they are or he was confirming that the majority are indeed white, well again, this is just a fact, neither good nor bad.

How oppressive they are:

It doesn’t make sense for Yannis to promote Greece and Greeks at every turn and then accuse them of how oppressive they are to people like him. Yannis has spoken out about how racism in Greece should be dealt with, just like he has spoken out against racism in the way more multi-cultural USA that made him a millionaire. Racism is found in every country (and not only "whiteTM" ones) and it must be addressed everywhere. That has nothing to do with whether Yannis feels Greek or not or whether he loves Greece or not and it doesn't give a right to other people to have an opinion on his identity. Yannis has spoken against racism wherever it comes from and he has mostly criticised the Greek state’s inability to help immigrants adjust smoothly which makes life for an immigrant harder, mostly financially. That is because an immigrant influx in Greece has started only in the last 2-3 decades and Greek state is remarkably constipated. Yannis uses his fame to push the Greek state to make reformations (faster) and it's a very clever move. But I have never heard him say one bad or truly hurtful thing about Greece, its culture and people, except addressing institutional problems every sane person acknowledges and every citizen has a right to speak up about.

"and how much respectful the nigerian culture is"

Okay this one I really don't get. a) Does he have to speak ill of Nigeria to prove he also feels Greek????? Must he really shoot one down? b) I am sure Nigerian culture is wonderful but what do you mean? That he said Nigerian culture is respectful as opposed to Greek or other cultures being disrespectful? To my knowledge, no culture has disrespect as a defining value, even if different cultures define respect differently. Don't confuse problematic rhetorics and beliefs spread widely by powerful, greedy or simply toxic individuals with cultures. Either Yannis meant something else or he was praising Nigerian culture without making comparisons or you are not quoting it very accurately. I know for a fact Yannis speaks beautifully about Nigeria and Yannis supports and speaks beautifully about Greece all the time, except his life in Greece has made him eligible to also address its issues like every other citizen. If he lived in Nigeria, I am sure he would have an opinion about the stuff Nigeria sucks at, right? Even if he looked Greek.

[estbela]

anyway not that anyone asked but I dont like robul when its like. Romania as the weird insaney magic guy and bulgaria essentially being more...idk serious? Essentialy filling the role of the straightman (or the 'only sane man' trope if you wish).

He is def more laidback then Romania, but theyre like. Both zany and quirky and whatever in my opinion. Its just that Bul hangs out around a lot of more outwardly not well-adjusted people and save for the green eyes he doesnt really stand appearence wise (also he does want/wanted in the past for people to think he is a normal well-adjusted individual) but he is very much also a freak <3

[grain-my-beloved]

Yknow, that one scene in Yandere where Grian screams at Okami and calls her a terrible parent definitely feels like projection.

Like, I heard his multiple passionate rants about how if HIS kid was missing then HE would be on the streets looking for them and why the hell isn't Okami doing that, why is she standing around crying instead of doing something, how could she leave her daughter with three kindergarteners and expect things to work out anyways, what is wrong with her, she's such a terrible mother, etc. And I immediately went "Oh yeah. This is a kid who just got abandoned by his parents".

Like. He certainly had a genuine point there. His rant towards Okami wasn't entirely unwarranted. She left her three year old daughter with only some five year olds for supervision and expected it to work out then she and Rowan spent the next day or so sending glares at these three children as if it's actually their fault when they're literally kindergarteners. But Grian went off. And while I wouldn't call Grian blowing up on her entirely unwarranted, I would call it slightly out of place in just how heated and personally upset he was, not just about being blamed, but also about the fact that she wasn't doing enough generally to ensure her daughter was safe and with her. And contrary to some people's belief, Grian isn't actually usually reactionary enough to go off like that at people in an out of place way? He's definitely always had a tendency of falling into the only-sane-man role which means a lot of exasperated and annoyed jabs at the insanity perpetuated by the people around him. And he's always been assertive enough that snapping back at someone who's being irrational or a prick to him isn't abnomal. However screaming at a mother who's child just went missing that she's a terrible parent and reiterating the comment on multiple other occasions to the point of getting sideeyed and reprimended by the other people being unfairly blamed along with him? That's a step outside of his normal wheelhouse. That definitely reads as projected rage considering his own parents had very recently sent him away.

In fact a Lot of Grian's behaviour in Yandere seems to be tied to his feelings over being abandoned. Grian in Yandere is unique because of how generally angry and standoffish he is. Throughout his highschool years, Grian can absolutely be cynical and bitter. However not generally as a core aspect of himself.

In fact, he can actually be quite friendly in his highschool years, with moments of annoyance popping up in direct response to his frequent slating in the Only Sane Man role. Which if you don't know what that means, to quote the Tv Tropes article on the only sane man, "picture this: Alice is a psycho for hire, Bob is a cloudcookolander, henry is an empty shell, charlotte is a chaotic stupid prankster, daniel is the annoying younger sibling, emily is a jerk with a heart of jerk, maria rhymes on a dime, Franklin is a mad scientist, and Gardenia is a holier than thou lawful stupid. Looks like your standard dysfunction junction. But then you have Isaac. Isaac is actually a very well-adjusted individual. He reacts with appropriate horror to things like Alice's finger collection or Franklin's experiments to revive the dead with science, and the crimes against nature that Gardenia calls pets. Isaac is the Only sane Man and The Only Voice Of Reason in the room". Grian would be Isaac in this scenario. He isn't completely free of quirks but he fails to fall under the group delusions of the other's, often calls out the fact that their school should probably be teaching them, is the only one who seems too perturbed by the cops doing nothing to help anyone ever, and pretty consistently objects to doing crime (especially severe or really dumb one's). This along with Grian's tendency to hold deep vitriolic disdain for his abuser (*cough* sam *cough*) down to telling him he's "Literally The Worst Person Who's Ever Existed" can make Grian come across as pretty constantly irritated and volatile.

He's really honestly not though. At least not as an aspect of his personality. Assertiveness and rationality can make him appear volatile when he's in the environment yhs often provides. But we know this isn't his natural state and that when not being actively handed a reason to be upset he's often very polite. This is not the same in Yandere. In Yandere Grian is just plain standoffish, rude, and even sometimes explosive. He doesn't need to be pushed. Anger that in later years would typically be reserved for people who Seriously hurt him is extended a lot more easily. General irritation is also less a notable (if unfortunately frequent) reaction to outside bullshit and more just Grian's state of being in Yandere.

Which I think is, very sadly, a direct result of the abandonment he faced from his parents before the series. Grian makes constant remarks about how he was left and his parents don't love him and how he wants to go home, ranging from petty angry remarks on how he hates this stupid country all the way to teary eyed rambling about his parents leaving him even to the point kf explosive anger. Hell, he spends the first few episodes violently pushing away the only people who try to befriend him and doing his absolute best to salt the earth under them. To me it all just screams of a little kid with abandonment issues trying to avoid further hurt by lashing out after his parents left him, loudly proclaiming his disdain for the country, his class, and every specific person who comes into contact with him frequently enough. Which I just think is Very sad.

[whereisten]

True Love

A Jeno fic that’s a part of our Halloween Series!

Summary: You, an employee at an entertainment company, are immune to the charms of their biggest star Lee Jeno.

Pairing: Rockstar! Jeno x female reader

Genre: romance, drama, fantasy, suspense

Warning: alcohol use, smut mention, stalking, manipulation 

Word Count: 4.3k

(A/N: Hiya! I’m so sorry for the delay! It’s been so hectic lol! Thank you so much for your support and patience! Hope you enjoy! And shoutout to Krys for keeping me sane and for all of her love and support. I love you! :D)

___

To everyone in the world, Lee Jeno was the epitome of perfection and rock royalty. He was a gifted musician from the very young age of five, having specialized in several instruments in his childhood. However, his heart gravitated to the guitar. He became a trainee at LCF Entertainment and along with four other trainees, they became the world famous rock band, Temptation.

He was ranked in the top 23 in World Magazine’s Sexiest Men Alive this year. He was a walking and talking Adonis with a heartwarming smile.

Jeno was a man of many talents but he certainly didn’t let it get to his head. He was a humanitarian, a UNICEF ambassador, fostered shelter animals, was the proud owner of three cats even though he was allergic, a great family man (funding his siblings’ college tuition and providing for his parents so they could retire early), etc. He did it all and he had it all.

How could anyone be immune to his charms?

People wondered who would be the queen that would reign beside him when he settled down. Frankly, one couldn’t be anything short of a supermodel on the verge of sainthood. So many hopeful contenders were discouraged from pursuing him.

Jeno’s dating life was non-existent, the paparazzi dreaded to inform.

But you were an employee of LCF Entertainment so you knew the truth, as well as the true nature of the famous Lee Jeno. He was basically like any other young man with an inflated ego. He was cocky, a huge flirt when the cameras were off, very picky, and demanding. But no one ever dared speak a word of his true nature to the paparazzi. And you always wondered why. Someone had to bring him down a few pegs.

You were the staff photographer and videographer, in charge of capturing Jeno’s good and “relatable but still unbelievably glamorous” sides. When the camera was on, that was when you felt at ease.

It didn’t help that Jeno liked you either. Although you’d been working with Temptation and the individual members for a few years now, it was only recently that Jeno really was set on it pursuing you.

When you switched off the camera after the recording of Jeno’s backstage vlog, he sat comfortably at his makeup chair and proceeded to ask, “Y/n, will you go out with me now?”

You answered immediately, “No.”

Jeno gave you a sad puppy dog face. “Why not?”

“We’ve gone over this. I would get fired.” You wanted to spare his feelings so that was what you always said when he asked you out.

Jeno groaned. “You would not. I wouldn’t let that happen.”

You snorted. “You think you have that kind of power, Lee?”

He liked when you called him by his last name. “That’s because I do have that power, y/n. The new company building is funded solely out of my earnings from my last solo album.”

You whistled. “There’s that humility I’m always reading about in O!What Magazine…”

Jeno smiled. “You read articles about me?”

“I do when my name is in the article, boss.” You started packing up your equipment, ready to call it a day and head home.

Jeno got out of his chair and stood over you. He smelled of Dior Sauvage, cologne from his latest brand endorsement. He wore his stage clothes from his solo concert rehearsal. A sleeveless jean jacket top that parted down the middle to show his abs. Along his abs, silver chains dangled and added a nice glimmer effect when he was on stage. The entire team was thrilled to see how the audience would eat it up.

He whispered into your ear, “Y/n.”

Truthfully? He was attractive. You’d always had a little crush on him but it was of a shallow nature. You liked him for his looks. Not so much for his personality. You’d known too much.

If Jeno had been any other regular guy, you would’ve been open to a one-night stand.

But Jeno wasn’t just any regular guy.

You tried to hide the fact that shivers ran down your spine. “Stop.”

He chuckled. “But I can see you through the reflection, y/n...You're crossing your legs…”

You’d hoped he wasn’t that perceptive but it turned out he was. You hid away the fact that you were turned on. Your panties were damp but you’d be damned if he ever knew that.

You met Jeno’s perfectly lined eyes as he looked at you unapologetically. Everyone else from the staff already left. Jeno’s manager was waiting downstairs to take him to the radio station J-423 for his upcoming interview.

You were breathless now. “Jeno, you’re going to be late-”

He pulled you into him and kissed you, easily slipping his tongue into your mouth and working magic against yours. You couldn’t help but return his kiss. His mouth was paradise and you wondered what else he could do with it.

He let you go after a few minutes and cupped your face. “So are you going to deny that there’s something going on here?”

You tried to catch your breath as you wiped your lipstick off of Jeno’s mouth. “No, I guess not...But this is where it stops.”

Jeno frowned. “Y/n…”

“I know where I stand. And you know it, too. And Jeno, I don’t like you that way...I’m sorry.” You caressed his face and grabbed your things, leaving Jeno with an unreadable expression on his face.

___

As a member of LCF Entertainment, your ultimate goal was profit. That was what you had to know from the very beginning. There was no such thing as LCF Family or truly prioritizing the idols. Everyone was after themselves. Whoever brought the most money to the company would get the most attention and special treatment. And that was Jeno.

And you, an aspiring film director, were thankful to be on his team because this experience could open doors for you in the future as a director. Sure, Jeno was a diva and he couldn’t stop flirting with you, but the experience wasn’t all that bad. And yeah it was frustrating that the media and the public perceived Jeno to be the nation’s sweetheart. But in the end, he wasn’t hurting anyone.

He was only hurting people’s wallets.

Temptation’s merchandise always sold out quickly but Jeno’s individual merch was always the first to sell out. And it was the first to get resold for twice and sometimes even triple the price. The fanbase was very merciless and selfish with each other. However, the scalpers were the true evil. That was less money going to your company, after all.

Even though frontman Jeno was the most popular member of Temptation, it was Temptation’s drummer Xiaojun that you had a massive crush on for a long time now. You even accumulated a secret collection of his merch. You were two photocards away from completing your Xiaojun album photocard collection.

Xiaojun even admitted to liking you back but you both kept it a secret from everyone else in the world, especially LCF. You two weren’t about to compromise your jobs. However, since Temptation was the biggest moneymaker in the game and the boys had been with the company for quite some time now, their dating ban was lifted.

Which explained why Jeno had been asking you out all week, not caring who listened and it freaked you out.

If Jeno’s fans ever found out he asked you out, they would pin the blame on you.

A week had passed since you told Jeno you weren’t interested in him. You felt bad for hurting him but you were also worried about his mood. He had the power to get you dismissed. You refused to believe he would be so cruel.

And up until this point, you were right. You were still employed and Jeno spoke with you like any other day, talking about camera angles and new concepts for upcoming shoots.

The end of another work week and Xiaojun surprises you on your way to the bus stop.

“Y/n,” Xiaojun pulls up beside you in his Porsche. He looked so elegant in a pale blue sweater and blue jeans. His face was concealed by a mask so he could leave undetected. But you’d recognized those eyebrows anywhere.

“Hey. What are you doing here?”

“I...I think we should finally talk…”

“About?”

He smiled. “About dating.”

You nearly dropped your phone out of your hand from the shock. “Really?”

He said, “Get in so I can drive you home!”

You nodded fervently and got into his passenger seat. Was this really happening?

On the drive home, Xiaojun told you he wanted to take it slow and have indoor dates with you first. You couldn’t agree more. He even surprised you with a brand new pair of AirPods after you told him that your brother took them from you.

The first of many gifts, he told you.

You got home that night and screamed excitedly into your pillow so as not to frighten your roommates

___

It has been a month since you and Xiaojun started seeing each other. You were on cloud nine. He would visit you at your apartment and would play with his dog Bella. Bella loved you a little more than she loved Xiaojun so you two would always bicker and end the night in each other’s arms.

Jeno noticed the spring in your step as you filmed his cooking vlog. He was showing his fans how he cooked breakfast for himself when he had down time. He was in a plain white T-shirt and a pair of drawstring trousers. He looked relaxed and for many, delectable, as his hair was wet from a shower. He was trying very hard to get your attention once again.

He anticipated you averting your eyes and stuttering at the sight of him but nothing. You whistled while you adjusted the tripod’s position.

“What’s got you so happy?” Jeno asked.

You nearly jumped at his question. You decided to be upfront. “I’m seeing Xiaojun.”

Jeno’s cool facade nearly cracked before your very eyes. “Oh?”

You apologized. “I’m sorry, Jeno. I should’ve told you that I liked Xiaojun…”

Jeno was furious. What the hell did Xiaojun have that he didn’t? Jeno was more muscular, taller, more talented, wealthier, more attractive...He was superior to Jeno in every way and everyone else knew it, too.

He honed his acting skills and replied evenly, “Why are you apologizing, y/n? So you like someone else...I’ll live.”

You realized maybe Jeno didn’t like you as much as you thought so you felt relieved to hear his dismissive tone. “Right. Good. I just...thought you should know…”

You and Jeno continued the shoot. He acted like nothing had happened and even behind the scenes, he joked with you and asked you which of the female trainees he should ask out. You berated him because female trainees were not allowed to date and he knew this very well. Jeno was back to his arrogant self and you were relieved.

___

You got a text from Xiaojun that he was finishing up a filming schedule with his bandmates. You wouldn’t be able to see him today because the schedule was running overtime.

He told you to go to dinner with some friends at Osaka Moon. His treat. He was good friends with the chef, apparently. You were on your way to the restaurant to meet your friends.

You were shocked at how down-to-earth Xiaojun still was after achieving so much fame and then he would do things like this. It gave you whiplash but you were having the time of your life with him.

However, you noticed him across the street. Xiaojun always wore different wigs and masks for his disguised outings with you.

But this time, there were no disguises. His side swept blonde hair and his thin framed glasses. There was no mistaking that it was him.

Was the filming for the show at the Downtown Hotel?

You were about to call his name when you saw another woman wrap her arms around him and squeeze his ass. She had long wavy brown hair and a slender frame. She could’ve been a model or a singer. They both entered the expensive hotel. Very bold of him to take her out so publicly when he was still intent on hiding you.

You felt like someone knocked the breath out of you. You shook your head in disbelief.

Immediately, you dialed Xiaojun’s number and there was no answer. You called four more times and nothing.

Son of a bitch, you thought.

He played you. You should’ve known he was no different than any other dickhead A-lister.

You decided to call his bandmates. It turned out that the filming they’d done today wrapped up over two hours ago.

Haechan had no idea where he was. Jisung didn’t either. Jaemin was equally perplexed. Last but not least you called Jeno.

He answered. “Hello?”

At this point, you couldn’t hold back your tears anymore. “Jeno…”

“Y/n? What’s wrong?”

“Do you know where Xiaojun is?”

“Not specifically...he did mention he had a reservation at the Downtown Hotel…”

You sniffled. “He did?”

“I thought he was meeting you…”

“No, he wasn’t…”

“Oh...Oh, shit, y/n. I am so-“

“It’s okay...Thanks Jeno. I’ll see you on Monday…”

You told your friends to have dinner without you and to make sure to spare no expense because your so-called boyfriend was buying. You told them Xiaojun finished at the last minute and wanted to take you dancing.

A total lie so you could wallow at your local bar.

You sat right by the bar and downed a few glasses of beer. Just to feel anything else besides the betrayal you felt.

A half hour later, you were even more buzzed now. A young man sat beside you at the counter.

He started, “Hello, gorgeous.”

You looked at the young man. He was stunning. Another face that belonged on television. Another one of those who was capable of seducing you and tossing you away the very next second.

You flipped the bird. “Bite me.”

The young man scoffed and tried again, “Feisty, aren’t we?”

He got closer to you and you began to feel uncomfortable. “Please leave me alone…”

“Tsk tsk. A beautiful girl like you in tears? You need someone who will bring your smile back.”

“And you’re the man for that job?” Someone interrupted.

You were shocked to find Jeno here. He looked gorgeous in a black leather jacket and dark jeans. His hair was slicked back the way you liked it most and wow, you may have had one too many drinks...A few customers recognized Jeno and started whispering and taking their cameras out.

“Jeno?” You nearly lost your balance as you got up from your chair.

Jeno grabbed you immediately before the other guy could.

The stranger said, “Why do you get to put your hands on her? Just cause you're some pretty boy with mediocre music...I’m sure she’s nothing compared to who you’ve bedded before-“

Jeno socked him in the face and escorted you out of the bar. The stranger cursed you both out as you left. Jeno led you quickly into his manager’s car that he borrowed for the night. You felt a little dizzy.

Jeno fastened your seatbelt.

You smiled at him. “Thanks.”

He looked at you in concern. “Are you okay?”

You shook your head. “Why are men scum, Jeno?”

Jeno sighed. “I’m so sorry about-“

“Don’t say his name...I...never want to see him again...God, now I have to sell all of his merch…”

Jeno frowned in confusion and continued, “I’ll take you home…”

You didn’t want to face your roommates. “No...Can I…Spend the night with you?”

It took all of Jeno’s might not to get out his car and raise his fist in the air. But he composed himself. “Are you sure?”

You nodded, wanting to forget all about Xiaojun and have one thoughtless night with Jeno. “Yes.”

Jeno drove you two to his penthouse suite. He was cautious around you and you were ready to shrug away your inhibitions.

Jeno helped you remove your coat at the entrance. “Take a seat. I’ll get you some water.”

You sat yourself on the couch and opened your legs wide, exposing your panties underneath your skirt. “Jeno, fuck me right now so I can forget his sorry ass.”

Jeno hesitated then but seeing how irresistible you were...He couldn’t help himself.

He asked again. “Are you sure?”

You nodded. You were buzzed but not that buzzed. You wanted to spite Xiaojun. You wanted to acknowledge the part of you that longed for Jeno for so long, too. You’d be stupid to deny that you fantasized about a night with him.

You hesitated before but now you said, why the hell not?  

You and Jeno made love that night. Jeno was over the moon that you were finally in his arms. Sure it was a rebound but the look in your eyes when he was inside you had to mean something. There was a promise there and Jeno held onto that glimmer of hope.

Jeno took you home the next day and he was very cool about the whole night. Right before you returned home. you reminded him about how this was a one night stand and thanked him for a wonderful night.

You were resolute in dumping Xiaojun and simply going back to work. Thankful you only ever worked for Jeno anyway. And as expected, Jeno was his usual self: cocky, flirty, sending his food back for random reasons.

Xiaojun came under the fire for going to a hotel with a potential prostitute. The identity of the woman he was seen with remained a mystery. He tried convincing everyone that the woman was not a prostitute but he couldn’t remember how he met her or what she looked like. That night and along with how crazy Xiaojun sounded caused the company to encourage him to leave. Xiaojun’s contract with LCF Entertainment was terminated.

The week after you and Jeno made love...You started catching feelings for him. Every glance. Every fleeting touch. It drove you mad. And suddenly that one night stand was something you wanted again. And again. And again.

You accompanied Jeno and his manager as he attended a gallery opening. You were in charge of his photos for his social media. He looked extremely dapper in his red suit. You just wanted to rip his clothes off and make love to him in front of all of the guests. Becoming a work of art yourselves.

These thoughts you’ve been having used to scare you but now...you owned them. Tonight, when you got him alone, you would tell him how you really felt. You hoped you weren’t too late.

Jeno’s manager excused himself to get some refreshments. Jeno observed a painting while you took some more photos.

“Stunning,” you said aloud.

Jeno’s eyes grew at your words. “Wow, y/n...All the years we’ve worked together and you’ve never made a comment about my looks…”

Your face grew warm then. “I’m feeling a little bolder these days…”

He grinned. “Is that so?”

“Jeno, I won’t beat around the bush…I haven’t stopped thinking about you since that night…”

“Y/n…”

“I know I said it was a one night stand and...You’ve moved on…”

Jeno started, “I haven’t…”

You were shocked to hear it. “Really?”

He moved closer to you and moved the camera away from your line of sight. “What are you saying, y/n?” His voice was dangerously low.

“I’m saying...that I want to be with you, Jeno.”

Jeno’s smile looked so gorgeous then. He was the true work of art at the gallery. “Well, y/n, I’ve made my feelings abundantly clear for a while now…”

He kissed you then. And the cameras started flashing.

You were on cloud nine. You finally released your suppressed feelings for the rockstar before you.

___

You’ve been together for two years now. He made you feel safe and loved. He showered you with gifts and trips to the most beautiful parts of the world.

As for the response from netizens and the company? Jeno had all the power and he could handle a few naysayers. Your job as his photographer and videographer remained intact. And you were well on your way to transitioning to your own film projects: your dream.

You and Jeno had become a couple to root for. They called you The Prince and The Pauper Turned Princess. You hated your label but whenever you looked at Jeno’s eyes, any anxiety or anger quickly faded.

Jeno had a solo performance in your city tonight and you were seated in a private booth. He was performing so well, moving from instrument to instrument. Driving people to tears with his long low notes. And then he surprised everyone with his announcement.

“Before I perform ‘Changed Your Mind’, I want to give a shout-out to the woman of my dreams, y/n, who is here with us tonight.”

The stadium roared in excitement and many heads turned to you. Your eyes never left Jeno.

“Y/n, I love you so much. We’ve come so far, baby. And I want us to never stop. Which is why…”

He got down from the stage and was escorted by security down to the crowd. He ran his hands past adoring fans as he made his way to you.

He entered your booth with his camera crew and security close by. “Y/n, will you marry me?”

You cried out, “Yes!”

Jeno picked you up and spun you around. You kissed passionately. The crowd’s roars thundered now. It was a celebration. You didn’t care that all eyes were on you now, as well. All you cared about was Jeno. And he loved you more than anything else in the world.

You truly found your soulmate and you couldn’t be happier.

___

Jeno finished his show and was backstage cooling down with a bottle of water.

“Good job tonight,” a woman said as she stood at the door of Jeno’s dressing room.

“Thank you, sis. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Jeno’s older sister Yeeun sat on the couch of the dressing room. “How does it feel to have her in your clutches now?”

Jeno smirked. “Pretty damn great.”

“And I’m here to collect my payment, little brother.”

Jeno sighed. “Really? It’s been two years.”

Yeeun looked at her manicured nails. “I’ve been busy.”

Jeno laughed. “Screwing over taken men? I’m sorry, I meant screwing taken men?”

“Nope. That task was a one-and-done deal. How is that poor boy doing these days?”

“Xiaojun? He’s back at school getting his master’s...He’s happy.”

“Has he tried to contact y/n since then?” Yeeun asked.

Jeno chuckled. “No. Why would he?”

She smiled at him. “They were sweet together. And you tore them apart because you couldn’t take no for an answer, could you?”

Jeno rolled his eyes. “And what about it? I have a right to get whatever I want. Do you know who I am?”

Yeeun sighed. “Yes, you repeatedly tell the family group chat who you are every week. And we all take it because you pay us well…”

Jeno and Yeeun had conspired against you and Xiaojun. Jeno stole Xiaojun’s phone and Yeeun charmed Xiaojun to join her for a night at the hotel. Jeno planned for you to go to Osaka Moon so you could see Xiaojun and Yeeun together.

Jeno watched you as you broke down in tears, calling each of his bandmates. He made sure he was far enough away by the time you called him. He played the part of a concerned friend very well. He had to take up acting, another field he would surely dominate. And with you as his director? It made him hard just thinking about it.

Jeno didn’t coincidentally find you at the bar. He’d been tailing and that stranger who hit on you was only an added bonus. Jeno could play the unsuspecting hero and you would eat it up. And that you did. He was satisfied to know that you wanted to sleep with him. He didn’t care about being a rebound.

Even so, he wasn’t going to take any chances. So after you left his penthouse the next morning, he took the bedsheets you came on and the strands of hair you left behind and got to work.

Did you really think Jeno amassed such success and wealth all on his own? He had a little help from his family and their friends from Hell, of course. Jeno’s family came from a long line of Satan-worshipping witches. Jeno was the youngest of the descendants.

Human sacrifice was only a small token of the Lee family’s appreciation to Lucifer. So Jeno’s deception of Xiaojun was almost nothing in the list of gruesome things Jeno has done to reach the top of his game.

Yeeun was able to literally charm Xiaojun with her own special concoction. Once she and Xiaojun had sex, she wiped his memory of that hour and left him alone at the hotel. Confused. Disoriented. Worried.

As for you? Well, you were the most irresistible creature in this world. Your immunity to his charms was only the first step in his growing feelings for you. You were brilliant and talented at your craft, always capturing his best features on camera. You were gorgeous. He was surprised you didn’t become an idol at LCF yourself. You were warm and sweet and giving. Even if the company was cutthroat, he saw how you’d be with your coworkers and the other idols. You were just a pure, loving girl. And he desperately needed you. Desired you. Craved you.

He simply had to call you his.

With your samples, he was able to create the perfect spell to make you his.

Forever.

That was what Jeno called true love.

[Fin]

[a-dorin]

tempestuous | darth maul

word count: 5.043k 

warnings: nsfw, 18+, professor/student relationship, sexual tension, smut,  nudity, sexual innuendos, dominance kink, age gap, cursing 

a/n: hello everyone! due to the response i received, this is the second chapter in the professor!maul au! i am so happy with the overwhelming comments of kindness. you guys rock :’) thank you for keeping me sane during quarantine. as always, the first chapter is linked below. enjoy :)) 

ardor

summary: weeks have flown by, and you find yourself under immense amounts of pressures with midterm quickly approaching. not only are you stressed with the academics, but you can’t seem to shake a certain professor out of your head.

“(y/n), did you have rough night?” barriss chuckled, handing ahsoka an iced coffee before sliding into her own spot, “here, i got you a little pick-me-up.” 

wrapping your hand around the cup, you swirled your straw around, “thank you, barriss. i guess i’m just a little stressed out with midterms approaching.”

“a little?” ahsoka giggled, covering her mouth, “(y/n), we love you, but you look like you’ve been hit by a truck. is everything okay?”

you rubbed your temple, a dull aching seeping into your skull, “i’ve been pulling some all nighters lately.”

“well if you ever want to study for with us, you’re always welcome,” barriss’ blue depths shone, her lips curved into an encouraging smile, “ahsoka and i are a little nervous about the midterm as well, especially for this class. professor maul hasn’t given us any sort of notion on what the exam may be.”

“i hope it’s something simple,” you grumbled, taking a sip of the matcha latte, “again, thank you for the matcha, barriss. i appreciate it.”

barriss laid a gentle hand on your shoulder, “anything for you, (y/n). after all, you’re our new best friend.”

“she’s very right,” ahsoka shot you a wink, prodding you with her elbow, “you should come to the library with us tomorrow night! i know, it’s lame, but it’s pretty empty on the weekend. we have a good chance at snagging one of those study rooms. and if we get our homework done friday, we can always meet up before that party saturday night!” 

“you guys party?” you arched a curious brow. 

barriss and ahsoka rolled their eyes simultaneously, the togruta letting out a huff, “we know how to have fun too, (y/n). after all, they say that the bookworms know how to let loose.”

“whatever,” you couldn’t help but laugh, pulling out your laptop. 

it was now about halfway through the semester, with midterms approaching on the horizon. the looming fact that you had about five exams, along with working extra hours with your internship, were beginning to take their toll on you. the internship at the hospital was running smoothly, and you were performing so well that you were offered extra hours. of course, you couldn’t help but accept the offer. 

yet, it came with a cost. although it was only two nights a week, they asked if you could stay a few hours later than normal. so, every tuesday and wednesday, you strolled into your apartment well past one in the morning. 

rex helped in every way he possibly could. whether it was cooking you dinner, making you coffee, tending to your laundry, as well as keeping the apartment tidy, he was adamant about making things easier for you. which, you greatly appreciated. there were even times he charged your laptop and made runs to the printer. last night was one of those nights where you didn’t get back till late, so to say you were exhausted was an understatement. 

although it was your first class of the day, and 9:56 a.m., sleep still hung heavy in your mind. the comfy clothes hanging on your frame weren’t much help either, the coziness of the fabric lulling you to sleep. a university of coruscant hoodie, a few sizes too big, was almost like a blanket. and the grey sweats were comforting. shaking your head, you attempted to focus. 

the class fell silent as he entered the room, causing you to perk up in your seat. today, he was clad in a pair of black slacks, the color of his button up and blazer corresponding with his pants. his shoes were freshly polished, glossy in the sterile light. the monochromatic outfit brought out the color of his crimson skin, his amber orbs nearly glowing. as usual, the silver chain hung from his neck, this time, settled on bare skin, as a button or two was left undone. 

you nearly choked on your matcha, as you drank in the sight of him. maker, was he gorgeous. mind buzzing, you mustered all of your strength to not admire for a moment too long. it was already embarrassing enough the sheer amount of instances you saw him on campus. 

now that you were enrolled in his class, you saw him everywhere. whether it was grabbing a meal to-go in the dining hall, bumping into him at the gym, or mumbling a greeting as you passed him in the halls of the psychology wing. it was odd, yet you paid no mind. a part of you yearned to see him, to just admire his features. 

professor maul didn’t seem to mind the encounters either. every time, he would chirp a greeting, his tone smooth and cordial. even though he was formal, you couldn’t help but notice a gleam in the golden pools as he spoke. it was almost as if his eyes were roaming your body, glittering with lust. 

just the mere thought of his lips on yours sent a faint blush painted across your cheeks. shifting in your seat, the realization that class began washed over you. letting out a quiet sigh, you typed notes as he spoke, his voice clear, thick with authority as it rang through the lecture hall. 

“now,” he cleared his throat, backtracking to the pedestal to the left of the space, “i compiled a list of terms and parameters of your midterm exam.”

groans of frustration erupted like a volcano, maul’s eyes blazing with amusement, “may i discuss the exam with you first or are you all going to complain?”

“i hate him,” ahsoka muttered under her breath. 

“you don’t mean that,” you whispered, teasing, “what if the exam is a breeze?”

“the midterm will be no walk in the park,” maul announced, gathering a thick stack of papers in his hands.

 your eyes wandered to his hands, and how they sprawled over the stack with ease, how they were would fit so well over your breasts. a shiver ran down your spine as you pondered of his hands all over your body, relishing every inch of your skin. his voice snapped you out of your fantasy, his gaze settling on you, a smirk creeping onto his lips. 

“for the exam, i ask that you research an individual or authoritative figure who is a ‘monster’ in our society. once you conduct your research, you will give me a brief presentation. the presentation will be done orally, through a video format. the deadline is printed on the assignment sheet. there are no exceptions, so plan accordingly.”

biting your lip, your cheeks reddened under the eye contact. however, his attention was taken away from you, eyes flickering towards a student near the top of the lecture hall. 

“does this mean we can talk about president palpatine? he’s a tyrant!” 

“i can’t believe he almost banned the frats!” another complaint rose from a classmate.

“if that’s who you would like to report on,” a bubbly, lighthearted laugh escaped his lips, the sound flowing like sweet honey into your ears, “you might have your work cut out for you. that is my boss after all, so i am not sure how biased i can be.”

the rest of the class droned on, ahsoka and barriss lost in their note-taking, their stares fixed to their laptop screens. meanwhile, you found yourself getting lost, daydreaming. maker, did you ache to experience just one kiss. to trace the tattoos all over his chest and shoulders as you unbuttoned the article of clothing. gnawing on your cheek, shame burned through you as you realized that you were beginning to feel a sensation in your core. the mere thought of maul had your folds slick, wet and desperate for him. 

soon, class was over, students herded to the doors. you followed ahsoka and barriss, conversing about tomorrow’s plans. you were anticipating the study session tomorrow, as you needed it.

after all, you weren’t paying much attention in class these days. 

*******

“so, are we wrapped up for the night?” ahsoka yawned, her eyes bleary with sleep. 

a rumble in the distance shook the library, a thunderstorm wreaking its havoc over coruscant. you, barriss, and ahsoka were finishing up, the building nearing closing time. it was 10:32 p.m., the three of you hunkering down in a study room for the past two and a half hours. however, the session was helpful, the three of you passing notes, sharing what you did and didn’t have. you were all caught up, thanks to them. 

“i believe so,” barriss nodded, shoving a notebook into her bag, “(y/n), would you like us to walk with you to your apartment? we can share an umbrella and give you one.”

“i’ll be fine,” you shrugged, glancing at your phone, “i think i might wait out the storm for a few more minutes. besides, my roommate has a girl over. i don’t want to impose on them.”

“you sure?” concern flashed across ahsoka’s face, “it’s not a problem to us.”

“you guys can go,” you teased, winking, “i can handle myself. besides, there’s no one in here besides the twi’lek at the front desk.”

“whatever you say,” barriss huffed, adjusting her hijab, “see you tomorrow!”

“see ya,” you waved to the two girls as they left the room, “text me when you guys want to meet up!” 

“we will,” ahsoka called, giving you one last grin before they disappeared from your field of vision. 

exhaling, you rose to your feet, slinging your bag over your shoulder. strolling out of the study room, the lights of the library were dimmed, a few students lingering, milling around the front desk or nose deep in textbooks, scrambling to finish their work. 

eventually, you made your way to the lobby, leaning against the brick wall. rex promised that he would text you when his friend was on her way, yet there were no message on your screen. no missed calls. nothing. frustration welled up inside of you, creeping into your thoughts. surely the girl wasn’t staying the night. rex didn’t mention anything about it to you earlier. 

“hey there,” an all too familiar voice rumbled, “do you need a lift?”

turning ever so slightly, your eyes widened at the figure before you. maul stood in the doorway, donned in a pair of grey joggers, a university hoodie on his top half. the hoodie was black, which was a prominent color in the zabrak’s wardrobe. you picked up on that the third day of class. his brows were furrowed, lips pursed. it was almost as if he was concerned. 

“i’m fine,” you muttered, “just waiting on my roommate to give me the all clear.”

“i remember those days,” maul mused, “savage used to have all sorts of women over when we rented an apartment together for grad school. it was downright horrid.”

“i bet,” you sucked in a breath, anxiety swirling as you read the time once more. it was 10:48 now, more and more students filing out of the exit. 

“you all right?” he inquired, his voice low, “if your apartment isn’t too far from here, i can give you a ride. it’s storming pretty bad out there.”

“isn’t that illegal?” you snorted, a glimmer of hope rising as rex’s called id lit up your phone, “hang on, i gotta take this.”

“heyyyy,” immediately, you sensed that rex was walking on eggshells, “do you have a place to stay for the night?”

“rex, i thought we talked about this.”

“well,” he mumbled, “she wants to stay the night. i’ll do all of your laundry tomorrow if you say yes.”

“rex this isn’t the right time to bargain with me,” tears brimmed your eyes as the horror crept in. you had nowhere to go. 

“please?” his voice was sickeningly sweet, “pretty please?”

“fine,” you caved, “i’ll see you tomorrow.”

“thank you-” rex began, but you hung up before he got the chance to finish. 

storming out of the library, tears streamed down your cheeks, mixing effortlessly with the icy rain as it cascaded down, piercing through your clothes. you sobbed, your cries deafened by the thunder. maker, you were so furious. how could rex do that to you? especially so last minute? the only place you could go was your car, and you didn’t even have a fresh change of clothes. 

“(y/n),” through the roar of the thunder, you heard his voice. 

“oh great!” sobs racked your body, “now i have to deal with you too-”

his hands grasped your cheeks, pulling you in. lips collided with yours, his touch warm, as you crumpled completely. fingers tangled into your wet locks, desperate to bring you closer to him, to feel your lips mold so effortlessly with his. the kiss was fiery, burning with a passion. a desire for you. it was exhilarating, intoxicating, your mind buzzing, losing any sort of coherent thought as the rain pounded against the cement, lightning illuminating your surroundings. 

“now,” he pulled away, leaving you breathless, “do you need a ride?”

“i don’t have anywhere to go,” you could barely string the words together.

“you’re welcome to stay at my place.”

“are you sure?” you wiped your tears, yet the effort was fruitless. your clothes were soaked, you were chilled to the bone.

“yes,” he took your hands, “come on, let’s get out of here.”

“what if someone sees us?” anxiety bubbled within you. 

“my hood is up,” he began to make his way towards the parking lot, clicking a button on his car keys, “besides, i’m wearing black and so are you.”

“i guess you’re right,” you muttered, a shiver rippling through your being.

as he approached the vehicle, he opened the passenger door for you as the rain pattered against the pavement. slipping off his sweatshirt, he shoved it into your hands, “here, put this on.”

“i-i’m not wearing a shirt underneath,” the words were a stutter.

“and i’m not fifteen,” maul scoffed, ducking so that he could slide into the driver’s seat, “you’re going to get sick out here and mine is somewhat dryer than yours.”

hesitantly, you made your way into the passenger seat, your eyes widening as you noticed the interior, “this is a tesla.”

in the darkness, you picked out the brightness of his grin, his incisors flashed, poking against his lips, “indeed. my apartment isn’t too far from here. i need to let savage know that we’re no longer having drunkfest.”

“drunkfest?” you couldn’t help but giggle. 

“drunkfest,” maul affirmed, his thumbs dancing across his phone, “we get absolutely wasted every friday night to forget about the awful moments of the work week.”

“interesting,” you settled into maul’s hoodie, grateful for the slightly drier fabric. his scent flooded your nostrils. it was a strong scent, with traces of leatherwood, spices, and bergamot. it was heavenly, with just the right amount of cologne. 

“it is interesting,” his eyes focused on the road, the lights of the city whirring by as he drove, “even though i’ve gotten completely trashed every single time, i can’t seem to shake you off my mind.”

blush flooded your cheeks, your breath hitching in your throat, “i see.”

within minutes, maul pulled into a parking garage, turning off the engine. he helped out of the passenger seat, “let me carry your bookbag for you. the textbooks probably need to sit out for a few hours. i’m sure you don’t want to pay for new ones.”

“i don’t,” you sucked in a breath. 

the zabrak slung your bag over his shoulder with ease, locking the car behind you. the two of you entered the elevator on the level, and maul pushed his desired designation. a wave of silence crashed over you, but it wasn’t unnerving. it was more relaxed, maul humming a tune as the elevator whirred. 

eventually, you were standing outside his door, the zabrak shoving the key into the lock. pushing the door open, you couldn’t help but marvel at the decor, furniture, as well as the viewports. the apartment was luxurious, screaming wealth. yet, maul remained humble, not uttering a single word. 

the floor was a flint concrete, glossed over with a polish. in the den, there was a massive patterned rug, intricate patterns of black, white, and crimson woven together. the couch was a sectional, a dark grey. the shelving and tables were black, paired with subtle hints of scarlet or grey decor. there wasn’t much wall decor, besides some vintage posters from the old days of coruscant. framed photos of zabraki were scattered, and you inferred that they were feral and savage, maul’s younger brothers. 

“there’s a hall leading to the refresher. it’s on your right, i’m going to set out your books to dry. before you shower, leave your clothes in a pile by the door. i’ll throw them in the wash for you. and if i pop in, don’t scream. i’m going to lend you some of my clothes,” the zabrak murmured, “take your time in the shower. i don’t want you getting sick.”

“what if i need help getting the right water temperature?” you arched a brow. 

his eyes narrowed, gleaming, “i think you’ll be fine, princess. call me if you need anything.”

your cheeks reddened, “okay. i’ll be in the shower.”

maul mumbled something incoherent, and you wandered through the den, discovering the hall that he mentioned. once you found the refresher, you peeled the damp clothing off your body, grateful that there was a towel hanging outside the shower. exhaling, you tossed your clothes outside the door, turning on the water. after adjusting the temperature to your liking, you stood underneath the stream, grateful for the warmth as it seeped into your skin. 

the shower was just as elegant as the apartment, with glass doors and a steel shower head in the shape of a square. it was far better than the shower in your own apartment, as you didn’t have to worry about wasting hot water or any spiders. steam billowed into the space, hugging the doors of the shower, droplets of water condensing on the glass. 

“i’m coming in to drop off some clothes,” the zabrak’s voice entered the room, “holy fuck do you always have the water this hot?”

“do you not?” you chuckled. 

“it feels like a sauna in here,” he chuckled, teasing, “anyways, i’ll leave you be.”

letting out a content sigh, you turned the water off once he left. opening the door, your eyes scanned the space for the light switch. after a few seconds, you found it, flipping on the vent. hopefully that would help with the amount of steam that clung to every single item in the refresher. 

on the counter, there was a black turtleneck, along with a pair of briefs. patting yourself dry, you slipped on the briefs first, then slid the turtleneck over your head. it was getting late, the clock on the counter reading 11:36 p.m. yawning, you pushed open the door, padding into the hall. 

maul was nowhere to be found, a frown forming on your lips. where could he had run off to? surely he would’ve mentioned something to you. yet, your curiosity crept in, urging you to explore. holding your breath, you noticed a door, inferring that it was maul’s bedroom.

the door creaked as you tapped it, the draft pulling it open. inside, the floor was the same as it was, a king-sized bed in the middle, pushed against the wall, supported by a black wooden bed frame. there was a dresser, along with a walk-in closet. the most breathtaking aspect were the viewports, acting as a wall. the lights of coruscant glowed, the room overlooking the city. rain flowed down the viewports as thunder rumbled. you felt drawn to them, awestruck by the beauty of the sprawling city.

“you like the view?” your heart nearly leapt out of your chest. 

“don’t scare me like that!” you pouted, folding your arms across your chest.

“don’t go snooping around,” maul smirked, matching your energy.

your heart thudded as his eyes drank in the sight of you, in his turtleneck. the sweater was a little large, hanging loosely in some areas. the briefs hugged your thighs, leaving nothing to the imagination. your nipples poked through the fabric of the sweater, the cool air sending a shiver running down your spine. 

“gods,” he breathed, licking his lips, “i-i don’t know what to say.”

“i’m sorry for wandering off,” you mumbled, your cheeks hot as shame burned through you, “i didn’t mean to-”

“just stop,” maul shook his head, taking a step towards you, “just fucking stop. you have no need to apologize.”

the air in room crackled like the lightning outside as he took another step forward, an old t-shirt clinging to his torso, the same pair of grey joggers hanging loosely on his hips. your throat tightened as you noticed the way his chest rose and fell, the zabrak’s breathing ragged. 

“it seems as if i can’t shake you off my mind,” he panted as the space between you dissolved, “lately, all of my thoughts have revolved about you.”

“what do you think about?” you swallowed thickly. 

“do you want the hear the answer?” his face was merely centimeters away from yours, “or would you rather experience it?” 

“i want both.”

his hand reached out, gently grasping your jaw. the touch was light, feathery as his fingers traced your heated skin. you melted, nearly collapsing to the floor. 

the zabrak’s eyes glowed, the amber now hardened into a deep honey hue, almost a chestnut brown, “can i kiss you?”

you nodded, almost a little too quickly, “yes.”

a low, guttural growl dripped from his lips, “i couldn’t resist you before. but fuck as soon as i saw you in my clothes, i just can’t fucking take it any longer.”

the kiss was hungry, an open-mouth, lustful kiss. his lips crashed into yours, yearning to explore the taste of your mouth. the zabrak’s hands laced into your hair, tugging at the roots, gripping tightly. a whine echoed through the room as he sucked on your bottom lip, his tongue delving into your mouth. a hand slid down, resting on the nape of your neck, holding you steady as the kisses grew hungrier and hungrier. 

“get on the bed,” he commanded, his tone thick with authority, a hand untangling itself from your hair and tugging on the hem of the turtleneck, “and take this off.”

the way the words rolled of his tongue struck you to your core, your folds growing slick as the anticipation grew. fingers wrapping around the hem, you tugged it off, your breasts bouncing. the zabrak practically groaned as he admired your exposed body, a hand palming his cock as it hardened, the outline prominent in the light. 

obeying his order, you laid on the bed, your back hitting the soft comforter. maul slipped off the t-shirt, almost pouncing on top of you. pinning you down, his mouth connected with your neck, trailing sloppy kisses down, onto your collarbone.

“if only i could leave my mark on you,” his breath was hot, coming out in pants, “i would paint you like a canvas.”

“you can,” the words were a broken moan as his tongue dragged across your collarbone. 

“oh?” you could feel his lip curved into a smile, “you want me to?”

“ye-” the reply was shortened as maul’s lips wrapped around nipple, his tongue flicking over the sensitive area. 

his tongue drifted from your nipple to your flesh, nipping and sucking, a satisfied purr erupting from the zabrak as a rich burgundy mark appeared, “i hope you’re aware that you’re the most beautiful woman i have ever met.”

“i don’t think so.”

within seconds, his mouth was hovering over the waistband of the briefs, “you better fucking believe you are, (y/n).”

“i- oh my god,” the tearing of fabric rang off the walls as maul ripped the briefs off your frame. 

“usually i take my time with this,” maul murmured, his gaze burning with lust, “but fuck i need you. i need to feel you take my cock.”

“please,” you whimpered, squirming as he parted your thighs.

“holy fuck. how are you so fucking wet? you’re soaking and i haven’t even touched you.”

the zabrak was appalled, a flash of awe painted across features as he took in the sight of your dripping core, your pussy aching. desire burned through your being, threatening to consume you whole. maker, you never knew you wanted someone this badly. exhilaration rushed through you with every touch, his fingers slipping between your folds. 

“i’ve thought about you like this,” maul was enticed, almost in a trace as your juices coated his fingers, “i’ve thought about the way your body would be underneath mine, your eyes begging for me to fuck you till you can’t take it anymore.”

“i’ve thought about you in class.”

“in class?” his voice faltered, “(y/n), that’s sinful.”

“it’s not as sinful as how i’ve wanted you to fuck me for weeks,” your cheeks were flushed,. 

“oh gods,” maul groaned as a finger entered you, “i’m going to make you mine.”

“please,” your hips bucked forward, his finger plunging further into you, “i want to be yours.”

“you’re going to be mine princess,” he purred, “i promise i’ll give you what you’ve been yearning for.” 

hastily, the zabrak tugged his sweats off, kicking them to the floor. your nearly choked on your spit when his member sprang free from the constraint of the fabric. his cock was massive, the largest you had ever seen. yet, it wasn’t too large that you couldn’t take it. crimson and black patterns wove all around it, his shaft ribbed, precum dribbling down his length. 

“tell me how much you need me,” his voice shifted from a coo to a growl as fingers wrapped around your throat, “tell me how badly you need professor maul to fuck you senseless.”

“i need you to fuck me,” the words were a broken whine. 

“louder,” his grip tightened, “say it louder. i need to hear you.”

“i need professor maul to fuck me,” the words were enough to bring the zabrak to the edge, to make him unfold. 

“good girl,” his tone oozed with praise, low and husky. 

he lined his tip at your entrance, slowly inserting himself into you. maul’s hand loosened from your throat, gripping the headboard for leverage. your moans were breathy, laced with bliss as your walls expanded, wrapping around his cock.

“that’s such a good fucking girl,” maul leaned in, nipping at your ear, “you take my cock.”

the zabrak thrust into you, his tip brushing against your g-spot. throwing your head against the pillow, your body almost went limp, collapsing. the pleasure was overwhelming, burning through you like a fire. but maker, did you want more. you needed more. 

maul watched as he fucked you, one hand steady on the headboard, the other on the mattress, gripping the sheets. he was plowing into you now, showing no mercy. the moans bouncing off the walls were rich and so loud, fueling his desire to keep going. the zabrak lost all inhibitions minutes ago, his thoughts blurred, eyes glossed over. 

the way you felt was heavenly, every single thrust euphoric. 

maker, was he losing control. 

tightening his grip on the headboard, his knuckles were almost white. he was completely feral, unhinged, detached. 

a horrid cracking filled the zabrak’s ears, and he glanced up towards the headboard. the wood split into two, a lengthy, crack down the middle, stemming from his hand. 

“oh shit,” you gasped. 

“look what you made me do, angel,” a smirk stretched across his lips, “you’re going to fucking pay for that.”

your nails dug into his shoulder blades as he slammed into you, balls slapping against skin. his cock throbbed, swelling. with every throb, your walls tightened, the pleasure building in your belly. eyes squeezing shut, you felt every inch of him buried in your soaking pussy, balls deep in you now. 

“maul,” the zabrak nearly unfolded right there, “i’m going to cum.”

“let go baby,” his lips brushed against yours, “you can cum. cum for me.”

the orgasm racked your body, maul’s mouth connected with yours, the moans muffled. your thighs trembled, stars bursting in your vision, the pleasure almost blinding. 

with no strength left, your body went limp, collapsing into the mattress. 

his thrusts were more languid, sloppy with every stroke. maul came moments later, filling you up with it all. 

“fuck,” he cursed under his breath, a sheen of sweat clinging to his body, “are you all right?”

“i’m fine,” your inner thighs buzzed, soreness creeping into the muscle. 

every inch of skin the zabrak touched tingled, as if your body was savoring the memory.

maul cleared his throat, his cock still inside of you, “i kinda lost control.”

“kinda?”

“a little bit,” he chuckled softly, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead, “it’s been so long since i’ve last had sex. it doesn’t help that i’m in heat, either.”

“you’re in heat?” you pressed, brows furrowing. 

“perhaps,” the color of his eyes returned to their normal hue, amber flowing into crimson, “let’s get you cleaned up. it’s late.”

“is it past the professor’s bedtime?” your tone was snarky. 

“don’t tempt me to fuck you again. because we both know damn well that i will.”

glancing up, you noticed the broken headboard, “how much is that going to cost?”

the zabrak let out a huff as his cock slid out of you, drenched with a mixture of juices, “i don’t know. it’s the least of my concerns at the moment. stay here, and don’t move a muscle.”

swinging his legs over the mattress, maul strolled towards the refresher, retrieving a rag to clean up the mess that you made. you sunk into the bed, questions ringing through your mind. 

yet, you couldn’t help but notice a prominent feature. in the light, the tattooed skin glowed. but there was something different about the way his thighs transitioned from flesh to an ashen metal. 

maul’s legs were cybernetic. 

and your curiosity about the zabrak, your professor, skyrocketed.

***

tagged: @sapphicstars , @maulieber , @starflyer-104 , @alwayshappysith , @doobiwankenooku , @magicalkitkat12 , @dartheldur , @princessayveke , @multifandombtch , @spaghetti-666 , @lis-ard , @swimmingsloths , @sithmando​ , @mother-0f-monsters​

[buckyswinterbaby]

Leave a Light On—Series Chapter 2

Song: “Bad Dreams” by Faouzia/“Ashes” by Céline Dion

Word Count: 1,724

Synopsis: In the process of settling into life at the new compound, Steve and Natasha find comfort in one another presence. Then together they start working towards rebuilding the program and assembling a new team of the Earth’s mightiest heroes.

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Natasha Romanoff

Warnings: language, fluff, angst, death mention, grief, PTSD, eventual friends to lovers, slow burn (if you read real slow), eventual OC inclusion (not sure if that needs a warning but I don’t really wanna get complaints 😂).

Please like and reblog (I love that shit)! Click here to fill out the form to be added to my tag list!

Divider is made by me. Please as permission to use it.

Previous Chapters: Chapter 1

Note: Here be the second installment of LALO, I hope you all enjoy it. If you do, I would greatly appreciate a reblog/commentary as I’m just starting out (on Tumblr, I’ve written elsewhere). Let me know if you want to be added to my tag list!

It didn’t take long for the pair to settle into life at the compound once again, resuming their dynamics with one another, almost as if no time had passed. Things were still very different from the energy of the old compound. There were no early morning arguments over coffee grounds, Clint was no longer around to slip down the hall during his routine call with Laura. It was still home, just different.

The normal buzz of conversation was replaced with the sounds of ongoing construction on the opposite wing of the compound. Natasha complained, at first, about the steady sound of hammering and drilling that often began as early as eight in the morning, but the assassin soon found comfort in the consistency. She saw everything Steve was trying to build, the tired look in his eyes as contractors came to him with another problem they had uncovered and the bags under his eyes from another sleepless night. She wanted to help but for the first time in years, she was truly lost.

Even after the snap, she still knew Clint was alive and out in the world. She couldn’t find him but she could still function, if anything, keeping busy is what kept her sane. Following his death, she no longer had the energy to pick her work back up, at least not at the same level she did before. Natasha knew she spearheaded the Avengers after millions were dusted. She never gave up hope that a solution would be found and the lost would be returned. Clint’s death was permanent. “A soul, for a soul” was not a transaction that could be reversed and finding a way to live with that was easier said than done.

Steve was doing his best to help her and she saw it, the way he spread himself too thin. Too many nights of being jolted from his sleep from night terrors of his own or the screams that escaped her from across the hall.

As she shot up in bed from another nightmare of Clint falling to his death, she heard his familiar steps leaving his room before he punched in her access code to enter her room.

“Nat?” he called out, his voice still thick with sleep. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the darkness of her room, as only a thin strip of moonlight was cast across her bed. He shuffled over to her quietly, trying to not startle her in case she had yet to realize exactly where she was. Gently, he sat down on her bed and waited for her to gather her bearings.

Within a few minutes, bloodshot green eyes looked over at him, “Go back to bed, you look exhausted. I’m sorry I woke you.”

“I could say the same about you, you’re not looking so hot.” His hand moved to rest reassuringly on her leg as he spoke again, “Which one was it tonight? Vormir?”

Natasha nodded simply, “Isn’t it always?”

“No, some nights it’s the Red Room, during others it’s the battle. You don’t typically scream during those,” Steve answered, a hand running over his face as he tried to wake up. She tended to block out her night terrors to the best of her abilities as soon as she woke up, pushing them back into her subconscious, as deep as they would go. Normally after a few hours, she couldn’t even remember which nightmare she had that night.

“You have my nightmares memorized by if I scream or not?” Steve could see the slight outline of her grin in the moonlight. “That’s almost sweet, Rogers,” Natasha teased.

“Almost,” Steve let out a light chuckle and looked down as her hand moved to take his. He knew she was deflecting, it was a nasty habit of her’s that he was trying to break, but changes like that take time. “Let me help you. Lay down,” he instructed, his voice still calm and kind.

Natasha considered protesting like she usually did, but she was too exhausted. Steve moved to lean against her headboard, half sitting and half laying down in her bed, before he held his arms open. There was nothing romantic to his actions, just a friend offering support so she wouldn’t feel so alone. The assassin laid next to him, allowing his arms to hold her, and found a surprising amount of comfort in the simple act. They laid like that as Natasha eventually drifted off to sleep once again. Steve stayed still and watched her quietly, almost as if he was waiting to be sure her nightmares wouldn’t start again, before allowing himself to fall asleep.

When the sun rose the next morning, Natasha was still tucked closely to his side. It was not unusual for the two to end up in the same bed from one or both having a rough night. Sometimes it was just easier to have someone nearby. This night was not unlike the rest as Natasha blinked into consciousness and looked up at Steve, who was already awake and watching the sun rise quietly. The early morning rays washed over his features, a growing stubble on his jawline was now visible. Not that Natasha would ever admit it, but she preferred him this way. The facial hair was a change when he first decided to keep it, after his falling out with Tony, but it quickly grew on her and those he became allies with while on the run.

Natasha moved to sit up in the bed beside him, leaning against the headboard, “Did you even manage to sleep?” she asked with playfulness in her tone but concern on her face. She knew he never slept well after he came out of the ice and his problems only seemed to grow afterwards. He had a cocktail of PTSD from WW2, New York, Sokovia, Thanos, and even Germany. The events of his life were testaments to where he had been and what he had conquered to get where he was, but they also served as reminders to the price Steve had paid time and time again. He may have never truly died, but he lost more pieces of his life as time went on. Sometimes Natasha still found herself questioning why he came back when he had the chance to take back one of those pieces.

“I did, for a few hours,” he responded, looking away from the window and over to her with a light smile. “It’s more than I usually get, which I likely have you to thank for that.”

She lightly nudged him with her elbow, returning his look with a small grin. The pair sat in silence for a few more minutes, taking in the peace while they could. It was the rare moments like these that they were most grateful for, especially after everything that had happened within the past year. Nowhere to be, no tasks to be done, no one in need of saving. Just two friends sitting together in a building they were trying to make into a home.

Not long after, they went their separate ways to get ready for the day. Natasha walked into the new kitchen, her hair was still a bit damp from her shower. She couldn’t help but watch as Steve shuffled through a large stack of paperwork, his coffee sitting beside him, untouched. He ran a hand through his hair in frustration as he read through the first few documents. If only his day could continue as good as it began. Natasha quietly set a hand on his forearm as she reached for half the stack of papers in front of him.

“Natasha,-” he started to protest but was promptly cut off.

“Don’t try to fight me on this, Steve, you know I’ll win.” Natasha picked up the papers, moving them away from him, “Let me help you.”

The assassin moved to grab herself some coffee before sitting down with her half of the stack, skimming through the first few files quietly. After a few more moments, Steve spoke up, “I told you when you came here that I didn’t want you to help because you felt like you had to.”

“I’m well aware that I don’t have to. I’ve been here for what? Two, maybe three weeks since you picked me up? You haven’t pressured me to do a damn thing. I’m doing this because I want to. Besides, we always did make a good team, you and I.”

***

The next few weeks followed closely in suit with papers spread out across various surfaces and a steady brew of coffee filling their cups as they tried to piece it all together. There was a lot to plan for the program. Protocols, regimens, and most of all the criteria that would help them select possible candidates. Some of the structure was already there from the Avengers Initiative through S.H.I.E.L.D, or what it used to be. But they both knew how much the world had changed since the original program launched and they knew the new one had to be able to grow and develop with it.

It took some time, but eventually, they managed to narrow down the core ideals they wanted any recruits considered to hold true to. Many of which were formed from the most prominent and influential traits of their old team. The values that not only made them heroes, but the ones that made them human.

That was the goal afterall, was it not? Not the perfect soldiers that the government may want, but good individuals. People from all walks of life that could come together to create something larger than themselves.

Steve and Natasha stood outside the compound after the last few construction projects on the compound were finished. As they looked at the future of the Avengers Program, they couldn’t help but smile lightly, knowing that Tony and Clint would be proud of what they built from the ashes of what use to be.

Natasha crossed her arms and took in a deep breath, “So, what’s next?”

“Now, we find some recruits.” Steve responded, looking over at her, “You ready for a road trip?”

“I am, but I’m driving this time. I’d like to arrive before I get to be your age.”

“You know what, Romanoff…”

[offspring-of-calliope]

Oneshot #1: BillDarcy (Soulmate AU)

Description: A soulmate AU where the first words your soulmate will say to you appear on your skin when you reach the age of 16. It's BillDarcy in the canon era. Slightly angsty but also sweet with a happy ending.

words: 3411

A/N: Am I procrastinating because I should write so many other things? Maybe. Do I regret anything? Maybe but in my defense, I feel like there is a lack of BillDarcy fanfics and I really need to improve my English skills, so... that's a semi-good reason for writing this. It would be nice if you left a comment (maybe also on grammar/spelling mistakes).

I hope you enjoy (because strangely, I don't think that it's that bad).

Sincerely, me,

Lélodie

-----

The softly swaying music was the only thing that kept Darcy sane in this stuffy room. Some people were crowded on the dance floor, dancing intimately close with their partners, whereas others stood around in their fancy suits and dresses, behaving as if they were the most important individuals on earth.

Darcy sighed and held on tighter to his glass of sprinkling water, searching for something to get his mind off the fact that everything here was fake. In the beginning, he hadn't exactly been opposed to the idea of accompanying his father to this big event that was hosted by William Randolph Hearst. But he had soon realised that he literally felt trapped in between all these people. He wanted nothing more than to return to his bedroom and continue to read the latest book he had gotten his hands on. An interesting piece of literature, written by Victor Hugo.

He searched for his father in the crowd, soon finding him being in an animated conversation with another newspaper owner whose name he had forgotten. For a small moment, his father glanced back at him and as if he could read his son's thoughts, he threw him an ominous look. As if to say: “You are staying right where you are, young man.”

Darcy answered with a cautious nod and turned away. That was when he saw him. In a small corner, right next to an open window, stood a boy, who seemed to be as young as himself, staring at the floor and looking obviously out of place. His suit seemed to be too big for his slim body, his short brown hair was drenched in sweat because of the heat and his eyes that appeared quite lively on the one hand, signalised exhaustion on the other hand. Darcy couldn't describe why, but he felt like something in him was dying to get to know this boy. With a last look in his father's direction and a sip from his water, he made up his mind.

It was difficult, getting to the corner where the boy stood. Everywhere were bodies, dancing, standing, swaying, and the general atmosphere made it hard for Darcy to take a breath. But eventually, he ended up beside the boy, who eyed him curiously. Then, he raised his eyebrows, an unspoken question as to why Darcy had come over to him.

“You're looking pretty miserable over here,” Darcy explained, fiddling with the brim of his glass.

The other boy snorted and replied in the most sarcastic tone he could come up with. “Oh, quite the opposite, I actually enjoy being around presumptuous people who hide themselves behind a facade.”

Once again, Darcy wasn't able to breathe but this time for an entirely different reason. He had expected everything but not that. When he was younger, his mother had always told him stories about soulmates. Two people that were so perfect for each other that the universe graced their skin with the first words one would say to the other so that they would be able to recognize the right person when they met them. The words usually appeared when one turned sixteen. The days before Darcy's sixteenth birthday had been torture. He had realised at a very young age that he wasn't able to look at girls the way he was supposed to and he couldn't feel anything but shame and fear. A tiny part of himself had hoped that his soulmate would be a girl and he had simply been confused.

But no. The words that he had memorised ever since he had seen them for the first time had just been spoken. By the boy right in front of him. Who was now looking at him with concern in his eyes. Why was he looking concerned? Why wasn't there recognition in his gaze? Didn't he have Darcy's words as well? Had he just not registered them?

Still a bit stunned, Darcy cleared his throat. “That was really the first thing that came to your mind?”

Now it was the other boy's turn to be confused. “Why? Is there something wrong with what I said?”

“No, no, it's not that,” Darcy assured him quickly. “It just...” Think, Darcy, think. In his head, he cursed his brain for not being able to form coherent thoughts any more. “It just makes me glad I approached you.” He was quite satisfied with this spontaneous explanation because the other boy flashed him a smile that made him feel things he never had experienced before.

“Thank you for the compliment. You are the son of mister Reid, aren't you?”

Darcy nodded and stretched out the hand that wasn't still holding his glass. “Yes. My name is Darcy. And you are?”

“I'm Bill. The unfortunate son of today's host,” Bill introduced himself and shook Darcy's hand.

“Nice to meet you, Bill.” His skin was very soft, Darcy noticed, yet he couldn't help but see faint traces of ink on his fingertips. It made him smirk. Bill's hand was perfect. And it was being pulled away by its owner far too soon. For a moment, the two boys just stood next to each other, observing the room and the people in it. Upon realising that every person in this room, except for Bill, was kind of old, Darcy had an idea. “You appear to be the same age as I am. Are you sixteen as well?”

Bill shook his head. “No. I turned fifteen, two months ago. My mother always tells me that I look older than I am though.”

Darcy hoped that his relief wasn't too obvious. So this whole soulmate thing was not necessarily one-sided, at least regarding the role of the universe. But after this short moment of relief, reality came crashing down on him. Even if Darcy's words appeared on Bill's skin on his sixteenth birthday, that didn't mean that Bill wanted to be with Darcy. Homosexuals were very despised within society and he hadn't ever heard of a same-sex soulmate couple that was openly together. Or maybe that wouldn't bother Bill but he still wouldn't be attracted to Darcy. Was Darcy even attracted to Bill?

At the end of the evening, Darcy completely dismissed the last question. How could he not be attracted to Bill? Bill, who had asked him if he wanted to leave the party to show him his father's printing press, after Darcy mentioned his interest in printing. Bill, who had been so gently when he had adjusted Darcy's spectacles. Bill, whose eyes were big and glistening with joy when he talked about things he loved.

It was like Darcy was falling without having planned to jump.

*

The stars in the sky were especially shiny that night, or maybe that was just Darcy's imagination. He was staring out of the window of Bill's bedroom, sitting on the spare bed and awaiting the moment the clock would strike twelve. Part of him was curious. He wanted to know if Bill would really have his words on his skin. You're looking pretty miserable over here. In addition to Bill's words on his chest, he had his own memorised, repeating them over and over like a prayer.

The other part was afraid. His mind was being flooded with the same questions he had asked himself nearly a whole year long. After the party where they had met each other, Bill and Darcy had started to hang out more and more, sometimes even with Katherine Pulitzer, a childhood friend of Bill's. They had never talked about this whole soulmate topic, at least not when it was just the two of them. Katherine had told them her words at one point but that was it. Darcy had noticed Bill's curious look in his direction when Katherine had asked him if he wanted to share his words. But Darcy had only made a dismissive hand gesture and started to talk about the latest news.

He didn't know what to expect. The only thing he knew was that his body was aching, aching for something that he just couldn't put his finger on.

Suddenly, the room was filled with the faraway sound of ringing bells. It was twelve o'clock. Darcy hadn't gone to sleep the night before his own sixteenth birthday, so he remembered clearly how he had been hugging his knees in anticipation. The abrupt pain in his chest as the universe drew words on his body, his skin, right above his heart. He had wanted to cry. He had known that he wouldn't be able to read with tears in his eyes, however, so he had gripped tight onto the edge of his bed, waiting for the pain to subside. Then, he had run towards his mirror, a flickering candle in his hand, and had nearly ripped off his shirt.

His memories were interrupted by Bill's cry. The other boy had been fast asleep for at least one hour, so Darcy had thought that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't be able to feel the pain. Alarmed, he turned his head in the direction of Bill's bed and saw that his best friend was clutching his chest, still half asleep and panting.

“Bill,” Darcy called out, softly, so that he wouldn't wake up Bill's parents. Bill didn't respond. Instead, he was blindly searching for something to hold on to. The blanket, then the bedsheets. “Bill.” As fast as he could, Darcy left the spare bed and ran over towards Bill. Bill, his soulmate who was in pain and whom he couldn't help. “Bill, sh, it's alright, I'm here. It's going to be alright.” Bill's wandering hands were suddenly in reach, so Darcy took them between his own, tenderly, as if Bill was made of glass.

Still gasping for air, Bill seemed to be able to take in his surroundings now. Through half closed eyes, he looked at Darcy, trying to process what he was saying, while holding onto his hands like a lifeline. “Darcy, it hurts, why does it hurt?”

Now, that was a good question. In every story his mother had ever told him about soulmates, she had never once mentioned the pain that came with getting your words. He had felt betrayed and he had told her so afterwards. But she had just hugged him with an encouraging smile and mumbled something along the lines of: “Nobody wants to remember the downsides of the beautiful things.”

“I know. I know that it hurts, but don't worry, Bill. It will stop eventually. I'm here. I'm with you,” Darcy whispered, softly drawing patterns on Bill's palms.

“You won't leave, will you?” A sob escaped Bill's lips and Darcy wondered if the pain was different for everyone. His own chest began to hurt upon seeing Bill like this.

“I won't leave. I promise.” Carefully, he put his arms around Bill, holding him as close as he could, showing him that he wouldn't go away that easily. He could feel Bill trying to hold him tighter but the tiredness and the pain had taken away the strength of his arms.

For a long time, the room was filled with sobs and affectionate words. The sound of the bells was long gone and the intensity of the stars only an obligatory background.

The next morning, Darcy was awoken by Bill's shuffling. He distantly remembered falling asleep in each other's arms, with their legs tangled under the blanket but in retrospect this might've just been a part of a sweet dream. The bed was creaking and he could feel Bill standing up. Muffled sounds escaped Darcy's mouth. He was nevertheless too sleepy to open his eyes. He could hear steps. Fabric being moved. A gasp.

“Everything alright?” Was the only thing he was able to say in his condition. He wondered if being hungover felt like this. It took him some time, but that didn't matter since Bill wasn't responding anyways, before he finally could open his eyes. Only to see the other boy standing in front of his mirror, shirtless, examining a little thread of ink on his skin. He tried hard not to stare. Then it hit him. “You got your words.”

Bill turned away from the mirror, in his direction, and smiled. “You're looking pretty miserable over here,” he recited. “What do you think? Am I gonna meet them when I am coming out of a fight? Maybe I will join a revolution and a time will come when I don't succeed but then I meet them and everything turns out to end good,” Bill speculated, like the dramatic boy he was. Always dreaming about defying laws and doing something great.

It took Darcy embarrassingly long to register that the words on Bill's skin were his own. It took him even longer to realise that Bill had no clue that he had already heard these words before. For a moment, a short little moment that could easily be missed, he contemplated telling him. But he couldn't. Not when Bill started to go on and on about some fictional soulmate, already planning out their lives together. Some fictional soulmate. Some soulmate that wasn't Darcy.

Maybe Darcy should at least tell Bill that he shouldn't get his hopes up. That he shouldn't go through the streets, thinking that he will meet his soulmate. That he should instead go and find a pretty girl to settle down with. But he didn't.

Instead, he just stood up, wished Bill a happy birthday and pretended to be as invested in Bill's soulmate scenarios as the boy himself was.

*

A cool wind was blowing through the streets but that didn't bother Darcy. He was just content with walking an overjoyed Bill home. It was an easy concept. After being persuaded by both Katherine and Bill, all three of them had joined the newsboy's cause and helped typesetting and printing an article to get the working kids of New York to unite. Bill was convinced that he was finally part of a big rebellion, so he nearly began floating with delight. And when Bill was extraordinarily happy, he became the most beautiful person on earth. Walking side by side with the most beautiful person on earth was making Darcy the luckiest boy on earth. So some tiny, chilly breeze became nothing to him.

Right now, Bill was talking about the commitment Katherine had shown and how surprised he had been when she had told him that the strike leader himself, Jack Kelly, was her soulmate. “Wouldn't it be nice, being part of a revolution alongside your soulmate?”

Darcy snorted. “I suppose.”

Bill threw him a strange look. The last few days, he often wore this exact same look and it drove Darcy crazy because he didn't know what it meant. Suddenly, Bill slowed down his steps. He hadn't exactly talked loud before, considering the fact that they were walking through the city while most of the people were asleep in their beds, but nonetheless he began to decrease his volume. “Say, Darcy, do you remember what we saw before we left the building?”

Darcy's heart stopped beating for a moment. Of course he remembered. It had shocked him to see two boys kissing openly in front of so many people but then the shock had turned into jealousy. How badly he wanted to do the same. Kissing the person he loved. But these were newsies. They lived after their own rules, as long as nobody got hurt. They may have been treated badly by life but they could be who they are. He wasn't a newsie. He wasn't allowed to follow his heart's desire. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, I was wondering, you know... If two boys could be each other's soulmates,” Bill stated. His hands, that had been hanging by his sides, were now fiddling with the hem of his shirt. Darcy wanted nothing more than to reach out to them.

Why couldn't Bill stop with this whole soulmate talk? And since when was he so interested in same-sex soulmates? Suddenly, Darcy felt nervousness crawling up his skin. Did Bill suspect that Darcy wasn't interested in girls? “I... How would I know?” He stuttered out.

Silence. Then, without a warning, Bill grabbed his hand and led him into the nearest alley, away from the lights of the street lamps. The smell in this alley wasn't exactly pleasant but Darcy had other problems than his stinky environment. Bill was close. So close. And he hadn't let go of his hand.

“Darcy, look, I desperately hope that I am not wrong but if I am, let's just forget about this whole thing, alright?” Bill's words didn't make any sense to him. However, he nodded, if only to learn what was going on with the other boy all of a sudden. “The party where we first met. How did you think I looked?”

You're looking pretty miserable over here. He remembered. Bill remembered, didn't he? Beads of sweat were tickling Darcy's forehead now as he contemplated his options. He could name a random adjective or act like he didn't know what Bill meant. Or he could be honest and finally get his rejection. But why would Bill be so keen on rejecting him? I desperately hope that I am not wrong. All this time, Darcy had thought that he understood Bill pretty well, but now he wasn't so sure any more. “You were looking pretty miserable,” he breathed out. His heart was beating faster than ever and he distantly registered that his hand was still in Bill's. Bill's wonderful hand that was so often decorated by ink stains.

“Thank God.” It seemed like Bill let out a breath he had not known he was holding. And then, he pressed his lips to Darcy's.

Darcy's brain short-circuited. What was even happening? Was he dreaming? No, he couldn't be dreaming. In his dreams, his kisses with Bill were always perfect. But in reality, neither of them had ever kissed someone before, so it was an awkward touch – lips to lips, with a little too much saliva. Darcy pulled back in bewilderment. “What do – But you didn't remember – What was that?”

Bill let out a shy laugh. “I know I didn't even consider the possibility that someone had already said my words when I first got them. But the longer I thought about some fictional person I realised that I didn't really want them. There was only one person on my mind and I couldn't get rid of all these thoughts about you and then I remembered our first meeting. I knew I said something to you about these presumptuous people but I couldn't remember your words. Context, hope and Katherine were what led me to at least hope that you could be my soulmate. And I just had to know if I was right.” He made a face like he was thinking about something. “Why hadn't you told me before?”

“I didn't want to scare you away. And you were so happy with your idea of an ideal soulmate. An ideal soulmate that wasn't me.”

“I am so sorry, love. It wasn't my intention to make you feel this way. But you have to know that there is no ideal soulmate. There is just you. You and me. From now on.” Bill used the hand that wasn't holding Darcy's to stroke Darcy's cheekbone, trying to not knock the spectacles from his face. “If you'll have me.”

Darcy couldn't help but smile at being called love by Bill of all people. “Of course I'll have you. But... what about everything else? Our parents? The rest of society? I want to make this happen, I promise, but I have to remind you that the position we're in is not exactly an optimal one.”

“I know. I know and we can think of something tomorrow. Or the day after tomorrow, I mean, we may be a little busy with joining a revolution. But please, please let us be only us for a moment.”

Darcy didn't even have to think this time. He nodded, feeling tears of relief forming behind his eyelids. Then, he took a deep breath and decided to lift a weight off of his chest. “We are soulmates, Bill.” It felt indefinitely good to say it out loud.

“Yes, we are, love.” Bill had never looked more beautiful to Darcy than in this moment.

[wincestisasincest]

Okay hear me out... An image of time travel Beatles in 2020 meeting reader, a really young teenage singer like Billie Eilish. I feel like they would coach her on avoiding rabid fangirl crowds like sweet older brothers which makes her go "🥺". Just a thought 💚💫

Ahh! Sorry this took tooooooooooo long to answer, I was thinking of something to write.

************

You snapped a picture, angling the camera in a way that captured your stylist's intricate braiding perfectly. This was a lot fancier than you would normally wear, however, you were never afraid to be extra for awards. You would be accepting your first Billboard Music Award this night, as your first record had gone platinum almost instantly, and you had to look your best. Besides, looking confident helped hide how nervous you actually were. 

"Car's 'ere, (Y/N)." The Scouse accent slipped through the doorway into your hotel room. You could already tell from the sweetness in the voice that it was George, gently warning you of what was to come. 

"Yeah, hurry up girl! We've got an award to accept, have you heard?" John's rambunctious personality also stood in the doorway, eagerly waiting for you to finish up. 

They were waiting on you, of course. Ever since they had popped into the year 2020 out of nowhere, they'd fallen into your poor, beleaguered hands as the only person who would could tolerate their nonsense while still remaining sane, partially because you were on that same line of nonsense yourself. 

They'd supported your music career when no one else would, both through practical and emotional advice, and so finally, when you had "made it," as they would say, it only made sense for you to invite them to see you claim the glory. 

"I'm coming, I'm coming." You shouted back, taking one more glance at yourself in the mirror. Your red dress, while wonderfully elegant, was still short enough to perform in, and thankfully, since you were so young, you were spared from having a plunging neckline this season. 

Without another moment to consider your trepidation, you stepped into your black heels and clacked out into the hallway. George was already down the hall, constantly looking back, being dragged along by John, who was muttering about "them leaving without us." Paul, meanwhile, patiently stood with Ringo in front of the door adjusting his cufflinks. Ringo smiled at you. 

"You look radiant, love." You could see the pride glinting in his eyes. "Thanks, Rings. Though this will be an absolute pain to walk in." You lifted up one of your legs before regaining your footing on your heels. 

"I never got how you birds managed to move around in those. It's a right torture device." Paul was still fiddling with his cufflinks. 

"Worth it for the style." You flipped one of your braids over your shoulder before continuing down the hallway, flanked by Paul and Ringo. 

The elevator trip down reminded you that the two lads across from you were not nearly as nervous as you were, which didn't make a lick of sense to your 17 year old brain. Especially as "Best New Artist" you had to make an impression, and there was no room for mistakes. It wasn't just the news reporters, but the rabid army of fans that were known to loiter outside the building. 

You huddled into the long black limousine, across from John and George. 

"Well, look who finally decided to show up." John quipped, though George just smiled earnestly. 

“Sorry to keep you waiting, ma'am." You retorted, taking part in his elementary humor. 

The driver turned the ignition, and the car lurched forward, your stomach with it. You attempted to look out the window so you could have some peace of mind, but all you could see was the bustling city of LA, so starkly different from your hometown. Everyone but you seemed to be handling the weight of this situation perfectly. 

"Nervous?" George grinned from the other side of the car. 

"A little, I suppose." You were still peering out the window. 

"Ah, don't worry about it! You've handled worse!" Paul gave you a small smack on the arm. 

"Yeah, I guess so." Your amazing confidence that they had all come to expect from you was not shining through anymore. 

"And besides, if anything goes wrong, we'll be there!" Ringo was so wonderfully optimistic it hurt sometimes. 

"Yeah, we are experts in the field, after all." John added. 

"Music, maybe, but this is different." You turned back to them, folding your arms protectively. 

"No it's not! Who d'ya think started all a' this?" John gestured around to the slowly amassing crowd as you got closer and closer to the awards venue. The camera flashed in your eyes, and onlookers creeped behind each other trying to get some glimpse as to who was behind those windows. 

"Yeah, ours are just old now." Ringo nodded sagely. 

"Hell, it was almost worse then, because no one knew what to expect! That amount of fans was-" 

"Wait a minute, you were famous?" You interrupted Paul, who smirked playfully. The car chuckled. 

"Famous for sure. They thought we were gods. At the very least it's nice to be back in a world where you don't mean much to most people." George adjusted his tie. 

 "Helpin' the next generation of youngins." John took on the voice of an old lady with that last word. 

"Well then, what wisdom have you to offer?" You didn't expect them to think of things that quick, but the responses were almost instant, each band member going off individually like firecrackers. 

"Stick with your body guard."

"Don't try to shake hands or touch them. They may pull." 

"Look them in the eye. They'll be satisfied after that." 

"Watch out for people throwing things." 

"Focus on an object in the distance." 

"Don't let them get near your hair." 

"Don't trip." 

"Walk in the center." 

"Let your the staff do the pushing and the shoving." 

"Photos are good, but the only ones that will matter are the ones that the reporters are takin’." 

"Don't look directly at camera flashes." You felt dizzy, as each of them leaned in closer to you to offer their sage advice. The semicircle around you was full of lunatics, that's for sure, but experienced lunatics none-the-less. 

"And above all," Paul said, "Don't be caught alone outside the venue." 

"'S practically a death sentence." John agreed. 

"I hate to say it, but especially if you're a bird. Be careful." George looked you in the eye. Ringo was looking out the window. 

"This is it." Ringo turned from the window to look at you. 

"Yes it is." You took a long, deep breath. The car stopped. Your heart missed a beat.

A man in a a suit with long, white coattails approached your car and opened the door. The lads clambered out first, before the man offered you a hand as you stepped out of the limousine. 

The first thing that met your ears was a wave of screams and cheers. You squinted, and could no longer mix camera flashes with just the lights of the venue. You tried to stand up tall but your legs felt wobbly. One step forward. You could feel it. Your knees were about to buckle. Your vision started to get dizzy. One half of your body weakened and slipped a little as your heel pulled. 

An arm caught yours and supported your stance, keeping you upright on your heels.

“Don't faint on me now, birdie." John spoke in your ear. There was no need to whisper, as there was no way anyone but you would hear him over the noise. 

You smiled to yourself. Surrounded by your four favorite boys in the world, you took another step forward, this one far more confident than the last.

[system-of-a-feather]

[Disclaimer: This is just a bit of a personal experience commentary about DID, C-PTSD, and recovery that I was thinking about and felt like sharing. This is also not inherently meant to be anything regarding syscourse, so please do not try to pull out any stances I might or might not have regarding it from this as I prefer to remain distant from that topic.]

--

A lot of people when thinking about DID and all that - at least those without DID and similar disorders - often comment on how scary, difficult, and crazy having the disorder must be with alters taking over and so on. A lot of what a lot of people focus on is how scary and hard the plural aspect of DID must be and treat DID like the main issue that causes stress is being plural.

Personally, in my experience, yeah - especially early into learning and being aware of my system - having alters have caused issues and it was scary and stressful, but honestly, those are some of the easier symptoms to learn how to manage and practice. After a year or two of working with my system, I kind of learned a new lifestyle and just way of existing with all of them that makes sharing this body and life something not all that stressful and just something I casually do. I often forget that most people don’t live with all the adjustments we do, and I don’t really have a problem with being plural and sharing the body. Its a different life style, but it hardly is all that bad.

What I do find to be one of the larger and more overwhelming aspect of DID is how the trauma that this body and singular existence interplay with the alters individually. This entity has gone through a long list of really not good things over the past 19 years of our life, and due to the nature of dissociation and DID, very little of it is processed, and if it is, it isn’t properly processed. Somethings I thought were processed weren’t and instead were compartmentalized elsewhere and now that I am here trying to heal, it is almost as if our system is taking on 19 years of back to back trauma and trying to digest it all at once.

We aren’t doing bad and are doing well to keep on top of it all things considered, but one of the constant issues I’ve found in our healing journey is that it can be really hard to really focus on one trauma to heal and recover from. I might agree with the system, myself, my support system, and my therapist that for the next few weeks that we want to work on say.... trauma from Person X. Sure for a week or two we might be able to focus on it, but then something in life might go on and trauma from Person Y in 2010 comes up and now there is no place in our mind to focus on Person X since 2010 Person Y troubles are more prominent. 

Sometimes I sit here and realize our system, our therapists, and those that are actively working to help our healing are juggling anywhere between 2-6 really not small traumatic situations and events all at once and trying to somehow give all of those the attention they need, the priority of how they are currently affecting, and not loosing progress on any of them, it is probably the most overwhelming and difficult part of living with DID

We have been in a considerably good place (up until the recent quarantine issues which we have been moderately handling) and our life really hasn’t been too trauma filled the past year, but even though the past year has been considerably safe for the first time in a while, it feels sometimes as if there is no slowing down and still as if our mental health is a rapidly crashing ocean simply because nothing of 19 years has been processed properly.

I am honestly handling it well all things together, but I am sitting here replying to one of the professionals helping me address a situation and she is wonderful and giving me information and asking where I plan to go / how she can help, and I have to ask for a day or two to think about it and also to ask her to check in as to make sure I don’t forget about it since we are managing (within the system, not only me) three other large trauma events that we are processing / dealing with being an active issue.

In that sense, I realize sometimes how heavy what had caused the disorder and how much the chronic dissociation from trauma for years has caused. This person helping me has worked with a lot of traumatized individuals move forward after the events that had happened, and I am thinking here how I really don’t feel most people would say “I know I am really distressed about this past abuse that had happened to me, but do check in on me since I might forget how distressed I am about this abuse since I might have gotten distracted by other past abuse.”

I just find it really... interesting I guess for the lack of a better word to look at how used to and casual I have gotten at constantly juggling a list of trauma that most non-traumatized individuals would say individually might have been horrible to go through and I sometimes just find it really.... odd when people hyper focus on the idea of being multiple as the largest part of stress that comes with being a system.

Truth is, at least for us, the struggles with being multiple almost feels like a small price to pay for how vital it is for being able to remain sane and help juggling all these traumas that this body holds. It might be a silly analogy cause I am writing this as think about it, but I don’t think I alone don’t have enough hands to juggle all of this and by being multiple, it splits up the workload of carrying trauma.

Really though, it is part of why it bothers me when people say DID is about being multiple. Of course that is part of it, but really the main issue of DID is how the dissociation has really messed with how trauma is processed - or rather - how it has interfered with much of it being processed. 

I don’t really know, it just something that I am thinking about currently. If anyone wants to add their thoughts on this feel free to~ I just felt like rambling and reflecting on this and sharing it. Obviously since I’m cool with people adding their thoughts in, this is okay to reblog.

-Riku (Host)

[aion-rsa]

Ghosts Series 2: ‘They’re stuck in an existence they didn’t ask for… like all of us’

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The Ghosts creators have worked together for over a decade. To-date, the six-person team (Mat Baynton, Simon Farnaby, Martha Howe-Douglas, Jim Howick, Laurence Rickard and Ben Willbond) have written and performed in long-running children’s sketch comedy Horrible Histories, three series of fantasy sitcom Yonderland, feature film Bill, and two series of the supernatural BBC comedy Ghosts, with a third on the way. 

Channelling Mrs Merton asking Debbie McGee what first attracted her to the millionaire Paul Daniels, I ask Baynton and Howick via Zoom what inspired the group to write Ghosts, a sitcom about a group of individuals who frequently drive each other nuts, trapped together for what may well be eternity? 

Both laugh. “I’m sure we do drive each other nuts in many ways,” says Howick, “but the truth is, like the ghosts, what we always come back to in these episodes is that they love each other and don’t know what they would do without each other. I think that can be said for the group?” He looks to Baynton for confirmation and gets a happy nod. 

Considering the well-documented fallings-out and imploding egos of other comedy gangs – the Pythons not least among them – this level of harmony over such a long period feels remarkable. What’s their secret? “I think we keep each other honest,” says Baynton. “There are certainly heated debates.”

Heated’s too strong a word, says Howick. “We only really fight for our opinion, we never fight each other.” On the rare occasion that there isn’t unanimity about a particular topic, there might be a locking of horns and a democratic vote, but real arguments don’t happen. “There’s no animosity or jealousy with each other’s independent careers,” he explains. “We are our most important project. We have no desire to work each other up. We’re all genuinely fond of each other.”

That much is clear watching them interact. The online BBC press launch for series two was punctuated by the group making each other laugh. Silly voices. Running jokes. At one point, to the absolutely delight of his colleagues, Simon Farnaby’s crotch moved unavoidably front and centre as he stood up in front of his webcam to adjust a window blind. The rapport is real. 

Indeed, during UK lockdown, say Baynton and Howick, the group’s regular Zoom calls drafting Ghosts series three were a godsend. Aside from the boon of having regular work when so much of their industry was in uncertainty, being able to see friends for three hours on a Wednesday evening kept them sane. 

“It’s been a tonic in an otherwise relatively difficult and quite miserable time to have been able to jump on Zoom and make each other laugh with ideas for these characters that we love,” says Baynton. Entertainingly, when the group splits off into writing pairs, each does impressions of the absent characters while drafting dialogue. “It’s funny,” remarks Howick. ‘When we come together as a six, if we’re trying to pitch a positive idea, it’s usually done in a [segues into the regional accent of his upbeat character] Pat voice. Or if it’s a melodramatic idea or if it’s over-the-top, it might be a [Baynton’s Romantic poet character] Thomas voice.” 

Via video chat, it took a little longer for the group’s writing wheels to start turning. Ordinarily a new series would start with two weeks of the gang together in the same room. Stretching that to months of three-hour Zoom calls, fitted in amongst home schooling for the parents among them, was an adjustment. “The energy that you would bring to a room at 10 o’clock in the morning in an office wasn’t there,” says Howick. “You’d have to try and generate this feeling even though everyone was exhausted.”

Howick found himself seeking out frivolity to reach the right frame of mind. He played videogames. “If I sat and thought too hard about what was going on outside my door, it would make me really sad, and so in order to keep a vital part of me going, in order to meet with Mat and the others every Wednesday and keep that bright demeanour, it was good to do that.” The writing momentum started to return with the ease of lockdown, says Baynton. “The simple mental health-saving fact of being able to meet up with family in a garden helped a lot.” 

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Trying to write comedy against a such a serious backdrop of world events also felt uncomfortable, says Baynton. “You feel like it’s almost… immoral is too strong a word, but when there are nurses and doctors and teachers and crucially important people doing the work they do… It felt like an elephant in the room to be tap tap tapping away at a story about another day at Button House and what the ghosts are up to.”

It helped to know how warmly Ghosts series one had been received by its many fans. “What’s touching is when we do get messages from fans who say how much the show means to them. I know how important comedy has been to me in my life, so if we can be that to other people, it doesn’t feel completely frivolous.”

Ghosts, with its colourful selection box of characters (there’s a caveman, a headless Elizabethan, a 17th century witch, an excitable Regency woman-child, an Edwardian snob, a WWII captain, a 1980s scout leader and a 1990s Tory politician) may look frivolous, but series one had moments of real pathos. Baynton is proud of the fact that the series doesn’t shy away from the bleaker side of its ‘dead people’ premise. “If you really interrogate the truth of it – these are people who lived, people who died, people who loved or were thwarted or killed or suffered injustices or never got to love the person that they admired…”

The original idea was for a much bigger cast of ghosts, with everybody playing multiple parts, Horrible Histories-style. It quickly became clear that the story needed to home in on a small ensemble, giving the gang what Howick calls “its own silhouette”. Had they stuck with the original plan, “It would have been like The Muppet Show,” he says. “Every week would only have scratched the surface.” Too many ghost characters would have diminished the show’s emerging premise, says Baynton, which is about “being stuck forever in a tedious and endlessly repetitive existence.”

A bit like lockdown, we joke. Exactly, says Baynton. 

“We talk about this a lot. The way I see it is that their situation is just the same as a living person’s: they’re stuck, they’re in an existence they didn’t ask for, they don’t know why they’re there or what happens next. They know that there is a next ‘thing’ but whether they go to heaven, or hell, or something else, they don’t know. They’re just the same as people on earth.”

Howick agrees, “Their existence is very mortal in that respect.” 

Writing about the afterlife, a sense of existential metaphor is unavoidable, says Baynton. “There is something deeply relatable about it, which is where sitcom will always thrive. You can’t really fail to connect with a story about a person who doesn’t know what to do with their time or who feels stuck. Regardless of class or job or circumstance, that is all of us.”

If the ghost characters are all of us, they’re also peculiar to their time period. The collision and unexpected blending of different social contexts is where much of the series’ comedy comes from. Howick compares the composition of the group to Blackadder Goes Forth, which kept “ranks of characters from different classes stuck together in a hell hole, cheating death every single week.” 

The source of much of the comedy is thwarted status, says Baynton, “It’s the stuff of Alan Partridge and Hyacinth Bucket and Basil Fawlty… people who see themselves a certain way but who aren’t that way to the audience. Every single one of the ghosts is that to some extent. Anything that gave you status in life, you’re robbed of the second you die, so that’s already pretty funny in the sense of a captain who can’t lead, a wealthy woman who has no wealth, a politician who is not recognised as an authority, a poet who can’t pick up a pen, a Scoutmaster with no kids…”

“Not Scoutmaster!” interrupts Howick. “Adventure Club leader!” Before series one aired, they were instructed not to use the “Scouts” organisation name in scripts. “That was before they knew who Pat was going to be,” says Howick. Pat, for info, is a sweetie, and the Scouts should be proud to have him. He’s also a vibrant dancer, as series two, episode two shows. 

“There’s a lot of dancing this series” says Howick. “Without giving too much away, there’s dancing in the last episode. I think Thomas’ best dance is at the end.”

Fans can expect more playfulness with series two. Now that the characters are established and the tone has been taken to heart, the team could afford to experiment a little more. “With series two, because the audience hopefully are with us at this point, we can throw different curveballs,” says Baynton.

“In that way that The Simpsons or those long-running American things, you can suddenly do one in black and white, as if it’s a Hitchcock thing. We’ve definitely had fun. There’s an episode later in the second series which is a format of its own. We’re thinking about those things for series three, being free to be really playful with it.”

There’s a Christmas special episode to come, “the last one ever to be filmed!” joked Farnaby at the press launch. The timing on series two’s filming was especially jammy, with only one day lost to the UK TV and film industry shutdown in March. They made the decision not to use supporting artists in the last scenes filmed, set in a Medieval plague village. The irony of having to tell actors they couldn’t come and play plague victims because there was an actual plague wasn’t lost on them, says Baynton.

Thomas gets a gun in series two, they tease, and we’ll find out how he met his end. “The burning question for fans of the show is how the characters died, and you will find out some in each series,” says Baynton. “There are some we’re holding onto for as long as we possibly can, but rest assured, they’re coming!” 

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Ghosts series 2 starts on BBC One at 8.30pm, with all six episodes available to stream afterwards on BBC iPlayer. 

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