Worst part about not shaving my legs for YEARS is that now that I want to I'm so scared of the outcome.
Like how do I actually do it? Should I wax or razorblade? Electric razor??? Which is easier? Or cheaper??? What if I hate it and have to wait months for my hair to grow to a length that won't give me sensory issues? What if my legs feel utterly naked? Or if I no longer like wearing my socks??? Will I finally be able to wear pants? Could I try tights (or whatever category the cute lace-esque fishnets are)? How do I stop my parents/friends from making a big deal out of it? Can I just like... not tell them? Is there a way to start shaving and wearing pants and not have everyone I know flip their shit??? It's not a super big deal but I've pushed against it (even in winter) since I was in my tweens (I'm 15-17 now) so like it kind of would be a big deal.
Worst of all:
What if I like doing it.
What if I really like wearing pants and I finally let myself explore that side of society? What if I love not being ashamed of perfectly normal body hair at the beach or whenever I pull off my knee high socks and reveal the roughed up hair there?? What if I feel free and happy after and decide I wanna do it forever? What if I finally wear pants I like with an outfit I love and breathe sigh of relief as I see who I want to be in the mirror?
I suppose what I am asking is: does anyone have any advice? Places to start or answers to my questions
I posted this a few months ago and I have an update for younger me, kinda.
A few weeks ago I was given an electric razor which we were supposed to receive earlier. Maybe? I don't know it was kinda unclear. Since then we have shaved our armpits. Which was a little weird at first.
It felt like giving in to society. Like giving away an important piece of me, an idea I have defended for years. It almost seemed like betrayal, like I was hurting my last self by doing this.
I mean: what if I do this and suddenly I feel more pressured to do the 'feminine' things? What if I hate it and regret it forever? What if I want to stop halfway through and I look horrible?!?
In reality I think I was more worried about things I can control. If I didn't like it, I didn't have to do it again, if I get pressed to do more girly type things I can just say it's not for me. Push back like I have for years.
This, now, seemed more like a growth point than anything. I had wanted to do this for months, maybe years, and now I had the space to do it. And yeah the first few swipes if the razor was scary, or rather uncomfortable, but after I finished I felt good.
So I think the moral of this story is everything is going to be scary, at first. Friends, jobs, habits. All of it, even if it feels comfortable. Part of us will always be worried. The important part of it all is to admit the feelings you're having, assess if they are worth it and then move on.
Imagine if this happened in even 10% of parking lots in America - or 5%. Imagine if that happened in every parking lot in every country over the next 5-10 years. Imagine how much fossil fuels we can save.
Does Raâs have Timâs Speen? A Deep Dive into Fandom Racism
The whole âRaâs stole Timâs spleen!!â debacle is a very prevalent story in DC/batfam/tim drake fan spaces, with many people assuming its canon and creating even more content surrounding this narrative. This post intends to dive into the following topics:
The inherent orientalist writing of the al Ghuls
The canon events leading to Tim losing his spleen (spoiler alert: Raâs doesnât have it)
Why it is racist to parrot the idea of Raâs having stole it
Common reasons people cite to defend this narrative
The inherent orientalist writing of the al Ghuls
First of all, what is Orientalism? Orientalism is a broad term describing the Western stereotype of Eastern cultures, or the Orient (particularly Asia and North Africa), as backwards and exotic. Coined by Edward Said, it describes the way Western civilization portrays itself as superior and rational, while portraying the Orient as irrational and wrong. Common orientalist stereotypes include the assumptions that Eastern societies are misogynistic, barbaric/violent, sexual/perverted, and inherently behind societally.
When it comes to DC, the way the al Ghuls are portrayed is inherently orientalist. They are of mixed arab/chinese descent - you can find some more details about that in this post by @/daminette-56 (the post is about Damian's Chinese heritage in particulal, but it still applies). They fit into the racist trope of the âAsian Assassinsâ - elite East Asian ninja assassins which use traditional/ancient combat forms to kill. Raâs is the controlling man, Talia is the Dragon lady/Femme Fatale, and their overall concept can be attributed to oriental views. This is furthered by the existence of Damianâs character, since it caused Talia to be converted to a 2-dimensional villain to facilitate Damianâs white saviour story when he is sent to live with his white father to âlearn to live normallyâ, or to be civilized.Â
Despite this, the al Ghuls are interesting characters. Raâs motive as an environmental terrorist and Taliaâs inner dilemma over her loyalty to her father make them complex characters. Damianâs love for animals stemming from his upbringing with the al Ghuls The fandom tends to ignore this, however, and keep them as boring background characters without much depth.Â
When I analyze fandom racism surrounding the al Ghuls, it is important for me to distinguish between what is coming from DC and what is coming from the fandom. As such, it is vital to determine whether or not Raâs having Timâs spleen is canon.
2. Does Raâs have Timâs spleen?
The short answer is no.
Lets summarize the events which caused Tim to lose his spleen. Tim loses his spleen in his standalone Red Robin series. It happens in the second arc of the series (issues 5-8), called The Council of Spiders. There's a bunch of buildup, but Tim essentially teams up with Raâs al Ghul to complete his current mission - finding Bruce, who is lost in the time stream. Tim agrees to work with Raâs (after he kidnaps him and his coworker Tam), however he secretly plans to take down the League Of Assassins from the inside.
During this time, Tim survives an ambush by a group called the Council of Spiders. Later on, Raâs tasks him with defeating this rival assassin group since he is the only one known to have survived an attack from them. Tim sets up a plan, however it backfires and they are attacked by the Spiders. In this attack, Tim is stabbed and resigns himself to death, however he is saved by White Ghost who stitches him up (presumably with the help of fellow assassins) and removes his spleen due to the damage it has sustained. When this happens, Raâs is nowhere near.Â
Timâs spleen is never mentioned again. The arc concludes with Tim blowing up all LoA bases that currently exist, and Raâs threatens to blow up Wayne Enterprises in retaliation.Â
Raâs is not shown to be nearby when Timâs spleen is taken. He is not implied to have it. He is never shown in possession of it.
It is safe to conclude that Raâs al Ghul is not in possession of Timâs spleen.
3. Why is it racist to parrot the idea that Raâs has Timâs spleen?
The reason this fandom narrative is inherently racist is since it feeds into multiple orientalist stereotypes. As defined before, Orientalism is the idea that Western society paints itself as superior to Eastern society. Here are the two most harmful ideas it feeds into:Â
Creepy Brown Man imagery: Brown men in media are often painted as inherently creepy and dangerous. This is closely linked to the âothered foreignerâ trope, where writers focus on the otherness of characters of colour rather than any other trait. Now, I will not deny that Raâs is dangerous. However, the way he is portrayed by the fandom as borderline obsessed with Tim, going as far as to keep his spleen as a trophy, clearly feeds into the âcreepâ aspect of this stereotype. It also ignores the fact that Tim was kidnapped by Raâs for this mission purely due to the tactical advantage - Tim was the only one to have survived a Spider attack, so it was logical to have him be part of the mission. Instead, it shifts the narrative to make Raâs seem irrationally attached to Tim.Â
Sacrificing characterization for propping up a white character: Raâs is never portrayed as anything other than an evil tyrant within the Tim Drake fan space. His characterization as an eco-terrorist whose goal is to save the Earth from ecological destruction is sacrificed, and he is instead characterized as power hungry, obsessed (see above paragraph), or plain evil with no reasoning behind it (all of which contribute to the Evil Brown Character stereotype separately. Together? It's even worse). Once again, it ignores the logic that accompanies Raâs decision in choosing Tim, and either paints him as a poor victim attacked by Raâs, or a fighter so powerful that even Raâs had to acknowledge him. Any logic Raâs applied to the decision is ignored in favour of propping up the white character.
4. Common justifications given for this narrative/storyline
It's literally canon! â as I've already broken down, it isnât.Â
But Raâs is obsessed with Tim!! He calls him Detective and respects him and his fighting! â Raâs also refers to both Bruce and Dick as âdetectiveâ. This title is not exclusive to Tim and does not prove anything. Additionally, respecting someone as a fighter and stealing their body parts as a trophy for beating them are two very different things.
It is not out of character for Raâs to take his spleen! Heâs a cult leader and taking trophies from people isnât uncommon !!! â Raâs is an ecoterrorist. He has no use for anyoneâs spleen. Although he is sometimes depicted taking trophies, they are in the form of land or material items, not body parts. (The assumption that Raâs takes human body parts as trophies is also orientalist, by the way. Goes back to the original âAsian Assassinsâ trope, as well as the âBarbaric Brown Peopleâ ideal.)
Worst part about not shaving my legs for YEARS is that now that I want to I'm so scared of the outcome.
Like how do I actually do it? Should I wax or razorblade? Electric razor??? Which is easier? Or cheaper??? What if I hate it and have to wait months for my hair to grow to a length that won't give me sensory issues? What if my legs feel utterly naked? Or if I no longer like wearing my socks??? Will I finally be able to wear pants? Could I try tights (or whatever category the cute lace-esque fishnets are)? How do I stop my parents/friends from making a big deal out of it? Can I just like... not tell them? Is there a way to start shaving and wearing pants and not have everyone I know flip their shit??? It's not a super big deal but I've pushed against it (even in winter) since I was in my tweens (I'm 15-17 now) so like it kind of would be a big deal.
Worst of all:
What if I like doing it.
What if I really like wearing pants and I finally let myself explore that side of society? What if I love not being ashamed of perfectly normal body hair at the beach or whenever I pull off my knee high socks and reveal the roughed up hair there?? What if I feel free and happy after and decide I wanna do it forever? What if I finally wear pants I like with an outfit I love and breathe sigh of relief as I see who I want to be in the mirror?
I suppose what I am asking is: does anyone have any advice? Places to start or answers to my questions
summary: damian's short-term amnesia from a concussion causes complications when he refuses to believe the break-up ever happenedâand his missing memories dissolves all defenses and unravels the true depths of his undying devotion for you.
pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader
content: fluff+angst+hea, yearner damian who even without his memories, refuses to part from you ever again.
âBeloved.â Damian Wayne, your ex-boyfriend, is chained to the hospital bed in the most literal sense. Strapped down by physical restraints, he looks at you as if he's found his solace. âYouâre here.â
He hasnât called you that in months.
Dick, who barely made sense over the phone other than needing you to come over immediately for 'an emergency', approaches you with the same precaution to a frightened lamb. âHe's had a concussion.â
You know thatâit was the first thing you registered over the phone, but it didnât solve the puzzle for why Damian wanted your presence.
âA minor concussion.â Damian scoffs. âNothing worth the fuss of being chained to a hospital bed.â
âI wouldnât call amnesia minor.â Dick says sternly.
..Amnesia?
âThe doctor is over-exaggerating.â Damian argues. âThere are no important events that I have forgotten.â
The pieces are clicking together, the missing fragments for why Damian's gaze doesn't grow cold when he sees you. Your shocked gaze meets Dickâs, who only nods subtly.
He doesnât remember the break-up.
There are too many questions, none that can be addressed in this room when Damian is staring at you like he used to, completely unguarded and softened into a blurred memory of someone who used to hold your heart delicately.
âDamian.â You mutter briskly, even when the notion of addressing him weakens you. âI need to have a talk with Dick. Outside.â
Damianâs brows furrow. âWhy did you call me that?â
Your steps that are halfway turned towards the door falter. âYour name?â
âYes. You only call me that when you are angry.â He states, trying to lift himself from the bed. The restraints tighten, marking angry red lines over his wrists, but he doesnât even flinch as he tries to reach for you.
Dick is quick to stop him, pushing him down by the shoulders. âThe doctor says no movement.â
âI have given my opinion on the doctorâs expertise repeatedly.â Damian scoffs, irritatedâbut his gaze is distracted, trying to meet yours past Dick's shoulders. âBeloved, if youâre mad that I endangered myself, I assure you I am in perfect health.â
âThatâs notââ You swallow, feeling an awful sink in the pit of your stomach and harshly avert your gaze. âDick, outside. Now.â
Damian calls out your name, but youâre out the door before heâor whatever version of him was waiting for you in that room, can twist your emotions further.
You hear the door close gently behind you and sense the lingering guilt that hovers in the air.
You stare blankly at the chipped paint of the hospital walls. âYou shouldnât have called me here.â
âI know.â Dick sighs, and only now can you truly hear his distress. âYou shouldâve seen him. He was convinced you were in dangerâthat we were hiding something when you didnât show after the first hour of his consciousness.â
âI canâtââ Your voice breaks. âI canât go back in there pretending everythingâs fine.â
Dick hesitates. There's a reason you were called overâwhich he purposely excluded in the call. âThe doctor said we have to keep his stress to a minimum. Weâre worried his condition will be unstable if youâre.. not around.â
You whip your gaze to meet his, but he's looking back at the door, where his youngest brother laidâunaware of the turmoil that was happening outside. You suck in a breath. âItâs not my job to be his keeper.â
âI know. Thatâs why Iâm asking you⊠as a friend." He pleads, looking back at you. "Heâs my brother, and I know something happened between the two of youâand that heâs been stupid, which is why he ended up getting a concussion in the first place.â
His suggestion is loud in the silence, that the possibility of Damian's impulsivity which led to his injury is because of you. It couldn't be true. Not when he made it so evidently clear that you mattered the least to him out of everything in his life's priorities.
âHe doesnât want to admit it.â Dick tries. âHe never does when it comes to his emotions, but he needs you. I know you won't believe me, not when heâs the one that shouldâve told you, but you saw that look on his face. Itâs like he finally allowed himself to breathe when he saw you.â
âSoâ" Your hands flail, desperate to release some tension. "What do you expect me to do?â
âJust.. be around him, the same way it was before, till he gets his memories back.â He sighs again, running a hand through the mess of his hair, knowing how unfair it sounds. "If anything, it may help speed up his recovery. You won't have to deal with him for long."
Your fingers run over the crescent moons your nails have indented into your palms. The silence drags, and you know there's already a conclusion being made without your consent. â...This is insane.â
â
âSomething's wrong.â Damian comments, watching you shuffle around his apartment, well, you had to get used to it being your shared apartment againâwhen he straight up refused on staying over at his family's manor.
Something doesn't quite cut it. âNothing's wrong.â Your voice is stiff even to your own ears and as you pull out the kitchen drawers. Your heart squeezes at the sight of your mugs still kept inside, unchanged since you moved out.
It wasnât just the mugs, but almost everything inside the apartmentâas if time has frozen within these walls, because he didnât throw any of your leftover belongings away.
âI can feel it. There is something youâre hiding.â He pushes.
"Since when were you the empath?" Taking out a dusty mug, you rinse it over the open tap, focusing heavily on the task to avoid his prying stare. âDick said not to tell you.â
âIt doesnât matter what Grayson said.â Despite obvious instructions from the doctor, Damian disregards them and moves abruptly from the couch, hand still clutching an icepack to the back of his head. âYou can tell me anything.â
You slam down the mug with more force than necessary, causing a loud screech through the air. It freezes the atmosphere in the apartment, and you make the mistake of glancing over to see his reaction. Taken aback, the rarest hurt displays itself across his face, forcing you to look back down at the counter. This is going to be impossible.
"Damian, please sit down." You plead, refusing to look at him. "You're not meant to be moving."
His frustration ticks. You can feel it in the barest hunch of his shoulders, because the curse of reading his habits still comes so easily. He rounds the counter, stopping right in front of you. His free hand comes to lift your chin with the intention of forcing you to meet his gaze, but you grab his clothed wrist before he can even come close to contacting your skin.
Shock doesn't come close to describing the parting of his lips, the widening of his pupils. "You are angry." He states, but it comes out in a huff of disbelief.
"Damian." Your voice comes out as a warning. "You should be resting."
"No."
"Why?" You snap.
"The woman I am in love with is clearly upset with me, and I have no recollection of why." He answers briskly. "Youâre calling me by my birth name which I have never hated more to hear, because it means I have disappointed you. Forgive me, if I am concerned."
The word 'love' sets off the wrong trigger.
âLove? It didnât seem like it when you broke up with me.â It spills out before you can stop it. You suck in a breath, already regretting it. There goes your promise to Dick.
You expect his expression to fall into the one youâre familiar with, coldâcutting, but as the seconds pass, the hit doesnât come like you expect it to. His brows knit together in complete bafflement. âWhy would I do such a thing?â
You shrug, an aloof act that fools not even you. Youâre the last person who can answer a question thatâs been haunting you since he did it. âBeats me.â
âI would neverâever leave you, Beloved.â His voice is strained, as if the mere thought confounds him with disbelief. "If this is your punishment for me going on that mission without your permission, I am sorry. Justâ"
His lips purse together, and his hand still caught in yours loosens itself from your grip to grab hold of your fingers, tentatively interlacing them together. "Don't ever say those words again."
Your lips part and close, confusion etched in your features. The Damian in front of youâdoesn't coincide with the one in the last memories you have with him at all.
He struggled when you weren't there. Dick's voice rings in your ears, having said that right when you were signing the papers for Damianâs discharge, listing your name to be put as his emergency contact to provide updates on his condition.
"Right, fine." You dismiss, even when you can see how your short response stings him. "If you don't want me to be pissed, please go back to the couch. I will call the hospital on you if you don't listen."
His expression stiffens at the thought of being trapped in that stuffy room flooded with fluorescent lights, of the pushy nurse who demanded heâd get bed rest for at least forty-eight hours as he exited the doors. In restrained obedience, his expression flickers in contemplation. "Then youâll come with me."
Your lips part to argue, but he's already pulling you along, his hand still intertwined with yours, dragging you along to the couch. He sits, forcing you right into his lap.
"You are to remain here till I am well." He states, his free arm coming to rest on your thighs, trapping you in his hold.
"That isâ" You splutter. "I didn't agree to this."
"Call it compromise." He remarks, his scarred fingers squeezing yours. "I will not feel better till you are no longer mad."
You stare at him in disbelief. Had he ever been this clingy before? Your brain has trained so hard on forgetting the details that it's hard to make sense of what's real and what isn't.
"You're unbelievable." You mutter.
"And you're mine still." He responds easily.
It stills your heart, so sudden in tearing open the wreckage that lays hidden that you have to settle on staring at the windows instead, at the row of your wilted plants that he's struggled in keeping alive.
He sets the ice pack on the end table, his freezing hand coming up to caress your chin, sending a shiver down your spine at the cool temperature. "Will you truly not tell me what has displeased you?"
You had. Quite abruptly too with all your honesty. It still shocks you that he rejected the possibility of a break-up so quickly.
"Patients shouldn't speak so much." You mutter, knowing his stubbornness will get you nowhere closer to convincing him.
His lips quirk up into the faintest smile. "You worry."
"Of course, I am worried." When Dick had called you, Damian and emergency room was enough to toss your senses to the wind. Nothing of the past even made its way into consideration when you had rushed over, barring Gotham's traffic laws and all.
"For someone who prides himself on the least concussions among his siblings, you're not doing a very good job in living up to your word."
âBut I have lived up to my word.â He answers.
You shift your gaze to him, confused.
âMy promises to you mean more than some tally.â He declares. âI gave you my word that I will always make it back home to you, alive.â
His promises mean nothing. They shouldnâtâbut the way he looks at you, filled with utter devotion, makes you wonder when he decided this version of him didnât belong to you anymore.
Itâs like youâre tossed into a time loop, forced to experience what youâve lost over and over with every reminder.
âI should make dinner.â You announce abruptly, desperate to be out of his arms.
He stares at you in surprise, blinking slowly. âAlright, I shall accompany you.â
âWhat happened to staying on the couch?â
He shrugs. âThat was the doctorâs orders, and I donât recall making any promises to that loon.â
â
Dinner settles as a silent staring competition, tension running thick through the air with only him as the singular active participant, his eyes staring unblinkingly, digging a hole into your very bones as you poke at your plate, long after the meal has finished.
Just when sleep finally arrives, and you think youâre free from your nightmarish duties, caught between torn memories and thin lies, do you realise your mistake. Sleeping arrangements.
Damian pulls at the sheets, clearly expecting you to sleep by his side. Your mind scrambles for an excuse to sleep elsewhere but there is only one bedroom, and sleeping on the couch will only reinforce his suspicions of you being upset.
Just act like normal. Dick had suggested, like itâs that easy to resume being the girlfriend to your ex who doesnât remember that he is one.
"Beloved?â He calls, snapping you out of your stupor.
Youâre truly in for it. Your foolish decision to play pretend has reached its limits, and youâre to bear the consequences.
âComing.â You respond weakly, making your way over to the bed.
You settle at the very edge, laying down stiffly as you pull the sheets over you. Seconds pass in silence and you think youâve done it, completed your task without complications, when you hear a sudden displeased grunt.
Large hands wrap around your waist, and tugs you into a broad chest. Your eyes snap open wide, completely frozen as Damian tucks his nose into the crook of your shoulder.
âIt is cruel even of you to be so far when I am injured, habibti.â He whispers against your ear.
You can barely breathe, scared heâll feel the palpitations of your heart hammering against your ribs, right above his hold. He only calls you that when he is desperate, when a single language canât capture what he wishes to convey.
âYou told me yourself.â He grumbles. âEven if it carries to the next morning, we must never go to sleep angry at one another.â
Your lip quivers, and you force your eyes shut. âI am not angry.â
Heâs silent, but his grip tightens ever so slightly, as if afraid youâll drift further away if he doesnât. â...I choose to believe you.â
â
Desperation is a rare look on Damian, but you think even this is cutting close to your given patience.
âI am unable to feed myself.â He shrugs, hands crossed over in obvious pretence.
âDamianââ
His gaze sharpens.
You resist a sigh. âDami. I have to head to work, and youâre not starving yourself.â
âFive minutes.â He rebuts. âThat is my usual speed for breakfast. You can spare that.â
He is right. You usually get to the office early anyway, but that doesnât make his weaponised incompetence any easier to swallowâeven for five minutes.
âLast I recall, concussions donât erase your ability to use a spoon.â You retort, grabbing the utensil with more force than necessary. âAnd you were eating perfectly fine last night.â
âI suppose the doctor is right.â He remarks. âI require bed restâand last night, I did not sleep well. A certain someone was desperate to escape my hold.â
âPetty.â You mutter, scooping the porridge and blowing on it. He watches you intently, seemingly very pleased with himself.
You lift the spoon to his lips, your lips pursed in impatience. With a deliberate slowness, he leans in, his fingers sneakingly wrapping around your wrist. He brings the spoon to his lips, but his eyes are trained on you.
He takes a bite, and hums. He lets his fingers drum softly against your wrist for a few more seconds before he comments. âMy appetite is satiated.â
You scoff, but you canât help the smile that quirks up involuntarily. âLiar.â
He shakes his head, feigning ignorance. âI suppose for my survival, you will have to feed me every morning."
"Since you clearly need to be babied, why don't I call Dick over to spoon-feed you then?"
His expression sours comically. "That is a horrible suggestion."
"Then, figure out how to use your hands." You mock, forcing the spoon into his fingers. "I'm heading off to work, don't do anything stupid."
"That's reserved for my siblings." He mutters, and his gaze traces over you, searching. Whatever he wants to find, it's not there, hidden by the mask you've put on, and his shoulders droop.
Crossing his arms, he looks at you with a thick expression. "I'll wait for you."
Grabbing your bag, you give him the barest nod as a response and youâre halfway to the door when his throat clears. You resist a sigh, and force yourself to look back at him. "Yes?"
âArenât you forgetting something important?â He mutters briskly.
Your brows furrow, thinking. Heâs on his prescribed meds, has attempted at breakfast, and is on house arrest till he recovers, barred from all patrols till heâs able to function without an ice pack to his scalp.
His expression contorts briefly in disappointment, before he mutters something incoherently. Walking over to you, he stares at you with a narrowed expression before he leans inâand presses a kiss to your forehead.
You blink rapidly, growing flustered.
âFor good luck.â He murmurs. âSince youâre the one leaving earlier this time, Iâll forgive you for forgetting.â
Right, you used to always give him a kiss before you left, till it became a ceremonious habit. He always seemed so undeterred to them, that you assumed he was merely tolerating your teasing by standing as still as a statue.
You never thought he actually waited for them.
Staring at him speechlessly, you find your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth. For someone whoâs lost his memories, he was strangely hyper-aware of all your previous habits.
âHave a good day, beloved.â He wishes, eyes softening in a cruel, dangerous form of lowering your defences.
Blinking harshly and regaining your senses, you mutter a quick goodbye and leave as quickly as you can. You wish you could tear out the beating organ in your chest that refuses to calm down at his affections.
He is not your Damian and hasnât been for months. You refuse to fall for him again, not when it meant having your heart broken twice when he wakes from this feverish nightmare and remembers⊠that he doesnât love you anymore.
â
Twilight has long settled among the darkened dusky clouds, and your back aches from hunching over your desk for the last couple of hours.
It was a reprieve to be away from Damian, to be sucked into a part of your life where it was constant with your past and present. So much so, you over-did yourself on your workload, starting on more tasks than you were supposed to.
Checking the clock, you wince. Eight p.m.
You were supposed to be home three hours ago. Checking your phone, youâre surprised to find no notifications, asking for updates on your location or the time youâll reach home. Only to remember you blocked him eight months ago.
You curse, quickly unblocking him. You can only imagine his reactionâof you not coming back home at your usual hour and being unreachable?
Quickly packing your bag, you grab for your coat, stumbling as you tug it on and exit through the revolving doors. One hand haphazardly scrolls through your phone, pressing on his contact, and youâre busy thinking of some flimsy excuse that didnât involve avoiding his entire existence. Too busy to notice someone approaching you at alarming speed.
The harsh yell of your name, echoed in a deep timbre that could only belong to him, snaps you out of your daze.
You wince, readying yourself before you turn. You expect him to be angry, disappointed. A mirror of the perfect statue you remember in your memories, cold and detached.
You didnât expect to see him panting, hands on his thighs, hair sticking in all directions, and his eyesâfilled with an uncharacteristic panic. Damian Wayne, the epitome of a man carved into a sharpened blade, stands before you as a complete mess.
"You didn't come home." He states, voice barely constrained to be levelled.
"Damian."
"Whatever I have done, forgive me." He exhales, sweat pooling at his forehead, cheeks reddened from running as he lifts himself back up, towering over you. Yet, he has never looked so vulnerable. "I just needed to make sure you were okay."
Damian Wayne never begs, not even when you walked out the door eight months ago.
Yet here he was, one hand coming up to clutch his head, gritting his teeth and trying to conceal his pain. Whatever pretence you held, the cold front youâve desperately tried to upkeep to distance yourselfâcompletely vanishes as you rush towards him.
âDamian, youâre not supposed to strain your head. Much less run all the way here.â Your stern expression falls short, replaced with worry as your eyes rapidly look him up and down. âIt could lead to complications.â
âIt felt wrong.â
The crease between your brows deepen. âWhat felt wrong?â
âLetting you walk away.â He grits. âSeeing you close the door on me. My body exhibited strange symptomsâpalpitations, nervesâand somehow, I was convinced if I let you go, youâll never come back. My headâs been hurting since and I waited. I truly tried.â
"I found notes." He says through the clenching of his jaw. "From the last few months in my phone."
You freeze.
"It contained your routine of how often you water your plants, your favourite recipes, and half-written texts I've never sent." He lists out. "As if I'm afraid I'll forget. Like you weren't there to remind me."
"Just stop. You're hurting yourself." It's hard to see him like thisâso unguarded, filled with pain. It's hard to hear his efforts, when neither of you can understand what went through his mind, lost in his scattered memories. "I'll go home with you."
"I can't remember what I've done." Abruptly removing his hand from the back of his head, his fingers come up to caress your cheek. Even distressed, his touch is so soft, so gentle. His eyes search yours, trying to find the answer he seeks. "I don't know if I deserve to ask you to go home. Not when I haven't made it up to you."
"No matter how angry I am, I will never want to see you in pain." You plead. Grabbing onto his fingers, you interlock them with yours and tug him along back to the apartment. "Weâre going home."
â
The kitchen counter is filled with your favourite flowers, even when you know he canât stand the smell of them wilting two days later. An uneaten plate has grown cold on the dining table, evidence of a meal heâs cooked for you.
It's unbearable, because the guilt that drowns your chest, deepens into a painful tug at every controlled breath, pulling at the thought of him waiting for you alone. You drop your bag on the sofa, but the pretense is holding on by a thin thread and when you turnâhe's standing there and watching, his gaze locked onto you as if he could look at nothing else.
You havenât even noticed the tears streaming down your face, but youâre just so tired. Of fighting this obvious battle you were never meant to win.
You still love him. Even if heâs forgotten the fight, and the words he said that tore you apart.
Maybe it's the sight of your tears. He hated it whenever you cried, no matter how bad a fightâs ever gottenâbut the distance he maintained out of respect for you vanishes as he moves in an instant, arms wrapping around you. He mutters into your hair, begging. âIâm sorry, hayati. Do not cry because of me.â
âI missed you.â Your voice cracks. âSo much. It killed me to be awayâbut it was what you wanted.â
"Never." His voice lowers, desperate to make you believe, pulling away with his hands still wrapped around you, lowering his head to force you to meet his eyes. "I will never wish for your absence.â
He leans in, forehead pressed against yours. "You are all I could ever want. You're the reason I fought tooth and nail to make it back from that mission. You're what makes sense when everything else crashes. The idiot I was, I rebuke all his decisions because I want you. Now. Forever."
"I don't know if you'll mean it." Your voice comes out hoarse, broken. "When you remember the reason that you pulled away."
"I may have lost my memories." He says sternly. "But I know who I am. That has never changed. Not before, and certainly not now. Youâre the only one whoâs ever been the keeper to my heart, and itâll be you till my last breath.â
You want to believe him. So desperately, you want to love him again and not fear that he'll drift away, with the fear of disappointing his father, or letting his never-ending mission break the two of you apart again.
"If losing my memories is what it takes to get you back, I will do it again and more." He says with absolute conviction. "I have never been more sure. This is what I want. You are all I need. So, stay. We'll figure this out together. Even when my memories return."
"Justâdonât leave me." His voice softens, his gaze pooled with a deep-set fear that his body seems to remember, even when his mind is frayed. "I canât bear it.â
â
His plea follows you into your dreams. This version of him is still hard for your mind to wrap around, that when you wake from a shuffle of movement, it takes you a moment to readjust and recognise your surroundings. Or rather, the arms pulling away from your waist. You force your eyes open, blinking blearily before turning around to face him.
"Dami?" You murmur.
He doesn't answer. Instead, he's looking at you with a sober, dreaded realisation, likeâhe's woken up from a dream.
It strikes you immediately, the fog in his gaze that has lifted, and you're quick to pull away fully to your side of the bed, the sheets dragging along your legs. "You remember."
"Beloved." His hand reaches out, disbelievingâbut it freezes mid-air and pulls back, a quiet guilt filling his gaze. "You're here."
You swallow, pulling your knees under your elbows. "Are you going to kick me out?"
His expression cracksârevealing a cold rage taking over his expression, but it wasn't directed at you. It was for himself.
"No." He answers shortly, disgust creased into the tension between his brows. "I should be the one to leave. I have hurt you, deeply. I took advantage of your kindness while I was unable to recover my memories, and trapped you into being here with me."
His jaw clenches, and he averts his gaze. "I understand if you want to be done with me. Permanently. I will have it all sorted by the morning."
No. That is not what you want. You want himâhonest and bearing his heart to you, the way he did earlier. You didn't want kindness, or polite pity, because you still see the man you love under the mask that he's desperately trying to upkeep.
"No." Your voice echoes against the walls, and his gaze snaps to you. "I do not want you to go. I want you to tell me everything. What you were thinking, what you did while I was gone, and what you want from me. I'm not letting you let me go this time, Damian. So, talk."
He inhales, and even as his fists dig into the sheets, there is a quiet, trembling hope you find when his eyes soften, tracing over your features like he's finally able to breathe with you in his vision.
"I lost sight." He speaks, his voice weaker than you've ever heard it. "Of what truly mattered. The mission, the fights with Fatherâit consumed me as a never-ending battle to prove myself. With every failure, it escaped as a lash, a punishment that slowly began to trick my mind into thinking that I did not deserve life's blessings. That I did not deserve you."
"I thought you were better off without a partner who always came back needing stitches, bleeding across the floorboards." His gaze darkens, and somewhere in him, he sounds as if he still believes it. "That you deserved someone who was stable, warm, kind. Who knew how to use his words instead of wielding them like a dagger. Who could hold your heart without being so afraid of breaking it."
"I was so sure of it." He mocks, a cold dagger dragging over the open wound of his regret. "I made the decision for us without asking."
"I regretted it." He says quickly, gaze flickering with a sudden intensity. "Immediately. On the first sleepless night, when I couldnât tear my gaze away from the side you always occupied. When the plants started to wilt as if they couldn't bear anyone's hands but yours. When I made two coffees in the morning and had to drain it in the sink."
"I had reserved a space in each part of my life unknowingly, for you." He admits. "When I lost you, I felt itâthis unbearable lossâand I knew Iâve made it impossible to live without you.â
"But you did." You mutter. "For eight months."
"Living?" He smiles wryly, and not a hint of it reaches his soulless gaze. "I knew that I had hurt you, and I wouldâve been an even more selfish bastard if I asked you to forgive me. But I was not living.â
âI carried on in the only way I knew how before meeting you. By survivingâbarely. I grew reckless. Impulsive. Threw myself into mission after mission. By the time I realised how far gone I was, I was bleeding out in an alleyway and Dick was dragging me to the hospital."
You could only let silence answer for you. His honesty, which was all you ever wished for, was simultaneously so much to bear.
"Did you mean what you said earlier?â You ask quietly.
"Every single word." His fingers twitch, a slight tremor he tries to hide by digging deeper into the sheets. "You are all I want. There wasn't a day since you left that I haven't regretted letting you go. I may have survived, but the clock on my life stopped till you came back into it."
A lock that's been trapped in that hollow cavity in your chest, weighing you down since the first time you saw him in the hospital, and maybe even before thenâfinally breaks. Your hands come up to shield the pain youâve desperately tried to hide, tears running down to no avail.
Whatever semblance of dignity he was trying to uphold, it completely shatters as he reaches for you, pulling you into his arms. He lets out a deep exhale, hands rubbing against your back, comforting and warm.
"I am sorry I hurt you." He mutters into the crown of your head. "I am sorry I've been a fool. No apologies can make up for what I've done to usâonly that I regret every moment I wasted, and that it took me this long to tell you what you deserved to hear."
"I don't want you to go away, Damian." Itâs the most genuine plea youâve ever asked of him, bearing your heart so deeply that it terrifies you of its vulnerability. "Don't disappear on me again. Donât shut me out. I hated not being able to read you, and feeling like I was isolated in what was meant to be a partnership between the two of us."
He shakes his head wordlessly, pulling away slightly to lower his gaze, meeting yours and thereâs a raw desperation in the green of his eyes. âI will never leave. Not as long as youâll have meâI will spend the rest of my life forging myself to be the man you deserve. I will communicate. I will apologise. I will do anything you want, hayati.â
âYou have a lot to make up for.â You remind him.
âAs long as youâll give me the time.â He answers. âI will not waste a moment more.â
âI want grovelling.â You go on. âLikeâon your knees grovelling.â
âI can do it now.â His response is quicker than sound, and heâs already ready to obey your every command.
âI want you to tell me when you feel something is wrong. When you feel youâre not enough, you have to say it.â You demand.
âYes, my love.â He answers, a soft nod brushing against your forehead.
âI want you to call the hospital now, because we need to get a scan to make sure everythingâs okay.â
His expression faltersâa brief hesitation at the thought of the pushy doctor and his accompanying nurse.
âDamian.â
He flinches at the sound of his birth name, stressed in that particular tone that signals you're not joking about your conditions if he wanted to be with you again. Not even his hatred for hospitals will risk him even the slightest chance of losing you.
With or without his memories, he had always known that you're the peace in his life that he thought he didn't deserve, but cherished so deeply that he finds no meaning in the word if it weren't for you.
âI will call the hospital immediately, Beloved.â
likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333
â or, the language of devotion from a boy who was raised to conquer, not to love
â¶âMasterlist
It starts with the ring.
An emerald, cut sharp like a blade, set into gold with ancient Arabic filigree etched so fine itâs barely visible unless the light catches it. She finds it on her nightstand one morningâwrapped in black silk, warm as if it had been held in a palm all night.
The note is in his handwriting. Neat. Small. Precise.
âFor your hand, which should always be protected.
She wears it. Of course she wears it.
She doesnât expect the next giftâtwo weeks later, an anklet. golden, thin and elegant, a tiny ŰŻ (the Arabic letter dÄl) dangling from the chain. Damian doesnât say anything when she finds it.
He just kneels down during a quiet hour in the Manor and clasps it around her ankle himself. His hands are steady. His touch reverent.
âI want them to know,â he says simply, eyes flicking up to hers. âWherever you walk, youâre mine.â
She forgets how to breathe.
âOkay, but like,â Steph says later, eyes wide, âthatâs not just romantic. Thatâs spiritual warfare.â
Jason whistles low. âManâs out here forging rings like itâs Lord of the Rings, but hot.â
Dick smirks. âI told you. Heâs an intense little poet when it comes to her.â
There are other gifts. A hair comb, made of dark wood and inlaid with jade. A carved pendant with lines from a pre-Islamic Arabic love poem, words so old they taste like desert wind and firelight.
He gives her a dagger once.
Not large. Not flashy.
But beautiful.
Etched down the spine, in Arabic script so fine itâs almost hidden, it reads:
âWhoever touches what is mine will bleed.â
She isnât scared. Not of him.
She understands what it meansâwhat heâs never been able to say without wrapping it in old language and older steel:
That he was raised by people who saw love as weakness.
That he is fighting to unlearn that.
That when he gives, it isnât casual. Itâs sacred.
They sit alone on the rooftop again.
Gotham sprawls below. The stars are faint. Sheâs wearing the anklet. The ring. A new necklace nowâanother gift, this one with a pressed green stone the color of his eyes, suspended above her collarbone like a vow.
âYouâre mine,â he says softly, fingers brushing the pendant.
âMm,â she murmurs. âYours, huh?â
âI donât mean that lightly,â he says. âI mean it the way temples mean prayer. The way altars mean blood.â
She smiles. âI know.â
âI would kill for you.â
âYou have,â she says.
âI would die for you.â
Her hand finds his. âYou donât have to.â
Damian looks at her for a long moment. The kind of look that feels like burning incense and ancient gods and poetry that doesnât rhyme.
Then he says, voice barely above a whisper:
âYou are not mine like a thing to be owned.
You are mine like breath is to lungs. Like fire is to a blade.â
She closes her eyes, heart thudding. âYouâre ridiculous.â
âIâm yours too,â he says.
Tim finds the dagger a week later.
Jason reads the inscription and whistles. âThis boyâs out here writing Arabic death vows.â
âPoetic menace,â Steph mutters. âI love that for her.â
Dick just grins, arms folded. âTold you. He doesnât love. He consecrates.â
And maybe thatâs what it is.
Not love like hearts and flowers and Hallmark cards.
But love like carved emeralds and sacred steel.
Love like an altar.
Like devotion.
Like the whole world could burnâand heâd still reach through the smoke to clasp her wrist and whisper:
ârĆ«áž„Ä«âŠâ
i don't really what how i feel about this one
.Taglistđ·ïž: @simpingmyassoff , @shootingstargirl2001 (if you want to be added,comment down below!)
Summary: Maul intends to train the reader, but is shocked to be pleasently surprised by how the combat enfolds.
Warning: Nothing? Softness? Maul getting treated well? (Shocking) A little heat.
A/N: This is from a story i've nearly finished now. I don't think anyone is interested in Kenobi/Maul/Prequels stuff anymore but here i am writing nontheless.
Reader/Oc is Darth Viscer, a Sith Lord who has helped Maul back on his feet and in exchange takes lessons from him since Sideous is to busy manipulating the Galaxy to care for his apprentice.
Maul sat, thinking deeply.
Thinking about when all of this had started.
How it had gotten this opressing, this intense.
He simply meant to train her.
He didn't meant for this.
When had he first begun to want her? To truly desire to call her his and his alone?
The memory surged forward with unrelenting clarity, a vivid reminder of the day she had made him feel utterly undone.
They had trained in hand-to-hand combat that day, as they often did. She was not particularly skilled in this area - it had always been one of her weaker points, and Maul approached it with a brutal honesty that left no room for indulgence. His strikes were precise, his movements calculated. He was relentless, expecting her to rise to meet him with the same unyielding tenacity. She had never won before, not once.
But that day was different.
She had arrived in her usual training attire, but as they stepped into the sparring circle, she did something subtle yet intentional. With a graceful movement, she removed the outer layer of her robes, revealing a more fitted underlayer that accentuated her form. It was practical, perhaps even necessary for ease of movement, but the way she did it, unhurried, deliberate âŠit made him falter for the briefest moment.
As the soft silken fabric glided off her body she looked only at the ground while his gaze was on the graceful lines of her form, on the interplay of light and shadow dancing over her skin.
Focus, he told himself, clenching his jaw as the delicate fabric slipped from her shoulders and pooled at her feet. His gaze betrayed him, lingering where it shouldnât.Â
He could feel the heat rising, frustration bubbling beneath the surface.
He inhaled sharply, forcing his gaze upward, meeting her eyes for only a moment. She wasnât even looking at him, her focus seemed fixed on the ground, oblivious to the chaos she stirred in him.
Or perhaps not. She had a way of knowing things, of seeing through him in ways no one else could.
This is nothing, he lied to himself as they moved to begin. Right now, Sheâs nothing more than an opponent.
A distraction. Thatâs all this is. A dangerous, maddening distraction.
He shook it off, dismissing the distraction as an aberration.
They began.
Her strikes were more fluid than usual, her movements sharper, and her gaze⊠It was her gaze that unsettled him. Those soft, knowing eyes met his with an intensity that wasnât born of aggression but something far more disarming. She would lock onto him, her expression almost serene, and it threw him off balance in a way he couldnât explain.
Then came the comments.
âYou seem tense, my Lord.â she murmured as she dodged one of his attacks, her voice calm, almost teasing.
âTense.â He nearly growled aloud at the word, his jaw tightening. Of course Iâm tense. Youâre the cause of it.
Her compliments landed like carefully aimed blows, throwing off his rhythm in ways no opponent ever had.
Sheâs distracting you. Focus on her movements, not her words. Stop letting her get in your head.
He growled in response, lunging again, only for her to sidestep with a fluidity that seemed more deliberate than instinctual.
âYour form is perfect,â she said, her voice lilting as if they were engaged in casual conversation rather than combat. âAlways a pleasure to watch youâŠâ
Her words dug into his focus, peeling it away piece by piece. He pressed on, determined to outmaneuver her, but she countered each of his moves with a grace that seemed almost effortless. Then she smiled. It wasnât mocking or triumphant: it was soft, warm, and utterly devastating.
Each of his strikes was calculated, precise, yet somehow, she managed to slip away with the ease of smoke curling through fingers.
âYouâre fast, todayâ Maul muttered, circling her like a predator.
âWhy thank you, my Lord,â she teased, her voice honeyed with mock sweetness. âAnd youâre... determined, as ever.â
A glimmer of irritation crossed his face. âDetermined to see you focus, Viscer.â
She ducked under a low swing, her steps light and graceful.
Maul growled low in his throat, thrusting forward with a series of rapid jabs. This time, she moved closer instead of retreating, forcing him to pivot sharply. Her smaller frame twisted under his arm, her eyes catching his with a mischievous spark.
She was not attacking at all.
Simply avoiding him.
âWhat did I tell you about fleeing all the time?â, he snarled angrily, leaving his tense position for but a second, âHow do you expect to win against me if you donât attack? Want me to fall over from exhaustion?â
She only smiled at this, not at all taking him all too seriously before that smile was quickly washed away. He threw a kick that would have damn well knocked her out had she not moved in the last possible second.Â
âCareful, Maul. You wouldnât want to hurt me, would you?â she purred, stepping just out of reach again, never breaking eye contact.
He stopped mid-motion, his breathing low and tense as he hissed at her. âDonât tempt me.â
âOh, but isnât that what I do best?â she cooed, her lips curling into a playful smirk.
For a moment, he couldnât look away from her. The way she moved, the way her eyes burned with a sharpness that rivaled his own and her mind, oh, her mindâŠ.
He caught himself lacking quickly, his response a sharp swing, faster and more deliberate this time, aimed to disarm her entirely. She blocked it, but he was too strong for her, the impact forced her back a step. For the first time, she stumbled slightly, her composure slipping - but only for a heartbeat.
When she looked back up at him she was not terrified but smiling brightly, teasing him once more.Â
âGetting hot, my Lord?â she asked innocently, tilting her head as though she were oblivious to her own effect.
His jaw clenched. âYouâre stalling.â
âAnd youâre distracted.â
She darted forward unexpectedly, her kick aimed low to catch him off guard. He parried easily, but the suddenness of her attack forced him to shift his stance. She rushed around him again, her soft laughter filling the space as she avoided his next strike.
âEnough talking, enough evading!â Maul snapped, lunging toward her.
She pivoted, her free hand brushing his arm as she twisted away. âBut you love me talking-â, she purred.
His grip faltered for a fraction of a second - just long enough for her to slip past him and circle behind. He spun, ready to lunge for her, but she was already at his side again, her hand running along his rips as if in a caress instead of a heated fight.
âYouâre too stiff,â she commented, standing again with an infuriatingly soft smile. âYou need to loosen up.â
That was it. Maul surged forward with a growl, finally catching her off guard. He pushed her back step by step, driving her toward the far wall. Her footwork faltered slightly, her back brushing the cold durasteel behind her.
âIâm done playing,â he hissed, closing the distance, his tone sharp with frustration.
âI didnât realize weâd started playing,â she quipped, her voice breathless yet teasing, a wicked glint in her eye.
Stop listening to her.The thought was sharp, commanding, but it barely held. Her voice, soft, teasing, laced with that maddening calm, wrapped around him, tugging at his resolve. Sheâs toying with me, he thought, his frustration mounting as she slipped past another of his strikes, her movements more like a dance than an act of defense.
His focus slipped further, his precision faltering as her graceful dodges kept him chasing. Sheâs not stronger than me. Sheâs not faster than me. And yetâŠThe truth clawed at him as her warmth unraveled him piece by piece. She doesnât need to overpower me. Sheâs disarming me with... herâŠherâŠ
He lunged again, determined to regain control, but there it was, the slight tilt of her head, the curve of her lips, the way her eyes seemed to see through him. Force help me.
Maulâs patience snapped. He rushed forward, his movements sharp and deliberate, aiming to catch her off-guard. She sidestepped him smoothly, her lithe frame just slipping out of his reach. He pivoted instantly, his hand swiping toward her, but she ducked low, her hair sweeping the floor as she twisted away. When she rose, her stance was loose and deceptively relaxed, her soft, mocking gaze fixed on him.
Infuriating.
The word slammed through his mind as his strikes met only air, her movements as fluid as a stream slipping past boulders. Her movements were maddeningly precise.
Her voice cut through his spiraling focus, calm and teasing: âYouâll have to try harder than that if you want me.â
Want you? The phrase hit him like a blow. You arrogant... Yet even as the thought began, his focus wavered. Because somewhere, deep within, another voice whispered something far more dangerous.
...Do I?
His jaw clenched, and he surged forward again, this time closing the distance between them faster than she anticipated.
She feigned left, then ducked low, sweeping her leg toward his to knock him off balance.
It almost worked. Maul stumbled slightly, but he recovered faster than she anticipated. Before she could retreat, his arms were around her, and their combined momentum sent them tumbling to the ground.
He landed above her, pinning her down with an iron grip. One of his hands wrapped around her wrist, pressing it to the floor beside her head, while his other hand braced against her shoulder. His weight held her firmly in place, and his breathing came fast and heavy just as hers, her lips parted, her chest moving quickly beneath him.
Iâve got her. The thought came sharply, like a blade finding its mark. His heart pounded in his chest, blood thrumming with adrenaline.
Her chest rose and fell beneath him, her breath mingling with his in the silence that followed. The power he felt from the sheer weight of the moment was intoxicating. He had the upper hand now, and he should have relished it, but something gnawed at him.
Why? - Why doesn't it feel like a victory?
He looked down at her, her eyes steady and challenging, lips slightly parted with the rapid rhythm of her breath. Her body, though pinned beneath his, held no resistance. In fact, she seemed almost... content. Her defiant expression made his stomach tighten in ways he didnât understand.
Then she spoke again, and her voice was a whisper, a tease, soft as a caress but cutting through him all the same. âYouâve got me.â
He should bellow a resounding âYesâ - Yet all he could think of was how close she was, how her body was pressed so perfectly beneath his, how her breath, soft and warm against his skin, seemed to hold something far more potent than victory. He could feel the heat between them. He could sense her strength, even in her apparent submission.
As he leaned in, prepared to declare his victory, she spoke again, her voice a whisper that sent a shiver through him.
âAre you sure youâve won, my Lord?â
Her tone carried an implication that made his grip falter. In that instant, she twisted her body, slipping from his grasp like water through his fingers. Before he could react, she was on top of him, straddling his waist, her hands braced against his chest to pin him down.
What is this?
The thought came without warning, as his body froze beneath her. His instincts screamed to move, to fight, to flip her off him and assert control.
He could have - heâd even begun to shift, his muscles coiling instinctively to push her off. But midway through the motion, he froze.
Her hands werenât holding him down, not really; they rested so lightly against his chest that he barely felt their weight. It wasnât force that pinned him - it was her.
The softness in her expression, the way her lips parted ever so slightly, and her eyes... they werenât triumphant, but something else entirely. She looked as though she was gazing at a lover.
His chest tightened. His thoughts scattered. His heartbeat drummed loudly in his ears as her soft gaze seemed to reach into the very core of him, unraveling everything he thought he knew about strength, about control, about power.
Fight her, he thought, almost desperately. Iâm supposed to win, to dominate, to prove...
Her lips parted ever so slightly, a small, unspoken invitation, and that was all it took to leave him breathless. He was undone, and she didnât even have to try.
She leaned forward slightly, her hair falling over her shoulder in a cascade that framed her face. Her expression was calm, her breathing steady, as if she hadnât just turned his world upside down.
She was close enough to taste.
Close enough for him to nearly lose himself.
âYield,â she said softly, her amber eyes pinning him beneath her.
The word hit him like a shockwave, reverberating in his chest, rattling his bones. His first instinct was to deny it, to fight against it.
He had been trained to never yield, to never submit.
He had lived for power, for domination, for the feeling of victory that burned in his blood. But now, as she sat atop him, her hands so soft on his chest, her gaze so steady, so unflinching... he couldnât bring himself to move.
Why am I not resisting?
His mind screamed, the remnants of his pride clawing at him. He could break free - he should. But the thought of doing so felt... wrong. All Wrong.
Why would he ever give up closeness like this willingly?
He stared at her, every nerve in his body alight and frozen at the same time. Her voice, her presence, it was intoxicating.
His twin hearts thundered against his ribs, and he swore she could feel it through the light pressure of her hands against his chest. He could smell the faint trace of something sweet in her hair, see the sharp intelligence glittering in her amber eyes, and feel the warmth of her so close.
For a man like Maul, power was everything.
And yet, in this moment, none of that mattered. Not the training, not the endless hunger for revenge. Nothing mattered except her.
Her. Her. Her.
The way her eyes bore into him, holding him in place more effectively than any chain could. The way her soft smile radiated confidence and fulfillment in stradling him, entirely unafraid of him. She wasnât gloating or mocking. She was simply there, undeniably present, as though the galaxy itself had been reduced to this single moment.
Why wasnât he moving? Why wasnât he pushing her off, taking back control, proving his strength?
He could.
He should.
But he didnât.
His lips parted, and he heard his own voice, low and unsteady, speaking words he never thought heâd say.
âI yield.â
The words tasted foreign, almost bitter, and yet, as they left his mouth, a strange calm settled over him. He wasnât defeated.
No, this wasnât defeat.
This was...it was...Desire?
Her smile widened as he'd noticed his mental shield were down. There was a glimmer of triumph dancing in her eyes, but it wasnât cruel. It wasnât smug.
It was warm, almost affectionate, and it sent another shiver through him.
He didnât move, didnât even breathe, as she lingered there, gazing down at him as though sheâd always known heâd say it. And maybe, deep down, he had always known, too.
Then, so very slowly, she moved. Her hand, soft and light as a whisper, trailed down his jaw, her fingertips brushing the side of his face. The touch was gentle, tender, far too tender for someone like her.
Her thumb swept across his cheekbone, and he closed his eyes involuntarily at the contact.
Her skin felt cool against his Zabrak heat, it was soothing, everything he didnât deserve and yet craved.
Her gaze softened as she watched him, and the air between them shifted, becoming charged with something more than just physical proximity.
There was no smugness in her. Only contentment. Only... affection. The kind that didnât need words to be understood. She had won, not with force, not with power, but with a quiet grace that left him utterly undone.
It was in that moment that he realized just how much he adored her. She wielded her influence not like a blade but like a caress, and it was devastatingly effective.
And with that realization came a surge of fear.
She was his savior, the one who had pulled him from the depths of madness. She was his student, the one he had sworn to shape into something formidable. But now, as he looked up at her, he felt something else entirely.
Desire.
It was a feeling he hadnât known in years, perhaps not ever, and it terrified him. Desire meant vulnerability, and vulnerability was a weakness he could ill afford. Yet here she was, straddling him and he couldnât bring himself to care about the danger she represented.
That day, he understood something about her and about himself.
Firstly, that she had made him endlessly weak without landing a single blow.
Secondly, that he was utterly powerless to stop her.
And thridly, that he had never wanted something as badly as he wanted her.
