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tashs-stories · 5 months ago

Note

Can you write something about Carlisle Cullen and a fem! vampire!reader? Like the reader is much older than any of the Cullen's and she found Carlisle a few months after he became a vampire but they got separated and while they are facing the Volturi to protect Renesmee from them, she reappears and helps them with like a child or something that is Carlisle's????

Ofc I can 😃

Centuries Old

The icy wind whipped through the clearing, rustling the cloak of night that had settled over the battlefield of fates. The Volturi stood in their imposing ranks, crimson eyes gleaming with centuries of ruthless authority. On the other side, the Cullens stood shoulder to shoulder, their golden eyes burning with defiance.

Carlisle exhaled slowly, his grip tightening around Esme’s hand. He had never wanted war, never sought conflict. And yet, here they stood on the precipice of devastation, all for the sake of a child—a child who, for the first time in vampire history, defied their rigid rules.

Then, the wind shifted.

A new scent carried on the breeze, both ancient and unfamiliar to most, yet to Carlisle, it was a whisper of a time long past. His breath hitched as his head snapped up, his golden eyes widening.

And then, she stepped forward.

Y/N.

The world blurred at the edges as she moved through the trees, flanked by Alice and Jasper. But it wasn’t just her presence that stole Carlisle’s breath.

Beside her, a boy walked with poised grace. He was tall, with golden-blond hair and piercing gold eyes—eyes that mirrored his own.

For a moment, time stilled. Then, Carlisle whispered, "Y/N?"

Her lips curled into a soft smile, but her eyes shone with something deeper—relief, longing, love. "Hello, my love."

Esme released his hand as understanding passed between them. This was a love that transcended centuries, a bond unbroken despite years apart.

Edward’s sharp intake of breath signaled what the mind-reader had discovered first. A child. Their child.

The Volturi stirred, whispers spreading like wildfire. Even Aro's usually unreadable face flickered with something akin to shock.

Carlisle took an unsteady step forward, his voice raw. "How…?"

Y/N turned her gaze to their son. "Because my gift is life.

Murmurs rippled through the battlefield. Gifts among vampires were known—telepathy, pain illusion, elemental control—but the ability to create life? It was unfathomable.

Carlisle swallowed hard, his hands trembling as he reached out. "He's… ours?"

The boy, standing tall with quiet confidence, nodded. "My name is Lucian."

Carlisle exhaled sharply, his throat tightening. "Lucian," he whispered, testing the name on his tongue.

Y/N stepped closer, eyes soft with emotion. "I've missed you, Carlisle. But I couldn't risk his safety before now."

Esme stepped forward, her warm smile never faltering. "You kept him safe," she said gently, offering no resentment, only understanding.

Emmett let out a low whistle. "Damn, Carlisle. You’ve been holding out on us."

Rosalie elbowed him, but even she looked intrigued, her golden eyes shifting between Y/N and Lucian.

Renesmee, standing between Bella and Edward, tilted her head in curiosity. "You're like me?" she asked, her voice carrying over the tension in the clearing.

Lucian turned toward her, his gaze studying. "Similar, as I am a full vampire created from vampires," he said.

Aro's delighted laughter broke the moment. "Ah, what a fascinating twist! Another child of two worlds, but created through means unknown to even us." His crimson eyes glittered as he leaned forward. "Tell me, dear Y/N, how did you accomplish such a feat?"

Y/N’s expression hardened. "I won't be your experiment, Aro."

Carlisle felt his heart swell with admiration. The woman he had loved, the mother of his child, had never lost her strength.

Aro chuckled, but it was clear he was intrigued. "Oh, but think of the knowledge you could share with us."

"Not today," Lucian interjected, stepping protectively in front of his mother.

A flicker of something unreadable crossed Aro’s face, and then he turned back to the Cullens. "It seems there is much we do not yet understand. Perhaps... another day, then."

With a wave of his hand, the Volturi began to retreat, the tension dissipating with each measured step.

As the clearing emptied, Carlisle turned back to Y/N, reaching for her hand as if afraid she might vanish again. "Are you staying?"

Y/N smiled, squeezing his fingers. "For as long as you'll have me."

Lucian stepped closer, his golden eyes meeting Carlisle’s with quiet reverence. "And I’d like to know my father."

Carlisle’s throat tightened with emotion, his heart swelling with a love he never imagined he’d experience.

"You always have a place here," he promised, his voice thick with emotion. "Both of you."

And as the Cullens gathered around their newest family members, the long-lost lovers stood together once more, proving that even in the darkest of times, love—and life—would always find a way.

And the moment the Volturi vanished beyond the trees, a heavy silence settled over the clearing. The Cullens, still tense from the near battle, slowly began to relax. But for Carlisle, the war raging inside him had only just begun.

Y/N stood before him, real and solid, her hand still in his. And beside her stood their son.

Carlisle had always been measured, always in control, but now? His mind spun with too many emotions to name. He turned to Lucian, his golden eyes searching for answers in the boy’s face.

"How old are you?" His voice was quiet, reverent, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile moment.

Lucian met his gaze with steady confidence. "Two hundred years. But physically, I seem to be about nineteen."

Carlisle exhaled sharply. Two hundred years. He had ached for Y/N all that time, never knowing she carried a part of him with her. His fingers tightened around hers. "You kept him safe all these years."

Y/N nodded, her voice soft. "I had to. The Volturi would have hunted us if they knew."

Edward, who had been silent until now, suddenly spoke. "He’s like Renesmee, but full vampire." His gaze flickered between Lucian and the young girl still clutching Bella’s hand.

Lucian smirked slightly. "I assume I don't have to explain how I was born?"

Bella flushed while Emmett let out a loud laugh. "I like this kid already!"

Carlisle swallowed hard, still staring at Lucian. "And your… abilities? Do you have any gifts?"

Lucian nodded, but before he could speak, Y/N answered for him. "He has my gift. But stronger."

Alice’s eyes widened. "Life."

Y/N nodded. "Lucian can manipulate life itself—he can heal, nurture, and even grow things in a way I never could."

Jasper, who had been observing quietly, stepped forward. "That’s an incredibly powerful ability."

Lucian only shrugged. "It has its uses."

Renesmee stepped forward then, her warm brown eyes curious. "Can I show you something?" She reached out a small hand, palm up, toward Lucian.

Lucian hesitated, then placed his own hand gently against hers. A heartbeat later, his eyes widened. "I see," he murmured, blinking as Renesmee’s memories played in his mind.

"Neat, huh?" Renesmee grinned.

Lucian chuckled. "It is." He withdrew his hand and turned to Y/N. "Can I show them?"

Y/N hesitated, glancing at Carlisle before nodding. "Just be careful."

Lucian took a slow breath, then lifted his hands. At first, nothing happened. Then, the frozen ground beneath them shifted.

Gasps echoed around the clearing as thin blades of grass and small flowers began to push through the ice-crusted soil. They unfurled, stretching toward the pale sunlight, untouched by winter’s grasp.

Esme’s hands flew to her mouth. "That’s beautiful."

Even Rosalie, who had remained skeptical, took a step forward, her golden eyes widening. "That’s impossible."

Lucian smirked. "Apparently not."

Carlisle could only stare. His son—the son he never knew—was extraordinary. But beyond his abilities, beyond his power, Lucian had something even rarer: a heart untouched by cruelty, despite being born into a world of darkness.

Y/N squeezed Carlisle’s hand. "He’s kind and gentle. Like you."

Carlisle turned to her, overwhelmed with love and gratitude. "You gave me a son," he whispered. "You gave me something I never thought I could have."

Y/N’s expression softened. "And you gave me something I never thought I could feel again."

Carlisle lifted a hand to her face, brushing his fingers over her cheek. "You never stopped being my heart, Y/N. Even when you were gone."

Jasper cleared his throat loudly, breaking the moment. "Not to ruin the reunion, but maybe we should continue this at home?"

Alice clapped her hands. "Yes! We need to properly welcome them!"

Esme beamed. "I’ll prepare the house."

As they all began to move, Carlisle turned back to Lucian. "Come with me?"

Lucian hesitated, then nodded. "I’d like that."

And as they walked toward home, for the first time in centuries, Carlisle felt truly complete.

The Cullen house had never felt more alive.

Despite the grandeur of the home, it had always held a quiet stillness—an elegant solitude that suited their kind. But tonight, with Lucian and Y/N finally home, warmth filled the air in a way even vampires could feel.

Esme flitted around the kitchen, arranging flowers in vases, as if decorating for a celebration. Alice had disappeared upstairs to dig through her extensive wardrobe, already planning outfits for their newest family members.

Carlisle stood in the center of the living room, watching as Lucian took in his surroundings. He had seen much of the world, that much was clear in the way he carried himself. But there was something about this moment—standing in the house built by his father—that made him pause.

Y/N stepped beside him, her fingers grazing his arm. "It’s beautiful, Carlisle," she murmured, taking in the warm wooden accents and open windows that let the forest spill inside.

"It’s home," he said simply, and when he looked at her, she knew he meant for you, too.

Lucian turned then, golden eyes settling on Esme as she approached.

"I hope you’ll be comfortable here, Lucian," she said, her voice gentle, maternal.

Lucian hesitated. "You’re… my father’s mate?"

Carlisle spoke before Esme could. "Esme and I love each other dearly, but what we share is different from what you might think. She is my family, my greatest friend. But what I had with Y/N… it never ended, even after all these years."

Esme smiled warmly. "I’ve always known a part of Carlisle belonged to someone else. I’m only glad to finally meet her." She turned to Y/N. "You’ve been in his heart all this time. Welcome home."

Y/N’s throat tightened with emotion, but she nodded. "Thank you, Esme."

A blur of movement, and suddenly Alice was in front of them, practically vibrating with excitement.

"Lucian!" she beamed. "I need to know your entire aesthetic. Do you prefer classic, edgy, or something that screams mysterious supernatural prince?"

Lucian blinked. "I… what?"

Emmett laughed from where he lounged on the couch. "Just let her do her thing, kid. You won’t win."

Rosalie, who had been watching quietly, crossed her arms. "You don’t have to change anything if you don’t want to."

Alice shot her a look. "It’s just fashion, Rosalie. Besides, I need to update his wardrobe from the early 1900s look he’s probably been stuck with."

Lucian chuckled. "I appreciate the offer, but I assure you, I’ve kept up with modern styles."

Jasper, standing beside Alice, finally spoke. "Your emotions are surprisingly calm for someone in your position." His sharp gaze studied Lucian carefully. "No fear. No resentment. Just… curiosity."

Lucian tilted his head slightly. "Should I be afraid?"

Jasper smirked. "Most people are when they meet Alice."

Alice rolled her eyes. "I am a delight."

Carlisle watched the exchange, his chest tightening with something unfamiliar—pride. Lucian had been raised well. He was strong, confident, and met every challenge with quiet intelligence.

Y/N leaned into him, her voice barely above a whisper. "I always told him about you."

Carlisle turned to her, his hand instinctively finding hers. "And what did you say?"

Y/N smiled, a faraway look in her eyes. "That you were the kindest man I’d ever met. That you had a heart bigger than eternity itself. That if the world had more people like you, it would be a far better place."

Carlisle’s throat tightened. "I should have searched harder for you."

Y/N shook her head. "No. The timing had to be right. And now we’re here." She squeezed his fingers. "All of us."

Before he could respond, a small voice broke through the moment.

"Lucian, do you like music?"

Renesmee stood before them, curiosity shining in her brown eyes.

Lucian smiled slightly. "I do."

Her entire face lit up. "Edward plays piano. And I like to sing. Maybe you can play something with us?"

Edward, who had been quiet until now, raised an eyebrow. "Do you play?"

Lucian shrugged. "A little."

Emmett grinned. "We definitely need to see this."

Edward gestured toward the grand piano in the corner. "By all means."

Lucian glanced at Y/N, who gave an encouraging nod, then moved toward the instrument. He ran his fingers over the ivory keys before pressing down, letting a single note ring through the space. Then another. And another.

Slowly, a melody began to form. It was soft, almost hesitant, but undeniably beautiful.

Carlisle felt a shiver run through him. He knew this song.

It was an old piece—a melody he had composed for Y/N centuries ago.

The room fell silent as Lucian played, each note weaving through the air like a memory reborn.

When he finally finished, Lucian turned to Carlisle. "You wrote that, didn’t you?"

Carlisle nodded, his voice thick. "Yes."

Lucian smirked. "I used to hear her hum it when she thought I was away in my room for the night."

Y/N laughed softly. "Betrayed by my own son."

Carlisle couldn’t stop himself any longer. He closed the space between them, pulling Y/N into his arms. She melted against him, her familiar scent wrapping around him like a forgotten dream.

"You’re home," he whispered against her hair.

Y/N held him tighter. "Yes," she breathed. "And I’m never leaving again."

Lucian, watching his parents reunite, smiled softly.

For the first time in his life, he knew what home truly meant.

I hope you enjoyed this as much as I did writing it.

If anyone else has any requests please feel free to ask.

#carlisle cullen x reader #carlisle x reader #carlisle cullen #the cullens #twilight #new moon #breaking dawn #vampires

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alexanderlightweight · 30 days ago

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hi I am unsure if you are still talking prompts but I would love a continuation of pray to the hunters. It is so good and I am in love with it. If you are unable to right now I completely understand. Thank you for your time and consideration.

hi! yes it was still open and here is some more with the last part being here. this is kinda some insight better into the fic because while I always write Alec as demi-sexual, this and a few others I go into it a bit more.

<3 lumine

pray to the hunters

While Alexander is a bit confusing, Magnus has come to realize that rather than simply playing hard to get, Alexander is instead just not ready though not in the usual ways.

He’s interested in Magnus.

Magnus has no doubt about that. The thrum of some very ancient and intimate powers locked away inside of Magnus — and gifted by Alexander — prove that. As do Alexander’s frequent visits and the way he treats Magnus with more respect and interest than anyone else around him.

However despite saying that he is interested in trying sex with Magnus, Alexander has so far made no moves or seemed to notice any of the openings Magnus has offered since they healed Lucian. If anything, he seems content and pleased simply for Magnus to press him to the couch or floor or bed and just kiss him until they’re both boneless.

It’s not lust that flares in his boy’s eyes or sets Alexander’s body alight, but delight and intimacy and simply the pleasure of being at Magnus’ mercy and submitting — even just to a few kisses — with fervor.

Magnus doesn’t mind the waiting.

However he does ache with the curiosity of wondering if and when Alexander will desire a more carnal passion and finds it hard to bring up. Not that Magnus is scared to ask, simply that when he and Alexander typically have the time to talk, Magnus instead finds his mouth occupied with tasting Alexander or indulging in whatever piece of nephilim his boy brings as a treat.

Magnus also never wishes to pressure his boy, finding more than enough satiation in the way Alexander trembles under his touch and magic.

Sometimes Alexander’s body reacts and since he ignores it, Magnus follows the same script. Even when desire floods him and stokes his blood, he stays his urges and softens his kisses and touches, keeping them mild and soothing so that Alexander can relax.

“Do you think you’ll know darling, when you’ll want sex?” Magnus finally asks, keeps his voice light and soft as the energy of the room settles as sleep nears. He relishes in the dawn that is dappling over Alexander’s tired face.

“Won’t that just happen when you need a sex ritual next?” Alexander responds tiredly, eyes still closed but fingers reaching out until Magnus curls his own with them and inhales at the cold feeling of death that clings to his boy’s hands.

Magnus can’t help the soft laugh he lets out, because Alexander’s way of thinking is so delightfully unique.

“No lovely, not unless absolutely necessary which would be unlikely. While I would love to use a ritual when we have sex eventually. There are no rituals that are stronger than what we can already create through hunting and sharing prey. We’ll fuck when you want it darling and use rituals then to amplify it. But it will be when you crave my touch and the pleasure created from my hands and body. Not just out of necessity.”

Alexander seems shockingly pleased with that, his grin soft and wide and more awake. Even the sharpness of his maw and the bone-white shade of his teeth can’t deter from how adorable he is.

Magnus remembers that his darling boy had grown up with siblings who — until they realized the danger — frequently made fun of Alexander’s lack of interest. To have something he wasn’t fully interested in shoved continually into his face has probably left some lingering reluctance and Magnus is determined to not make it any worse.

If Magnus wants an orgasm or three, he can enjoy a ritual with Alexander and then later, take advantage of his own hands and magic as much as he needs and wants.

“I have you in bed, what does it matter in which way as long as you’re where I want you?” Magnus teases and Alexander’s eyes half-roll before he yawns, cutting himself off and curling closer to Magnus.

Alexander is greedy to steal his warmth and Magnus is greedy to feel the cool relief of Alexander’s skin soothing his own. Magnus enjoys the heat and doesn’t mind it, is used to the fire of his soul that heats him from the core outwards, but the relief of Alexander’s skin against his own is still a luxury.

“And I won’t wake to find you’ve snuck out of my bed again?” Magnus asks, cupping Alexander’s neck and pressing a kiss to where he knows one of the invisible runes of the dead lies on Alexander’s brow.

“My mother’s in town—” Alexander says and Magnus forces himself to stay loose-limbed and relaxed, knowing Alexander will notice if he reacts. “She knows enough to understand the implications. She’s also given me three days of recuperation because she finally met Fray and afterwards told me she was proud I hadn’t already just eaten her.”

Magnus imagines how the Clave or Jocelyn would take that news and finds that he rather likes the idea, even if he knows it won’t happen.

While Maryse will never have Magnus’ forgiveness, respect or admiration, he will accept that perhaps her presence in this one instant, isn’t the worst thing that’s come of this.

AN:

okay so again, it is a spectrum. sometimes a person who is demi can really click with a person (like imprinting/fixate/special interest and no not in the twilight way) and that's how I often write Malec. however, again it's a spectrum. in some of my fics like taste of his magic it takes Alec months to get to a point where he initiates having sex because for him it's mostly just a nice/intimate bonding experience that is also good for endorphins. eventually he gets a little more into experiencing 'attraction' but it's still different.

shifting scales Alec has no idea what sexual attraction is and he'd like to know why Magnus thinks he's seducing him but also, if sex gets him Magnus he's down with that. sex isn't bad to him and he enjoys it, its just his human form is annoying and gross and also this is not being taken advantage of. Magnus is very confused and trying his best to seduce Alexander because he thought Alexander was seducing him and now he's decided that's fine, he'll handle it himself.

In RL people have sex without sexual attraction all the time and a lot of times its intimacy/kink/bonding/a job/experiment/relationship maintenance and that's okay. as long as its consensual!!!!

in pray to the hunters, this fic, Alec is experiencing attraction to Magnus but it's not yet fully sexual. because attraction isn't inherently sexual. anyways, the idea of having sex with Magnus especially in ritual is like to Alec; oh hey. yeah sex with Magnus doesn't sound bad. i'd do that. especially for a ritual.

and Magnus is like, okay unless its like the end of the world then we'll have ritual sex for necessity. otherwise, i'm not having sex with you until you want me at least a little bit because we can enjoy other intimacies and I think that would be important to him in this fic since licking blood off of alexander's fingers after his boy fed him a heart is just an exhilarating as sex for them.

i like writing sex and kink into fics not because I think the fics and characters need it but because its a fun dynamic and offers enrichment but also I realize that the breakdown of the characters is kinda stuck in my head so it's fun to flesh out some of my thoughts in active story form.

Also Alec can still find Magnus beautiful and captivating and handsome and dashing and intriguing and powerful and magical and magnificent and not be sexually attracted to him. he can have sex with Magnus without sexual attraction and again, nothing wrong with that. some people who are demi/ace/gray whatever are sex-repulsed and will never have sex and some people who don't enjoy sex but don't hate it have it and some people love it and need it and all of that's completely valid and some people never have sex despite enjoying it because trauma or intimacy or disabilities. and some people who will never experience sexual attraction or the urge to have sex will still have sex because it's not traumatizing to them and sex is literally just another layer/level of intimacy when you think about it. or in some cases you know, its used for procreation specifically.

again these are just my thoughts i'm not going to say this is canon. this is my personal fanon. all made up in my head and heart okay? you don't need to feel bad if you have a different take or don't like my take as long as you don't shit on it. ^_^

i realize that you'd think that Alec might be more into human touch and carnal pleasure since he works with the dead but it kinda just enhanced his own emotions apathy/disinterest/lack of attraction.

Magnus enjoys his pleasures and lusts and that's absolutely good and healthy for him and his necromatic powers enhance those wants.

But Magnus' powers will kind of heat up Alec's blood and desires at some point - not artificially tho. and Alec's powers help Magnus keep his passion at a temperate level - they don't restrain him just help soothe in a way sex might normally be needed to release energy

Everyone already thinks they're fucking. Alec is not clearing up that misunderstanding because despite how he feels about it, it gives Magnus and his relationship more legitimacy within shadowhunter culture. Magnus takes advantage of this to layer innuendos whenever he's around other Shadowhunters since Alec doesn't mind.

Magnus: you do look stunning when you're kneeling, darling

*Shadowhunters absolutely dying trying not to breathe or look at Alec or Magnus*:

Alec: I do my best worship on my knees (truthfully referring to praying to his dead ancestors but playing along with Magnus' insinuation)

shadowhuntres: PLEASE STOP PLEASE I DONT WANT TO KNOW

later -

Alec: okay I know I missed something but what kind of sex did you reference? everyone else figured it out immediately.

Magnus: blowjobs darling, but we'll get to those another time, first I think you wanted to show me a catacomb or two?

Yes I know this story is set up for some really kinky sex and that will happen but Malec is forging a deeper connection before they gets there.

sometimes when you're ace/demi (and some people in general) you do understand sexual innuendos but if you're just really tired of them (especially if ppl ignore your boundaries) you kind of sometimes (not everyone) turn off that part of your brain (dissociate away) because if you don't understand it, you don't have to acknowledge it. and if you are someone who already had trouble identifying innuendos and sexual jokes, it's just easier to stop trying than suffer (in RL yes I write innuendos and jokes into malec').

okay, so you might know how Alec is purposefully oblivious to mundane shit in some of my fics? that's kinda the same tactic here (and also I myself am truly oblivious to being hit on that's something i've never managed to understand or notice even if I do manage to recognize innuendos sometimes... now).

Magnus again, is fine with getting there and if they never got there he'd still be fine with it.

also to give some context info:

(1: got a marriage proposal from someone I was talking to weekly as a favor to a different person (they knew it was a favor and I don't know how they decided we were close enough for them to propose). 2) have had numerous people 'interested in my dog' only to find out later that it was clearly an excuse to hit on me (other people pointed this out once the person(s) left). 3) frequently got invited to threesomes and didn't realize it until friends pointed it out since I was just really introverted and would say no thank you. like now I get what they meant but at the time I was just: I get that three people is a pretty intimate group but I prefer 'me myself and i'. 4) got stalked 2 different times by people who didn't like 'no' 5) got a second marriage proposal from someone I was taking training from and still don't know how that happened but I finally understood why my lessons were free (again, the person really liked my dog and for me, if I like someones dog I would totally give them free stuff because of the pupper and have done so). 6) had someone tell me its okay if I never wanted sex but stopped talking to me when I said I couldn't form romantic connections with them. 7) had several OTHER peoples parents try to help arrange marriages for me and offer their children or grandchildren as possibilities. 8) got told I just didn't want sex because the body wasn't fully sexually mature (gross take because then why have sex?) until 35 and also that it was probably my internalized homophobia that had me not wanting to have sex. and that I just needed to have enough queer sex to liberate me from my again, internalized homophobia and self-hatred and religious guilt. 9) being nice to people = wanting to fuck them and it's not their fault we were too nice.

*apparently being nice and genuine and caring about people and wanting to make them comfortable around you equals - romantic relationship/sexual?

#lumine writes #writing wednesday #writing wednesdays #pray to the hunters #magnus bane #alec lightwood #malec #shadowhunters

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bloodlines-if · 1 month ago

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CH INTRO: LUCIAN/LUCIA "LUZ"

"Amore, you're either fearless or foolish. Both are equally entertaining to me."

AGE: 33 HEIGHT: Male: 5’11” (ca. 180cm)| Female: 5’8” (ca. 172cm) ETHNICITY: Italian-American BLOODLINE: Infernal OCCUPATION: Crime Boss TROPE: Morally gray love interest, enemies to lovers, corruption arc enabler, “I’ll burn the world for you” unhinged devotion, cat and mouse games (who’s hunting who?)

Pink shades. Sharp smile. Heterochromia that stops conversations. Red eye burning red like hellfire, the left one black as the void between stars. The sunglasses hide the unsettling beauty of eyes that should never exist in the same skull. Their hair is split down the middle like their soul. Dark brown on the left, stark white on the right. Lucian keeps it long in a wolf cut. Lucia keeps it medium length and lets it flow in waves.

They move through Sordia’s underworld like they own it. Because let’s face it, they partly do. Every step is planned, every gesture a performance designed to charm or intimidate. Usually both. Makeup enhances those mismatched eyes. Eyeshadow that shifts between seductive and sinister depending on the light. Black nail polish chips away like their patience. The ‘kiss here’ tattoo on their neck serves as both invitation and threat.

Lucian is lean and athletic and Lucia is more slender and curvy. Both gravitate toward flamboyant outfits that demand attention. Everything is tailored, everything is expensive, everything is chosen to remind you exactly what kind of monster you’re dealing with.

No one knows where they came from. The smart ones stopped asking after the last curious journalist disappeared. The smarter ones know some origins are written in blood. Everyone can agree that they’re a crime boss who built an empire from other people’s ashes. Someone who learned that power isn’t taken, it’s carved from the bones of those too weak to hold it.

They don’t do mercy. Don’t do forgiveness. Don’t do second chances.

But you? You’re one of the most interesting people they’ve encountered in a while.

And Luz loves breaking beautiful things.

#ch:luz #bloodlines if #my art #character art #character intro #interactive fiction

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ac-fandom · 6 months ago

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As a Christmas special I decided to publish my new OC of Inazuma eleven GO, Chiara Sharp and now on with the presentation:

-She is the adopted daughter of Jude Sharp, who adopted her when he was the coach of the young Italian women's team.

-As mentioned, she is Jude's adopted daughter but she is also (even if not entirely legally because there would be other problems regarding the adoption and the fact that she is Italian) David Samford/Sakuma jirou together with Preston Princeton/Miyabino Reiich and Lucian Dark/Kageyama Hikaru.

-in the Italian national team she played as a libero (I don't know how it's written in English and the translator gave it to me like this, however that's the role Mark plays here apart from being the goalkeeper) and she played the playmaker.

-she is Italian but also speaks English, Japanese, Spanish, a little German and Chinese fluently.

-she is 15 years old and born on the fourth of June, and she's in her last year of the rolay academy.

-Before she was adopted by Jude, she had been entrusted to several families but none of them were ever in a position to support her football dream and therefore she had to decide whether to follow her sporting path or a family but she always chose football .

-Chiara has a very reserved and submissive personality towards people she doesn't know but things change when she finds herself in the field or she iswithher friends, she becomes very authoritarian and serious and expects the whole team to give their all and be competitive but knows how to accept defeats with maturity, however, when she is with her friends or family she is very sweet and protective, especially towards her brothers, and sometimes enjoys teasing the boys she finds attractive.

-she invented a nickname or a name in particular to distinguish for all the members of the family: Jude is "Babbo or Papà" that is dad in Italian, while for David she simply calls him dad or "Pa"which is another way to say father in Italian, then for the brothers for Preston she calls him "fratellino" translated little brother, Lucian instead calls him "patato" which is an affectionate way to describe a person.

-she has a huge crush (which is reciprocated) on quentin cinquedea/senguuji yamato, and she often goes to watch his workouts and of course and vice versa so he goes to watch her workouts.

And the what she look like:

And that's her voice:

#canon x oc #inazuma eleven go #inazuma 11 #inazuma eleven #jude sharp #oc x canon #Oc #original character #chiara sharp #quentin cinquedea #senguuji yamato #sakuma jirou #david samford #lucian dark #preston princenton #Miyabino Reiich #Spotify

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marianettes · 13 days ago

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ଘˋ𝓑lood stained.

I'm sorry I couldn't fully render it 😭 (Non blood ver. Because I SUCKASSS AT DOING BLOOD HHWAIHEHE) + anyways he >

grits teeth. clenches fists. wow. what an ask. a completely blank ask. man i’m sure there would be something really cool here if it would load, but that is Sadly Not The Case. oh well!

#hahahaha #haha #AGDJKSHEGSGAJ #→ message recieved .ᐟ #﹒✦ ⊹﹒ cee.#cee. when i catch u cee. WHEN I CATCH U CEE.#mqskedfools oc ebg #﹙ sharp eyed witness ﹚ — lucian ⋆ ✶

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piotrek-chomik · 1 year ago

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I should draw it for real

#kidou yuuto #jude sharp #kageyama reiji #rey dark #ray dark #idk #doodle #kageyama hikaru #lucian dark #inazuma eleven #inazuma eleven go

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abyssyby · 4 months ago

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messy spaces

— your boys try very, very hard to keep a secret…

ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ: rocket baby & shy baby's (also referred to in my head as sunlight (lucian/cian) & sun-warmth (kyros/kyro)) debut! a little self-indulgent, soft sylus family moment bc he'd be a great husband and a wonderful father of two sensory-seeking boys. i hope you enjoy! ❀ -urs

sylus x reader | fluff, domestic family stuff, twin boy dad!sylus, crafty-hobby-collector mom reader, keiran & luke are here too!

Sylus needs to get you out of the house.

He watches you flit around the room like a bird, a twin on your hip, rambling in delight about how the boys had burped loud enough they could have scared away a wanderer. And you were beautiful, a picture of comforting grace— in one of his large shirts, your hair a mess (thanks to your son chewing on it) and bright and joyful eyes shining.

But he needs you out of the house.

He hums appreciatively when you plop down beside him on the couch, his arm automatically wounding around your shoulders and pulling you to his side. The tip of his nose tickles you as it feathers from your neck to your cheek, where he presses his lips tenderly.

You flush and clear your throat, because no matter how long you’ve been together, with him every moment always feels like the first time. “Cian, was looking for you earlier, wanted to show you something.”

“Hm?” he mutters, kissing back down the trail he’d traced. “What was it?”

You shrug. “He wouldn’t show me, said it was papa’s secret.”

Sylus’s panic was undetectable if it weren’t for the stutter in his movement. The slight flex of one of his fingers in your shoulder, the soft exhale through his nose. Ever so in tune with your husband, you raise a brow. “What is it?”

The look he gives you is cool and unassuming, and then he flashes you a charming smile. “It’s harder to keep secrets from you when you’ve gotten so sharp.”

“I’ve always been sharp.” you frown.

He kisses you soundly on the lips, pleased with the little pout he coaxed out of you. “And beautiful.”

He looks at the sleeping child in your arms and bends down to kiss his forehead too. Your heart melts at the sight. Then he stands, and your frown deepens. “Where are you going?”

“To handle a whistleblower.” he says, straightening his clothes and shooting you a mischievous grin. “And to teach him how to keep secrets from mama properly.”

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

For every corner, every nook and cranny of the base, Sylus had a mental replica of how it should be. One of the most surprising things you realized when you’d started to live together was how clean he was. He liked keeping things in a certain order, and because of this, he was good at leaving and moving without a trace.

You’d abide to his rules when you moved in as much as you could, but you couldn’t keep up with his tidiness. It never bothered him though, instead, he delighted in it— to see some of his toiletries pushed to the side to make way for your own, how you sometimes accumulate glasses of water with lipstick stains by your bedside, your clothes at the foot of the bed when you’re rushing to get changed— knowing you are here, under the same roof, in the same space, with him.

And just as he felt with your trail of breadcrumbs, he felt it tenfold with his boys. The post-hurricane-esque damage of toys and trinkets in his spotless living room, the mess of baby food on the dining table after a meal, crayon marks on his pristine walls, a stray stuffie in his office. A shock to find, of course, but it was never unwelcome.

And so, he follows his son’s trail to the playroom (once an extra armory, flipped by you and the big twins while he was away). It wasn’t hard, it was literally a trail of animal crackers.

He pushes the already ajar door open. “Lucian—“

“—there’s too many of them, little boss—“

“—And another one—“

Three heads look up at him as he enters. One would argue three of his sons were caught red handed dealing illegally acquired animal crackers (it wasn’t snack time yet). But there they were, his loyal henchmen in party hats and his own three year old in a crown, arm very evidently elbow-deep into the cracker tin canister.

“Papa!” Lucian smiles, crumbs all over his cheeks and chubby little fingers.

“Boss.” Luke and Keiran greet as well, glancing down at the hands in their lap.

Lucian doesn’t stay idle, instead he shakes off his crown and rushes to Sylus’s leg. He is picked up and balanced in the crook of his father’s elbow. Sylus’s eyes soften with a molten glow as he brings up gentle fingers to brush away the dirt on his boy’s cheeks. “What are you doing, little boss?”

“Papa, I sharin’!” he grins proudly. Sylus raises a brow.

He peeks over the child’s shoulder to Keiran and Luke with their masks half raised, already munching on the animal crackers on their plastic plates. He gives them a pointed look that makes them slow and turn away, knowing full well they weren’t supposed to succumb to snacks-during-not-snack-time. “With Luke and Keiran?”

“Mhm!” Lucian is already trying to make his way up Sylus’s shoulders. Sylus lets him.

“Mm, that’s kind of you.”

A crumbly finger leaves an imprint just beside Sylus’s eye. “I good.”

“Yes, angel.” Sylus looks up at him. Lucian’s face, a reflection of his own with your irises and your smile, hangs upside down to meet his gaze. “Did you find my surprise?”

Lucian frowns for a moment. After the day he’s had, retrieving a memory after such a long business transaction must be a monumental feat for a clever little mind. The time today he found Luke and Keiran and was told to “shh!”. But it comes to him eventually, and when it does his face lights up like the sun. “Ah-huh!”

“Did you show mama?”

“No.”

“Did you tell mama?”

Lucian blinks. “I tell: no, mama! No go in!”

Ah, yes. Of course. Sylus chuckles, pinching his cheeks. “Good job, angel.”

He’ll clean the mess up later, not that he truly minds it, but he wouldn’t want ants festering in his children’s favorite room.

And that’s what it was: his need for you to have your own favorite room.

He never thought that setting up an old armory would bring this much joy to his children, having once thought the whole base was theirs to conquer, and yet seeing them return somewhere when they have no idea where to go, seeing them drift in and out of the playroom made him realize: that was their little safe space.

And just as his little adventurers were half of him, who once in a lifetime ago, could never have enough space, enough lands, enough resources and things to dominate, they were also half you. Yearning for peace, a quiet little bubble to gather your thoughts, regulate your heart and breathe.

He has his spaces. His boys have the base and the playroom. You… you need your bubble.

Lucian hangs tight on his father’s head, both arms perfectly hugging the circumference as Sylus walks to the hidden room. Papa’s secret surprise.

Down the labyrinth halls, around the priceless statue of a dragon he bought at an auction (its pedestal desecrated with Bluey stickers), there lies the auspicious grey door Lucian had thought would be a good hiding spot.

“Is book room.” Lucian says, one hand mindlessly drifting down to cover Sylus’s left eye.

Sylus doesn’t flinch, but nods. “It's mama’s room.”

“Upstairs…” Lucian answers quietly, thinking it was a question.

Sylus chuckles and pushes the door open.

The incense marinates the room in the scent of fresh linens and citrus, and the sunlight shoots through the half-drawn curtains onto the soft plush carpet— the kind of texture you and Kyros particularly enjoyed. On the wall, a large shelf with lines of books and empty spaces for you to fill. A corner with an easel and paints; old paintings you’d stored away in the spare rooms to make way for your childrens’ needs dusted and placed on your old wooden art table. Your favorite weapons encased in glass, decorated the bare walls.

A desk with a laptop for your writings. A basket of yarn and needles and the other things you bring to your shared bed to poke and weave. A circular couch, closer to a cat-bed, by the window. A hammock by the wall. A beanbag in the corner. And more, so much more.

Everything Sylus had taken note of, committed to memory. Things you’ve said, “sorry for the mess” for. Things he’d thought of and said— she’d like this. All gathered, collected and stuffed— organized in this room.

“Smell nice.” Lucian says, scrambling to get down his father’s shoulders. He does it too quickly, almost falling if it weren’t for Sylus’s foresight. He catches his toddler by the armpits with little fanfare and sets him down on his feet. Lucian, against his usual nature, walks carefully into the room, as if afraid to disrupt its peace. “Mama like books.”

“She does.” Sylus nods, inspecting the work the bigger twins have done with the lighting. Silently regarding their good work, he looks down to his son eyeing the hammock. “Wanna try?”

Lucian runs towards the hammock and grabs onto the tassels. But before he can tug the entire thing to come crashing down, Sylus lifts him up and places him in the giant seat. He pushes the swing and Lucian’s giggles bounce off the walls.

Sylus beams at your smile on his son’s face. The sun setting through the western window bathing the room in a warm glow. He can’t wait to show you. He can’t wait to give it to you. He hopes, still, despite how long and how sure he’s known you, that you like it.

And that’s why he needed to get you out of the house.

Sylus has a plan— he’s good at planning, and even better at executing those plans— and that involves gifting this to you as the big ta-da! The final pièce de résistance at the end of a good day.

There is a traveling carnival in a few days, one he’d invited you to go see days before. You’d arm yourselves with baby carriers and strollers, extra diapers and snacks, hats and hand-held fans, and bring the boys to experience it. Then, he’d take you to a nice restaurant with air conditioning to cool down. You’d order your favorite meal, he’d pick the onions off of Kyros’s plate, and Lucain would be a mess of squash and cream. And after, you’d make it in time for the fireworks to set off across the river.

He’d drive home, hold your hand as he watches you in the corner of his eye fight back sleep, while the little snores in the back lull you to unconsciousness. You’d take the kids in from the car and set them down in the nursery, and before you head back to your own bedroom, he’d ask you if you’d like to see something he’s working on. Might even bring up Lucian’s term of—

“Papa secret.”

He freezes— this time, completely detectable. He has better instincts than this in other, more dire situations, like ambushes and break-ins.

But not for you.

You, standing by the door with a smug little smirk on your pretty face. One hand guiding an already awake other twin to toddle in towards his brother.

Lucian screams in surprise and delight, caught— because he wasn’t very good at secrets just yet. But although close, he wasn’t the one who pulled the pin on this grenade.

Kyros. The quiet little thing. All whispers and contained excitement. The one Sylus had assumed to be safe. Wrongly.

Now, happily chanting over and over, “Papa secret, papa secret…”

Sylus sighs, running his fingers through his neatly done hair out of exasperation, and then turning to look at you with a defeated upturn of his lips. “Beloved.”

You lunge. Arms embracing his shoulders and molding your lips to his. He catches you just a second later through the haze, and grins into your kiss. “You…”

He asks, “Do you like it?”

You pull back and nod. Words cannot surmise how you feel. The stars bursting in your chest, the tears burning your eyes, the love— oh, the love the spills over and takes captive your entire soul.

Sylus laughs, cupping your face in his large hands and kissing you again. “I’m glad.”

You sniff, trying to keep the tears at bay. “Is this mine?”

His thumb brushes the corner of your eye. “I don’t crochet.”

Your fist lands on his chest with no real force. He catches it, spreads out your fingers over his heart. You stare at him thoughtfully, and it knocks the breath out of him how your eyes twinkle in the light.

“I wanted to surprise you.” He says, tone almost apologetic.

You smile. It dawns on you that he probably had planned this huge reveal. You consider him and brush his hair away from his eyes. “I am surprised.”

He exhales, a scoff and an exasperated laugh. “I’m sure you’ve had your suspicions.”

And you can’t hide the little smile you try to suppress— sure, the little twins were expected to blab one way or another, but you didn’t really need them when you have the big twins acting shifty and weird around you when you asked them what the light fixtures were for when they came in the mail. “Maybe a little.”

“Please.” He taps your forehead with a teasing finger. “You’ve always been sharp.”

Just before you can kiss him senseless again, his attention is called with a tug on his pant leg. Kyros stares up at him.

“Pa, up pease?” He says, pointing to his brother on the swinging hammock.

He gives you an apologetic look which you return with a fond smile, as he pulls away from you and hauls Kyros up and places him beside his brother.

“Papa, swing fast-fast!” Lucian howls, shaking the blanket and making the new hinges groan.

Sylus secures Kyros with pillows and guides his hands to hold the corners of the blanket. “Tell me when it’s too fast, okay?”

Kyros nods. And Sylus pushes.

Quickly, the room’s once undisrupted peace is washed with a peaceful kind of chaos. Intended to be a space for you and all the things you love, now filled with the entire world.

As Sylus pulls back to let the hammock swing from its own momentum, you wrap your arms around his torso from behind, pressing your face in the space between his shoulders. You mutter a muffled, “Thank you, my love.”

Sylus takes your hands and brings them to his lips in reply. Needing you to know that your thanks is welcome but not needed. All he needs is this— you, your kids, and the wonderful mess you’ve made in his life.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆ more sylus thoughts ⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

thank you for reading!

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lycanspirited · 2 months ago

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Robin groans as he sat up. Thoth standing there ready to catch him in case he falls back. His body ached, his ribs felt like they were broke in millions of sharp pieces. "How do you feel?"

"Like Jasper ran me over with one of those locomotives at the rail yard." Robin stretched and a few loud pops echoed in the room. He swung his feet over the bed looking down at his paws, the cold floor felt good.

"You should stay, honestly." Thoth said sternly.

"If I stay any longer then I'll god mad. You know how boring it is here?"

"You have books, your phone." The god replied. He felt his claw out and spawns Robin's staff, holding it out for the jackal to take. "Lucian sure did a number on this. I fixed the gem on top. The staff itself seems fine."

Robin took the staff and examined it, looking it over. He hadn't even noticed it was missing. He gave it a spin and it vanished. "Thanks, Thoth. I know we give you a hard time, but-"

"I know, Robin. I know. As long as you take care of yourself and aren't reckless, I am fine."

#Arcane Investigator [Robin]#Knowledge of the Moon [Thoth]

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bnny0rgnz · 2 months ago

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A/N: So sorry for not posting consistently, been really busy with school events. But this time, I'm merging 3 chapters into one to make up for all those times I was supposed to be posting, so please enjoy. Again, Sorry!!

The Tempest Effect

Morning drifted softly into Gotham, its sun a weak gold stretching shyly through the haze. The city was still asleep in its more reclusive corners—the ones where shadows lingered even in daylight, and the buildings breathed with secrets. But in a reclaimed warehouse nestled near the waterfront, the stillness had been broken for hours. Inside, the echo of motion bounced off the walls like a heartbeat. That heartbeat was you.

The worn mats beneath your feet were scuffed with the ghosts of repetition. Your muscles burned, but it was a sweet, familiar fire—one you had learned to dance with. You moved in unison with Lucian’s rhythm, his blade cutting the air as he circled you.

“Again,” he said, voice calm but commanding. He wasn’t barking anymore. Not like the early days. His words no longer bit—they guided, molded.

You adjusted your stance and surged forward, eyes locked on the blade in his hand. Wooden, but no less dangerous in the right grip. Yours met it with a twist of your arm, blocking his strike. The thrum of effort pulsed through your body as you followed up with a spinning kick. He caught your leg before it connected, raising an eyebrow.

“Your center of gravity’s off,” he muttered.

“And your hair’s in your eyes,” you countered breathlessly, grinning.

He actually chuckled, short and sharp. “Fair enough.”

From across the mat, Darlene clapped once. “Can we not flirt mid-sparring?” she called, her voice honey-laced with mischief.

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. Lucian turned away to retrieve two staffs from the rack, his usual silence now stretched with something softer. The edge of his jaw held tension—but not from annoyance. He handed you a staff, brushing your fingers as he did. You tried not to react, but the current that shot up your arm made it hard not to.

You looked at him. For a second too long.

“You good?” he asked, tilting his head.

You nodded, pretending to twirl the staff like it was part of a warm-up. “Yeah. Just... zoning out.”

He gave you a look—part skeptic, part fondness. Darlene arched a brow from where she now stretched in the corner, clearly watching with more interest than necessary. You ignored her.

The next round began. Staffs clashed, wooden crack ringing like a drumbeat. Lucian was precise, efficient—his movements honed from years of necessity. Yours were more fluid, artistic even, an extension of the grace ballet gifted you. The two styles collided and complemented, fire meeting water.

Each move was measured, intentional. Sweat clung to your skin in elegant rivulets, your breath moving like waves—rising, falling. Lucian ducked under your strike and used the momentum to sweep your legs. You landed with a soft grunt, blinking up at the flickering lights overhead.

Before you could rise, his hand was offered. His palm, calloused and steady, hovered in front of you like a promise.

You hesitated. Then took it.

As he pulled you up, your faces were a breath apart. You smelled cedar on his skin, maybe the faintest scent of copper and salt. His eyes searched yours, quiet and unreadable. You wondered if he could hear your heartbeat.

“I’ve been meaning to say...” he began, then stopped.

You tilted your head. “What?”

He cleared his throat. “You’ve improved. A lot.”

You blinked, unsure whether the flutter in your chest was from the compliment or the way he said it. Quiet. Like it meant something more.

“Thanks,” you said softly.

Darlene walked by, not-so-subtly smirking as she grabbed her water bottle. “If you two are done making eyes at each other, Lucian promised me a sparring round.”

Lucian sighed. “You're exhausting.”

“I know,” she said brightly.

Before you could rise, his hand was offered. His palm, calloused and steady, hovered in front of you like a promise.

You hesitated. Then took it.

“I’ve been meaning to say...” he began, then stopped.

You tilted your head. “What?”

He cleared his throat. “You’ve improved. A lot.”

You blinked, unsure whether the flutter in your chest was from the compliment or the way he said it. Quiet. Like it meant something more.

“Thanks,” you said softly.

Darlene walked by, not-so-subtly smirking as she grabbed her water bottle. “If you two are done making eyes at each other, Lucian promised me a sparring round.”

Lucian sighed. “You're exhausting.”

“I know,” she said brightly.

You sat out the next round, stretching in a corner, watching them dance. Darlene was light on her feet but fierce. She gave Lucian no quarter, and he—perhaps to test her or perhaps to spar honestly—didn’t go easy. But beneath the clashing, there was playfulness. Familiarity.

And you were realizing something strange. Lucian’s gaze lingered more often today. Not on Darlene. On you.

Later, the three of you collapsed into a circle of breath and laughter, sweat cooling on your skin, hair damp against your forehead. Lucian leaned back on his palms, looking up at the warehouse rafters.

“I don’t hate mornings like this,” he muttered.

“You usually do,” Darlene teased.

“Yeah,” he shrugged. “But sometimes it’s... tolerable.”

You watched the light hit his cheekbones. Something in your chest squeezed.

“Tolerable, huh?” you echoed.

He glanced at you, smirking. “Don’t get cocky.”

The three of you sat in that silence for a while—thick with contentment, with the hum of connection that didn’t need words. Outside, Gotham carried on with its usual chaos. But in here, for now, there was only quiet warmth.

Lucian stood and stretched. “Same time tomorrow?”

You nodded. Darlene gave a thumbs up.

“Cool,” he said, voice lower now. “See you then.”

You watched him walk out, hoodie pulled over his hair, hands deep in his pockets. He looked back once. Just once. And the look was for you.

Darlene whistled. “He’s softening up.”

“He’s always been soft deep down,” you murmured.

She turned to you, eyes gleaming. “No. I mean with you.”

You smiled, not answering. But your heart had already betrayed you—racing like it knew something you didn’t.

It was late afternoon when golden light poured across the polished floors of the private studio at Wayne Manor. The grand mirrors shimmered with sunbeams, each ray stretching long across the floor like ribbons cast from heaven. You moved in silence, the silk of your practice attire gliding against your skin as you pivoted, leapt, and reached in perfect rhythm to a symphony only you could hear. Your breath came in gentle huffs, your body already tuned finely from weeks of grueling repetition, and yet you pushed harder. You had to. The performance was in two days, and Madame Collette’s sharp eyes would catch even the tiniest misstep.

A fouetté. Another. Another. You turned, landed on pointe, arms slicing the air, back arching with pristine grace. Sweat beaded on your forehead but you didn’t wipe it. You didn’t stop. Your reflection danced alongside you, not quite matching the light in your chest that flickered with excitement and nerves alike.

Outside the tall French doors, birds chirped and the trees swayed gently. Alfred had opened the windows earlier to let the spring air drift in. The scent of tulips and warm bark floated with it, grounding you in a rare sense of calm. Until—

The studio door creaked.

You stopped mid-pirouette, your breathing slowing as your eyes flicked toward the entryway.

“Darlene,” you breathed, a smile spreading across your lips.

She grinned as she stepped in, her wild curls held back with a green scarf, her jacket slung over her shoulder like she owned the manor. “Hey, étoile,” she teased, plopping her bag by the door. “You practicing for Paris or are you just trying to make me feel ungraceful?”

You chuckled, padding barefoot over the hardwood. “Trying to keep Madame Collette from breathing fire.”

Darlene laughed and gave you a tight hug, rocking you side to side. “You’ll kill it. I’ve seen you crush a solo on three hours of sleep and a sprained ankle.”

“I wasn’t crushed. I cried on stage,” you reminded her.

“Yeah, but you cried beautifully,” she retorted, releasing you with a wink.

You smiled, feeling the warmth of her presence ease the tight knot in your stomach. Together, you wandered down the marble staircase, the echo of your conversation trailing behind you.

By the time you reached the drawing room, Alfred had already set up a silver tray of warm raspberry scones, mini sandwiches, and imported sparkling water. He stood by the fireplace, offering his usual poised smile.

“Miss Darlene,” he greeted with a respectful nod, “a pleasure as always.”

Darlene beamed. “You always remember my favorite.”

“I do try to anticipate needs before they arise,” Alfred replied, his eyes twinkling.

You flopped onto the velvet settee, your muscles grateful for the rest. Darlene joined beside you, already reaching for a scone.

Footsteps padded from the hallway, and soon enough, a few of your siblings trickled in.

Damian stood by the arched doorway, arms crossed, eyebrows drawn. “Who’s she?” he asked, tone neutral but eyes curious.

Darlene leaned forward, unfazed. “Darlene. Friend, future forensic psychologist, and the person who’s going to eat your last scone if you don’t hurry.”

Tim walked in behind him, raising a brow. “That was oddly specific.”

“She’s always like this,” you said with a smile, leaning back and sipping your water. “Darlene, this is Tim, Damian, and that’s Jason—”

“Don’t forget me,” Dick called from behind them, dramatically swinging into the room and plopping onto the couch’s armrest.

“You guys make it sound like I’m some visitor from another world,” Darlene said, clearly enjoying the banter.

“Well,” Damian muttered under his breath, “she looks familiar…”

Darlene tilted her head. “I get that a lot.”

You noticed the flicker in Damian’s gaze, the furrow in his brow. You quickly redirected as he began to leave, the others soon following behind. “So, school’s almost over,” you said to Darlene. “You're gonna be ready for all the charity galas coming up?”

“Oh god,” she groaned. My mom already has three dresses on standby. One’s too tight, one’s too poofy, and one makes me look like a stepmother.”

Alfred, passing by with more napkins, raised a knowing brow. “Might I suggest the poofy one? It’s harder to trip in.”

You both laughed as Alfred gracefully departed.

“So,” Darlene began, drawing out the word with a smirk. “Lucian’s been… warmer lately.”

You froze slightly mid-bite of your sandwich. “Has he?”

“Don’t ‘has he’ me,” she said, nudging your shoulder. “He’s been making jokes, lightening up, giving you special training hours. I mean, if he offers you personalized sparring one more time, I might start to think he’s writing your name in a notebook with little hearts.”

You laughed nervously, tucking your leg beneath you. “Lucian’s just… intense. Maybe he’s just lightening up around both of us.”

Darlene studied your expression like a hawk.

“Y/n,” she said slowly, “you do realize he stares at you like you’re some glowing artifact, right?”

“He doesn’t,” you said quickly, brushing imaginary lint from your skirt.

“He does. And don’t think I haven’t noticed that every time he says your name, you blush like mad.”

“I do not!”

“You’re blushing right now.”

You covered your face with a groan. “Okay, maybe… maybe I get a little fluttery around him. That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Mhm,” she hummed, sipping her water. “It’s just your heart skipping every time he’s in the room. Totally platonic.”

You looked away toward the French doors. Outside, the sun was beginning to set, casting the garden in molten gold. The sky painted itself in hues of lavender and pink, clouds stretching like cotton across the horizon. The light made you look far away for a moment, caught in something unspoken.

“Sometimes,” you murmured, “I don’t know how to handle it. When he looks at me like that… it’s like… like he sees something I haven’t even discovered yet. And it scares me.”

Darlene softened. “That’s kind of beautiful. Scary, yeah, but beautiful.”

“I don’t know if I’m ready for anything more,” you whispered. “Not after everything. Not when I still dream about… about that night. About Mom. About Claude.”

The room fell quiet for a moment, the ticking of the antique clock filling the silence.

Darlene placed her hand over yours. “Then take your time. Let things grow naturally. You don’t have to rush.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of her words settle warmly in your chest. Outside, the wind picked up gently, rustling the ivy against the manor walls.

“Also,” she added, grin returning, “if you don’t do something about him, I might. Have you seen that jawline?”

You both burst out laughing, the tension easing.

Just then, your phone buzzed. A message from Lucian.

[Lucian]: Don’t over-practice tonight. You’ve got a big day coming. Rest. Eat. Sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.

Your heart skipped.

Darlene leaned over. “Let me guess. Him?”

You nodded.

“I knew it,” she sang, spinning in her seat with glee.

You laughed again, light-headed with something you couldn’t quite name. Outside, the last light of day dimmed, and the stars began to rise like shy dancers behind a velvet curtain.

The sky was overcast the morning before your performance, the clouds hanging low and gray, casting a quiet light over Gotham’s early morning skyline. There was no rain, not yet, but the wind carried with it a chill that whispered of something brewing.

Inside the Wayne Manor’s private gym, you stood at the center of the floor, stretching with silent intensity. The room smelled faintly of lemon disinfectant and sweat, a scent you’d come to associate with discipline. You rolled your neck slowly, letting the vertebrae click gently into place. Today wasn’t about pushing hard. Today was about preserving what you’d worked so tirelessly to build.

Your fingers curled and uncurled at your sides. You glanced over at your bag resting by the mirrored wall, your pointe shoes poking out slightly. Tomorrow would be everything—your final performance of the year, one of the biggest charity galas in Gotham, and, hopefully, the night your father would finally see you. Truly see you.

You stepped out into the hallway quietly, padding barefoot toward your father's study. Your heart pounded with every step, the words you planned echoing in your head like a mantra. It was still early; maybe he hadn’t left for the office yet. You turned the corner just as Bruce emerged from the study, dressed in his standard crisp black button-down, already halfway through reviewing something on his tablet.

“Dad,” you called out, more breath than voice. He stopped, eyes flickering up.

“Y/N,” he acknowledged, voice flat with fatigue. “What is it? I have a meeting downtown in ten.”

You swallowed the knot in your throat. “I… I just wanted to ask—my performance. Tomorrow. It’s at seven, at the Gotham Arts Theatre. I was wondering if you’d come.”

There was a pause, slight but devastating.

“You know I don’t usually go to public events unless they’re mission-critical,” Bruce said, setting down the tablet for a moment. “But you want me there?”

Your eyes fluttered up to meet his. “Yes,” you whispered. “I know you’re busy. I know… I’ve asked before. But just this once, I need you to come. It’s important to me.”

Bruce studied you for a long beat. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Alright. I’ll be there. I promise.”

The breath you’d been holding escaped all at once, a warmth blooming in your chest. “You’ll really come?”

“I said I would.” His tone softened a degree. “You’ve worked hard for this. I’ll be there.”

You nodded slowly, something cautious yet hopeful flickering across your face. “Thank you.”

You turned, walking away before you could let the moment swallow you whole. You didn’t want to cry. Not now. Not when it finally felt like things might be changing.

That afternoon, you made your way to the training facility where Lucian and Darlene waited. The air smelled of steel and wood polish, of old mats and fresh bruises. Your body was ready, but your mind lingered elsewhere, caught somewhere between tomorrow’s stage lights and this morning’s conversation.

Darlene was already mid-stretch when you arrived. Lucian was pacing near the weight rack, but his expression was lighter than usual—less storm cloud, more passing shade.

“Hey, sunshine,” Darlene teased, standing up and brushing dust off her knees. “Look who finally showed up.”

“Five minutes early is still early,” you replied with a small smile.

Lucian turned toward you. “Actually… I was going to cancel today’s session,” he said, voice unusually casual. “You’ve got a big day tomorrow, right?”

You blinked. “Wait, what?”

Darlene raised an eyebrow at him. “You're… cutting her a break?”

He shrugged, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Figured we’d do something else. Hang out, maybe. Keep it light.”

You tilted your head. “You don’t go light. Ever.”

“I do now,” he said with a sly grin, his dark hair falling slightly into his eyes.

Your heart stuttered. It wasn’t dramatic, but you felt it. The flutter, that warm weight in your chest threatening to tug your smile wider.

Darlene raised both eyebrows and muttered under her breath, “Oh, it’s getting serious…”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress the smile breaking over your face. “So, what? Are we just… hanging out here?”

Lucian shrugged again. “Figured we’d walk the park, grab food. Get your mind off the performance.”

Something caught in your throat at the offer. It was simple, small—but the effort behind it was anything but. “Okay. That sounds… really nice.”

You, Lucian, and Darlene strolled through Gotham Park within the hour. Trees overhead danced in the wind, their branches brushing against the sky like the strokes of a restless artist. You sipped hot cocoa from a paper cup, grateful for the simple heat.

Darlene walked a few steps ahead, narrating some outlandish story about an ex-boyfriend who tried to woo her with glow-in-the-dark roses. Lucian chuckled beside you, but his gaze kept drifting toward you when he thought you weren’t looking.

Eventually, Darlene wandered off to chase pigeons near the fountain. Lucian leaned close.

“You nervous?” he asked.

You nodded. “Terrified.”

He was quiet for a moment, then: “You’ll be brilliant. I’ve seen what you’re capable of.”

You looked up at him, searching his expression. “You’ll be there, right? At the performance?”

Lucian’s gaze flicked toward yours with an earnestness you weren’t expecting. “Of course. Wouldn’t miss it.”

You smiled, fingers tightening around your paper cup.

Darlene reappeared a second later, laughing breathlessly. “Alright, lovebirds. Let’s not get too caught up in our romcom here.”

You blushed immediately, glancing away. “It’s not—”

“Yeah, yeah,” she waved you off with a wink. “Just make sure you don’t trip onstage tomorrow from being too distracted.”

You threw a napkin at her. She ducked and stuck her tongue out, and all three of you collapsed into laughter that echoed off the trees.

That night, back in your room at the Manor, you sat cross-legged in bed, staring at your reflection in the vanity mirror. The glow of your string lights made your hair look gold, soft curls falling around your cheeks like waves.

You reached for the small gold locket resting in your jewelry tray and opened it slowly. Inside, a photo of your mother smiled back at you. You pressed your thumb against it gently.

“I hope you’re proud,” you whispered.

A knock sounded at the door.

“Come in,” you called.

Alfred poked his head in, carrying a small tray with tea. “Chamomile. For nerves.”

You smiled. “Thank you, Alfred.”

He set it down beside your bed, then hesitated. “I hear you’ve got quite the cheering section tomorrow.”

You chuckled softly. “Yeah. Darlene and Lucian are coming.”

“Anyone else?”

You hesitated. “Dad said he would. He promised.”

Alfred smiled faintly, the kind of smile that held decades of history behind it. “Then I imagine he’ll be there.”

You sipped the tea slowly, the warmth grounding you. Alfred reached over and squeezed your shoulder gently before leaving.

Alone again, you lay back against your pillows, heart fluttering in your chest. It wasn’t just the performance. It wasn’t just the crowd or the lights or the perfection you’d have to achieve.

It was the people who would be watching. Lucian. Darlene. And maybe… finally… Bruce.

As your eyes began to close, a peaceful exhaustion overtaking you, you didn’t notice the faint shimmer beginning to crawl beneath your skin. Not just yet.

That would come later.

The auditorium buzzed with low murmurs and shuffling programs as the lights dimmed, casting a soft hush over the audience. Backstage, a very different kind of silence filled the air—tense, trembling, and too quiet to be soothing. You stood in front of the full-length mirror, breath tight in your chest, ballet slippers planted but shaky. The white tulle of your costume glimmered under the soft bulbs, your arms folded around yourself.

Two days ago, this moment felt exciting. Now, it felt like walking a tightrope between euphoria and devastation.

Your name echoed faintly in the air, muffled through the walls. “Y/N Wayne, lead ballerina.” A voice called from the hall, rehearsing the lineup.

Your fingers trembled slightly as they adjusted the jeweled pin in your bun. You glanced at your reflection—wide eyes, flushed cheeks, the faint shimmer of nerves making your skin dewy. You couldn’t hear the audience clearly, but you didn’t need to. You were listening for one voice, or maybe just the silence of its absence.

“Come on,” you whispered to yourself, “you knew he wouldn’t come.”

Still, it didn’t stop the aching.

A gentle knock tapped against the door. “Y/N? Ten minutes,” a stagehand said softly.

You nodded, swallowing the lump forming in your throat. “Thank you.”

The moment she left, you exhaled. Lucian and Darlene. They would be here. That was enough, wasn’t it?

You stepped away from the mirror and opened the dressing room door, walking down the dim hallway where dancers passed with urgent flutters. Each one glided with purpose. You tried to match their grace, but your mind swirled.

“Y/N!”

You turned, the voice unmistakable. Darlene was rushing over, dressed in a pale yellow sundress that made her look like sunshine in motion. Her curls bounced as she threw her arms around you.

“You look breathtaking! Are you ready?” she asked, her voice bubbling with pride.

You blinked rapidly, trying to hide the emotion rising in your chest. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” you whispered with a smile.

Darlene stepped back, tilting her head. “Don’t tell me you’re looking for someone…”

Your lips parted, but you didn’t say his name.

“Y/N,” she said gently. “Lucian and I are here. We’ve got front row seats. He’s even wearing the dark shirt you like.”

You smiled, the real kind, soft and reluctant. “Thank you. For being here.”

“Of course,” Darlene beamed. “Now go out there and steal the show, prima.”

You nodded, inhaling deeply and walking to your mark. The curtains would rise in seconds. The theater was nearly full. You peeked through the side of the velvet stage curtain.

There they were. Darlene. Lucian.

Your stomach gave a small flip when Lucian leaned forward, elbows on knees, already watching the stage even though the performance hadn’t begun. His gaze was sharp but calm, his presence like an anchor in the sea of nerves around you.

Your heart fluttered.

Then you scanned the rows again. One seat near the center remained empty.

Your smile dimmed.

A soft tap to your shoulder startled you—one of the stagehands signaling it was time.

The music cued.

You stepped into the light.

As the curtain rose, you melted into movement. The stage was yours, the spotlight cradled your limbs like warmth on skin, and the opening notes of Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake spun around you like wind. You moved as you’d practiced for months—light, elegant, sorrowful, every emotion hidden deep in your bones called out by the music.

You could feel the audience watching.

Each twirl, each plié, each reach of your fingers held a piece of your story. Your mother. The garden. The rain. Claude. Bruce. The emptiness of silence after hope.

But then there was Lucian. And Darlene. And the soft brush of possibility.

As the first act closed, the applause rose like a crashing tide. You held your breath, heart pounding, and bowed.

And that’s when you saw him.

Bruce Wayne.

He was seated in the once-empty seat, dressed in a suit, still as ever, expression unreadable. But he was there. And that alone was enough to pull a tear from the corner of your eye.

For the first time in years, he had shown up for you.

You turned, heart hammering against your ribs, and vanished into the wings, breath stolen.

Backstage, dancers gave you high-fives, soft congratulations, but it all passed like fog. You leaned against the wall, trying to breathe.

“Y/N.”

You turned.

There he was, dressed in black, a bit of sweat on his brow—your father.

“You made it,” you said, voice barely audible.

He stepped closer, softer than usual. “You asked,” he said. “So I dropped everything and came, just as I promised.”

You stared at him for a moment, then crossed the distance and hugged him. His arms wrapped around you, and for a second, you felt like a little girl again, like the one who used to wait on the front steps for someone to come home.

In his arms, you breathed in. It smelled like cologne and faint smoke. It was real.

But then—

Your eyes flicked open mid-hug.

Across the room stood Lucian and Darlene. Darlene, smiling softly but fading. Lucian’s expression unreadable, his eyes caught on the moment like it pierced him.

You took a step back from your father, eyes widening.

“Excuse me,” you said quickly, moving past Bruce, your slippers scuffing lightly against the floor. “Lucian—”

But he was already gone. He had disappeared into the crowd backstage, vanishing like fog swallowed by night.

The absence he left behind carved something hollow in your chest.

Darlene touched your arm as she walked past. “Go after him,” she whispered.

You wanted to.

But you stood still, rooted by the storm of emotions. The joy of Bruce showing up tangled with the pang of Lucian leaving. You weren’t sure what to feel—only that it was all crashing down on you.

Back in your dressing room, the mirror no longer reflected confidence—it reflected confusion.

The knock that came minutes later wasn’t from Lucian.

It was Bruce.

“I have to get back to work,” he said, holding your gaze. “But I meant what I said.”

You nodded. “Thank you. For coming.”

He gave you one last look, then left.

And once again, you were alone.

Later that night, you sat in the garden outside the manor. The moon hung low in the sky, soft and milky. Your slippers dangled from your hand as you stared at the stars, thinking of everything and nothing.

You had danced the performance of your life.

You had your father’s attention, finally.

So why did it still feel like something was missing?

You leaned your head back, feeling the wind trace across your skin, and thought of Lucian. The way he looked at you in the audience. The way he left.

And how your heart had stopped when you realized he was gone.

You didn’t understand it yet. But something had shifted tonight.

Not just in the way you danced.

But in the way your world had cracked open—and in the space that followed, something new began to bloom.

Something stronger.

It had been three days since your performance—the flowers had wilted, the makeup removed, and the standing ovations faded into a distant echo. But you couldn’t stop replaying that one moment backstage. The one where Lucian’s eyes met yours across the room and then... he was gone.

You hadn’t seen him since.

Darlene noticed first. “He’s avoiding you,” she’d said with a subtle shrug, casually flipping through her phone while lounging upside down on your bed. “Like plague-level avoidance. That boy disappeared with the wind.”

You’d tried to brush it off. You told yourself maybe he was just busy. That he’d reach out soon. But as each hour passed and his silence grew louder, your stomach churned with a creeping guilt you couldn’t name.

Until today.

Today, you decided enough was enough.

You stormed into your closet, slipping into jeans, boots, and the hoodie he once told you made you look “unapproachable in a cool way.” Hair let down, you met Darlene in the kitchen, where she was sipping cold-brew like it was gossip fuel.

“Where is he?”

Darlene blinked. “Good morning to you, too.”

“Darlene.”

She sighed, placing the coffee down. “He’s at his apartment. And before you ask—yes, I know for sure.”

You gave her a look.

She handed over a folded sticky note. “Just... don’t kill each other.”

Lucian’s apartment was in Burnside—industrial, minimalist, and definitely uninviting from the outside. It was tucked between a boxing gym and a motorcycle repair shop, like a well-kept secret.

You stood in front of the grey door, staring at it like it owed you something.

Then you knocked.

Silence.

You knocked again. This time harder.

Footsteps.

A click.

The door opened.

Lucian stood there in a dark tank top and joggers, hair mussed, expression blank. But his eyes—his eyes looked like they’d been arguing with his thoughts for days.

He blinked. “Y/N?”

“I need to talk.”

He looked at you like he didn’t expect to ever see you again.

“You gonna let me in, or...?”

Wordlessly, he stepped aside.

You walked in. The space was just like him—clean lines, dark colors, a punching bag in the corner, books scattered in precise messes. You stopped in the middle of the room and turned to face him.

“I’m sorry,” you said, voice breaking the silence like glass.

He crossed his arms. “For what, exactly?”

You swallowed. “For not telling you. About... everything.”

Lucian didn’t move. “Tell me about what? Oh, that you’re the daughter of the man who left me to die?”

His voice was sharper than you expected. He didn’t yell, but it hurt more because of how calm it was. Controlled. Measured.

“Lucian, it wasn’t like that—”

He cut you off. “It was exactly like that. Your father knew my family needed help. He chose not to. And now... you’re part of that legacy. And you didn’t think to mention it?”

Your hands curled into fists. “Do you know how hard it was not to tell you? Do you have any idea what it felt like? Every time I wanted to say it, I stopped myself because I was afraid you’d look at me like you are right now.”

He stepped closer. “And yet you let me train you. Trust you. You let me fall into your orbit while keeping the biggest thing about you hidden.”

“I didn’t let you do anything!” you snapped. “Don’t twist this into something it’s not!”

He blinked at your tone—this time, his mask cracked just a bit.

You pointed at your chest. “I’ve spent every single day trying to prove that I’m not just ‘Bruce Wayne’s daughter.’ I’ve bled. I’ve trained. I’ve earned every scrap of respect in those sessions. But when you found out the truth, you threw all of that away!”

His jaw tightened. “I didn’t—”

“Yes, you did!” you cut in, voice trembling. “You judged me before I even had the chance to explain.”

Lucian exhaled, stepping back, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“And you know what?” you said, your voice dropping. “I didn’t tell you because I was afraid of this. You walking away. You treating me like I’m poison. Like I’m just a part of the man who hurt you.”

Silence.

Lucian looked at the floor. “I don’t know how to separate you from him.”

You blinked rapidly. “Then maybe you need to grow up.”

He looked up.

You stared him dead in the eyes. “I’ve been holding it in, but I’m tired, Lucian. Tired of pretending like I’m okay with your silence. Your moods. Your walls. I’ve done everything I could to show you that I care. That I want this—whatever this is—to mean something. And you? You run. You shut down. You act like I’m the villain for hiding something that scared me to share.”

The room pulsed with silence.

“I’m not him,” you said, voice cracking. “I never will be.”

Lucian stared at you. Something unreadable flickered in his eyes.

You gasped, suddenly aware of how hard your heart was pounding. You’d never spoken to him like this before. You covered your mouth, horrified at what just came out.

“I... I didn’t mean it like that,” you whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Lucian’s lips parted, but he didn’t speak. Instead, he took a slow step toward you.

You turned slightly, ready to retreat. But he reached out and gently touched your wrist.

“Y/N,” he said, barely above a whisper, “don’t apologize.”

You looked up, and your eyes met his—full of something soft, something wounded.

“I needed to hear that,” he said. “You’re right. I’ve been holding onto the past like it defines me. I looked at you, and all I could see was what your father didn’t do. That wasn’t fair.”

You held your breath.

“I was scared,” he admitted. “Because when I’m around you, I feel like the walls I spent years building don’t matter anymore. You make me feel... normal.”

Your heart leapt.

“I was mad. But more than that, I was afraid that knowing the truth would change how I saw you. And it didn’t. Not really. I just didn’t want it to mean something more than I could handle.”

You took a step closer.

“You never saw me as a Wayne,” he said. “You saw me as Lucian. Just Lucian. And I didn’t give you the same courtesy.”

You blinked, warmth filling your chest.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

You looked at him, studying his expression. “So... you forgive me?”

He laughed under his breath. “I should be the one begging for your forgiveness.”

You stared at him for a moment. “Okay. Then you’re forgiven.”

He smiled—genuinely, the kind that made the air between you soften.

“But,” you added, “you ever ghost me again like that, and I’m lighting your apartment on fire.”

He chuckled. “Fair.”

You exhaled deeply, feeling like a weight had been lifted. Then you stepped back, looking around. “This place is actually kind of cozy.”

“I know. You expected a training dungeon, didn’t you?”

You raised a brow. “I expected chains and a secret punching bag that screams when hit.”

“Don’t give me ideas.”

The tension finally broke between you both. And in its place, something new formed—stronger, clearer, and unspoken.

You stayed for another hour.

You didn’t kiss. You didn’t even touch again.

But when you left, you knew Lucian would never see you the same way again.

And for once, you didn’t need the Wayne name or a mask to prove your worth.

The sky wept long before you did.

Rain lashed against the glass panes of the conservatory, wind howling like a wounded animal through the cracked seams of Gotham’s towering skyline. You stood inside the glass garden high atop the abandoned penthouse of the old Gotham Botanical Archives—your safe space, your secret sanctuary—and stared up at the turbulent sky, your palms outstretched.

The storm was mimicking you now.

You weren’t surprised. Not anymore.

You could feel it deep in your bones—the same way you’d felt the water calling you, the flowers blooming beneath your feet, the way your reflection rippled before your fingertips ever touched the surface. This new power wasn’t quiet like the others.

It roared.

Thunder cracked, splitting the sky in half, and with it came a jolt of energy behind your ribs, a pulse so violent it knocked you back a step. You gasped, grabbing the rusted railing beside the orchid wall, your body trembling. A faint blue light shimmered beneath your skin, lightning spider-webbing up your arms and down to your fingertips.

Your breath fogged in the air.

And then you screamed.

The storm answered with a symphony of thunderclaps.

You dropped to your knees.

Twelve hours earlier, you were in training.

Lucian had started easing back into sessions with you after your confrontation. Things between you two had become tentative again—but honest, grounded. There were apologies, long silences, a few awkward grins. No one said the word “relationship,” but something softer had begun blooming again, this time without the lies between you.

“You’ve been... jumpier,” he noted that morning as you dodged a roundhouse kick and threw him across the mat.

You wiped sweat from your forehead. “My body’s changing again. I can feel it.”

He frowned. “Like before?”

You hesitated. “No. This is different.”

“How?”

You looked up at him, chest rising and falling. “I think I’m becoming something I don’t understand.”

Lucian didn’t flinch. “Then we figure it out.”

But even as he said it, you knew something was stirring far beyond your control.

That afternoon, Alfred found you pacing in the manor greenhouse, gripping a rose stem too tightly, thorns digging into your palm.

“Miss Y/N,” he said gently. “The flowers are not to blame.”

You blinked down at the blood trailing from your hand.

“I didn’t mean to,” you whispered. “I just…” I trailed off, feeling the blood seep from my skin.

Alfred stepped closer, dabbing at your hand with a cloth. “I worry for you, Y/n. You’re gone everyday and every night, bruises painted on your skin. Then, at times like this, you start to feel ill then go missing for 12 days, you come back like a different person, as if you didn’t have your whole family searching for you. I hate to get in your business but, is everything okay?”

You looked at him, eyes burning but a smile still placed on your face, “I promise, Alfred. I’m..” I faltered a bit, lowering my head to figure out what to say, “I’ll be fine.” My eyes met him again, reassuring him.

He met your gaze. “I have a hard time trusting you nowadays, but I mustn't go against your word.”

You went to the rooftop conservatory alone that evening, hoping the silence would still the war raging in your chest.

It didn’t.

Instead, the sky mirrored your unrest. Storm clouds rolled in like sentries, thick and bruised, pregnant with fury. You sat in the center of the garden floor, surrounded by broken planters and rain-drenched vines, your knees tucked to your chest, waiting for the sensation to pass.

But it didn’t pass.

It built.

And then it broke.

The pain started behind your sternum—an aching pressure, like your ribs couldn’t contain the voltage. Your fingers began to spark. At first tiny, gentle flickers. Then arcs. Then full streaks of electricity danced up your arms, crackling along your skin in vibrant veins of cobalt.

Your back arched. You let out a strangled cry.

Lightning slammed into the rooftop outside, rattling the glass so hard it splintered.

“No, no, no—”

You tried to hold it back, but the energy was wild, furious. It wasn’t responding to your fear—it was feeding on it.

You gasped for air, eyes glowing faint blue in your reflection on the wet glass.

The storm within you had breached its cage.

And it wanted out.

A sudden explosion of light knocked you backward into a planter. The air stung with ozone. Your hoodie smoked at the sleeves. Your heartbeat roared like thunder in your ears.

You stumbled up, clawing at your chest as if you could rip the energy out.

“I’m not ready!” you screamed to no one.

But the storm didn’t care.

Your palms snapped outward and a shockwave of lightning erupted from you, shooting into the ceiling and up into the clouds.

The skyline above you lit up.

And then you heard it—sirens. Screams. A transformer down the block had exploded. The city’s power grid flickered.

You fell to your knees again, sobbing, fingers twitching with residual sparks.

You were losing control.

Down below, Lucian’s bike screeched to a stop outside the building.

He didn’t need to be told where you were. He felt it—the way your energy tugged at him now like a magnetized tether. He took the fire escape three steps at a time, rain pelting his shoulders, until he burst through the broken conservatory doors.

“Y/N!”

You were on the floor, curled around yourself, shaking uncontrollably.

“Don’t come near me!” you cried.

But he didn’t listen.

He ran to you, kneeling in the rain-soaked garden tiles.

“I can’t stop it,” you choked out, voice panicked. “Lucian, I can’t—if I touch you—”

He grabbed your hand anyway.

The moment his fingers laced with yours, the lightning surged.

But he didn’t let go.

“Look at me,” he said firmly.

You were sobbing. “I’ll kill you—”

“You won’t. Look at me.”

You raised your eyes to his.

“You’re not the storm. You’re the one who holds it. You control it.”

“I can’t,” you whispered.

“Yes, you can,” he insisted. “You already are.”

Your hands trembled violently in his.

“I’m scared.”

“I know. But you don’t have to be alone.”

Another bolt cracked the sky, but this time it didn’t land. It hovered. Pulsed. Waited.

Because you were no longer fighting it.

You were listening.

He helped you sit upright, his hands still gripping yours.

“Let it pass through,” Lucian said quietly. “Don’t dam it up. Just... channel it.”

You closed your eyes.

And for a moment, you let go of the fear.

The storm inside you roared—but you didn’t drown.

You breathed it in.

And then you exhaled.

When you opened your eyes, the lightning receded. The blue glow faded from your veins, the tension in your chest released like a dam breaking into gentle streams.

The storm didn’t vanish.

But it bowed to you.

Lucian exhaled, forehead resting against yours.

You both sat there, surrounded by shattered glass and dripping vines, the remnants of chaos still sizzling in the air.

You looked at him. “You shouldn’t have touched me.”

He smiled faintly. “You were sparking like a human battery. I figured it was a risk worth taking.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“You love me anyway.”

You hesitated.

Then nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

He blinked.

You both went quiet.

The wind softened.

You leaned against him.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” you whispered. “First the flowers, then the water, and now... thunder?”

Lucian tilted his head, brushing damp hair from your forehead. “You’re evolving.”

You closed your eyes.

“But what am I evolving into?”

His voice was steady. “Something extraordinary.”

Hours passed before you moved again.

Lucian helped you clean the glass, reset the broken planters, and cover the cracked ceiling with a tarp. The conservatory was a wreck, but it felt more sacred now—baptized by lightning, marked by survival.

As the storm outside faded into a grey morning hush, you stood at the edge of the rooftop with him, watching the first sliver of sun peek over Gotham’s silhouette.

“I’m changing again,” you murmured. “I can feel it. Every time, it’s deeper. More elemental.”

He nodded. “And I’ll be right here for every phase.”

You looked at him, heart full.

“You promise?”

He didn’t blink. “I do.”

You believed him.

Because even in the eye of your chaos, he’d walked into the storm to find you.

And now, as the sun kissed the clouds and the air shimmered with dew and smoke, you felt something you hadn’t in weeks.

Calm.

The headlines were still fresh. Y/N Wayne had become more than a mystery—she was now an obsession. Her face, newly matured by the storm-like transformation, was splashed across every newspaper and tabloid cover in Gotham and beyond.

“Breathtakingly Beautiful—The Most Captivating Wayne Yet?” “Wayne Heiress Causes Stir on Gotham Streets!” “From Quiet to Queen: Y/N Wayne’s Glow-Up Goes Viral.”

Photos snapped by the paparazzi showed her walking calmly through downtown Gotham. Nothing about her outfit was flashy—an off-the-shoulder sweater, wide-legged jeans, boots, and a satchel across her shoulder—but it was the way she carried herself. Each step was poised. Each breath seemed to harmonize with the air. The sun caught in the shimmer of her skin like moonlight on water, and her curls fell in soft, ocean-like waves down her back, touched with a subtle electric hue when the light hit just right.

People turned. Not just out of admiration, but something closer to reverence.

Cars slowed as she passed. Pedestrians blinked in awe. A child in a stroller pointed and asked, “Is she a fairy?”

She didn’t notice them. Or, more truthfully, she didn’t let herself react to them. Because on the inside, she still felt like that quiet girl—delicate, bruised, and unsure. The same girl who once curled up in a subway tunnel after crying herself hoarse over the world’s indifference. Now, everyone saw the glow, the ethereal softness. But none of them saw the ache still hiding beneath her glowing exterior.

Back at Wayne Enterprises, the sky dimmed with early evening light, a golden-orange pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Bruce’s office. The city glimmered below.

Inside, the tension between Vivienne and Bruce was growing thicker, as if even the beams of light didn’t dare slip between them.

Stacks of paperwork sat between them—budget reports, gala proposals, property agreements—but none of it was being touched now. Bruce had rolled up his sleeves, his forearms flexing slightly as he leaned over to read a quarterly audit. Vivienne sat on the couch, glasses perched on her nose, scanning over a merger proposal. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—but it was loaded.

It was the way Vivienne’s gaze would drift toward Bruce, then quickly flick back to the page. The way Bruce rubbed the back of his neck when she got too close. The way they didn’t speak much, but when they did, it was low, deliberate, thoughtful.

“You’re staying late,” Vivienne finally said, softly. “That’s a first in a while.”

Bruce looked up, his brow creasing in something unreadable. “So are you.”

A silence. Then a laugh from Vivienne—small, a little nervous. “Touché.”

Their eyes lingered on each other. The air shifted.

Then… a knock.

Before either of them could answer, the door opened with theatrical ease, as if pushed by wind—and in walked Selina Kyle.

Wearing a skin-tight black catsuit beneath an open trench coat, her heels echoed against the tile. Her eyes, cat-like and gleaming, scanned the room. She smiled like she owned the world. Or maybe like she could steal it and no one would notice until she was halfway across the continent.

“Well, well,” she purred. “Didn’t know this was a party.”

Vivienne immediately straightened. The name didn’t need to be said aloud; she recognized her from photos, headlines, and one charity event years ago. She sat up straighter, her expression unreadable.

Bruce’s jaw tensed. “Selina.”

“Don’t sound so thrilled.” Selina moved like a dancer, her coat swaying behind her as she stepped toward them. “I was in town and thought… maybe it’s time I said hi.”

She turned to Vivienne, holding out a hand as if the two of them were old friends. “And you must be the new assistant. Or are we calling them partners now?”

Vivienne stood, taking her hand with polite calm. “Vivienne. CFO.”

“Oh, chief,” Selina mused, dragging out the word. “Very impressive.”

Bruce cleared his throat, attempting to cut through the rising tension. “Selina, what are you doing here?”

Selina leaned in, her lips brushing his cheek in a kiss that made Vivienne flinch. “Just missed you, darling.” She said it like a joke. Like a dare.

Bruce didn’t move away.

Vivienne watched in silence. Her jaw tightened, but she said nothing. She turned back to the paperwork, though her vision blurred slightly.

Selina perched on the edge of Bruce’s desk, crossing her legs. “I saw your daughter in the papers, by the way. She’s… wow. You breed well.”

Bruce frowned. “Don’t talk about her like she’s a horse.”

“Relax.” Selina laughed. “I meant it as a compliment. She’s stunning. Looks a bit like you around the eyes—though the rest of her’s all mystery.”

Vivienne turned a page, even though she hadn’t finished the last one. Her hand trembled slightly as she scribbled a note in the margin.

Selina glanced toward her, eyes sharp. “Something wrong, Vivienne?”

“No,” Vivienne said coolly, standing and collecting her things. “I just remembered—I have something urgent to take care of.”

Bruce turned to her. “Viv—”

But she was already walking past him, her ponytail swinging.

She didn’t look back.

Not when Selina smirked. Not when Bruce stepped after her and stopped himself. Not when her heels clicked down the hallway in clipped, precise beats of quiet rage.

Bruce stood there, torn between the woman who just left… and the one still watching him.

Selina tilted her head. “Did I interrupt something?”

“No,” Bruce said, but even he didn’t believe it.

Meanwhile, at Wayne Manor, things felt colder than usual.

Y/N sat on the window seat of her room, watching the sky bruise into night. Her curls were still damp from the bath, her skin shimmering with the afterglow of her transformation. Her phone buzzed nonstop with notifications—news alerts, texts, social media tags. Darlene had even sent a voice note laughing: “Girl, you are literally breaking the internet.”

But Y/N didn’t feel like laughing.

She scrolled past headlines. People discussing her beauty like she was a painting. Critics analyzing her “aura.” Blogs comparing her to old Hollywood icons or mythical creatures. There was admiration, but also obsession—and beneath it all, a reminder that she was still being seen, not understood.

She hadn’t heard from Bruce all day.

She knew he’d been working late again. Probably with Vivienne. A small smile played at her lips thinking of them—how they’d started to talk more, joke even. Vivienne was kind. Grounded. She was good for him. Y/N had hoped that maybe, just maybe, her father was learning to make room in his life for someone who wasn’t haunted by shadows.

Then she saw it.

A tweet. From Gotham Press.

@GothamPressOnline: “EXCLUSIVE: Bruce Wayne spotted at Wayne Enterprises tonight. And guess who showed up? None other than Catwoman herself. The old flame is back. 👀 #SelinaKyle #BruceWayne #GothamLoveTriangle”

There were pictures. Selina brushing a kiss against Bruce’s cheek. Bruce not moving away.

The smile slipped from Y/N’s face.

Her thumb hovered, then tapped the comments.

“Omg power couple!!” “Selina’s back?? We stan!” “Poor Vivienne lol.”

She shut the phone off.

Outside, thunder rumbled faintly on the horizon, even though no storm had been forecast.

Downstairs, Alfred was setting the kettle to boil when he heard footsteps.

“Y/N?” he called gently.

She appeared at the bottom of the stairs, wrapped in a soft shawl, her expression unreadable.

Alfred took one look and knew. “You saw.”

She nodded.

“Come. Tea?”

She nodded again, following him into the kitchen. The clink of porcelain, the quiet whistle of steam—it all felt too gentle for what thundered inside her.

“I liked her,” Y/N said, after a pause. “Vivienne. She made him better.”

“She did,” Alfred agreed.

“Why does he always chase what hurts him?”

Alfred set the cup down before her. “Because sometimes, child… the past is louder than the present. And Bruce has never been good at listening to the softer voices.”

Y/N held the cup, warming her fingers. “Do you think she’ll come back?”

“I don’t know,” Alfred said honestly. “But I do know this: the right people never really leave. Not truly. They find their way back—if they’re meant to.”

Y/N stared into her tea. Outside, lightning flickered on the horizon.

(Just realized that some parts are missing ARGH!!!)

#batfam #batfamily #batfamily x neglected reader #batman #alfred pennyworth #bruce wayne #damian wayne #dc universe #dick grayson #tim drake

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obsessive-valentine · 7 months ago

Text

The First Steps, Guided by Gentle Hands (PT 3)

Platonic Vampire Family + Fem!Reader - (Beaumont family saga)

Progress and Setbacks- You find yourself settling in and even enjoying some bits, including Dorian being a great big brother and the warmth of a mother. Though it isn't linear progress and you stumble during some parts. But don't worry, that's what parents are for -to steady you and help in their own ways. Part 3 to 5 Stages of Grief

The following months passed slowly, they weren't particularly unkind. You'd expected worse, to be honest, you settled quicker than you'd like to admit.

Lavinia is usually at your side or close by. The two of you became almost inseparable, Lavinia treating you with a motherly tenderness you hadn’t expected. But never fragile or demeaning, in fact, she encouraged questions and exploration -she was just there for your stability, not to shelter you or keep you captive.

Soren lets you grow comfortable, giving you space to settle and get used to a new routine. He'd make small talk when you're in the same room, but it never felt forced or pressuring. It was casual and kind, warm even.

Lucian is distant to but not the same kind-distant as Soren who's giving you space but is still there for you, this is a brooding-distant. If you caught his eye, he’d glance away with a scowl, or, on the rare occasion he lingered, his expression was unreadable—something guarded beneath the surface, like he didn’t know whether to see you as a stranger, an annoyance, or something else entirely. But he rarely made any verbal jabs, he knew better, where you are Lavinia or Soren are close by.

Dorian made up for his brother in spades though.

Dorian loves having a little sister, but more so a person who's fun and matches his energy. Don't get him wrong, it's not torture living with them, but they are a very formal and work-led family. Lavinia, ever soft for her sons, often played along with her dry wit, entertaining her wild child's antics. But those were just fleeting moments, and the other two are useless when understanding good comedy. This, however, is so much more fun, so much more human- games, laughing and getting in trouble.

There were games of cards sprawled out on the sitting room floor, stories told by firelight that had you snorting with laughter at Dorian’s theatrical gestures, and hours spent bent over your sketchbook beside you as he tried (and failed) to master the art of drawing. Your drawing book is now a patchwork of your steady drawings and Dorian's questionable scribbles.

“This is offensive,” he grumbled one afternoon, pointing to his attempt at a cat. It looked more like a misshapen potato with whiskers. “to cats everywhere. I should be ashamed.”

“You should,” you teased, stifling a giggle. “Poor Sir Whiskers. He deserves better.”

“Art critic and sibling tormentor?” He shook his head dramatically. “What have I created ?”

Your smile lingered even after the moment passed. It was a strange thought, but you were starting to feel a quiet sense of belonging here—especially around Dorian. He treated you as though you’d always been part of his life, his easygoing nature smoothing the sharp edges of your fears.

Lavinia often encouraged this unconventional form of bonding too. Once walking into the kitchen where you and Dorian were for one reason or another.

Except when she rounds the corner, she sees you both balancing spoons on your noses. She holds back a laugh at the absurdity that Dorian somehow convinced you into.

"Teaching her to balance a spoon on her nose? I'm sure Soren would approve." she raises an eyebrow.

Dorian doesn't remove the spoon to look at her, to focused. "It's a skill, mother. A very serious one, it's harder than it looks." he explains with a grin.

You pipe up though laughs -after dropping your spoon again, determined to get it right you pick it up-. "He says it's a significant motor skill. Apparently, it’s vital for survival."

Lavinia smiles, seeing you so relaxed and happy "Practical, then. Carry on."

The First Steps

But while life in this new family was slowly becoming no so strange, there were unkind 'events'. Often first steps are accompanied by stumbles-

The following months of adjustment weren’t linear. You struggled with the change—an identity crisis that seemed to gnaw at you in the quiet moments—and even the culture shock of living with the Beaumonts. Just as you felt like you were coming to terms with your situation, something new would pull the rug out from under you.

Drinking blood was the worst of it. Just when you thought you could settle, you had to face something that felt so foreign, so damning, that it brought back every fear and doubt. It was gross, wrong, and an impossible idea.

Having been raised in a traditional Victorian household, you likely held some sort of religious or superstitious beliefs too. That only made this so much harder to justify.

The first time Soren brought you the cup, you stared at it as though it might bite you. Lavinia sat beside you at the small table in a quiet room. Dorian sat lazily on a soft armchair not far, under the guise of reading a book, but his gaze was fixed on your face, trying to read your reactions. Your stomach churned, the smell of iron lingering faintly in the air.

“Better to start now,” Soren said, his tone firm but not unkind. He set the cup gently on the table in front of you, his hands steady. “It’s easier to manage this way before hunger makes it… harder.”

He straightens up, and his face softens at the sight of an unpleasant struggle they all had faced "Take your time, but you will drink some before you go to bed." He turns to leave, letting Lavinia handle this with her gentle nature.

But he pauses "This doesn’t define you unless you let it." A tense attempt at comfort. You wish it worked.

You sat in silence for a while after Soren left. Dorian broke the silence unable to sit in such a tense atmosphere.

“It’s stranger to think about it than to do it.” as though this were a completely ordinary conversation. “Once you start, it's just routine... instinct.”

“Dorian,” Lavinia murmured, though there was no real scolding in her tone.

“What?” He shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips. “It’s true.” But his face falls again when his attempt at lighting the mood fails, seeing you only tense up.

You wanted to glare at him, as your eyes began to burn and threaten tears, wanting to snap, but not able to take your eyes off the cup. How can you talk about this like it’s nothing? But your anger fell short. He’d been through this too. They all had. And now it was your turn. There was no getting around it, no more delaying.

Lavinia leaned in, drawing your attention back to her. “I know this feels impossible,” she said softly. “But it won’t ruin you. I promise you that.” The back of her gloved fingers gently brush over your cheek before stopping at your chin and holding it carefully between her index and thumb, forcing you to hold her gaze.

You blinked at her, tears burning the corners of your eyes. “How do you know?” Lavinia sighed at the sight of tears welling up, letting go of your chin to rub circles on your back.

“Because I’ve been where you are,” she said simply. “And I am still myself.”

Something about the certainty in her voice made your resolve falter. Lavinia—so calm, so strong—didn’t look wicked. She didn’t look lost. Maybe… maybe you wouldn’t either.

When you didn’t move, Lavinia stood, reaching for the cup and placing it carefully in your shaking hands. “Just one sip,” she said, her tone firm but kind. “That’s all I’m asking.”

You took as small of a sip as you could- And it was as awful as you were expecting, so foreign. The morality, the taste, the texture and the smell. But worst of all you hated that you weren't so hungry now, forced to confront that this is your way of life from now on.

Lavinia stood, smoothing her skirts before leaning down to press a soft kiss to the top of your head. “That’s enough for tonight,” she murmured gently, her tone soft but brooking no argument. “Let’s get you ready for bed, sweet girl.” She placed a hand gently on your lower back, guiding your quiet, troubled self out of the room.

Your steps were slow, heavy with lingering unease, but before stepping into the hallway, you glanced back. Dorian sat where he’d been the entire time, unusually still—quieter than you’d ever seen him, almost forgetting he was there. His usual spark seemed dimmed as he watched you leave, his expression subdued.

He caught your gaze and offered a small, sad smile—an attempt at encouragement that didn’t quite land. It wasn’t pity, exactly, just the ache of watching someone he cared for fight battles he couldn’t help them win.

... Guided by Gentle Hands

You began getting glimpses of what life would look like when you finally settled in.

Soren took it upon himself to become a teacher, starting with history, though at first, it was subtle—nothing heavy, nothing overwhelming. He’d beckon you into his study, voice low but firm, and give you small tasks: 'read this chapter' 'tell me what you think about this passage' or 'write down your thoughts on that event'.

Soren understood better than anyone that boredom had a way of catastrophizing unpleasant thoughts, of spiralling them into something unbearable. It was practical, of course—he had always intended to educate you as thoroughly as he had Lucien and Dorian, and even Lavinia, though her education had been more self-initiated.

But at the heart of it, this was his way of looking out for you, by keeping your mind sharp and your heart steady so you wouldn’t lose yourself.

It was during your third week that he decided to begin. Your disorientation had started to wane, the constant aches dulling to an occasional discomfort, and you found yourself more active, less confined to bed and wandering the manor instead. You’d begun helping Lavinia with small tasks, rearranging shelves or folding linens, as though eager to distract yourself.

One particular night, when you were more restless than usual, Soren watched you quietly from the corner of his eye. The way you fidgeted and paced was all the indication he needed. After a few minutes, he stood, plucked a book off the shelf with deliberate ease, and turned toward you.

“Come with me to my study, child.” His tone left no room for argument, though there was no harshness to it—only purpose.

You followed him with confusion and trepidation, unsure of what to expect. The vastness of his study made you feel small at first—the towering bookshelves, the rich scent of old leather and parchment. But when you sat across from him, and he opened the book, it wasn’t as daunting as you thought.

The conversation began with history, his deep voice weaving stories of wars and treaties, discoveries and downfalls. -And it wasn’t long before the discussions turned, becoming less of a lecture and more of an interview.

“The tales say that vampires turn to ash in the sun,” you hesitantly said one evening, curiosity finally breaking through. “But Lavinia used to visit me during the day... that doesn't make sense.”

Soren gave a rare, almost amused look, his lips quirking faintly. “Those stories are highly inaccurate. We don’t turn to ash in the sun. It’s only irritating—burns, at the worst, if we’re careless.”

Another night, you leaned forward in your seat, bringing up another thought you had wondered about for a few days “You’re always so busy. Do Vampires have jobs?”

He inclined his head, choosing his words carefully. “The Beaumont name is very respected. That respect comes with responsibilities. It drags us into the political side of what you might call… the Vampire Court.”

“Vampire Court?” You echoed, both fascinated and wary of the term.

“Yes,” he replied, leaning back as though considering how much to say. “Though I’m afraid the details would bore you to sleep. Now, let’s return to the matter at hand.”

There was no mistaking the faint, teasing glint in his eyes as he steered you back to the lesson.

Soren didn’t seem to mind the curiosity. So one night, you dared to ask about his maker, your voice hesitant.

“Is your maker still alive?”

Soren paused, the corner of his mouth lifting ever so slightly. “Yes, he is. A very smart and serious man, though…” He glanced at you, allowing a dry, almost imperceptible humour to slip through. “Let’s just say it’s best to delay that meeting for a while. He lacks certain… refinements.”

It made you blink in surprise before you stifled a small laugh, and Soren let the moment rest there, as if it had never happened.

One night, you’d muttered about how cold you always felt, after he had asked you how the discomforts are fading. Soren had said nothing at the time, merely watching with that inscrutable expression he always wore.

From that evening on, when you woke at sunset, your fireplace was already lit, your room warm -meaning it had been for a while. You assumed Lavinia had been the one to light it, never questioning the habit.

It took weeks before you pieced it together that it wasn't the ever-attentive Lavinia lighting it for you -but Soren, who took on the task personally and routinely before Lavinia could even get to it.

...

Lavinia had always been the one to openly express her love for you. At first, she was careful—never smothering or overstepping boundaries you weren’t ready to cross. Her affection came out in sweet words and soft nicknames, in the way she always seemed close by, never far enough to leave you feeling alone. Acts of service were her strongest language of love: brushing and braiding your hair, tidying your room up and helping you do up ribbons, laces or clasps.

Slowly, as time passed, Lavinia allowed herself to do more, indulging you in the ways she had always wished to but held back. A daughter to spoil in ways her boys were either too old for or too boyish for.

Lavish clothes, jewellery handed down from her own collection, teaching you things that feel more like an excuse to bond than a lesson Soren would set up.

And then there was the bear-

Lavinia had felt, more than seen, that something was missing from your room. It was lovely, of course—she had ensured it was as comfortable and homely as a room could be, with soft wallpaper in delicate florals, plush sheets, downy pillows, and charming decorations. But as she saw more of your personality shining through—your curiosity, your humour, the flashes of humanity you were holding onto with everything you had—she knew the space didn’t yet reflect you.

It was beautiful, yes, but far too serious. Refined. Grown-up in a way that seemed wrong for someone so young (Physically and/or vampire age). She knew it would grow to be yours and be filled with personality and trinkets, that you would grow to love it as you did your old home.

But she felt you need that comfort and self-expression now more than ever, and so she resolved to change that, one gift at a time, that would increasingly become more and more tailored to your likes and comforts as they learned more about you.

The first one was a bear, a necessary comfort item for many humans. Not just any bear though, only the best. She sat at her desk one morning, as the sun rose and you slept. Writing a letter to an artisan in Russia who she'd met during one of their many travels abroad, she knew he was the person to create what she envisioned.

She spared no detail, describing what she wanted: a luxurious, sturdy bear, hand-stitched from the finest materials, with features cute enough to be loved for an eternity and stitching strong enough to endure just as long.

And when it arrived, carefully packaged, topped with a bow.

She lifts the bear out of the box—a beautiful, exquisitely made stuffed bear, with jointed limbs and cute face. Its fur is soft and plush. It’s stitched with fine care, its paws and ears trimmed with delicate embroidery. The bear’s eyes shine black like little onyx stones, and it wears a velvet ribbon around its neck with a small, silver charm hanging from it—a subtle mark of luxury and craftsmanship.

That evening, when you found it sitting carefully on your bed, your steps slowed as you entered the room. You stared at the bear for a long moment, your fingers brushing hesitantly over its fur before picking it up. It was heavier than you expected, sturdy and real—yours.

Lavinia’s voice broke the quiet, soft from where she stood in the doorway, coming in to put some of your clothes away. “A companion. He came all the way from Russia to keep you company.”

You looked up at her, eyes wide with wonder and confusion at such an extravagant gift. Lavinia didn’t linger on your hesitation, though, her tone light but full of warmth. “It is a very special gift, crafted by hand in Russia by a master artisan. One of a kind. But,” she added, with the faintest smile, “very sturdy. Created to be loved. So take care of him.”

She left it at that, continuing through your draws, finishing her task of putting clothes away as if the expensive gesture was nothing. Lavinia made no fuss about it, didn’t press you to show gratitude or admiration, not because the money was no biggie or it was simple compared to some of her precious items in her room -but because she knew she’d see her efforts rewarded in time.

And she did.

The bear never ended up on a shelf, where so many precious things might go to gather dust. No, it stayed right there—on your bed, within arm’s reach. It was too precious to put away, too yours to display as though it were just a decoration. This was the first thing in your new life that belonged to you and you alone, a token of care and thoughtfulness meant for no one else. Not out of necessity or practicality like clothes, but simply because Lavinia wanted you to have something special.

The bear became a constant presence—sometimes tucked under your arm as you slept, other times sitting proudly on your pillow when you woke. And it wasn’t long before you gave him a name, a fitting one that matched his origins, like Misha. Misha would be treasured by you for lifetimes to come.

Maybe this isn't so bad, maybe you can learn to accept this new -unconventional- family.

Lavinia and Dorian's consistent and open adoration, Soren's subtle but firm love and even Lucien's own form of caring that begins to show in small acts (but thats for another day).

#vampire family #+reader #platonic #yandere #yandere oc

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