#they keep her in an observation room behind glass but sometimes she finds ways to get out. Or Niran just lets her out

[raionmimi]

Super Mega Ultrawatch!Symmetra is Vishkar's failed kaiju experiment. She's become more aggressive towards people, but doesn't particularly seem interested in fighting either. They have to provoke her into turning into her kaiju form to fight the heroes

She really likes Lifeweaver's biolight plants though, it's one of the few things that snaps her out of her rampages. In this au, he takes her with him when he leaves the company

[wibben]

Hanamichi

A life measured in flowers. All of the times in his life in which Nanami received a flower.

↳ warnings: angst, major character death

↳ wc: 3,730

↳ notes: this was a collab with @tsukimefuku over what began as a silly (sad -- very sad) head canon. major credit and props to her, because without her this wouldn't exist! i had a lovely time writing this with you, and i hope we can do it again in the future!

Nanami remembered his mother’s hands, dirt under her fingernails, patient as the earth. Her garden was her temple; she greeted each flower by name, whispered as though they were children needing to be calmed. Nanami, young and fresh-eyed, watched her closely. A solemn boy with hands too small to grasp his mother’s tools, was her loyal shadow. His duty was the simple work – pulling weeds, patting down the dark soil, setting down the watering can at her nod. And when the sun hung high and the garden wore its colors proudly, his mother would offer him a single flower. "One for yourself," she’d say with a wide smile, tucking a loose curl behind her ear beneath the shrouded brim of a drooping sunhat. She’d let him choose – the reddest rose, the brightest marigold, whatever his young eyes fancied. He would carry it like a treasure back to his room, setting it with great care in a glass half-filled with water. One for him, one to keep. For a day or two, the bloom would brighten his room. He would admire it with the quiet devotion of a soul older than his had any right to be. But soon, its edges would curl, its stem would bend, and by the week’s end, it was a crumpled shadow of itself. He watched this with an unspoken sadness, something about it hurt in a way he didn’t quite understand. After a while, he stopped picking the flowers, even when his mother offered. He wanted them to stay as he saw them – in full bloom, untouched. “Why not take one?” she’d ask, her voice as gentle as the soil beneath her hands. But he’d shake his head, glancing out at the garden as though trying to memorize it all in a single look. “They’re prettier here,” he’d murmur, his voice almost too quiet to hear. And his mother would smile, ruffling soft blonde hair with those same earthy hands with a mothers pride; a lesson imparted that sometimes the things you love should be left alone, because love, in its purest form of brilliant colors and sunny smiles and dirty hands, is not about possession, but appreciation. 

******* ***

Nanami wasn’t one for friendships, nor for the loud, messy camaraderie of his classmates. He was the quiet observer, the one whose presence was easy to overlook until you needed a clear answer or a steady hand. Haibara Yu, on the other hand, was the kind of boy who made himself known in every room – friendly, loud, with an irrepressible grin and the easy charm that pulled everyone into his orbit. Haibara was the type who could wander into a stranger’s conversation and be welcomed before he’d even said his name. He would find beauty in the ordinary – a bent blade of grass, an overripe pear, fallen blossoms trodden underfoot – and he gave freely, tossing these pieces of his joy like candy. And somehow, this boy, more golden-retriever than man, became his best friend. During the brief weeks of cherry blossom season, petals blanketed the schoolyard, caught in the breeze, drifting like snow. Haibara would gather them by the handful, tossing them to anyone nearby enough to receive them; like they were something precious, and not just seasonal tree-litter. Nanami found himself on the receiving end of Haibara’s antics more often than not. One particular afternoon, Nanami was deep in a book, crouched against the wall beneath the shade of a tree, when he felt a tug at his collar. Haibara tucked a blossom behind his ear. “Perfect,” he announced, stepping back with a look of proud mischief. “Gotta add a little color to your life, Nanami! Look how pretty!” Nanami had grumbled, brushing the petal from his hair, but Haibara’s smile was contagious. Against his will, he found himself smiling, too, at the absurdity of it all. And despite his protests, he let Haibara continue – tucking flowers into his hair, hiding them in his hood, filling his pockets with petals until they spilled onto the floor. He would humor him, because he knew how deeply Haibara loved every moment of living, and how little he asked in return.

And then, the worst outcome to what should've been just a regular Tuesday happened.

There were no flowers in there. That was the first thought that seeped its way into Nanami's mind as he gazed down at Haibara's covered up body in the morgue, bloodshot eyes prickling with the pain from the day prior. No flowers, only the blossoming petals of coagulated blood that had stained the thin fabric separating what was once someone bigger than life and the harsh reality of their permanent absence.

The stark contrast between the shiny, cold, hard steel over every surface in that room left no space for the green, the pink, the yellow, the resplendent warmth of life that was alien to this mortuary monolith of death. And then, just as grief had dug its teeth around his chest, Nanami came to realize what could only be considered as some sort of self-inflicted torture.

I never gave him any flowers.

The cherry blossoms Haibara had fashioned in his hair, his clothes, all around him on that one sweet, sunny day – it had all stayed with Nanami, the memory of a beautiful moment shared with his closest person now tarnished by the weight of this painful realization. 

Was this it? Did Nanami fail his best friend so spectacularly that the first flowers he'd ever give to Haibara, someone who flourished in everyone's life, would be at his funeral? 

Was this the future reserved for the likes of him and Haibara? The beauty and tenderness of petals only reserved for when it was too little, too late?

It was only after Haibara was killed, a mission so routine that all were left reeling, that the memories stung, sharp as thorns. Sometimes, on nights thick with silence that should’ve been filled with crinkling snack bags and loud laughter well past quiet hours, Nanami would find a blossom pressed between the pages of a book Haibara had borrowed. A reminder, pink as a bleeding bruise, pinned within Nanami’s careful pages. A beautiful life, snipped with violent sheers from the garden – a blossom he’d only started to fully appreciate as its edges were already curdled with decay.

******* ***

There was a dim, unchanging silence in Nanami’s life after Haibara’s death – a grayness that blanketed every hour, every inch of his thoughts; what was a garden without a sun to feed it? It was easier to let himself drift, as though by keeping his mind empty, he might somehow avoid feeling anything at all. And in that space, Nanami found a kind of grim peace. Silence, to him, was a balm. But Gojo Satoru wouldn’t let him have it. Gojo was all brightness and noise, a sharp, irrepressible force that never leashed itself to restraint. He would show up unannounced, talk too much and too loudly, filling Nanami’s presence with his voice. And if Gojo noticed Nanami’s lack of response, he gave no indication – because Gojo Satoru was not something so trivial as the sun, he was a supernova, too brilliant to look upon. On a late afternoon, Nanami retreated to the yard – a place he’d once found calm – when Gojo appeared, holding a bundle of cherry blossoms. He approached with that signature grin, holding the flowers out as though they were some grand token of kindness, something Nanami should be grateful for. “Spring,” Gojo announced, his tone far too cheery, as though the world had every reason to celebrate. “Pretty, right?” Nanami stared at the flowers, his expression blank. The blooms looked too pink, too delicate, too flowery, too perfect. A perfect mockery of what they once meant. He took one sharp breath, feeling the tightness in his chest harden to something cold.

“Take them,” Gojo insisted, practically shoving the blossoms into Nanami’s hand. He didn’t so much as glance down. Instead, he let his hand fall, releasing the flowers without a word. They drifted to the ground, the petals scattering in a small, meaningless heap. Nanami looked away, his gaze fixed somewhere over Gojo’s shoulder, anywhere but at the person who was trying, too hard and without reason, to intrude on his grief.

“Not in the mood. Got it!” Gojo grinned. But Nanami only turned on his heel, walking away without so much as a nod. If Gojo wanted a reaction, he’d get none from him. He felt a grim satisfaction at his refusal, a confirmation that he could still draw a line when he existed in straight lines and statistics and rationality and ratios. Gojo’s flowers, now scattered and forgotten, lay where he had dropped them, as if they’d never held any meaning at all. Because there was no room for flowers in Nanami Kento’s life. They were too fragile, their supple flesh bruised too easily by the fingers of the cruel or the careless. It mattered not if he left the flower to grow in the garden, because for all the care and appreciation he could show it, it would die.

They always did.

******* ***

Nanami Kento grew up, and became a man of small routines and quiet convictions. He was disciplined and solitary, spending his days in a precise pattern of obligations: work, study, sleep, and repeat. He ate alone, walked the same routes, and carried a silence that made most people feel comfortable leaving him well enough alone. Each Monday, he went to the florist down the street from his apartment. It was a small, unremarkable shop, the kind you might pass without a second thought with sun-stained and yellowed windows and old cracked tile. Inside, the flowers were modest – no grand arrangements, no bouquets meant to wow. But every week, Nanami would stand there, studying each bunch with the seriousness he usually reserved for work. As cyclical and predictable as his mundane habits, the flowers were a commitment, something to return to at the end of each day, a small reminder that he had at least one reason to make it home. A cautionary measure of sorts, in case he faltered in his unyielding resolution to keep at his ordinary routine with his ordinary, reliable little comforts. 

They required almost nothing of him – just a fresh glass of water each morning and a moment to discard the wilting petals when they’d had their time. In return, they filled a small corner of his apartment with something bright and alive. A much needed reminder in his line of work. Once, an old colleague had asked him why he didn’t get a pet. “Seems like you could use the company,” they’d said offhand. But he had only shaken his head. A pet would require too much. They grew attached, they needed more than just water and sun – they required presence, a resource Nanami could not afford to offer, not to anyone or anything. If he died, which he viewed as inevitable, it would be left alone, a burden passed along to someone else. No, Nanami couldn't. He wouldn't.

Flowers were different. Their impermanence suited him. They were not expecting a tomorrow, and in that way, they were a comfort he could manage. Aware of his position as a jujutsu sorcerer, clearly to a fault, he'd rather not impose his absence onto another living being, and treat himself like something just as ephemeral as the petals he'd let wither every week in that quiet, little corner of his life. The flowers were not from anyone, not a gift, not a gesture of pity. They were something he gave himself, a small reminder that, perhaps, he deserved to see beauty in his own life, too. They were a nod to survival, to making it through each Monday, then Tuesday, and on and on. He’d place them in the same glass vase, set them on the same narrow ledge near his kitchen window, and allow himself a brief moment to admire the color they brought to the room. And when he returned each evening, the sight of them gave him a small, steady reason to stop, to take a breath, to continue forward. Because as much as he liked to think he was untouched by the world around him, he knew better than to believe he was anything more than mortal. And mortality, as it did for all things, would catch up with him. Nanami honed his life to a blade, sharp and solitary. He worked until the ache in his bones became as familiar as his breath, until each day bled into the next in a march toward the inevitable conclusion he would not name.

******* ***

Mahito’s touch was fire and rot. A thousand memories converged: his mother’s garden, flowers he dared not pick; Haibara’s petals, scattered across his shoulders; Gojo’s blossoms, unappreciated then, but stinging now with the ache of regret left trampled in the dirt. In the blackened periphery of his vision, those flowers now floated, eerie, fragile momentos against the creeping dark in his eyes – or eye, he thinks he has only one now. They reached out in a sea of pale blooms to guide him, open arms to welcome him home. Haibara stood just ahead, haloed in light, and Nanami couldn’t even begin to think that strange. He knew he would be there. The boys smile was as steady as it was in life, unbroken, as though death had granted him nothing but peace. He felt the ache of it most sharply, shuddering through his bloody and broken body. His old friends face like springtime, unspoiled and untouched by the brutal, shrieking world they’d been born into. He need only step forward, to sink, to fall – the cold hand caressing between his shoulder blades would shepherd him to death. But footsteps came echoing down linoleum, pulling him back as he teetered on the razors edge. Yuji. Peach-pink, a small brightness against his vision that grows darker with every cold breath. A flower himself, hopeful and stubborn, rising from the barren soil of their world. His face was desperate, broken in the way his name cracked and fell hollow from his lips with trembling hands that wilted limp to his sides. Nanami’s heart twisted; he’d known this moment would come, that the end had been creeping up behind him all this time. He feared Yuji’s grief, what it could become and what it could do, the way this scene would imprint itself deep in the boy’s memory, sinking roots that might never let go. But in Yuji’s gaze, even beneath flat horror and despair, he saw it – the strength he’d searched for his whole life, something soft and resilient. Yuji was as fragile and as enduring as a wildflower, something untouched and tenacious, able to withstand the bitterest of winds and the worst of natures cruelty. Nanami saw it clearly: Yuji would grow, rise from ruin, bright and alive. He would persist. The edges of his world blurred, discordant shapes curling in the melting pot of his eye, and with a last, soft breath and his best attempt at a smile, Nanami gave what faith he had left. “You’ve got it from here.”

******* ***

The quietude solemnly prevailed over the debris and decay of Shinjuku, and for a fleeting moment, Gojo thought of the irony, how come such chaos left in its wake this indelible absence of sound? No birds chirped in the morning, nor any other animals dared to venture through the battle-scarred surroundings, no man's land for those who insisted on staying behind to fight the King of Curses. 

The silence that laid there laid bare in mourning for the losses.

Gojo gazed out the window as the gray sun set behind a curtain of gray clouds cast over the gray skyline, torn-down buildings scattered all over the gray terrain and pillaged wreckage. The air itself weaved flecks of soot and inhospitality, and it had been days since he saw a murmur of life dredging its way through the barren landscape — a small humming bird, that fleetingly passed its way outside their makeshift bunker before disappearing just as fast as it had come.

In this prevalent, overwhelming absence of green, the best he could haphazardly improvise was poaching a plastic flower from one of the many florals centerpieces on sale in an abandoned, ransacked store around the area. That, and a single incense, with a simple, small, black square incense holder.

Over the windowsill, the sorcerer placed one single faux white rose, the edges of its petals frail and frazzled under dust blemishes. Beside it, Gojo positioned the holder with a simple byakudan incense propped up by the holder's snug. It stood proudly, even if ideally, Gojo would've preferred to spare the right amount of incenses, time, effort, and flowers to hold a proper otsuya in honor of his fallen friend. The incense's smoke snaked and swirled in the air in a lonely stream, and just as Gojo himself, the solitude of the moment he held away from his students and colleagues ensured him once more.

We all die alone. Just like Nanami did.

Joining both his hands in front of his chest in a prayer, Gojo surrendered his six eyes to the quiet, closing his eyelids, regarding the silence for a moment with careful consideration, a small gesture of affection he spared for those he truly cared about. He wondered, caught up in thoughts, if he should indeed chant a sutra in the ratio sorcerer's honor, and as a trick of his imagination bringing forth the amalgam of impressions and memories ingrained in his mind, Gojo could hear the faint ghost of Nanami's voice. He could hear in the measured, precise beats of his usual nonchalant tone how unnecessary that was, and that Gojo, as the strongest, should waste no precious time in other endeavors that weren't dedicated to slay the evil which had brought destruction over Japan. And he heard, just as faintly, that same voice recede quietly in empathetic acceptance of his irrational need to honor a departed colleague.

For all his methodical regard over human matters, Nanami was inexorably kind at heart, clearly to a fault.

Clearly to death. 

"Gojo sensei?" a minute whisper cut through the somber silence, and Gojo turned around to look at the two who stepped into his solitary funeral rite. Yuji and Ino stood in the doorway, gazing at him and then at the makeshift, simple altar he had concocted with those few looted items. Upon realizing what Gojo was probably doing, Yuji apologized, and explained, "we were looking for you. We didn't mean to intrude."

"It's alright," Gojo replied, his usual smile forming over his face as a force of habit for his students’ benefit.

Ino regarded the scene in front of him attentively, remembering that earlier, on that very same day, Gojo had finally learned about Nanami's death during the Shibuya incident. Thoughtfully, he inquired, "is this an otsuya for Nanami?"

Gojo was slightly surprised, but not from the keen observation skills of Ino – after all, he was his mentee, Nanami's mentee. Gojo just didn't have in mind he'd find himself in this very scenario, even in all likelihood of that happening. 

"Yes, yes it is," he conceded.

"I'd like to pay my respects too," Yuji stated, stepping forward towards his teacher, "if that would be okay."

"Me too," Ino followed, approaching them both with measured steps. He briefly noticed the unkempt state of the rose Gojo had put as an offering on the windowsill, and it crossed his mind with a stinging amusement how much Nanami would be equal parts offended and grateful for this thoughtful gesture done in such a haphazard manner, even if he probably would only voice the former. Funerals, after all, were impractical. They served as vehicles of grief for the living, not the dead who had long since been shepherded along past whichever mortal veil awaited them. And in this desolate land of ruin and war, where grief hung heavy and pressed bowed heads all the lower, there was still beauty to be found in this small act of rebellion against death. A kind of garden bloomed in that space – not one of petals or green things, but the connections left behind, roots that dug deep, holding fast even in barren soil. A garden of the heart, built on friendship, quiet appreciation, and the stubborn will to live and remember. 

And in that sacred silence, Nanami would have clapped Ino on the back in the way he never did in life, a chuckle in his throat as he chided him with a quiet, “real men cry, Ino.” Ino’s jaw trembled, his hands tight at his sides, a breath held in with solemn determination not to let tears fall. Nanami might have approved, or perhaps he’d have nudged him closer to grief with a final, gentle insistence: some burdens were meant to be shared.

Yuji stood apart, eyes wide and carrying grief in the fragile way of youth. Nanami would watch with a quiet ache, recognizing that herculean weight Yuji bore, a burden he’d taken on willingly but never asked for. In Yuji, Nanami saw an echo of his younger self – a boy carrying the burdens meant for a man, each step of the path cobbled by the failure of the adults around him. Perhaps, in another life, he might have been there to guide him further, to offer the steady strength of a fathers hand. But here, from this distance, he could only hope that Yuji knew: he had done enough.

At Gojo’s side, Nanami would have stood without a word, a silent presence where no more needed to be said. He’d never dared it in life, never felt it his right to stand beside a man who seemed less human than some cosmic force. But here, in death, he allowed himself to be steady and still, a quiet echo of companionship he never afforded himself. And as Gojo’s eyes slid sideways, a faint, knowing flicker, Nanami wondered if he knew.

In the end, Nanami had left little behind, yet these three, brighter than any flower, were a bouquet of all he’d valued. An oasis, growing fast even in the shadowed, broken heart of Shinjuku. The smoke drifted higher, and somewhere beyond it all, Nanami stood watch, as those three blossoms remained forever in full bloom.

[iamnotoriginalphil]

All Hers (Leonora Lesso x Reader)

Synopsis: You garner some unwanted attention

Words: 2k

Warnings: possessiveness

You hated the staff mixers Dovey had insisted on since the schools had united. You had nothing to say to the members of staff in your own school, let alone the do gooders from the other side. There was only so much insipidly vapid talk you could take before you wanted to scream. Or explode. Or cause someone else to explode. That might be a good diversion.

Your eyes swept over the room as you brought your goblet of wine to your lips. Only another half hour and then you could make your excuses and leave. You could manage half an hour lurking in your shadowy corner out of the way. It didn’t have to be torture.

Across the room Lesso was doing the same. Dovey, at her elbow, was chattering away with Anemone while her firm hand on Lesso’s shoulder kept her in place. Clearly you weren’t the only one looking to escape.

It made you smile, until her eyes snapped to you. You felt your cheeks heat under gaze. Despite working in the same school together for years, you’d never grown used to the presence of the Dean. Breathtakingly beautiful and endlessly evil, you’d been enamoured with her since your first meeting. You’d tried your best to keep that secret but sometimes you thought she might know. The curve of a smile, the looks, sometimes the brush of fingers across the back of your hand. If she was toying with you, she was doing it well.

Her gaze swept over your form and you had to fight back against the urge to cover your body. It’s not as if you didn’t wear something similar every day. Showing so much skin was hardly unusual on your side of the bridge but there was something about her that made it feel like it was indecent. Perhaps it was the way her eyes seemed to linger.

She raised her glass of amber liquid to you before turning her attention back to whatever it was Dovey was saying. Her lips curled up and her nose wrinkled. You hid your smile in your goblet, not wanting anyone to see.

“I’m glad to see there’s some amusement here.”

You startled, turning towards the voice that had interrupted your thoughts. Standing just a half step too close, one of the princes from the other school was smiling down on you, bright white teeth catching the light from the chandelier. Dark hair curled just in front of piercing blue eyes and you had to fight against the impulse to step back. Not that you had anywhere to step to. There was nothing but a wall behind your back.

“Dovey seems to be enjoying yourself,” you said, nodding towards the clustered group but not quite able to bring yourself to look back over. The last thing you wanted was to find yourself staring at Lesso while under observation.

“I think that’s just Clarissa’s nature,” he replied, “do you need a refill?”

He gestured to take your goblet but you clutched it closer to your chest. You noticed the way his eyes dipped, getting stuck for a moment before offering you another smile. Your eyes darted away from him, wondering if you could slip past him. Manley wasn’t too far away. Surely you could converse with him for a few minutes until this prince left you alone.

“You’re always alone at these things,” he said, capturing your attention again, “I’ve always wondered why.”

“Not really my thing,” you replied, hoping he’d get the message.

“No, nor mine,” he said, that bright smile still in place, “perhaps we could be alone together from now on?”

You had to stop yourself from physically reacting to the suggestion. This prince was not picking up on the cues you were leaving him, and you knew you’d be in serious trouble if you hexed him. You looked away again.

Manley was drifting away from you, your last chance of rescue leaving. You swallowed past the rising annoyance, just wanting to be left alone.

“If we’re together then we can’t be alone,” you eventually said in response.

“I suppose you’re right,” he chuckled, “so perhaps we can just be together then.”

“If you’ve been watching me then you know that isn’t my preference,” you replied.

“I was hoping you’d make an exception for me.”

You were growing tired of him flashing that handsome smile at you. It was making your insides squirm and not in the nice way, but in the way that led to you punching him in the face. A black eye would really bring out those baby blues.

“Hello, pet.”

A warm arm wrapped around your waist, a soft body pressing to your side. You looked up into startling eyes, lips falling open. Fingers pinched your hip, making you jump. The curve of her lips was addicting, even if it was at your expense.

“Lady Lesso, I-“ you began.

“No need to be so formal, pet. After all, we’re amongst friends.” Her nose wrinkled on the final word and you had to bite back a laugh.

She drew you more firmly against her side, cane tipping your chin up as she stared down at you. Her eyes flickered down to your lips then back up, something predatory entering her gaze.

“Who’s this?” she asked, turning to look at the prince.

He offered a short bow but something in his face had changed. Where he’d been trying for charming and affable with you, now he looked a touch ill. The smile was gone, as was the twinkle in his eye. His eyes kept darting down to the hand on your hip and back up, almost embarrassed at the sight.

“No one important,” you replied, enjoying the way he flinched.

“Then why is it talking to you?” she asked, her gaze darkening.

“No clue,” you replied, “he never said.”

He began to stutter out a response before she held up her hand, silencing him. She turned to look down at you, eyes sweeping over you again before she lent forward. A kiss bestowed on you shouldn’t have had your knees trembling like you were an Ever student, but you couldn’t help the reaction you had to her. It was surprisingly soft, but intense, as if she was holding herself back from devouring you then and there. You sighed into her mouth, wishing she would devour you.

“Come, pet,” she said when she drew back, eyes dark but voice darker, “it’s time for us to leave.”

“Of course.”

You didn’t offer a backwards glance at the stunned prince as she guided you out of the room with her hand still firmly on your hip. There was no question in you about where you were going, knowing you were wound so tightly around her little finger you’d go anywhere she wanted. Even if that was straight into hell.

Her office was not where you were expecting her to take you. She threw you through the door, slamming it behind her. Your eyes followed her movement as she rounded the desk, taking a seat behind it. Legs spread, one hand resting on the head of her cane, the other holding her chin as her eyes swept over your body, you shivered. You bit down on your lower lip, watching her eyes darken, feeling a thrill under her gaze.

“Come here, pet,” she said.

“What?”

“Come. Here.”

You weren’t about to argue, not when there was a dangerous note in her voice. On light feet you made your way over to her. Her hand snapped out, pulling you onto her lap with a strong tug. You squeaked, landing on her parted thighs, hands on her shoulders. She lent forward, resting the cane against her desk, body brushing against yours again, still making you breathless. Her arm rested around your waist, her other hand landing on your thigh. Her touch was addictive. You hadn’t really known that until now.

“That prince,” she sneered, “he was interested in you.”

“I don’t know why,” you said, shaking your head.

“Clearly because he saw exactly how tempting you are,” she said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“You think I’m tempting?”

Her nose ran along your jawline and you stilled. This felt like a dream. It wouldn’t be the first you’d had like this. Her other hand began to shift up your leg.

“Entirely too tempting for your own good,” she murmured.

Her lips pressed to the soft spot behind your jaw, making your breath catch. Your fingers tightened on her shoulders and a small noise passed through parted lips. Her low chuckle filled the room and she drew back.

“Although now everyone will know you’re mine,” she hummed, “only I’m allowed to play with you. Isn’t that right, pet?”

“Yes,” you answered, too fast. Her eyes brightened and her lips curled up in a smile.

“And you’ve been so good waiting for me, haven’t you?” she asked, “all these years of watching but never touching. Yes, you’ve been very good for me.”

You tried to swallow, finding your mouth dry. It was like she knew, the way she looked at you. You couldn’t say anything as her lips found that same spot behind your jaw, tongue flicking out to taste your skin. You made a small keening noise, wanting more. You were sure you’d never have enough of her, even if she kept teasing you for eternity.

“Although, knowing how stupid those princes are, perhaps I need to make it clearer,” she murmured into your skin.

Lips pressing to your pulse point, you couldn’t help the way you gasped as she began to suck. Without your permission you fingers buried themselves in her wild mane of hair, holding her close, never wanting her to stop. Your head tipped back, wanting to give her as much access as possible, wanting her to show the world you belonged to her. She was all there was for you. She was all there ever would be.

“Well, don’t you look wonderful with my bruises on your skin,” she said when she finally drew back.

You felt breathless with want. No one had ever made your head spin like that, had ever made you question your sanity the way she was. The way she looked at you was intoxicating, like she’d never seen something she desired more. Your fingers still in her hair, you tugged her forward until your lips met.

Her kiss was less soft this time, more intense, and devouring seemed to be on the table. You whined into her mouth, kissing her with all the intensity you’d ever felt, every fantasy fuelling the way you pressed against her. She was making you dizzy, and she was making you tremble, and she was making you incredibly hot all you could think about was the need thrumming through your veins. A need only she could sate.

She kissed you like she’d been holding herself back for the last few years and finally she’d been given permission to have you. Not that she struck as someone who waited for permission. She usually took what she wanted.

You wanted her to take you.

“Anyone who tries to have you now will have me to deal with,” she growled when she finally pulled away.

“I’m all yours,” you said, “only yours.”

She kissed you again with all the ferocity you knew she had, making sure you knew exactly who owned you mind, body, and soul. You couldn’t complain. She’d always been the only one you wanted. The only one you’d ever want.

The next week at the staff mixer, the prince flushed when he saw the bruises on your neck and the arm around your waist.

[lunalillyhbhb]

Lea's home

Chapter 2 pt.1

Work was good. No, work was great. Sometimes Lea would work late and won't be home until after I left, and sometimes she would be at home. Looking at her work and go about her daily life was a treat, especially seeing her blouse shake ever so slightly due to her visible heartbeat. I imagine working in close quarters would make anyone lose their mind.

However, things wouldn't be as easy as it seems. I've observed that the past few days, Mrs. Nicole has been watching me closely every time I'm in the house. Does she suspect me of stealing or not like my work? Or worse, did she find out about Lea and I? Is this the reason behind why her visits have increased during the past 2 weeks?

This secret can never get out. There's too much at stake for both of us. I need to find out what/how much she knows, but how do I do so without arousing any suspicion?

Mrs. Nicole is a 49 year old woman, strong and beautiful. Her sleek black hip length hair and curvy body give her an air of superiority. She works out often, keeping up excellent appearances. With her sleek glasses on, her gaze pierces your soul. While normally this would've excited me, now anxiety takes over. I enjoy Mrs. Nicole's visits, as she has a prominent neck vein that pulsates with such vigor that her chain pendent pulsates off her neck. And when she's busy bent over her documents, you can ever so slightly see the base of her large breasts pulsate. Truly a beautiful treat to the eyes.

She is Lea's aunt, and her mother's work associate. Due to her line of work, she frequents Lea's house and sometimes stays overnight. As a maid I'm privy to the house's schedule, and know when her room is booked for a clean up, and those days happen to be when she stays over.

Looking over the schedule, I see that she will be staying overnight this night, and worry fills me.

I don't know what she's thinking. I don't know what she has planned for me. And somehow, that turns me on.

What am I thinking, this could very well ruin my reputation and get me kicked out of this dream job. Whatever she throws at me, I have to handle it with confidence.

Night rolls around. It seems today is a celebration of sorts, as the head maid asked me to roll out their finest wine and serve it to the family. I do as I am told, and bring out their favourite bottle and pour it for the few members who are present there. I slowly make my way around the table and finally reach Mrs. Nicole. She has been watching me this entire time, her fox eyes glistening over her sleek glasses. I do my best to look anywhere else but at her or her breasts, which are clearly pulsing softly with her heartbeat which I'm sure is amazing and loud and-

"Wine, Mrs. Nicole?" I ask as calmly as I can. She subtly nods. I feel her eyes shift over me and I bend down slightly to pour over her shoulder, noticing with dismay how my nervousness is given away by my heartbeat, clearly trying to push its way out and shaking my breast. I quickly pour her wine and scurry away, giving an excuse of having to clean someone's room as I had over the bottle of wine to another maid.

I walk quickly to the nearest bathroom and sit down, trying my best to calm my heartbeat, but it seems impossible. My nervousness, now mixed with lust is taken control of my heart, and its beating quite clearly seen under my uniform refuses to quiet down.

I meander around the house, doing various chores until dinner is over, and as I get ready to leave, one of the maids informs me that Mrs. Nicole has called for me for room servicing.

I know the room has already been tidied up awaiting her arrival, in fact I was the one who did it. Did I do a bad job, did I forget something behind? Or...is this it, she's finally going to confront me?

I make myself presentable and my heartbeat picks up once again, pulsating through my fabric. Seems like tonight, my cardiac muscles won't be getting any rest.

[softlilacmoonlight]

How Does a Thing Like that Get Started? Pt. 2 Reader x ?

Recap for the Readers:

  Does the Prefect remember dropping the tart? No. Does she remember the silence that fell throughout the kitchen when the glass shattered and slid under the kitchen door, red covering the edges? No. Does she remember the glass cutting her hand and mixing with the tart as she sprinted down the twisting and turning hallways in the huge dormitory? No. Neither does she remember the shouts of her friends as they chased her through the halls. The garden is only but a blur in her memory, unimportant when compared to her emotions. Her skirt flies behind her as her hair falls out of its updo, trailing wisps of silky hair behind her. Nor does she remember running into the forest to escape her friends. No, all the Prefect can remember from the horrendous and earth-shattering catastrophe was the feeling that her heart was going to beat out of her chest and the feeling of tears as they blurred her vision and streaked her simple mascara down her cheeks and onto her dress. 

       She never saw Riddle's face, frozen in shock and horror. She never saw her friends' abject terror at being unable to find the poor girl in the forest. She will never know that everyone began to search for her, through the dark, the cold, and the wetness, they braved their way for her. No, all she remembers is that horrible feeling of the world collapsing in on her, and in her confusion, she failed to see the small yet steep drop-off in front of her. Falling head first, she falls and dreams of never having met Riddle Rosehearts as her head hits the hard stone and blackness consumes her limp body. 

On to the story...

        Yes, dreams are delightful yet terrible things. They cause the highest highs and the lowest lows, along with ambition and heartache. One person's dream can be another's nightmare, and oh how simply the tower of cards can collapse in on itself. A few words but the colossal impact has sent this little group into a frenzy. One red-haired boy stands alone in the kitchen, silently counting the shards of glass and observing the destroyed tart. Four boys - orange, green, blue, and another redhead - all frantically search the dark forest for their lost companion. One girl lies at the bottom of a little drop-off, injured and unaware of any of the chaos surrounding her. In the midst of the hysteria, no one notices the pair of extra eyes peering from in the distance. 

        Swiftly, the enigma manages to find the injured Prefect. Gently, he picks her up and starts the trek home, keeping her tight in his arms. Ah yes, dreaming hearts are everywhere you see. The person next to you or even miles away, but everyone has a heart. Sometimes, dreaming hearts can overlook even their fellow companions. The question is... who will win the Prefect's heart?

Hours later...

As our figure approaches his home, the doors to the dorm swing open wide. Figures come rushing out, friends of both him and the Prefect. Carefully, they bring her inside their dorm, taking her to her own secluded room. Pillows are brought, blankets are found, and the bed is made perfect before she is placed in it. The room gets cleaned to perfection, while the Prefect is tended to and the rain pours down relentlessly into the inky night. 

        When all was said and done, chairs were pulled up to the bedside to keep the unaware guest company. Friends were sent messages regarding her safety, and the chaos of the evening slowly started to die down for many of the unusual inhabitants of Night Raven College. For some, however, the night was barely beginning as four soaked boys returned to their dorm. Walking by, the roses looked fake, the lawn too manicured, and they wondered if they truly found peace inside of the walls of Heartslabyul dorm. 

        Slowly, the evening melts into dawn. Dawn melts into day and day into night. Three days pass before there are signs of the Prefect stirring in her sleep. Three days for one red-haired boy to rethink everything he had believed and overanalyze his actions. In those three days, the four friends went to sleep at Ramshackle to keep Grim his own company and to space themselves from the heartless boy who had so brashly ignited the dreams of their friend. 

        Five days passed when finally the Prefect woke up. She was in a place she had never seen, but a face she'd only caught glimpses of sitting in the chair by her bedside.  

        "Ah, Prefect, you're awake. How do you feel? Do you need anything specific that you can think of?" asked the voice, genuine and concerned. 

        Shyly and still very ill, the Prefect only had this to say, "Some water would be nice... thank you, your highness."

        "Please dear Prefect, call me Malleus." states the raven-haired male with horns. 

        Indeed love works in odd ways. People love those who don't love them and don't see the ones who are hopeless for them like they are for another. How does a thing like that get started? Many ask that question, but in the end, all many say is love makes you blind. Blind to the imperfections and the heartaches. One man's loss can always result in another man's gain. So tell me, dear readers, for this narrator would very much like to know, shall the second hopeless romantic Malleus Draconia win the Prefect's heart, or shall the stubborn Riddle Rosehearts find redemption? For the path of love is never straight. 

Hey everyone, thanks for reading, and special thanks to @lolmiau0101 on Tumblr for the request!

[wcshedup]

@madefate asked: Blitz gently skates the tips of his claws around the base of Barbie's horns, carefully finding the spots where she knows she carries her tension - the same way he does, a small, merciful mirror they still share. When he can take her weight against him he does, pulling her in, leaning down so that when he hums (their mother always sang it better, but they can keep it alive like this) she can feel it in his chest.

barbie had so many preconceived notions and spiraling ruminations about how their reunion might go. it had never gone well before, and she could face up to the fact that she MIGHT shoulder most of that blame -- it would be different this time ! she was clean now. she had a steady job that didn't require any unsavory characters or close brushes with the vices she'd fought so hard to kick. that life felt so far away now, like it happened to someone else and barbie was simply an observer sat in a plush theatre seat, filled with compassion but growing exhausted with seeing the main character choke on her own vomit again.

guilt eats at her now that her feet are rooted in reality once more. the imp vaguely recalls the last scene involving blitzø in that film of her life -- fizz had signed those paper so easily, she'd felt, too easily, in fact. but blitzø would come and set it all right, he would RESCUE her from this horrible cesspit of losers and 'doctors' who didn't seem to understand that she was in PAIN -- she'd told them so, tears of rage cascading down her cheeks, but they had given that sensation another name. withdrawal.

and when she'd called blitzø she felt SURE he would understand -- but when her brother would not sign the release, barbie's nervous jittering had turned into an all-out fit of rage; fists flying and legs kicking with intent to maim as the staff had fought to restrain her. ( " you said ! you said i could CALL you when i NEEDED you ! " ) and she realizes now that the sensation of betrayal had been misplaced, had been nothing more than a fabrication of her addiction. feet braced on either side of the doorway as they tried to force her back into the room, barbie had screamed it loud enough for even the heavens to hear her rage. ( " I'll NEVER forgive you for this, blitzo ! NEVER ! " )

how could he EVER forgive her ?

quite easily, it seemed.

there are no tense silences or awkward shuffles. being together again is like letting go of a breath barbie didn't know she'd been holding. meeting his employees and his daughter ? THAT had thrown her for a bit of loop at first, but barbie had warmed to the idea by the time the coffee was ready. everything went so. . . perfectly.

it didn't seem real.

of course it makes sense that she'd find a way to RUIN it at the finish line. they'd started so strong, uncorking a bottle of something strong and cheap between the pair of them at blitzø's apartment that night, trying and failing to smother their drunken laughter from disturbing the hellhound occupying the bedroom just a few feet away. the sort of giddiness that makes barbie reach out to shake his shoulder for stability, her core ACHING as she laughs like it's the first time in a long time. it is. she missed him.

but the turn in the conversation had come at the bottom of her third glass of wine, where barbie had found the grief long since mistaken for simple rage lying in wait. sometimes i wish i had. . . been with her. it feels like a mistake to speak out loud, barbie blames it on the lowering of her inhibitions -- she turns to shield her tears in the wake of her confession from blitzø, that familiar ache blossoming behind her sternum and it's her first instinct to shield the emotional wound from the proverbial salt that might fly. it had been so long since vulnerability had been rewarded with anything but the twist of a knife. " satan, I'm so SORRY, I'm just -- "

FUCKING EVERYTHING UP

" just give me a second -- " barbie can still reclaim the rapidly suffering vibe of the room, she knows, if she puts her mind to it -- pushes down the agony and steers the conversation back towards the lighthearted. but JUST as she opens her mouth to remind blitzø about the time they managed to switch places for a whole three days -- she catches sight of his expression.

there's no distaste for her tears, or rolling eyes that signal exhaustion with her emotional ineptitude -- barb uses her wrist to scrub at one bleary eye, the way blitzø opens his arms towards his sister might take her conscious mind aback, but her body knows exactly what to do. it's muscle memory to rush into his side, arms coming upward to cling to her brother's shoulders and bury her face there in turn. it's the first time barbie has felt SAFE in so long.

it's been even longer since she felt this loved.

" I'm so sorry, blitzø. "

[holmsister]

"Don't tell me he's still not sleeping."

Marcille shrugs sadly.

"He is so scared of missing the moment she wakes. I can't blame him too much--" she breaks into a big yawn, "last time she was with us it was for less than 24 hours. I understand. But i am certain it will take at least another day for her to wake, and I need a bath, so i'm giving up for today."

Kabru peeks behind her, in the room where he knows Laios is waiting by his sister's bedside.

Marcille smiles weakly.

"You're welcome to keep trying. He'd be happy to see you either way."

Marcille is right. Laios' tone is happy when he bids Kabru to enter.

Kabru went to procure a bottle of wine, some sort of sweet, aromatic thing they make here. Nothing too fancy.

Laios is turned towards Falin again when he enters, so he grabs a chair and moves it to Laios' side. He sits down, pours a glass for himself and one he passes to Laios, who receives it mechanically.

Laios is struggling to keep his eyes open, as if he's afraid Falin will open hers the moment he closes his.

Falin looks unchanged, laying on her back, peaceful, her short hair haloing her head. There's colour on her face and she is breathing quietly. There's no sign of distress or pain. She's just sleeping.

Marcille says she's recuperating, that after such a long death and a painful resurrection it's normal that she would need more time. She has even made some calculations. At least three days, she said, up to seven. She won't worry until it starts going into the double digits, she said.

She is *still* worrying, of course, still minutely feeding Falin mana through holding her hand even when her own mana is getting depleted, sleeping no more than a few hours in a row on a chair in this same room.

But she has also started to exit the room sometimes, take her meals with everyone else, if nothing else to give people updates.

Laios hasn't moved from that chair he's on except to go to the bathroom. It's kind of creepy, seeing him, usually so mobile and easily bored, sitting down with such focus and intent for hours on end - staring at Falin as if he could will her to wake up with his mind.

Kabru doesnt say anything. He observes Laios' face in profile. As happy and full of hope he looked during the feast, now he looks again like he did in the last few hours in the dungeon, uncertain, worried. And it's not his new kingdom that worries him.

None of this - the conquest of the dungeon, the crown of Melini - none of this will mean anything to him if Falin doesn't wake up.

Kabru turns to her again. Not a movement besides the quiet coming and going of her breath - not even the fluttering of eyes that indicates dreaming. Her resemblance to her brother is striking.

There are so many things to do, to decide, to organise, so many people to meet. But Falin sleeps, so Laios waits. Kabru meant to convince him to start moving, maybe, but now that he's here, his eyes going from one sibling to another, appreciating all the subtle ways in which their faces are identical and different, he finds it feels unfair to rip Laios away. In a very real way, none of them would be here without Laios, and Laios would not be here without Falin. They have earned this moment.

So instead he sips on his wine, thoughtful, and says, "Why don't you close your eyes for a moment, Laios? I'll wake you if there's movement."

Laios turns to him, slightly surprised. His eyes are heavy, dark. He did sip on the wine a little - Kabru was right that it would be to his taste.

"I, ah. I know I'm being- unreasonable."

"She's your sister." Kabru takes another sip, pondering what to say next. "And I think... you feel responsible for her fate as much as Marcille does."

"I am. Responsible for her fate." Laios' fingers tighten around the cup. "She... the last time... when we..."

Kabru looks at him. He's never heard Laios so broken. Like there's something heavy and scratchy in his throat that he cannot dislodge.

"I killed her. With my own hands." Ah. That's what that was.

Kabru grabs his hand and squeezes it.

"So you could resuscitate her."

"I killed her! My *sister*, Kabru! My baby sister- who- who does that. Who offers himself to do that, who-"

He lets go of Kabru's hand to cover his face, trying to take back some control. He slams back the rest of the wine.

"Who offers himself to do that? Someone who is willing to do whatever it takes," Kabru says measuredly.

"It will work, Laios," he adds.

Laios laughs, his nerves fraught. "You can't know that."

"I cannot, yeah. But I'm very good at lying."

Laios turns towards him, surprise in his face.

"It will work. She will wake up in a day or two," Kabru says, quietly confident. "She will be fine. She won't remember any of the horrible things that happened to her - that *were done* to her. She will only know you as the brother she loves and who loves her. And you are going to slowly forget, as well, as you watch her live a happy life, as you build a beautiful home for the two of you, how it was to be so desperate, so full of guilt. In the end, you will only remember the joy of having her back, and it will make everything worth it. There's nothing to worry about, so sleep for a little, ok? I'll stay here and warn you if something changes."

Laios' face has gone from surprise to something akin to relax, almost a smile, although always weighted down by his own exhaustion and worry.

"Are you sure?"

Kabru winks and grins. "One hundred percent."

Laios places the wine on the floor and pulls up the blanket that was just on his legs.

"Alright," he says.

He closes his eyes. He's so tired that Kabru hears his light snoozes not a few minutes after.

He turns to Falin again. No movement.

Sigh, he thinks. I should've brought a book.

how often do u think kabru visited laios while he was waiting for falin to wake up. with as many times as he emerged literally from a random bush to talk to laios before the feast i cant imagine him leaving him be during such a hard time, even if others were caring for him too, not when kabru finally, finally got to call him friend and ate 7 days worth of dragon meat for him thats an unbreakable bond . senshi remarks on his journal how laios basically collapsed as soon as she was up again bc he was barely eating or sleeping. do u think kabru ever brought him a nightcap to get him to bed bc he knows what thats like? kabru already knew he was sticking by his king by then, no matter what, so how many times a day did he come see him then?

[reallygroovyninja2]

Behind the Mask - 9388 words

The dim lights of the bar cast a subdued glow over its patrons, a mix of shadow and neon painting an almost ethereal atmosphere. Lexa, after a night of being the city's unseen guardian, had slipped into the bar for a moment of solitude, a brief escape from her double life. She shed her superhero persona like a second skin, now just another face in the crowd, seeking something in the clink of glasses and the low hum of conversations. 

Her gaze drifted across the room, landing on a solitary figure at the far end of the bar. A woman sat alone, her blonde hair catching the light in a way that made her seem both out of place and entirely at home in the dimly lit bar. There was something about her, a certain aura of quiet confidence mixed with an undertone of mystery, that drew Lexa in. 

Taking a deep breath, Lexa approached the bar, her steps measured, a part of her wondering why she felt compelled to meet this stranger. She slid onto the stool next to blonde, offering a small, tentative smile. "Is this seat taken?" she asked, her voice a gentle intrusion into the bubble of solitude around the other woman. 

The woman turned, her blue eyes meeting Lexa's green ones, a hint of surprise flickering across her features before a soft smile graced her lips. "It's all yours," she replied, her voice carrying a warmth that felt like an invitation. 

"I'm Lexa," she introduced herself, extending a hand. 

"Clarke," came the reply, her handshake firm yet welcoming. 

Lexa ordered a drink, her eyes not leaving Clarke. "You seem like you have a story," she ventured, her words threading the air between them with an unspoken curiosity. 

Clarke's smile deepened, a playful glint in her eyes. "Don't we all?" she quipped, her gaze holding Lexa's. "What brings you here tonight?" 

"Just escaping the chaos of the world for a bit," Lexa answered truthfully, though the full extent of that chaos was a secret she held close. "And you?" 

"I suppose I'm doing the same," Clarke said, her gaze drifting momentarily to the glass in front of her. "Sometimes, it's nice to just be another face in the crowd, you know?" 

Lexa nodded, feeling a strange sense of connection. Here they were, two strangers, each hiding their true selves from the world, yet in this moment, finding a semblance of understanding in each other's company. 

The hum of the bar faded into the background as Clarke and Lexa found comfort in the easy rhythm of their conversation. The clink of glasses and the occasional laughter from other patrons provided a soothing soundtrack to their small talk. 

"So, what do you do when you're not escaping to bars?" Lexa asked, swirling her drink casually, her eyes fixed on Clarke with genuine interest. 

Clarke chuckled lightly, the sound blending harmoniously with the ambient noise of the bar. "I dabble in art," she said, her expression brightening. "Painting, mostly. It's my own kind of chaos control. And you?" 

"I'm into fitness," Lexa replied, a hint of amusement in her tone. "It helps clear my mind. Keeps me... balanced, I guess." 

"Fitness, huh? That explains the toned arms," Clarke observed playfully, her eyes briefly flickering down to Lexa's arms before meeting her gaze again. 

Lexa laughed, a hint of pride in her smile. "What can I say? I like to stay active. It's a good stress reliever." 

"You know, for someone who's into fitness, you have a very calming presence," Clarke noted, her gaze lingering on Lexa's face. 

Lexa's smile deepened. "Thanks, Clarke. I find that keeping fit helps me maintain not just physical strength, but mental peace as well." 

Clarke nodded in understanding. "Art does the same for me. It's like stepping into a different world where I can shape everything to my liking. It's liberating." 

As they talked, Lexa couldn't help but notice the way Clarke's eyes lit up when she spoke about her passions, the way her laughter seemed to fill the space around them. There was an ease to their interaction, a natural ebb and flow that made the night feel less ordinary. 

Clarke, on her part, found herself drawn to Lexa's earnestness, the way she listened intently, her responses thoughtful and engaging. There was a warmth to Lexa that felt both intriguing and safe, a combination Clarke hadn't known she was looking for until now. 

The ambient light of the bar cast a soft glow over Clarke and Lexa as they sat side by side, their conversation meandering through the realms of the mundane and the subtly intriguing. Each was acutely aware of the delicate dance of words they were engaged in, trying to be genuine yet careful not to reveal too much. 

"So, Clarke, what's your idea of a perfect day?" Lexa asked casually, sipping her drink, her eyes curious. 

Clarke pondered for a moment, a playful smile tugging at her lips. "I guess it would start with some quiet time, maybe a bit of sketching or painting. Then, something exciting in the afternoon, something that gets my adrenaline going. How about you?" 

Lexa's response was thoughtful. "I'd start with a morning run, clear my head. Then spend the day outdoors, maybe hiking or climbing. I like challenges." She paused, a hint of a smile. "And the evening? Probably something low-key, like this." 

Their conversation drifted to hobbies, each carefully selecting which truths to share. Clarke spoke of her love for art, omitting the darker inspirations behind her work. Lexa talked about her physical activities, leaving out the part where they served as training for her heroic endeavors. 

"Do you like your job?" Lexa ventured, her tone nonchalant. 

"It's... complicated," Clarke admitted, her gaze flickering. "I like the creativity it allows, the freedom. But sometimes it feels like I'm on the wrong side of things." Her words were laced with truth, yet they masked the full extent of her role as a villain. 

"I get that," Lexa nodded, understanding more than she could say. "My job can be demanding too. It's about helping people, making tough decisions. Sometimes it's rewarding, other times..." She trailed off, her expression thoughtful. 

As they spoke, there was an unspoken acknowledgment of the secrets they were not sharing. Yet, in their carefully chosen words, there was an underlying honesty that resonated with both of them. 

The conversation was a delicate balance of revealing and concealing, a dance of truths and omissions. They laughed, shared anecdotes, and enjoyed the moment, all while the unspoken question of who they really were hung in the air, adding an electrifying undercurrent to their interaction. 

As the night waned and the bar's ambiance dimmed to a quiet hush, Lexa found herself caught in a dilemma. The time spent with Clarke had created an unexpected bond, one that she wasn't ready to sever just yet. The thought of walking away now, leaving behind this connection they had forged, filled her with a reluctance she hadn't anticipated. 

She stole a glance at Clarke, who was finishing her drink, the soft lighting accentuating her thoughtful expression. Lexa's heart raced with a mixture of nervousness and excitement. Taking a deep breath, she mustered the courage to extend the night. 

"Clarke," Lexa began, her voice slightly hesitant. "I've really enjoyed tonight. It's been... more than I expected." She paused, searching Clarke's face for any sign of mutual sentiment. 

Clarke turned to her, a soft smile playing on her lips, her eyes reflecting a warmth that gave Lexa hope. "I can honestly say the same, Lexa. Tonight has been a pleasant surprise." 

Encouraged by Clarke's response, Lexa took a leap of faith. "Would you... would you like to come home with me?" she asked, her voice a blend of hope and vulnerability. "We could continue our conversation, or just enjoy the quiet. No expectations." 

The invitation hung in the air between them, a pivotal moment that could shift the dynamic of their burgeoning relationship. Lexa held her breath, waiting for Clarke's answer, aware that she was offering more than just a continuation of their evening. She was opening a door to a more personal realm, one that she usually kept closely guarded. 

Clarke regarded Lexa for a long, thoughtful moment. Lexa could almost see the wheels turning in her head, weighing the decision. Finally, Clarke's smile broadened, and there was a spark in her eyes that hadn't been there before. 

"I think I'd like that," Clarke replied, her voice laced with a hint of excitement. "I'm not quite ready for this night to end either." 

Relief and happiness washed over Lexa in equal measure. She smiled, feeling a sense of anticipation for the continued time they would spend together, away from the public eye of the bar. They settled their tabs and stood up, moving towards the exit. 

As they stepped out into the cool night air, side by side, there was a sense of promise that enveloped them. The night had taken an unexpected turn, one that neither Clarke nor Lexa had anticipated when they first sat down at the bar. Now, as they walked together, the possibilities of what lay ahead seemed both exhilarating and daunting. 

The night air was crisp as Clarke and Lexa walked together, their steps in sync, the quiet city streets enveloping them in a serene bubble. The tension of anticipation was palpable between them, each acutely aware of the other's presence. 

Finally, they arrived at Lexa's apartment, a modest but tastefully decorated space that spoke of her practical yet comfortable lifestyle. As Lexa unlocked the door and ushered Clarke inside, there was a sense of crossing a threshold, both literal and metaphorical. 

The apartment was warmly lit, soft ambient lights casting gentle shadows across the room. Lexa took a moment to hang up her coat, her movements betraying a slight nervousness now that they were here, in her personal sanctuary. 

"Make yourself at home," Lexa said, her voice carrying a hint of vulnerability. "Can I get you something to drink?" 

Clarke looked around, taking in the surroundings. The space was neat, with a few personal touches here and there - a stack of books on a side table, a potted plant by the window, a few pieces of abstract art on the walls. "Water would be great, thanks," she replied, her voice soft, trying to convey her comfort and ease. 

As Lexa went to the kitchen, Clarke took a seat on the plush couch, her mind racing with a mixture of excitement and a hint of uncertainty. She was here, in Lexa's home, far from the anonymous backdrop of the bar. The intimacy of the setting was not lost on her. 

Lexa returned with two glasses of water, handing one to Clarke before sitting beside her, maintaining a respectful distance. The room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the city outside. 

"I'm really glad you came," Lexa broke the silence, her voice sincere. She looked at Clarke, her eyes searching for a sign, a confirmation that this was okay. 

Clarke met her gaze, her own eyes reflecting a depth of emotion. "Me too," she said quietly. "Tonight has been... unexpected. In a good way." 

They sipped their water, the silence between them no longer awkward, but comfortable, filled with unspoken understanding. Clarke set her glass down, turning slightly to face Lexa. "Lexa, can I ask you something?" 

Lexa nodded, intrigued. "Of course." 

"What made you decide to invite me here? We barely know each other," Clarke asked, her curiosity genuine. 

Lexa considered her words carefully, aware that the truth was a complex tapestry of reasons. "I guess I felt a connection," she began, her tone thoughtful. "Something about our conversation, the way we interacted, it felt... right. I don't usually do this, but with you, it seemed like something worth exploring." 

Clarke smiled, touched by Lexa's honesty. "I felt it too," she admitted. "There's something about you, Lexa. It's like you understand things that others don't. It's refreshing." 

In that moment, as their eyes locked, the world around them seemed to stand still. The unspoken emotions, the shared vulnerability of the night, all culminated in a single, defining pause. Clarke's heart raced with a mix of excitement and a hint of nervousness, a feeling she hadn't experienced in a long time. 

Slowly, almost hesitantly, Clarke leaned closer to Lexa, her movements deliberate yet filled with an undeniable tenderness. Lexa's breath hitched slightly, her own emotions a whirlwind of hope and surprise. 

And then, in a moment as gentle as it was powerful, Clarke's lips met Lexa's in a soft, tentative kiss. It was a kiss that spoke volumes, a silent language of shared secrets and unvoiced promises. Lexa responded in kind, her hand finding its way to Clarke's cheek, deepening the kiss with a tenderness that echoed her own burgeoning feelings. 

The kiss was a fusion of warmth and sincerity, a merging of two souls that had unexpectedly found a semblance of understanding and solace in each other. It was careful and exploratory, each of them savoring the sensation, the connection that the kiss deepened. 

As they slowly pulled apart, their eyes opened to meet once more, now shimmering with a mix of emotions - surprise, happiness, and a newfound intimacy. Clarke's smile was soft, her eyes shining with a mixture of joy and wonder. Lexa, equally moved, mirrored her smile, a sense of awe in her gaze. 

For a moment, they simply looked at each other, the world around them fading into insignificance. The kiss had changed something, shifting the dynamic of their relationship into something more profound, something real and tangible. 

In the quiet of Lexa's living room, with the night enveloping them in its embrace, Clarke and Lexa found themselves at the beginning of a journey neither had anticipated, but both were now eager to explore. It was a moment of new beginnings, of possibilities, and of a shared path that lay ahead. 

After their initial kiss, a soft silence enveloped the room, filled with unspoken emotions and a newfound understanding. Clarke and Lexa gazed into each other's eyes, a gentle acknowledgment of the step they had just taken. The air between them was charged with a warmth and tenderness that neither had expected to find that night. 

Clarke, feeling a profound connection to Lexa, leaned in once more, her lips meeting Lexa's in a kiss that was now filled with a deeper assurance. Lexa responded with equal fervor, her hands gently cradling Clarke's face, conveying emotions too deep for words. The kisses were no longer tentative, but confident, an expression of the trust and affection they had quickly developed for each other. 

As they continued to kiss, their embrace became more intimate, a natural progression of their deepening bond. There was a grace and patience to their movements, a mutual respect and care underlying their actions. They were not just two individuals seeking physical closeness; they were two souls connecting on a much more profound level. 

The intensity of their connection deepened with each passing moment, their world narrowing down to the space they shared. The couch became their sanctuary, a place where they could explore their feelings and the chemistry that had drawn them together so unexpectedly. 

Their lovemaking was a reflection of their emotional journey, a tender and caring exploration of each other. It was an expression of the vulnerability and trust they had shown throughout the night, now manifesting in a physical form. The room was filled with the soft sounds, the quiet whispers, and the gentle sighs that spoke volumes about their feelings for each other. Each tender gesture conveyed the implicit message: “I see you. I understand you. I will safeguard this gift we’ve found in each other.” 

As they lay together afterwards, wrapped in each other's arms, there was a sense of peace and contentment. The emotional depth of their connection was palpable, a silent promise of more to come. They shared soft kisses and gentle caresses, each touch a reaffirmation of the bond they had formed. 

In those quiet hours of the night, Clarke and Lexa discovered a rare kind of intimacy, one that transcended the physical. It was an intimacy born of genuine affection, mutual respect, and a deep understanding of one another. They had started the evening as strangers, but now they lay together as something much more - two hearts intertwined, embarking on a journey that was only just beginning. 

As the first light of dawn began to filter through the windows, its gentle warmth caressed the room, signaling the arrival of a new day. Clarke, still enveloped in the comfort of Lexa's embrace, stirred as the sun's rays touched her face. She opened her eyes slowly, taking in the peaceful sight of Lexa sleeping beside her. For a moment, Clarke lay there, savoring the tranquility of the morning and the warmth of Lexa's arms around her. 

But reality, with its unavoidable demands, began to seep into Clarke's consciousness. With a reluctant sigh, she carefully extricated herself from Lexa's embrace, trying not to wake her. Clarke paused for a moment, watching Lexa sleep, a sense of longing tugging at her heart. 

Quietly, she began to dress, each movement deliberate, her mind a whirlwind of emotions. Last night had been unexpected, beautiful, but now the complexities of her life - her other life - beckoned. 

The rustle of sheets drew her attention back to the bed as Lexa stirred, her eyes fluttering open. She looked at Clarke, a mix of sleepiness and soft surprise in her gaze. 

"Morning already?" Lexa mumbled, her voice rough with sleep. 

"Yeah," Clarke replied, offering a small, wistful smile. She continued to dress, feeling Lexa's eyes on her. 

"Do you have to go to work?" Lexa asked, sitting up and watching Clarke with a hint of reluctance in her tone. 

Clarke hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah, something like that," she said, her voice tinged with an unspoken regret. The duality of her life, the secrets she kept, weighed heavily on her in that moment. 

Lexa watched Clarke, a subtle understanding in her eyes. She knew there was more to Clarke than met the eye, just as there was more to herself. But for now, those unspoken truths remained just beneath the surface. 

Clarke finished dressing and turned to Lexa, her heart heavy with the thought of leaving. She walked over to the bed and leaned down, capturing Lexa's lips in a tender, lingering kiss. It was a kiss that spoke of promises and goodbyes, of a connection that had only just begun to unfold. 

As they pulled apart, Clarke touched Lexa's cheek softly. "Thank you for last night," she whispered, her eyes conveying a depth of emotion. 

"Thank you," Lexa replied, her hand briefly covering Clarke's. "Be safe." 

With one last look, Clarke turned and walked to the door, her steps slow, each one taking her further away from the serenity of Lexa's bed. She glanced back once, meeting Lexa's gaze, before heading to meet the early morning light. 

As Clarke walked away, the weight of her other life settled back onto her shoulders, a stark contrast to the vulnerability and openness of the night before. She carried with her the memory of Lexa's touch, the warmth of their connection, and the hope that, despite the complexities of their lives, this wouldn't be their last encounter. 

In the dimly lit confines of her hideout, a stark contrast to the warmth of Lexa's apartment, Clarke shed the last remnants of the woman who had spent the night in tender intimacy. Here, she was Wanheda, a name that echoed with power and fear in the underbelly of the city. Her blonde hair, which had fallen softly around her shoulders in Lexa's presence, was now pulled back in a tight braid, a symbol of her transformation into the formidable figure she was in this world. 

Around her, the hideout was abuzz with activity, her loyal henchmen making final preparations. Screens flickered with maps and schematics, and the air was heavy with the anticipation of the impending heist. Clarke, standing in the center of the room, exuded an air of commanding presence, her eyes scanning over every detail of the plan laid out before her. 

One of her trusted lieutenants approached, a wiry man with a scar running down his cheek. "Wanheda," he addressed her with a mix of reverence and fear. "The bombs are ready. We can set your plan in motion whenever you give the word." 

Clarke turned to him, her gaze sharp and calculating. "Good," she responded coolly. "Ensure that everything is in place. I want no mistakes. Tonight, the city will witness the might of Wanheda." 

Her voice was steady, infused with the confidence of a leader who had orchestrated numerous successful operations. She walked over to a table, where a layout of the jewelry store was spread out. Her eyes traced the lines and notes, mentally rehearsing every step of the plan. 

"This heist is more than just a robbery," Clarke spoke, more to herself than to anyone else. "It's a statement. We're not just taking jewels; we're taking control." 

Her henchmen moved about with efficiency, a well-oiled machine under her command. Clarke watched them, a sense of satisfaction filling her. This was her realm, where she wielded power and instilled fear, a far cry from the vulnerability she had shown Lexa. 

As she equipped herself with the necessary gear for the night's operation, her mind briefly flickered to Lexa. A part of her yearned for the simplicity and warmth of the night they had shared. But that was a luxury Wanheda could not afford. Here, in the shadows, she had a different role to play, one that demanded ruthlessness and strength. 

With a final check of her equipment, Clarke, as Wanheda, gave a curt nod to her team. "Let's begin," she declared, her voice resolute. 

The team sprang into action, each member knowing their role in the intricate dance of the heist. Clarke led them, her every step a testament to her infamous reputation. Tonight, Wanheda would strike, and the city would remember why she was both revered and feared. 

Across town, in the quiet of her own apartment, Lexa stood in stark contrast to the scene unfolding in Wanheda's hideout. Here, in her sanctuary, she transitioned from the woman who had shared a night of tenderness with Clarke, into the Commander, the city's silent guardian. 

She moved with a purposeful grace around her apartment, her mind already shifting into the mode of the vigilante hero she became under the cover of night. Tonight, like so many nights before, she would patrol the streets, a watchful protector hidden in the shadows. 

Lexa approached her gear, meticulously arranged in a concealed compartment of her wardrobe. Each piece was a symbol of her commitment to justice, a tangible reminder of the responsibility she shouldered. She dressed methodically, donning the sleek, armored suit that had become her second skin. The suit was a perfect blend of protection and mobility, designed to be as imposing as it was functional. 

As she attached each piece of her gear, Lexa's transformation was both physical and mental. The doubts and vulnerabilities of her civilian life were shed, replaced by the steely resolve of the Commander. Her mask, the final piece of her attire, concealed her identity and completed the metamorphosis. Looking into the mirror, Lexa no longer saw herself; she saw the embodiment of the vow she had taken to protect her city. 

Once fully geared, Lexa took a moment to center herself, her thoughts turning to the night ahead. The city was a labyrinth of light and shadows, of unseen dangers and silent cries for help. As the Commander, it was her duty to navigate this world, to be the unseen force that kept the darkness at bay. 

She checked her equipment one last time – the grappling hooks, the communication device, the non-lethal weapons designed to incapacitate rather than harm. Everything was in place, every tool a testament to her dedication. 

Stepping out of her apartment, Lexa blended into the night, moving with a fluidity that belied the weight of her gear. Her senses were heightened, attuned to the slightest sounds, the faintest movements. The city was a living entity, and she was its guardian. 

As she patrolled, moving across rooftops and through dark alleys, Lexa remained vigilant, her eyes scanning for signs of trouble. The night was often unpredictable, but she was prepared for whatever challenges it might bring. Each step she took was a step towards keeping her city safe, a silent vow to stand as its protector. 

In her role as the Commander, Lexa felt a sense of purpose, a clarity that eluded her in her day-to-day life. Here, amidst the dangers of the night, she found a sense of belonging, a role that defined her as much as it challenged her. 

Unknown to her, across the city, Wanheda was setting her own plans into motion, a parallel dance of light and shadow that would soon entwine their destinies in ways neither could foresee. For now, Lexa, the Commander, continued her solitary patrol, a sentinel in the darkness, ever watchful, ever ready. 

The night had deepened, casting the city into a tapestry of shadows and dimly lit streets. Clarke, now fully embodying her alter ego Wanheda, stood in the darkness of an alley adjacent to the targeted jewelry store. Her heart beat with a controlled rhythm, a mix of adrenaline and focus coursing through her veins. 

Her team was in position, each member a shadow in the night, ready to play their part in the meticulously planned operation. The air was thick with anticipation, every moment leading up to this point a culmination of careful planning and precise execution. 

Clarke surveyed the area with a critical eye, her senses sharp. The quiet hum of the city was a backdrop to her concentrated thoughts. She checked her communication device, ensuring she was in sync with her team. A series of quiet confirmations came through, each member ready and waiting for her command. 

The jewelry store, with its darkened windows and unassuming façade, sat unaware of the impending heist. Clarke knew the layout by heart, the location of every possible obstacle that stood between her and her objective. Tonight, she would prove why she was feared and respected in the criminal underworld. 

She glanced at the device on her wrist, the digital display ticking down the minutes. Timing was crucial; precision was the difference between success and failure. 

Finally, she reached for the last piece of her ensemble, the mask that completed her transformation into Wanheda. The mask was sleek, designed to conceal her identity while allowing her unobstructed vision and breathing. It was a symbol of her power, a barrier between Clarke and the world she dominated as Wanheda. 

With a deep breath, Clarke donned the mask, feeling the familiar rush of empowerment it brought. Her blonde hair, neatly braided to keep it out of the way, contrasted sharply with the dark hue of the mask. In this guise, she was no longer just Clarke; she was a force to be reckoned with, a mastermind of the criminal world. 

She signaled her team, her voice steady and commanding through the communicator. "Get ready. We move on my mark." 

Around her, the night seemed to hold its breath, the seconds stretching out in anticipation. Clarke's gaze was fixed on the store, her mind calculating, her body poised for action. 

In the distance, the city continued its nightly rhythm, oblivious to the drama unfolding in its midst. But here, in the shadow of the jewelry store, Wanheda was about to strike, setting in motion events that would ripple through the city's underworld. 

The countdown reached its final moments, and with a decisive nod, Clarke gave the signal. "Now." 

Like a well-oiled machine, her team sprang into action, each member executing their role with precision. Clarke moved forward, her every step a testament to her confidence and power. Tonight, Wanheda would claim her prize, and the city would remember why her name was spoken with a mixture of fear and awe. 

Moving with purpose, Lexa rounded a corner in a quieter part of the city, her eyes scanning the darkened alleyways and deserted streets. The night had been uneventful so far, but experience had taught her that calm often preceded the storm. 

Suddenly, without warning, the night erupted into chaos. An explosion thundered through the air, a violent shockwave that tore through the stillness of the evening. Lexa was caught off guard, the blast hitting her with an unexpected ferocity. She was thrown backward, her body propelled by the sheer force of the explosion. 

Time seemed to slow as she was flung through the air, her instincts kicking in even as she grappled with the disorientation of the moment. The world spun around her, a whirl of lights and shadows, the sounds of the night distorted by the ringing in her ears. 

Lexa hit the ground with a hard thud, the impact jarring her despite the protection of her suit. For a moment, she lay there, trying to regain her senses, the taste of dust and smoke in the air. The explosion had come from nearby, its origin a mystery that sent a surge of adrenaline through her veins. 

Pushing through the initial shock, Lexa forced herself to her feet, her training taking over. She assessed her surroundings, her eyes narrowing as she tried to pinpoint the source of the blast. The air was thick with smoke, the aftermath of the explosion casting a haze over the street. 

Her mind raced, piecing together the possibilities. An attack? An accident? Her duty as the Commander was to find out, to ensure the safety of the city and its inhabitants. 

Ignoring the ache in her body, Lexa moved towards the source of the explosion, her every sense heightened. The night had taken an unexpected turn, and she was ready to face whatever challenges it brought. Little did she know, her path was about to cross with that of Wanheda, setting the stage for a confrontation that would reveal more than either of them could anticipate. 

The interior of the jewelry store lay in disarray, the aftermath of Wanheda's meticulously planned heist. Glass cases were shattered, alarms silenced, the sophisticated security system rendered useless against her cunning and precision. The darkness of the store was broken only by the beam of her flashlight, sweeping across the glittering remnants of her conquest. 

Wanheda moved through the store with confident strides, her movements fluid and assured. She knew exactly where to go, which displays held the most valuable treasures. Years of planning and experience in the criminal underworld had honed her skills to near perfection. 

With deft hands, she collected the jewels, each piece carefully selected for its worth and rarity. Diamonds that held the light like frozen stars, emeralds green as the deepest forests, sapphires blue as twilight skies - all were swiftly and expertly gathered into her secure bag. The wealth of the store, the pride of Polis's high society, now lay in the hands of the city's most feared villain. 

As she placed the last of the jewels into her bag, Wanheda paused, allowing herself a moment to take in the scene before her. The chaos she had wrought was a testament to her power, a clear message to the city of Polis. She had walked into one of the most secure places in the city and claimed its treasures as her own. 

A smile slowly spread across Wanheda's masked face, a rare display of satisfaction. She stood in the heart of the store, surrounded by the evidence of her triumph. This heist was more than just a theft; it was a declaration. Polis would remember this night, the night Wanheda proved that not even the most guarded of treasures were safe from her reach. 

The smile on her face broadened as she considered the impact of her actions. Fear would ripple through the city's elite, through the corridors of power. They would whisper her name with a mix of dread and respect. Wanheda, the shadow that could breach any barrier, the ghost that haunted their securest vaults. 

With a final glance at her handiwork, Wanheda turned to leave, her bag heavy with jewels. She moved back through the shattered store, each step a symbol of her victory. Tonight, she had cemented her legend in the criminal underworld of Polis. She had shown them all the might of Wanheda, a force that no one could ignore or underestimate. 

With her bag of jewels in hand, Wanheda moved swiftly towards the shattered front window, poised to make her escape into the night. The heist had been a success, her path to victory seemingly clear. But in an instant, that all changed. 

Out of the shadows, a figure lunged towards her with a speed and precision that matched her own. It was the Commander, Polis's silent guardian, her presence both unexpected and formidable. They collided with a force that sent their bodies skidding across the floor. 

The two figures grappled fiercely, a whirlwind of movement and power. Wanheda fought with the desperation of one whose plan was on the verge of unravelling, while the Commander fought with the resolve of one protecting her city. They were a blur of punches and kicks, each equally skilled, equally determined. 

But the Commander, fueled by a sense of duty and justice, gained the upper hand. With a swift move, she pinned Wanheda to the ground, the weight of her body and training giving her an advantage. Wanheda struggled beneath her, but the Commander was relentless. 

Reaching out, the Commander grasped Wanheda's mask, intent on revealing the face of the villain who had terrorized Polis. As the mask came off, revealing Clarke's face, a shock of recognition jolted through Lexa. 

"Clarke," she gasped, her voice a mix of surprise and disbelief. 

The name hung in the air, heavy with implications. In that instant, Clarke seized the opportunity. Using Lexa's momentary lapse, she summoned her strength and pushed Lexa off her. The two separated with a suddenness that left them both reeling. 

Clarke scrambled to her feet, her mind racing. The revelation had changed everything, yet she couldn't afford to be caught. She darted for the window, her escape route just within reach. 

As she leapt through the shattered opening, Clarke cast a final look back. Their eyes met, a tumult of emotions passing between them – betrayal, understanding, a shared secret now laid bare. 

And then, with the agility and swiftness that had made her a legend, Wanheda disappeared into the night, leaving Lexa, the Commander, alone amidst the ruins of the heist. 

In that moment, as Lexa processed the revelation of Clarke's dual identity, the city's landscape of heroes and villains had shifted irrevocably. The night's events would forever change the dynamic between them, a once simple line of duty and justice now clouded by personal connection and conflicting emotions. 

In the dim aftermath of the night, Clarke returned to her hideout, her mind a tumultuous storm of emotions. The heist, successful in its execution, had ended in a way she could never have anticipated. The walls of her hideout, once a sanctuary, now felt like they were closing in on her. 

As Wanheda, she had always been in control, a mastermind of the criminal world. But now, stripped of her mask and revealed to the Commander, she felt a vulnerability she hadn't experienced in years. Clarke sat down heavily, the bag of jewels lying forgotten at her feet. 

The image of Lexa's shocked face when she saw Clarke beneath the mask played over and over in her mind. The confusion, the hurt, the dawning realization – all etched into her memory. Clarke ran her hands through her hair, a gesture of frustration and disbelief. 

How could she have not seen it? The Commander, her adversary, was Lexa – the woman she had felt an undeniable connection with, shared a night of intimacy. The irony of the situation was not lost on her. They were enemies in the shadows of Polis, yet something more in the light of day. 

Clarke paced the room, her thoughts racing. What did this mean for them now? Could there be any reconciliation between Wanheda and the Commander, Clarke and Lexa? The complexity of their relationship had taken a turn she was not prepared for. 

She felt a pang of regret, a longing for the simplicity of the night they had shared, now overshadowed by the reality of their true identities. Clarke knew that nothing would be the same after tonight. A line had been crossed, a secret revealed that changed everything. 

With a heavy heart, she began to weigh her options, her mind working through the implications of tonight's events. The game had changed, and Clarke, as Wanheda, needed to decide her next move. 

Meanwhile, Lexa sat in her apartment, the Commander's gear discarded haphazardly around her. The adrenaline of the chase had long since faded, leaving her with a profound sense of shock and confusion. 

The revelation that Wanheda was Clarke, the woman she had let herself be vulnerable with, felt like a betrayal of the highest order. Yet, as she replayed the night's events, Lexa couldn't help but feel a gnawing conflict within her. 

She had seen Clarke, not just as Wanheda, but as someone she had connected with, shared a moment of genuine intimacy. The memory of their night together was now tinged with a complexity that Lexa couldn't easily reconcile. 

Lexa walked over to the window, looking out over the city she had sworn to protect. Her role as the Commander had always been clear-cut, but now the lines were obscured. How could she reconcile her duty with the feelings she had for Clarke? 

The weight of her dual life felt heavier than ever. Lexa knew the coming days would bring difficult decisions. The knowledge of Clarke's identity as Wanheda added layers to their relationship that she wasn't sure how to navigate. 

As she stood there, lost in thought, the first light of dawn began to creep over the horizon, casting a soft glow into her apartment. The night was over, but the consequences of its revelations were just beginning to unfold. 

In their respective worlds, Clarke and Lexa faced the dawn with a shared uncertainty. The path forward was unclear, fraught with moral dilemmas and emotional complexities. But one thing was certain: nothing would ever be the same again. 

In the secluded confines of her hideout, Clarke sat at a worn-out table, the bag of stolen jewels lying unceremoniously before her. The sparkling stones, each a testament to her successful heist, now felt like a burden, heavy with implications she hadn't considered before. 

Her mind was a battleground of conflicting thoughts. The plan had always been clear – steal the jewels and sell them, a move that would solidify her reputation as Wanheda and provide the financial means to further her goals. But now, with the revelation of Lexa's identity as the Commander, everything felt complicated. 

Clarke picked up a diamond, its facets catching the dim light, reflecting a kaleidoscope of colors. This was more than just a gemstone; it was a symbol of the tangled web she found herself in. On one hand, returning the jewels to Lexa, to the Commander, could be a gesture of goodwill, a bridge between their divided worlds. It could be a way to show Lexa that there was more to Wanheda than the villain she presented to the world. 

On the other hand, selling the jewels was part of her plan, a necessary step in her larger scheme. As Wanheda, she had a reputation to uphold, a role to play in the criminal underworld. Showing weakness or sentimentality could undermine her authority and jeopardize everything she had worked for. 

Clarke weighed her options, each choice pulling her in opposite directions. Giving the jewels back to Lexa could mean a chance for something more between them, a slim hope for understanding, maybe even redemption. But it also meant deviating from her path, questioning the identity she had forged for herself. 

Selling the jewels, however, would maintain the status quo. It would keep Wanheda's legend intact but would widen the chasm between Clarke and Lexa, possibly destroying any chance of reconciliation. 

She sighed, a deep, weary sound. This wasn't just about jewels or plans anymore; it was about her identity, her future, and the intricate dance between her life as Clarke and her role as Wanheda. The stakes were higher than they had ever been. 

As Clarke sat there, the jewels before her a glittering representation of her dilemma, she knew she had to make a choice. It was a decision that would define not just the fate of the jewels, but the path of her own destiny. The question remained, what was she willing to sacrifice, and what was she willing to fight for? 

Day after day, night after night, Lexa scoured the city for Clarke. As both herself and the Commander, she combed through the streets of Polis, her eyes always searching, her heart heavy with a turmoil of emotions. The city she knew like the back of her hand suddenly felt like a vast, impenetrable maze. 

By day, Lexa visited places she thought Clarke might frequent, based on the glimpses of her life she had shared. Art galleries, cafes, the quieter parts of the city where a painter might find inspiration. She asked subtle questions, her inquiries careful not to raise suspicions, but each attempt led to a dead end. 

As the Commander, her search took on a more vigilant approach. She patrolled the areas where Wanheda was known to operate, hoping to catch a glimpse of the elusive figure, or even better, of Clarke. Her nights were spent leaping across rooftops, eyes peeled for any sign, any clue that might lead her to the woman who had so thoroughly captivated and confused her. 

Lexa grappled with her emotions as she searched. The night they had spent together was etched in her memory, a time of vulnerability and connection that now felt like a distant dream. How could Clarke, the woman who had shared such tender moments with her, be the same person as Wanheda, the notorious criminal she had vowed to bring to justice? 

The question haunted Lexa. She needed answers, not just for her peace of mind but for her heart, which ached with a mixture of betrayal and longing. The line between duty and personal feelings was blurred, making her quest all the more urgent and complicated. 

Each fruitless day and night added to her frustration. The city remained silent, offering no answers, no solace to her restless spirit. But Lexa was determined. She needed to understand, to confront the dichotomy of Clarke and Wanheda. 

It wasn't just about the law or justice anymore. It was about understanding the complexities of the human heart, the secrets that lay hidden beneath the surface. Lexa knew that finding Clarke was the key to unraveling the tangled emotions and unanswered questions that plagued her. 

So, she continued her search, driven by a need for closure and clarity. The best night of her life had turned into the most confusing period of her existence, and Lexa couldn't rest until she found the answers she sought, no matter where they might lead her. 

The evening had settled over the city like a soft shroud, the twilight hours signaling the time for Lexa to don her identity as the Commander. She was preparing for another night of patrolling, another night of searching for answers, when an unexpected knock at her door halted her in her tracks. 

With a sense of curiosity mingled with caution, Lexa approached the door. The knock was out of the ordinary, especially at this hour. Her hand hesitated for a moment on the doorknob, her instincts as the Commander momentarily clashing with the mundane act of answering her front door. 

As she opened the door, the sight that greeted her was one she had both longed for and dreaded. Clarke stood there, a solitary figure in the dim light of the hallway, a bag in her hand. Her presence was both a shock and a relief, stirring a whirlwind of emotions in Lexa's chest. 

For a moment, they simply looked at each other, a multitude of unspoken words hanging in the air between them. Clarke's eyes were a mix of determination and vulnerability, a reflection of the complex journey that had brought her here. 

"Clarke," Lexa finally uttered, her voice a mixture of surprise and something deeper, something akin to hope. 

"I needed to see you," Clarke said, her voice steady but her eyes betraying the turmoil within. "Can I come in?" 

Without a word, Lexa stepped aside, allowing Clarke to enter. The bag in Clarke's hand seemed heavy with significance, its contents unknown but undoubtedly a key to the conversation that was about to unfold. 

As Clarke walked past her, Lexa closed the door, a sense of surrealism washing over her. Just moments ago, she had been preparing to scour the city for the very person who now stood in her living room. The turn of events felt like a twist in one of their complex narratives, yet here it was, playing out in reality. 

Lexa turned to face Clarke, her heart racing with a mix of anticipation and apprehension. The air was thick with the weight of their shared history, the night they had spent together, and the subsequent revelation of their dual identities. The tension was palpable, a silent acknowledgment of the crossroads they now faced. 

Clarke set the bag down with a quiet thud, her gaze meeting Lexa's. In that look, there was a depth of emotion, a silent plea for understanding and perhaps a chance to explain. The journey to this moment had been fraught with secrets and revelations, and now, standing in Lexa's apartment, the next chapter of their story was about to begin. 

Clarke stood there, a figure of resolve and complexity, as she gazed at Lexa. The bag on the table seemed almost insignificant compared to the weight of the moment. "I'm returning the jewelry," she finally said, her voice steady but laden with an unspoken gravity. "That's what's in the bag." 

Lexa's eyes flickered to the bag, then back to Clarke, a mixture of surprise and confusion evident on her face. "Are you turning yourself in?" she asked, her voice tinged with a hopeful yet cautious undertone. 

"No," Clarke replied, her gaze not wavering. "I thought about it, but if I'm in jail, I won't last long. I've made enemies, crossed lines with people who don't forgive or forget. Returning these jewels... it's going to make things dangerous for me." 

Her admission hung in the air, a stark reminder of the complex web of alliances and enmities in the criminal world she was entangled in. 

"I need to lay low for a while," Clarke continued, a hint of regret in her voice. "Disappear until things cool down." 

The idea of Clarke disappearing again, vanishing into the shadows of the city, filled Lexa with a tumult of emotions. The woman she had shared an intimate connection with, the woman who was also Wanheda, was slipping through her fingers once more. 

"And after?" Lexa found herself asking, a part of her clinging to the hope of seeing Clarke again. 

Clarke looked at Lexa, her blue eyes reflecting a depth of emotion. "I hope, when the time comes, I can see you again," she said, her words a blend of hope and uncertainty. "I don't know what the future holds, Lexa. But I do know that what happened between us... it was real." 

Lexa absorbed her words, the reality of the situation setting in. Clarke was not just returning the jewels; she was also setting a boundary, a necessary distance to keep them both safe. 

The room felt charged with a bittersweet tension, a mix of unfulfilled desires and the harsh realities of their lives. The bag of jewels, once a symbol of Wanheda's triumph, was now a token of her concession, a gesture towards something more profound and intangible. 

Lexa nodded slowly, a silent acceptance of Clarke's decision. "I understand," she said, her voice a low echo of her internal conflict. "Be careful, Clarke." 

Clarke offered a small, sad smile, an acknowledgment of the complexity of their situation. She moved towards the door, pausing for a moment to look back at Lexa. In that glance, there was a world of things unsaid, a story unfinished. 

Then, with a quiet resolve, Clarke left Lexa's apartment, disappearing into the embrace of the night. Lexa was left standing there, the bag of jewels on her table, and a profound sense of both loss and hope lingering in the air. The future was uncertain, but the connection they shared, complicated and fraught with danger, was something neither could easily forget. 

Almost a year had passed since the night Clarke, as Wanheda, had vanished into the shadows, leaving behind a city that continued to pulse with the rhythm of danger and vigilance. Lexa, as the Commander, had remained its steadfast guardian, her nights filled with the pursuit of justice, her days a constant balancing act of her dual identity. 

The whispers of Wanheda's betrayal in the criminal underworld had gradually faded, overtaken by the rise and fall of new villains, new threats. Lexa had followed the trails of these adversaries, her resolve unwavering, but a part of her always listened for any mention of Clarke, any hint of Wanheda's return. 

But as the months went by, Clarke remained a ghost, a memory etched in the back of Lexa's mind, a story left unfinished. 

One ordinary day, while collecting her mail, Lexa's attention was caught by a postcard. It was an advertisement for an art gallery in Arkadia, showcasing new artists. The image on the front was striking, a painting that seemed to capture both chaos and beauty in a single frame. 

Lexa turned the postcard over, her eyes scanning the brief details about the exhibition. There was nothing explicitly pointing to Clarke, but a feeling stirred within her, an intuition that this was more than just a simple invitation to an art show. It felt like a message, a subtle reaching out. 

The more Lexa looked at the postcard, the stronger her conviction grew. This was Clarke's doing, a silent communication through the medium she loved most – art. It was as if Clarke was extending a tentative hand across the distance that had grown between them, offering a chance to reconnect, to perhaps close the chapter that had been left open. 

The idea of seeing Clarke's work, of possibly seeing Clarke herself, set Lexa's heart racing with a mix of hope and apprehension. The gallery in Arkadia was not just a showcase of art; it was a bridge to a past that Lexa had never fully let go of. 

Making a decision, Lexa tucked the postcard into her pocket, a tangible reminder of the opportunity it presented. She would go to the gallery, see the art, and maybe, just maybe, find a way to reconnect with the woman who had slipped away that night. 

As Lexa walked back to her apartment, the postcard was a weight in her pocket, a symbol of possibilities and what-ifs. The future was uncertain, the path unclear, but the chance to see Clarke, to understand the journey she had been on, was a chance Lexa was willing to take. 

In the ever-changing landscape of her life as the Commander, this was a personal quest, a private hope. The gallery in Arkadia was not just an exhibition; it was a crossroads, one that could lead Lexa back to Clarke or finally give her the closure she needed to move forward. 

The evening of the art showcase in Arkadia brought with it a flurry of anticipation for Lexa. As she entered the gallery, her eyes scanned the crowd, searching for any sign of Clarke. The space was filled with art enthusiasts, each absorbed in the myriad of artworks adorning the walls. But Clarke was nowhere to be seen. 

Feeling a mixture of disappointment and curiosity, Lexa began to navigate through the gallery, allowing herself to be drawn into the world of each piece. The art was diverse, each creation telling its own story, but Lexa found herself searching for something more, a hidden message or a sign from Clarke. 

Then, her attention was caught by a particular painting. It depicted a building, its structure captured in the midst of an explosion, a moment of chaos frozen in time. Lexa stood there, studying it, the painting evoking a strange sense of déjà vu. 

"Does that look familiar?" a voice suddenly asked from behind her. 

Lexa turned around and there was Clarke. Her hair was dyed brown, a change that momentarily threw Lexa off, but there was no mistaking those eyes, the contours of her face, the presence she carried. It was undeniably Clarke. 

A surge of emotions welled up inside Lexa, a tidal wave of relief, joy, and unanswered questions. Before she could think, before doubt or reason could take hold, Lexa found herself moving towards Clarke. In a few strides, she closed the distance between them and, driven by a year's worth of longing and uncertainty, she kissed Clarke. 

It was a bold move, impulsive and filled with all the sentiments that Lexa had held back for so long. The kiss was a question and an answer, a release of pent-up emotions, a bridge over the chasm of time that had separated them. 

Clarke responded, her initial shock giving way to the emotions that had never quite faded. Around them, the gallery dimmed, the noise and the people becoming mere background to the moment they were sharing. 

As they finally pulled apart, Lexa looked into Clarke's eyes, searching for a sign, an indication of where they stood. There was so much to say, so many questions to ask, but for now, this connection, this confirmation that they were both still drawn to each other, was enough. 

The painting, the gallery, the year apart – it all culminated in this moment. Lexa and Clarke, standing amidst a sea of art, had found their way back to each other in the most unexpected of ways. The future was still unwritten, their paths still uncertain, but for now, they were together again, and that was all that mattered. 

They stood now, slightly apart, the intensity of their reunion still hanging in the air. Lexa's hand reached for Clarke's, a silent plea for connection, for understanding. Clarke's fingers intertwined with hers, a silent answer, an acceptance. 

"Clarke, I..." Lexa began, her voice a whisper of emotions. "I've thought about you, about that night, about everything." 

Clarke nodded, her eyes conveying a depth of feeling. "I know. Me too. It's been a long year." 

"I don't know what happens next," Clarke admitted, her voice tinged with vulnerability. 

"Neither do I," Lexa confessed. "But maybe we don't need all the answers right now. Maybe it's enough to know that we're both still here, still... us." 

Clarke smiled, a small, hopeful gesture. "Us," she echoed. "I like the sound of that." 

The gallery around them continued its steady hum of activity, but for Lexa and Clarke, time seemed to stand still. They were at a crossroads, their future uncertain, but they faced it together. 

They both knew the complexities that lay ahead. The divide between their lives – Lexa as the Commander, Clarke as Wanheda, and the world that stood between them – was a reality that couldn't be ignored. But in this moment, those titles, those roles, they seemed distant, secondary to the connection they shared.   

Their story was not a simple one. It was a tapestry of light and dark, of heroism and transgression, of two souls finding each other against the odds. Lexa and Clarke stepped into the unknown, their hearts entwined, ready to face whatever the future held, together. 

[parkersbliss]

Diamonds | K. Brekker

pairing; kaz brekker x female!reader

warnings: cursing, I think that’s it

wc; 2.3K

synopsis: dirtyhands doesn’t need anyone, but he wants you, even if he can’t have you

prompts: 001: “why do you care?” 047: “please just let me in.”

a/n: this went in a very different direction then I planned but I love it??

Masterlist | Taglist | Prompt List

—

Kaz Brekker was a lot of things.

Emotionally unavailable was one of them.

But you never thought much of it. You didn’t think less of him because of that. Surviving the barrel meant being cold, ruthless, and cunning.

Everyone had to have some dark side to them. It was a given.

But Kaz’s dark side never turned off. He was always in a constant state of brooding, thinking about all the ways the plan could fail or coming up with a new heist.

His brain never shuts off.

You never considered that a bad thing, but everyone has to rest eventually.

But rest wasn’t a word in Kaz’s dictionary. For him, resting meant thinking about other things.

Things that he wanted to forget.

So he busied himself with work, numbers, and other things to push the other thoughts out of his mind. Sometimes they were about Jordie and the harbor, sometimes they were about Rollins or you.

Kaz never wanted to forget you, but he didn’t want to think about you either. About the way, your lips curved up into a smile every time Jesper threw his arm around you. Or the way you throw your head back every time Nina makes a joke, the way you sit patiently with Wylan when he tries to read, the way you train so gracefully with Inej, and the way you make fun of Matthias’ accent.

He wants to push it all out of his mind because he doesn’t understand it. He doesn’t get how he manages to notice every detail about you.

It would cost him eventually, which is why he didn’t think about it. It’s why he tried to busy himself with things that have nothing to do with you.

But sometimes, it doesn’t always work out that way.

It was moments like these where Kaz is in a constant state of don’t fuck up and don’t say anything.

Which never goes in his favor.

The plan was simple, break-in and walk-out. There were three separate sections to the museum, and the event kept everyone pretty busy.

All you had to do was get in, steal a few jewels and then blend in with the crowd for the rest of the night.

It should be easy enough.

You all dress in your best attire, at least, the best attire that wouldn’t slow you down if you have to run. Kaz’s breath hitches in his throat when he sees you. Silky fabric, exposed skin, and all your beauty.

He nods at you as you fall into step behind him.

“You look nice,” You said.

“Thank you. So do you.”

You all find yourself in an ally by the museum as Inej scales the roof for her way in. You know she’s successful when the back entrance pops open, and she leans against the door frame with a satisfied smile on her face; her green dress trails along the floor as you make your way inside.

Bright fluorescent lights illuminate the hallway, and the sound of heels and Kaz’s cane echo down it. Kaz pick locks the three doors with ease, signaling for the groups of you to go in.

Matthias and Nina are responsible for the smaller riches, Inej, Wylan, and Jesper take care of replacing them, and you and Kaz get the big stuff.

The room sparkles with diamonds, almost blinding you. To Kaz, it smells like money. For each piece stolen, the two of you replace it with a cheaper place holder.

By the time anyone noticed, you would be gone.

You grab a ring off a stand, slipping it on and examining it in the light.

Kaz coughs, and you turn to face him.

He holds the most expensive piece in his hand, a diamond necklace.

It’s worth more than a quarter of a million kruge.

“Woah,” you breathe out. The diamonds are arranged in such a way that it sits close to the neck, and looks like small interconnected leaves.

“Wear it,” Kaz said.

“Kaz-”

“You would look… pretty with it,” The last part is barely above a whisper.

“Okay,” You agree, taking the piece from his hands. Your fingers barely brush his gloved ones as you take the necklace, clasping it around your neck.

Then, Kaz steps back. “I think we got most of it.”

You can’t take all of the riches, but you can take enough to make some serious bank. You exit the room, Kaz locking it after, and meet back in the hallway with everyone else. Inej and Nina both drip in equal expenses and gasp when they see your necklace.

“I almost want to keep it,” You said, touching the diamonds.

“It does look stunning on you,” Nina said.

“I’m sure we have enough to keep that piece,” Inej said, gesturing to the jewelry between you all.

“I do not understand the need for stones to prove one’s worth,” Matthias said.

Nina pats his shoulder, “It’s like you Fjerdans and your fur coats.”

"Witch," Matthias mumbled under his breath.

Kaz takes the lead, directing you to the main room. You can hear the sounds of people chattering, classical music floating in the air. You all split into smaller groups, mostly pairs, to avoid detection.

You and Kaz stay towards the center of the room, observing everyone else and waiting till the event ends.

As Kaz’s eyes sweep the ballroom, yours sweep over his face, familiarizing yourself with his features.

He has sharp cheekbones, fair skin, and a pointed nose. His lips are drawn down into the softest frown, and there are bags under his dark eyes. His eyebrow twitches ever so slightly whenever he sees someone he doesn’t like, and he runs a gloved hand through his hair, slicking it back more if it’s possible.

He was beautiful.

After a few more moments of mingling, they prepare to bring the jewelry out on display. You and Kaz back towards the exit, just in case something goes wrong.

The fake one sparkles just the same, and a clear difference can’t be seen. It’s only glass that Wylan had managed to craft by himself.

The servant gulps, taking careful steps with the case in his hand. His hands shake, and as he takes the first step up the stairs, he stumbles.

It shatters.

The glass scatters across the floor, the fake necklace you planted aside does the same, the pieces landing everywhere.

You can practically feel Kaz tense next to you when the crowd gasps; actual diamonds wouldn’t break.

“Don’t move,” Kaz whispers. He makes a hand gesture to the rest of the Dregs around the room that means remain still. “Act just as surprised.”

On any other occasion, it would be easy, but when the original necklace is dangling from your neck, it’s like an open target for anyone with eyes. Murmurs flow through the crowd, but no one pays any mind to the Dregs because you all look like you belong here. They’re looking for the black sheep among the white.

But they all look just the same.

“We will be conducting manual searches,” The guards announce.

“Saints,” You whisper, hand instinctively grabbing the diamonds on your neck.

“Plan B,” Kaz said. He meets Jesper’s eyes across the room, nodding his head, and Jesper smirks. He grabs one of his revolvers, firing a single shot and tucking it away before anyone notices. The crowd screams, everyone rushing to the exits as more shots are fired from various parties (some from Jesper, some from guards, or others who just love chaos).

You all make a run for it, using the main exit where guards were desperately trying to keep everyone in.

You watch Inej slip through with ease, Nina and Mattias next. Jesper gets held up, but he managed to talk his way out of it as Wylan tugs on his sleeve.

You and Kaz are last, taking your time to avoid being pushed in by the crowd. You could run ahead, get out before Kaz, but you don’t.

You stay by his side and maintain the slow pace, even when there’s a quarter of a million kruge hanging from your neck.

As you approach the exit, you’re one foot out when someone grabs your arm.

“I got her!” The guard shouts. He starts dragging you back inside as you try to dig your heel into their foot.

Then, in the span of a second, a cane comes down on his arm, a clear snap ringing out.

You stumble from their grasp, unknowingly using Kaz’s shoulder to steady yourself. He hisses but says nothing more because as soon as you notice, you let go.

“Nina!” You scream as the guards come pouring out the entrance.

It was clear who the target was.

The heartrender holds up her hands, effectively dropping their beat, but you underestimate how many there are.

“Run!” Jesper shouts.

And you do as you’re told. The guards open fire, and you bunch your dress in your hands, running through the streets of Ketterdam. Kaz begins to fall behind, and you slow down your pace.

“Jes, throw me a revolver!”

“What?”

“Throw it!”

Wylan rolls his eyes, fishing the gun from his boyfriend’s pocket and tossing it at you.

“What are you doing?” Kaz said.

“Saving your ass!” You reply.

“I don’t need your saving!” Kaz retorts, glaring at you.

You roll your eyes, “Fine, I’m covering you.”

“I don’t need that either.”

“Kaz-”

“I don’t need you!”

You nod, turning away from him to hide the hurt on your face. “No, of course, you don't."

You fire a single shot at a guard, busying yourself in taking a few out, so Kaz doesn’t get hit. When he’s a good way ahead, you sprint after the rest of the Dregs. You see the tail of Jesper’s coat disappear down an alleyway.

You fire one last round of shots and duck behind it. You move past Kaz, catching up with Jesper and thanking him.

He smiles, bumping your shoulder. “Anything for the lady.”

The slat is in sight, and you sigh in relief, happy to rest and unload all the jewels everyone is dripping in.

You could only imagine the amount of kruge you’d come up with.

Jesper opens the door for the Dregs, and you all practically collapse on the couch. You Nina and Inej are all on one, kicking off your heels.

“I hate heels,” You said.

“You’re telling me,” Inej replied. “Never again.”

Nina shrugs, “Annoying as hell, but they do work in place of a knife every now and then.”

“I am never without my knives.”

“We know.”

Kaz walks past you all, limping a bit worse than usual and going up to his office.

You don’t bother following after him. Instead, you all dump the jewelry on the table.

“Oh, saints,” Inej gasped.

Jesper leans back in his seat, “I think we’re set.”

“You’ll gamble it all away before we even cash it in,” Matthias said as Jesper scoffed.

“It’ll take me at least a few months to lose that.”

“Months?” Wylan asked.

“Like six tops.”

Everyone begins to argue, and you tune them out. You forgot about the most expensive piece hanging from your neck, absentmindedly playing with it. When you remember, you figure the best thing to do with it is give it up to Kaz.

With a sigh, you stand up, the fabric of your dress falling back into place.

You don’t bother knocking on his door, you know you should, but you didn’t care all that much.

“Here’s your necklace,” You said bitterly, dropping it on his desk.

“(Y/N)-”

“A quarter of a million kruge, enough to set you for life. That’s all you need, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t mean that.”

“Sure felt like it,” You snap.

“I just-,” Kaz sighed, avoiding your gaze. “Keep the necklace.”

“I don’t want it.”

“You don’t?” Kaz asked, eyebrows raised. “I thought you liked it. You should have it if that’s the case.”

“Why do you care?”

“I don’t.”

You click your tongue, “Keep the fucking necklace, Kaz.”

Kaz curses himself, tugging at his hair. He was making the situation much worse. He didn’t know what to say that wouldn't piss you off. He thought the necklace would be like a peace offering, a sign of his thanks.

It backfired on him.

He’s bordering the line of being cold or grateful. When grateful didn’t work in his favor, he went for the other.

“I want you to have it.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Please, take it.”

“It’s worth money. That’s far more important to both of us.”

Kaz shuts his eyes, “(Y/N), please.”

And you know this isn't about the necklace anymore. It never really was.

You shake your head, crossing your arms over your chest. You were tired of pretending to brush off your feelings. It was killing you. Every time you tried to do something, Kaz pushed you back. You couldn't keep doing this to yourself.

“You either want this, or you don’t. Which one is it?”

“Please,” he said softly.

You sigh, blinking harshly. Your heart hammers in your chest. You take a breath, trying to calm yourself.

“Kaz, I need you,” You said softly, “Please just let me in.”

“I can’t,” He said, voice strained as he fights his demons. God, he wants to, but he's scared. He's scared of pushing you away or hurting either of you in the process. He couldn't go through that kind of loss again.

“I will wait,” You said. “I will wait as long as you need. I just need to know that you’re in this too.”

Kaz meets your eyes. His are glassy as he holds the necklace tightly in his hands, running his gloved fingers over the diamonds.

He could lose you.

And that is far worse than not having you at all.

He slowly peels his gloves off. His movements are slow and deliberate, taking his time. When they’re off, he grabs the necklace and stands up.

You hold your breath as he stands behind you, brushing your hair out of the way. His fingers just barely dance across your skin, but they’re there.

He clasps the necklace, and you turn around to face him.

“Kaz?” You question.

“I need you too, (Y/N).”

“I’m not leaving," You assure him.

“Good. We’re in this.”

“We’re in this.”

[aleburton]

As Andrew busied himself with his champagne, he could not help but keep a watchful eye on Alex. His gaze followed her every move as she tended to their guests, her waist nearly melting against the table in a captivating display. He would get to return home to this decadent image for the rest of his life. The taste of Veuve swirled down his throat, and though a grin of pride threatened to surface, he held it back with a mouthful of champagne. He understood that jealousy could consume many men in his position. However, he saw beyond possessiveness, believing that someone like Alex deserved to be appreciated for her beauty, even by extra pairs of lustful eyes absorbing very inch of her five-foot of stature. He glanced up from his sparkling glass, quietly noting the way Kylie’s baby blue eyes tracked each of her movements. Zach’s attention, a given, was also focused. In a departure from his unusual demeanor, he found himself surprisingly touchy with her. The potent combination of champagne and the exhilaration from recent successes likely contributed to his uncharacteristic behavior. His dreams were materializing right before his eyes, two pop stars and having the girl of his dreams by his side. It tempted him to reach out, let his fingers sink into her thighs. He exercised restraint though, opting for another drink instead and pushed his nearly empty plate away. As Alex began to pour into Zach’s glass, Andrew sat up straight in an effort to gently remind her that he was not drinking tonight, but it came a tad too late, and he winced. Already preparing to rise and retrieve a replacement flute, his movements were halted by the unexpected commotion caused by Alex accidentally spilling a bit of the champagne into Zach’s lap. “Shit,” he mumbled quietly to himself, an expression of discomfort crossing his face. As Alex returned the champagne bottle to the table, she captured her lower lip between her teeth, a satisfied glint in her eyes, “Even ballerinas can be a little clumsy sometimes,” she quipped, her body language and tone suggesting it was all in good fun. Turning her attention to Kylie, she shrugged her shoulders as she explained, “See, I told you I’m not all that good. I guess that’s what happens when Drew tries to hype me up.” Eager to maintain politeness and convince everyone that it was in fact a genuine accident, she tilted her head, doe-like eyes beaming into Zach’s pools of pure gold, “I’m sorry about your pants, Zach. You can send me the dry-cleaning bill. I actually know a place in Los Angeles. They’re really good. Took the champagne right out of a pair of velvet Louboutin’s.” In response to Zach’s request, Andrew rose from the table, making his way into the kitchen to fetch a clean dishtowel to aid in cleaning up the mess. Alex observed his departure, her tongue poking softly into her cheek. A subtle hint of amusement played on her features as she wondered if her message to Zach had finally landed.

Did he really want to play this game so soon? Andrew quickly reappeared, armed with the towel that he passed off to Zach. As he addressed Alex, her brow quirked with interest. A simper played on her full lips as she responded, “Isn’t that how it should be?” She held back from saying more, a conscious decision not to delve into the memories of a not-so distant past when he had been in a similar position – crawling on hands and knees or assisting in cleaning up a mess they had both helped to make. “Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to mind too much.” She glimpsed over her shoulder to find Andrew standing just behind her, his hand encircling her waist. As he shook his head, a soft chuckle escaped his lips. “That wasn’t even a proper champagne shower. I guess we’ll have to wait until the two of you officially become label mates. We’ll give you a warning next time though,” he jested. “Promise,” Alex added. “Well, we certainly don’t have to hang out in the dining room for the rest of evening. I can safely transport the champagne outside for a fire on the patio, we can hang indoors. There’s a Baby Grand Piano and a couple guitars in the living room if either of you feels inclined to play a little background music. Choice is yours.” Andrew seemed committing to extending the evening, eager to dive deeper and learn more about them. While Kylie had been an open book, sharing her life and industry experiences freely, Zach’s narrative had been filtered through the lens of tabloids or tidied up by Amanda. Andrew was intrigued, wanting to hear directly from the source.

Alex humored them without pandering to them; light simpers and dancing eye contact, shrugging their inappropriate comments off like water from a duck’s back. Drew chuckled along with them, despite Kylie getting a little carried away. She screwed her face delicately at him, frothing in her seat. “Oh, you’re a tough nut to crack, I get it.” She nodded knowingly, her eyes narrowing. “If I can wait eight months to crack this motherf-er open,” she censored herself, muting mid-curse, and gestured to Zach. “Then I can wait for you no sweat, Dupree.” Alex was not stingy with her pours; his glass was close to spilling by the time she pulled away, which he seemed amused by. She turned on Zach like a targeted missile, his probing certainly not gone amiss if the simper on her full lips was anything to go by. He lifted his chin to her in preparation, smiling in calm anticipation.

Her pointed question tickled him; his small smile spread until his teeth were slowly revealed, biting down on a quiet laugh. “Why?” he mused innocently, his eyes devouring her face like a man starved of beauty. “You a big fan?” It was invigorating, their subtle back-and-forths; like having life’s essence breathed back into his lungs. Like he’d forgotten what it was like to be full, to be enthralled. Kylie scoffed by his side, giddy with playfulness. “I doubt it.” In jest, she knocked her hand into his thigh, sending his knee into his other before it sprang back into its widespread place. “You’re half a glass away from being put in the back of a car, French,” he warned lightheartedly. Kylie simmered and brought a finger to her lips, silencing herself with a giggle.

But then she grew distracted, as did, for a moment, all three consciousnesses decorating the table. Alex’s spine dove in an incredible arc across the distance between herself and Kylie, chest almost spilling from her dress as she poured his girlfriend another glass. Zach breathed a stifled laugh through his nose, strangling the ripple his body elicited in response to the sight understanding this was her enacted revenge for his acting up. And yet, he remained transfixed by the cruel unraveling of her figure upon the surface before him. He blinked, urging a lasso around the path his thoughts sought to race down, and tightening it to an absolute close. She wouldn’t get him that easy. As her posture erected, Alex turned to face him, and from his low seated position he was offered the vicious luxury of the full show. His gaze traversed quickly up her form, tongue darting out to wet his lips, and for a split-second she had him; he almost panicked, faced with her pouring actual champagne into his glass instead of his glorified juice. His hand came up to the base, a stutter catching in his throat, but she stopped herself. Their eyes met, and his world set alight. The glint in her eye was clear; that had been no accident.

As she quickly pulled the mouth of the bottle from the rim of his glass, a splash of ice cold champagne soared from the opening and near-squarely into his lap. He laughed once, staring down at the widening dark smear on his crotch and ignoring the stir in his abdomen at her intended target, then looked up at her. His eyebrows raised in a parodied imitation of her gasp, mouth popping open. He simmered to a smirk and shook his head. “You might,” he agreed in a low, melodic threat, canines winking up at her in a lazy grin. “You don’t strike me as the clumsy type,” Zach commented, an arrogant confidence radiating from him. He glanced at Drew, eyes skirting by her taut waist, which was unfortunately at his eye-level. “Could you-?” he asked, polite, and yet it wasn’t entirely a question. Drew, their reliably gracious host, was quick to attend to the cleaning up of his girlfriend’s mess. “Sure, Zach,” he agreed, disappearing into the kitchen to grab a cloth for Zach to tend to himself with. Zach cocked his head, looking up at Alex with a glimmer in his eye; you see what I can make your man do? he silently implied. Drew re-appeared, tossing Zach the cloth, which Zach caught in mid-air without taking his eyes from Alex’s. “You have him running around after you a lot, or what?”

[icybrry]

jealousy

viktor x reader

tags: jealousy (obvs lol), drinking, drunk! vik, fluff, jayce being a good friend, fem reader

-

the party was going well by jayce's standards, and viktor was tired. it was 2:14 am and everyone was still drinking. you had come along as viktor's date, being his lover, and jayce was all over you; begging for attention.

you both had danced a lot, took shots, and viktor knew he shouldn't be jealous; you always came back to him to smother him with drunk kisses and love. but... he was tired of watching jayce fawn over you, he hadn't slept, he was nursing a glass of whiskey, and he wanted you.

sky was being just as irritating, trying to hint at hooking up behind your back, it was all too much. he bid sky farewell as harshly as he could, and stormed over to you. "hey!" you giggle, moving to kiss him. viktor dodges it slightly, letting you kiss the corner of his mouth instead. you pout, trying to fluff his hair a little. "not now, love." he sighs, walking away to get a refill.

your frown was noticed by jayce who came over to talk, handing you a cocktail. "i don't know what's up with him..?" you huff, leaning against the wall nearby. "maybe he's cranky, he hasn't been sleeping properly." jayce teases, and you can't help but giggle. "maybe. i think he's gonna sleep well tonight though with all that whiskey he's drinking." you joke back, mood lightening. "don't worry about him. when he's done he'll be all over you again." jayce winks.

viktor had polished two bottles. he didn't know why he did it, but he certainly needed it. the inventor sighs, his eyes glued to you as you play pool with jayce and a few others. he was particularly watching your body, observing how you looked bent over the table. you were gorgeous in your little dress, the way his hugged your hips was perfect. no wonder jayce wanted all your attention.

sky was eyeing viktor up, you could see it. you wanted to talk to her, tell her that viktor wasn't interested, but it was jayce's party and you didn't want to be rude and ruin his party. you agreed to a game of pool to keep your mind off things, laughing with jayce, but your mind and eyes kept moving up to her. she was slinking closer, clearly drunk as she swaggers up to your boyfriend; linking her arms around his neck.

you feel relief flood through you as viktor pushes her away, talking to her instead. "your turn." jayce pats your shoulder gently, and you almost jump. "yeah, sorry." you nod, taking position. jayce looks over to viktor and sky, she was still trying to make moves on him, and he wasn't about to let her ruin your night.

you didn't notice jayce moving, blocking them from your view. "got you!" you cheer, winning the game with one good strike. jayce grins, hugging you tightly and swinging you around. he catches sky's eyes, and moves with you so you couldn't see her. "let's go get drinks." jayce smiles, grasping your hand and pulling you away.

"see? they're sooo gonna bang behind your back! so to get back at your slutty girlfriend you should sleep with me." sky grins, and viktor feels anger bubbling up deep in his chest. "no. i'm tired of you antagonising y/n. she's the only person i'll ever love. now kindly fuck off." viktor snaps, and sky is taken aback. she nods, turning on her heel and rushing away, wiping her eyes.

he relaxes as she leaves, but the anxiety of you actually going to sleep with jayce was nagging him. grasping his cane, he moves past a small crowd, heading through each room to try and find you.

"thanks for that jayce." you smile, sipping your cotton candy cocktail as you watch people swim and splash each other. "what?" he asks, furrowing his brows. "that thing with sky. its stupid but she really gets to me sometimes." you huff, finishing your drink and putting the glass down. "oh- that? yeah, no problem! she's nice but she can be overbearing." jayce nods, his fingers idly combing over the grass. "yeah... well, i appreciate it. you're a good friend."

"i try." jayce grins, standing up and dusting himself off, offering you a hand. you smile, taking it and standing with him. "go find viktor and take him home before he passes out or gives himself alcohol poisoning, i think everyone's getting tired anyway." jayce stretches, and you nod. "yeah. goodnight jayce. thanks again." you smile, giving his cheek a gentle kiss. "no problem."

viktor huffs, haven given up on the search after two rooms, sulking into a bottle of vodka. he was sat on the floor in the kitchen, cane lay next to him as he swigs the burning liquid. "there you are!" your voice makes him perk up, and upon seeing you he realises how much he missed you. "my love..!" he slurs, standing up on wobbly legs, almost falling when you grasp his sides. "careful..!" you smile, taking the vodka from him. "mmmm- i missed you." he whispers, sagging against you, nuzzling his face into your neck.

"i missed you too." you humour him, moving down as best you can to grab his cane without dropping your boyfriend. "sky called you slutty." he frowns. "oh really?" you fake shock, and he nods. "i told her to fuck off." he nods, arms wrapping tightly around your waist. you can't help but laugh. it was odd hearing viktor swear, but he was blackout drunk, he wasn't coherent. "c'mon. we're going home." you press a kiss to his cheek, handing him his cane as you link arms with his other arm in case he fell.

jayce had called you an uber, and you made a mental note to thank him when you got up. viktor was stumbling a little, rambling about the party and you. "i can't believe you and jayce went off without me!" he whines, sitting on the grass. "sorry, baby." you smile as he leans against your thigh, looping a hand around your leg, squeezing your flesh slightly. "sky said you two were sleeping together behind my back." he whines, yawning. "what, me and jayce?" you laugh at the thought.

"don't laugh..!" viktor frowns up at you, smushing his cheek against your thigh. "there's nothing going on between me and jayce." you comb your fingers through his hair, smoothing down a few strands, watching them poof up once more. "good. i don't want to share you." he leans back, stretching. "you're not sharing me. i'm all yours, babe." you help him up, picking up his cane for him.

you stumble a little as viktor leans on you, kissing your neck a few times. "c'mon, our uber's pulling up." you help him into the back, getting in after him. viktor snuggles into your side, nuzzling your neck as he sprawls onto you. "do you love me??" he asks, and you giggle. "of course i love you." you press a small kiss to his head. "good. i love you too." viktor smiles, cuddling into you further as his arms tighten around your waist.

"vik." you speak, and he lets out a long hum. "how much have you drank?" he pauses to think, letting out a small puff. "i can't remember." you roll your eyes, pressing a kiss to his head. viktor leans into you, eyelids drooping a little; you just about manage to catch his drowsy expression. "hey, stay awake for me baby. i don't want to carry you to our apartment." you comb your fingers through his hair, fluttering gentle kisses all over your boyfriend's face.

"mmmh.. but i'm tired." he whines, his head falling onto your shoulder. "i know, we'll be home soon." you smile, resting your head upon his. "i love youuu.." he sighs, trying to curl up on the backseat so he could lay on you fully. "i love you too, vik." you manoeuvre a little to let him get comfy, wrapping both arms around him. "you don't love jayce?"

"i don't love jayce. only you." you smile, refraining from squirming as his lips kiss along your collarbones. "mmh-good. i'm gonna take a nap." viktor slurs, and you can't help but roll your eyes. "c'mon, stay awake for me." you gently shake his shoulder, and he whines like a child. "c'mon vik, i'll pay you in kisses." you laugh as he looks up at you, pressing a kiss to your lips. "one more?" he mumbles, and you giggle. "a lot more if you stay awake."

viktor hums, accepting a chain of kisses happily, his fingers curling into the fabric of your dress. "we're five minutes away." the uber quips, and you want to answer politely but your boyfriend was more demanding. you let out a breathy moan as viktor nips your bottom lip, taking the chance to push his tongue into your mouth.

once viktor breaks away for air, his head falls onto your shoulder as he snuggles in, and you press kisses to his head. "c'mon. we're almost there." you have to lay back as he presses all his dead weight into you as he cuddles you. "mmh i want more kisses." he smiles, and you press a hand to his shoulder. "you can have kisses when we get home." you push him back so he's sitting, getting up yourself.

viktor whines, collapsing onto your chest, drunkenly confessing his love to you over and over again. "i love you too, vik. c'mon i see our apartment building." you get his cane and tip the driver for putting up with your drunken mess of a boyfriend. viktor stumbles out of the car behind you, falling onto you and almost knocking the two of you over. lanky arms find their way around your waist as he mumbles something; hiding his face in your neck. "vik, c'mon-"

"i don't wanna share you with jayce.." he pouts, and you roll your eyes. "you're not sharing me with anyone." you take one of his arms, supporting him as you begin to walk inside. viktor almost falls over in the lobby, but you manage to get him into the elevator without him collapsing and hurting himself. "i didn't realise you were so heavy." you tease, deciding to take a video in the elevator mirror to send jayce in the morning.

"i'm not heavy!" he fakes offence, leaning on you. you laugh, ending the video before he realises. "can i have more kisses now?" he pouts, hooking his chin upon your shoulder. "not yet, when we get you in bed you can have kisses." viktor groans, fastening his arms around your waist. the elevator dings, and you help him to the door, fishing the keys from his pocket. "now..?"

"nope. be patient." you smile, unlocking the door and opening it before you aid him to the couch. sighing, you lock the front door and put the keys in their usual place. "babbbyyy..! kisses!" viktor whines, reaching for you. "no, we're sobering you up a bit."

viktor huffs, getting up and wobbling a little. "careful." you warn, pressing a hand to his side. viktor nods, following you to the bedroom. "stay here, i'm gonna get you some water." you say, and viktor mumbles something drunkenly. you leave him for at least a minute when he's calling for you. "coming." you shout back, taking the glass of water with you.

"help.." he pouts, his pants ruffled. you can't help but laugh at how lost he looks. "don't laugh..!" viktor whines, and you stifle your giggles. "sorry, sorry baby. c'mere." you put the glass down on his bedside table, unzipping his flyer for him. you help him out of them, supporting his lower back so he didn't fall. "buy me a drink." viktor giggles, trailing kisses along your shoulder. "i think you've had enough to drink, love." you push viktor to the bed, and he falls onto it.

you can't help but smile as he snuggles into his pillow, almost falling asleep. you take a quick video of him, adoring how pretty he looks. putting your phone down, you join him, draping the covers over him. viktor feels your presence and latches onto you, legs tangling into yours, his arms squeezing your torso. "hey." you smile, pressing a kiss to his nose. viktor lets out a small noise, giving you a sleepy kiss on your lips.

you give him kisses as he dozes off, and eventually he passes out, completely tangled in your limbs and pressed up against you. you smile, kissing his forehead one last time as you settle down as well, texting jayce goodnight quickly. viktor hides his face in your neck, his breath tickling your skin slightly as he snoozes. eventually, you fall asleep too, pressing your cheek against his head as you hold him tightly.

he was going to have a killer hangover in the morning.

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

Yn to the freshman: I’ve flicked the bean sm because of the man you will not be getting any real action before me

The freshman: 👁👄👁

“Monica, hey. You caught me just in time, I was about to leave. How can I help you?”

“Hey, Harry!” The young woman steps to the side to allow Harry to finish exiting his office, watching intently as he locks the door behind him and tucks the keys into the front pocket of his tan slacks, fixing his glasses on his nose before giving her his full undivided attention. He gives her an anticipatory glimpse, silently egging her to state her business outside of his door, and the way in which he gazes down at her over the crests of his cheekbones makes the tips of Monica’s ears burn. His cool and collective personality can be so fucking intimating. “I was actually wondering if we could maybe get together sometime soon, I could really use some help with my term paper! There’s some things I’m still unclear about and I was hoping you could shed some light on those areas.”

“Did you look at the rubric?”

“I did, but I just wanna double-check in case I misunderstood anything.”

“Fair enough. Prevention is better than damage control.” Harry slips his bag over his torso, settling it along the outer part of his thigh with an empty thud. “My office hours are posted on the portal and on my door, you can drop by any time and I’ll be happy to clarify whatever you need.”

“Oh, um, I— I was actually hoping we could maybe do it over coffee? If you’re available, of course.”

Harry raises an eyebrow skeptically, the edges of his lips quirking into an unenthusiastic grimace. “Coffee?

The freshman begins to fiddle with the notebook in her hands, struggling to keep eye contact under his scrutinizing behavior. “Yeah! Maybe on campus, or at that cute café in the outdoor mall that opened up last summer? The Avalon, I think it’s called.”

He pauses for a moment, proceeding to clear his throat softly as he adjusts the strap of his bag over his shoulder, tone blasé and logical. “Don’t see why we’d need to do all that for a tutoring session.”

The young woman’s arms tighten around her books as she tries to regulate her nerves. “Oh, I was just…I just thought—”

“I’m more comfortable in my office. That way, we can go down the hall and ask the prof any questions that I might not be able to answer.” He remarks with blunt finality, cocking his head towards the closed door of his designated room, referencing the paper taped at the center of the frosted glass window. “Again, office hours are on my door and posted on the portal. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m about to go on my lunch break, so I’ll see you in class on Friday. Don’t forget to do the online quiz, and email me if you have any more questions. Have a nice day.”

Y/N, who’d been observing the exchange from around the corner of the wall, actively bites into her tongue to keep from sputtering into laughter. A wave of twisted satisfaction surges through her chest as she watches Harry turn his back on the girl with a curt nod goodbye, pacing directly towards her with an emotionless aura about his nature, as if he’s already forgotten Monica’s existence. The student’s face pinches into a hurt expression over his shoulder, and she finally peels away towards the other end of the building, clearly dejected and irked by his cutthroat rejection. Y/N finds herself feeling a bit guilty for finding pleasure in the awkwardness of the exchange. She’s happy he’d turned her down, because indirectly, it means he’s probably not interested in pursuing anyone else except her, but she’s always been prone to empathizing with others, so she can imagine the dent the entire situation must have left on Monica’s confidence.

Y/N dismisses her thoughts as Harry finally meets her at the end of the corridor, opting for repenting later when she’s has the time to spare.

He greets her with an airy smile, his demeanor much less harsh and clinical than it’d been a few seconds prior. “Ready for lunch?”

Y/N returns his gesture with a gentle grin of her own, nodding delicately as she falls into step beside him, heading for the exit of the liberal arts building in route to the university’s cafeteria. “Gotta admit, that was kinda hot.”

Harry’s features peak with mystified curiosity at her unexpected compliment, utterly lost on what he’d done to deserve it. “What was?”

She juts her head back over her shoulder in a motion that highlights the scene that had unfolded earlier, and she can’t stop her mouth from curling smugly at the fact that she’s one of the only people who gets to enjoy Harry’s company off campus. “The way you turned her down. It was very technical and prompt. Points for professionalism.”

Recognition slowly dawns across Harry’s appearance, his dimples winking awake. “You were eavesdropping?”

“I happened to be in the area and accidentally overheard the convo.”

“Yeah, I’m sure that’s exactly what happened.” He replies playfully, absently drumming the pads of his fingers along the thick strap of the bag hanging off his body. He reverts back to her initial topic, shrugging one shoulder casually as he unconsciously matches her stride, his voice indifferent and dismissive. “It wasn’t hard, to be honest. I don’t sleep with students.”

Y/N blinks blankly at his contradictory statement. “We’re all students here, Harry.”

“Right, let me rephrase: I don’t sleep with my students.”

“Mm, smart. Prevents bias.”

“Precisely. S’not fair to score higher on an assignment just because you’re deepthroating the TA on weekends, is it?”

“Not fair at all.”

“It keeps things clean cut and simple. I don’t like drama, especially not when it comes to my degree. Don’t really feel like getting expelled.”

She gives him an understanding nod, allowing a couple of silent beats to suspend between them for a moment, the only sound being the echoing steps of their shoes. Then, she speaks up again, her words a low, curious mumble. “Is that the only reason you rejected her?”

Harry shoots her a knowing glance, mood sarcastic and jesting. “I think we both know the answer to that, Dickinson.”

“Do we?”

“Yeah. We do.”

“I don’t think I do, actually. I might need you to clarify, Socrates.”

He sighs lightly through his nose, extending his arm forward as they reach the glass door of the building, tugging it open and stepping to the side for her to pass first. “Are you really gonna make me say it?”

Y/N halts before the threshold of the exit, refusing to move even a smidge, a cocky smirk stringing across her lips as she stands there and waits for him to cave under her whims. “Absolutely.”

Harry rolls his eyes grandly, running his tongue over his top teeth and pushing it against the inside of his cheek, contemplating her with a deadpan look and an apathetic vein under his next comment. “Are you serious right now? What are you, five?”

“And a half.” She jokes arrogantly, crossing her arms over her chest as she begins tapping the toe of her converse expectantly, not intending to budge anytime soon. “So I suggest you elaborate on what you meant, or we’ll be here all day. And I suggest you hurry; I heard The Pavilion has those chicken fajita wraps you like and they always run out quick.”

The young man sighs again, the exhale rough and irritated this time around, though she can detect a faint glimmer of amusement glinting beneath the glossy surface of his glasses. He scoffs dramatically in mild disbelief, and then forfeits the validation she’s obviously seeking. “Student rule aside, I rejected her because I have no immediate interest in pursuing a relationship right now.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because I’m seeing someone. Sort of.”

“Are you, now?”

“Mmhm.”

“So you rejected her because you like someone else?”

Harry’s presses his lips into a thin line to keep them from spreading into a smitten smile. “‘Like’ is a strong word. ‘Tolerate’ is more appropriate.”

“Alright, so you said no because you tolerate someone else?”

He gives her body a swift, objectifying once-over, shrugging his brows suggestively. “Unfortunately.”

Y/N’s cheeks simmer at his thinly-veiled innuendo. “Interesting.”

“Is it?”

“It is.”

“Are we done here? Can I go get my wrap now, before I starve to death and end up as a dissection cadaver for the anatomy lab students?”

After giving him one more cheeky look, she finally caves, stepping through the opened door and regaining their path towards the food court at the center of their campus. “I suppose.”

Harry follows behind her, the irony in his voice carrying over her shoulder. “How generous of you to give me permission to go on with my life. Very ethical.”

“Don’t act like you don’t love it when I boss you around. I bet you’re hard right now, aren’t you?”

“Maybe just a bit.”

[ragingbookdragon]

Guy liked to crank the radios in the bar just shy of full volume whenever it wasn’t opening time yet. Just him, sometimes Kyle—but honestly, you had to roll Kyle out of bed in the mornings for him to be there at the ass-crack of dawn, and that did not happen very often—and usually the robot that spent a majority of her time observing the human Lanterns whenever they were on Oa. And because Guy was the only one awake at the moment, she was there in the bar observing him until he put her to work with a broom, and shit, even her sweeping was methodical. It also meant that with her being there, he wasn’t allowed to play his music all the way up; hell, she didn’t even have ears, but he didn’t want to be a giant dick and deafen whatever sound-processing nodes she had in her head.

He tapped his foot behind the bar along with the drumbeat, head bobbing slightly as he sung under his breath the words to “Cherry Pie.” Kyle had been annoyingly up his ass since opening the bar, that Guy needed more music than just Aerosmith, so he went for a mix of seventies and eighties rock, which seemed to satisfy most of the humans and aliens who didn’t have to listen to “Dude Looks Like A Lady” anymore. He swung the rag over his shoulder and set the glass he’d been cleaning back on the rack, momentarily admiring the long row of crystal beer mugs and wine glasses that had come from alien planets all over the universe’s sectors.

“Lantern Guy,” someone said from behind and he turned, looking at the AI who was standing there with the broom in her hand; the three, green-glowing irises in each eye rotated as she gazed at him. “I have finished sweeping the floor of the establishment. Shall I sweep behind the bar as well?”

He shook his head. “Nah, don’t worry about it.”

“Very well,” she replied. “What do you wish me to do with the broom?”

“Maintenance closet,” he said, tipping his head to the little room in the corner. “There’s a rack you can set it on.”

“Understood.” She turned and walked over to the closet, returning moments later to sit on the padded barstool.

Guy turned. “Want some motor oil?” he joked. “It’s on the house.”

Her head cocked slightly, and she blinked. “As I do not consume food or liquid, I am unsure of what you are asking me, Lantern Guy.”

“No, it’s a—” he let out a sigh and drug a hand down his face. “Never mind.”

She blinked again, then a look of recognition came over her artificial features. “Oh, you are making a joke. Asking if I want motor oil because robots are typically associated with using gas and oils as fuel. I understand the humor and the joke now.”

“Oh, do you?” he retorted, brows pinched. “‘Cause it’s not as funny when you explain it.”

This robot just did not pick up on sarcasm because she merely glanced in the direction of the speakers and said, “Lantern Guy, I have noticed that a majority of the music you listen to has sexual analogies.”

He cocked a ginger brow. “Uh huh…”

“Yes, the song, “You Shook Me All Night Long,” by the seventies, Australian rock band, “AC/DC,” is full of sexual innuendoes.” She looked back at him. “Boston rock band, “Aerosmith” has many songs of the same idea. Their song “Rag Doll,” is an example.” A curious look came across her face. “Lantern Guy, do you listen to these songs because they have these sexual innuendoes and analogies?”

Guy spluttered, cheeks flushing, and Guy-fucking-Gardner did not blush. “What! No! I just like ‘em ‘cause they’re what I grew up listening to!”

“Oh…I see,” she answered. “Do you find the music aesthetically pleasing?”

He stopped feeling warm under his skin and he started cleaning an already clean glass to keep his attention on not blushing again. “Yeah. Beat’s good. And the lyrics, not the sexual ones, but from other songs, they have meaning.”

“You are saying that music in this human era does not have meaning anymore?”

Guy shrugged. “Some of us just prefer the oldies. Kyle and his friends are in the newer crowd. The pop and other shit coming out these days is what they’re into.”

“But not you or Lantern Hal, for that matter.”

“Hal’s dad used to listen to old country like Johnny Cash, so he’s like his old man.”

“You are not like yours though?”

“I’m not my father and I won’t ever be,” he denounced, jaw clenching in anger.

She was watching him carefully. “I registered a change in your emotional state, Lantern Guy. I apologize. My intention of the remark was not to anger you, but merely to reach an agreement with you that you are not like your father.”

Guy huffed and waved it off. “It’s cool. Let’s just go back to talking about music.” He glanced at her. “Do you like any of the music we’ve been playing? I know Kyle gets in here and plays that pop shit from time to time. But that’s only when I’m away on missions.”

She pondered his question for a moment. “There are songs from all genres that many of the human Lanterns have played that I enjoy.”

“What’s your favorite song?” he asked, then followed up with, “If you have one.”

Her glowing green eyes found his and she replied, “The English group “Duran Duran” made a song called, “The Wild Boys. My processors enjoy that song, especially when you and the others of the Four Corpsmen are in the vicinity.”

Guy’s expression turned confused. “What? Why?”

She smiled, a smile way too human for an AI, and merely said, “It reminds me of you four.”

“Now what in the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I apologize, Lantern Guy,” she hummed while getting up and heading for the door. “But my processors are needing to be connected the Oan mainframe for updates. I am afraid I cannot stay any longer.”

Guy damn near hopped the bar as he hurried after her. “Wait! Get back here and explain that shit to me! DAMNIT COME BACK HERE, YOU TIN CAN SUPERCOMPUTER! YOU’RE NOT GETTING OUT OF THIS!”

[chanfictions]

How would yandere Itachi, Naruto, Deidra, Pein and Konan react to the reader having a diary and she writes stuff in it like how someone constantly keeps flirting with her and a bunch of other things. Would they snoop through it?

I don't write for Naruto, but here are some scenarios for the others. I decided to keep Pein and Konan together for this one. Hope you enjoy!

Secrets

Characters: Itachi, Deidara, Pein & Konan

Warnings: Yandere behavior, manipulation, gaslighting

1.4k

Itachi

Your frequent disappearances into your room and the quiet scratching of pencil on paper that followed didn't go unnoticed by the ever-observant Itachi Uchiha. He had been mentally tracking the occurrences that resulted in your slipping away to privately scribble for a few weeks now, but he had yet to investigate further… until today.

You returned from a trip to town with the heat of a simmering secret burning your cheeks and carefully avoided running into Itachi as you slunk back into the house, knowing you would never be able to hide the look on your face from him. After quickly putting the groceries away, you slipped off to your room and dug out your journal from its hiding spot beneath a loose floorboard. Head abuzz with the disbelief that it had happened again, you hurriedly began recording the titillating details of what should have been an innocuous stop at a market stall upon the first blank page. "I ran into baguette guy again today… and he gave me the most jaw dropping smile I've ever seen in my life. Okay, it wasn't just a smile. It was a smile, and a laugh, and he said--" You paused for a moment, whispering to yourself and biting your lip as you recalled the playfully suggestive way he flirted with you over your choice of bread.

"Would you mind repeating that?" A dangerously soft voice hummed from behind you, causing you to drop your pencil and slam the pages of your now-discovered, not-so-secret-anymore journal shut.

"I-itachi!" You squeaked, dropping the little tome and spinning around to face the calm, unamused face gazing coldly down at you. "It was n-nothing, really. Just a joke," you stammered quickly.

"If it was as innocent as you claim, then you can tell me without fear what it was that he said to you," Itachi murmured, feigning ignorance as to what you had mumbled to yourself, grasping your chin lightly as his eyes shifted to a vicious crimson color.

You froze, losing yourself in the depths of his stare as you felt the world beginning to shift and buckle. Hands trembling and lip quivering, you whispered out a prayer, "Please, don't--"

"Tell me, darling, where can I find this man who spoke to you with such vulgarity?" Itachi's leering gaze burned through your soul, stripping you of any ability to defy him with the grip of his visual prowess. With his free hand, he brushed loose strands of hair away from your face in a motion that you might have found soothing under different circumstances.

Your vision blurred as you collapsed through consecutive glass plates of shattering realities. Shards of where you had been cracked and turned to dust as your day played back in reverse until Itachi obtained the information he required. While he could have simply paged through your writings for answers, he respected the semblance of privacy you found in the imagined safety of that journal. Regardless, today would be the last day you had any thoughts about the cute, flirty baker who deigned to make a playful pass at you while you were doing your weekly shopping. You wouldn't remember who he was after this, and soon, he would no longer be a threat at all.

Deidara

Deidara just knew you were hiding something from him, and it was driving him absolutely mad that he couldn't place what. He would walk by your room sometimes and find you with an unexplained smile upon your lips or a giggle at a punchline that only you had heard. So today, while you were in the shower, he finally let his curiosity get the better of him. He waited quietly just outside of your room until he heard the sound of water splashing from the showerhead and slunk in, immediately beginning to poke around. While he wasn't quite sure what he was looking for, he was just positive there had to be something.

"Oh, what's this?" He mused, having spotted the corner of something colorful peeking out from between the mattress and boxspring. Before he knew it, he was quickly paging through your most private thoughts, chewing on his knuckles when he reached a passage involving some hapless jerk who had the gall to flirt with you one day when he wasn't around. Stifling his jealousy was more difficult than he anticipated. Unfortunately, though, he didn't have enough time to read the entire story. All too soon, the sound of water ceased, and he had to quickly stuff your diary back into its hiding spot before making himself scarce, so as to not alert you that he had been digging through your things.

"That's weird," you mumbled to yourself after walking out into your room with a towel wrapped around your body, noticing that a pillow had fallen off of your bed. Wondering if you just knocked it off yourself while tucking your journal away, you chewed the inside of your cheek for a moment before digging through your dresser for clothes.

It wasn't until a few weeks later when Deidara brought up something that you were certain you had never told him that you put two and two together -- he had been sneaking into your room every time you showered to check your diary for new information, always on edge now and afraid that he would find another flirty entry. He seemed far too in tune with what you were feeling as of late, which was what first made you suspicious. Then, the few innocent encounters you had with some handsome, male villagers ended with them having tragic accidents that began feeling a bit too coincidental.

Deidara, of course, vehemently denied any involvement in the matter, crossing his arms and scoffing. "Don't be ridiculous," he snorted. "Besides, what does it matter that a few lousy nobodies fell to their deaths? It's not like it was anyone important to you."

Your heart twisted and sank into your stomach, as you had never told Deidara how those poor souls met their end, and your suspicions regarding his involvement were all but confirmed. You just tilted your head and smiled weakly at him as you tried to suppress the quiver in your voice. "You're right, Dei. I'm just being silly. It doesn't matter at all."

Pein and Konan

Pein cared little about the contents of your stashed diary, as he was the one to gift it to you in the first place to help quell the unease you had been feeling living under his thumb. Konan, on the other hand, was filled with an aching curiosity, wanting to know the most secret, inner workings of your heart. As soon as she spotted the locked little book tucked away in your dresser, her need to know became nearly insatiable. Every few days, she checked your hiding spot, hoping she might find it unlocked, but she had no such luck. You treasured the gift of privacy Pein had given you and ritualistically locked it with the key that dangled around your neck.

The days drifted by like repeating echoes. You paced your room with little to do, not having any assignments or tasks to perform in the organization since you were more or less Pein and Konan's pet. While they treated you fairly well, your boredom was swiftly devolving into a somber loneliness, as you felt you had no one safe to talk to about your feelings but the pages of that little book.

Slowly, you began growing withdrawn and spent more time writing than anything else. When your conversations with Pein and Konan became one-sided due to your decreased desire to share your thoughts with anyone but the empty, listening lines of your diary, Pein finally intervened. "You can have this back when you find your voice again." He spoke in a soft baritone while lifting the metal loop that held the key to your diary over your head and tucking it into his pocket.

You stared at your feet with a lost, anxious expression, fearing that now he would go back and read every complaint and rant you had scribbled upon those pages about your frustration with being their property. The nervousness twisted your guts into terrible, nauseating knots.

Cool knuckles brushed across your cheek, eventually moving beneath your jaw to tip your gaze up to meet his. "I will allow you to keep your secrets so long as you can find it within yourself to speak."

Staring up into those impossible eyes, your despair only deepened. One way or another, Pein was going to find out what was troubling you.

[sisterlelianas]

another life (oh, if only you knew)

ao3 link

this is a “small” (🤡) one-shot where our lady alcina dimitrescu meets the woman who ends up being her future lover for the first time before she’s turned into a vampire. they meet again, centuries later and are both unprepared to face each other, in their own way. In other words: they are gay ❤️ + someone tell these two fools how to navigate their feelings for each other, PLEASE 

word count: 10.810 words (yeah, i know)

author’s notes: a huge chunk of this was written before i played the game, meaning most of it (including things regarding Heisenberg’s powers, etc) is not canon compliant, still, i feel like going against canon is a good thing for us, anyway. y’all know what i mean. SO! this one-shot is actually really close to my heart. alcina and the girls live in my head absolutely rent free and i don’t even mind. hope you all enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it

p.s. this is the first fic that i have ever posted and written. blame it on our milf

Big, social gatherings were useful in their own, distinct way. Meeting counts, their wives, the countesses... the secret lovers of those same counts, which everyone, but the wives, were aware of... there were plenty of those. Never a dull moment, truly. Attending a party your dear, darling husband organised, however, was a different story. Alcina Dimitrescu was not the kind of woman to be more than glad to step back from her role and allow a man to take the reigns for her, to allow him to play the part of the head of the house. She oftentimes found herself wishing for his... mysterious disappearance. He could even flat out drop dead - she was not picky. 

The overwhelming noise of constant blabbering from her guests was beginning to irritate her, though. Meaningless social affairs were most definitely beneath the Countess - hiding the frown that would frequently settle on the corners of her mouth, after a particularly loud cackle from one of the men, by sipping some wine seemed to be turning into a recurring move for the woman. Everywhere she looked all she could see was uninteresting people playing a part. Acting as if they were all happy to be there. What else was new? The same faces carrying out the same conversations. The worst part was that her husband had the most... particular taste in friends. They were all male, of course, and so incredibly stupid and dull. The kind you look at and just know they won’t be saying anything insightful throughout the entire affair. Men, the Countess mused. What else could you expect from such limited beings? The mere thought of them making her frown deeper, her lips pursing slightly for what seemed like a millisecond. 

Her husband was fuelled by attention - seemed to thrive off it, actually. She turned to look at him from the red, bergère chair she was sitting on and observed his behaviour from afar. One hand was in his pocket, the other holding a golden goblet filled to the brim with red wine. The contents of it would often spill and fall to the floor whenever he would give a hearty laugh or swing his arms around to better illustrate whatever dull-witted point he was trying to make. The goblet was filled to the brim no longer and his cheeks were rosy, meaning he was far from being sober, at that point. It was only a matter of time before she had to step in and chastise him for acting like a fool whose goal seemed to be disgracing House Dimitrescu, something the Countess would never turn a blind eye to. She held on to her own goblet of wine tighter, then. Luckily, it was not made of glass, or it would have shattered.

She exhaled harshly from her nose, once, before a charming, almost musical laugh broke her reverie. She had to keep herself from snapping her head to the side to look at where the sound had come from, making her movements slow and precise instead, so as to not draw attention to herself or her newfound curiosity. Well, well. Now that was a pleasant sight. The sound had come from a woman. An extremely beautiful one, at that. Her hair was brown, braided most elegantly, and complemented her features in a way that was almost indescribable. The warm lighting of the ballroom they were in altered it’s hue, reminding the other woman of free, autumn leaves, drifting gracefully in the wind. The Countess wondered how long the woman’s hair would be if she were to free it from the pins that were holding it in place.

Her dress was red, cut somewhat generously at the front. Bold, for the gathering she was attending, though it certainly made a statement, it would seem. The frame fitting, silken dress appeared to draw the attention of several men, who, of course, barely even bothered to make eye contact with the woman whenever they spoke to her. This made Alcina’s lips curl down momentarily in disgust. Men could truly be such dogs, she thought. 

The brown haired woman captured the attention of every person around her whenever she’d speak, although the smile she wore did not reach her hazel coloured eyes - it had a subtle, mechanical look to it - and her posture was slightly too stiff, as if she studied every move before actually moving. Her smile, her demeanour... it was all clearly forced, but only those who were paying very close attention could see through her mask. The woman’s eyes then shifted downwards when she sipped her wine. She felt a pair of eyes on her - sort of like how you feel when roaming around in a haunted house, you don’t see anything, yet feel everything, only this time, the feeling was more than welcomed. Drifting her eyes upwards, she finally met the Countess’s gaze. Almost like a magnet. How intriguing. She was, indeed, hauntingly beautiful, the mysterious woman thought. 

Time seemed to stand still for a moment, in a way that was almost too cliché. The brunette half-hoped she could relive the moment all over again. She could not look away. They both couldn’t. 

The woman’s lips were still hidden behind the glass of wine, but her eyes told the Countess all she needed to know. They stared at each other for what seemed like centuries and every second of it was absolutely delicious - the brunette didn’t shy away from Alcina’s prying eyes at all, she seemed to revel in the fact that she was the one the Countess was looking at - her chest puffed slightly, her head tilting upwards a bit, and when she finally removed the goblet from her face she had an almost missable smirk painting her soft, red lips, making one of Alcina’s eyebrows arch slightly. Ah, at this rate, the things you could see just by looking into another person’s eyes was almost criminal. 

Their staring contest was, much to Alcina’s chagrin, broken when a particularly loud and obnoxious laugh came from her husband. The fool was probably trying to charm one of his guests for the umpteenth time that evening. Having had enough, she stood up at once and took long strides towards him so as to not allow him to embarrass himself, or, rather, her, any further. The room didn’t fall silent, but several people spoke in a hushed tone as they watched the Countess walk towards the opposite side of the room. The way she moved was almost hypnotic - the skirts of her dress shifted delicately, her face completely still, not betraying any emotions, not a hair on her head out of place. It was almost as if she was floating.

“Beloved,” the sound of her voice evoked an immediate reaction out of her husband, who quickly turned to face her, visibly sputtering, and out of several other people near them. Heads literally turned. 

Everyone knew who was at the helm of House Dimitrescu, it didn’t matter how many parties her husband attempted to throw or how many Counts he tried to butter up. There was only one, and it was not him. It was her. He knew this. She knew this. Everyone did, and playing the part of the good, perfect, respectable wife was beginning to wear the woman down in a way that was borderline dangerous, at that point. Men are technically allowed to rule sometimes, unfortunately. This was not one of those times.

“My dearest wife-“ her husband started, slurring his words slightly. She immediately cut him off by grasping his arm in a way that told him to stop talking, but also looked relatively loving to whoever was watching, “A word,” she was not asking, she was telling. 

The brown haired woman, who had previously captured the Countess’s attention, watched as the couple walked, with their arms linked, towards a secluded part of their castle. She noticed how the black haired woman nodded curtly towards her guests as she walked past them, not wanting to be a poor host despite being displeased with her husband’s behaviour. Brown eyes took in the other woman’s.... figure as she walked away. A sight to behold, as she had initially guessed. Her dress hugged all her curves in the most mouthwatering way. It was almost too difficult for one to tear their eyes from her.

In the meantime, the party was simply not the same when she was absent. Like an ever-present energy, not a soul in that room could look at the Countess and mistake her for a person who could go unnoticed. Even if she wasn’t in the room physically, everything had her name written all over it. It was hers. It was all hers. 

 ——

Several moments passed before the Countess and her husband decided to grace the party with their presence once more, still, the brunette immediately took note of it and watched as the other woman navigated the room confidently to greet some of her other guests, never once breaking into a full smile, however. Maybe they just hadn’t earned it.

If she wanted to greet her and leave a lasting impression, before having to leave the party, it had to be now.  

——

“— they are positively dreadful. I cannot bear the sight of them. The man calls himself a painter yet cannot seem to find within himself the ability to paint properly!” a man loudly said, some of the guests laughing along with him. Others at him. Alcina’s facial expression, on the other hand, remained completely neutral with no signs of her cracking a smile anytime soon. The man noticed and, unfortunately for him, made an attempt to mansplain art to the Lady of the House. The group fell silent, uncomfortably so, as the man waited on Alcina to grace him with a response. It did not seem like he was getting one. 

“You are out of your depth, Constantin,” Alcina immediately recognised the lilting voice, looked over her left shoulder and towards the sound. It was her. The phrase was voiced with a hint of playfulness so as to not humiliate the man any further, “Our host knows more about the wonders of the arts than you ever will.” She was standing directly beside Alcina now, yet seemingly refused to meet her gaze, choosing not to break eye contact with the man who dared question the Lady’s knowledge instead.

“In fact,” she inhaled through her nose, pursed her lips - allowing a hint of contempt to escape her for a fleeting moment - and clasped her hands at her front, “I believe we are all uncultured, empty-headed people in comparison, no? Some more than others”, she gave the man a pointed look, making the people around her chuckle in consensual agreement. That’s when she finally turned her head to face the other woman, whose gaze had been boring holes into her head as soon as she had decided to stand beside her. That’s when the brunette noticed that no one else was near the Countess, but all directly in front of her. It was as if she had stepped onto the woman’s stage. The realisation made her bow her head humbly before turning her body to fully face her, “I don’t believe we’ve met, my Countess”, she extended her hand, “Angela Drăculea, I have been meaning to make your acquaintance for awhile, now”.

This time, her smile had reached her eyes, which were now half-lidded. The laugh lines that formed charmingly around them only seemed to become more noticeable once Alcina took her hand in her own and hummed in acknowledgement, “I don’t believe our husbands have met”, she stated matter of factly.

“I beg your pardon?” the other woman said. They were still holding each other’s hands, the feeling sending shivers down Angela’s spine - she even seemed to draw nearer when the Countess spoke, which did not go unnoticed. Like a sailor being charmed by a siren, completely unaware of the perils surrounding such action. Alcina’s gaze refused to leave her own. It soon became intoxicating.

“He would have introduced us by now,” her calming voice said, before finally dropping the other woman’s hand, “Unless you come here uninvited and are a trespasser,” once again, it was not posed as an inquiry, it was as if she was throwing statements at the other woman, gauging her reaction to them.

The brunette squinted her eyes without dropping her endearing smile, “Our husbands have not met, no.” she squared her shoulders, then, and allowed her gaze to drift downwards, towards the Countess’s necklace, though she doubted that that’s what the other woman was  really looking at, “I am afraid I have no husband to introduce in the first place,” she playfully said, giving her a knowing smile and looking into her eyes once more. Angela was good at matching other people’s energy. If they teased, she would tease back. If they taunted, she would follow. If they threatened...

A hint of a smile ghosted Alcina’s lips, “Is that so?”

The atmosphere changed around them almost immediately. Some of the guests even squirmed uncomfortably whilst watching the verbal exchange unfold. It was not a normal conversation by any means. The brunette seemed to be speaking to the Countess for a particular reason. Alcina, on the other hand, was testing her. Watching her. Studying her, in a way that was not totally uncomfortable but also let the other woman know that she was not to be taken for a fool. Even so, their audience didn’t seem to bother this so-called ‘Angela’, Alcina noted. If anything, it only seemed to encourage her. Interesting, she thought.

The woman gave a smile, that was absolutely sinful, and bit down on her bottom lip for a split second. The woman opened her mouth to say something before placing her, now empty, goblet of wine on a round, silver platter one of the servants, who walked past her, was holding, “Indeed,”

“Rather unusual, wouldn’t you say?”, her tone lost all signs of amusement, then, and her expression turned almost sour. The sudden change of heart caught the brunette off guard, but unfortunately to Alcina, she was quick-witted and would not back down easily.

“Some would say so, yes,” her chin tilted upwards almost imperceptibly. She couldn’t stand taller than the other woman even if she tried, however. They were about the same height, Angela was slightly shorter, but the way the Lady of the House carried herself made her look taller than any other person in that room, almost incomprehensibly so, “Some would even go as far as to question my womanhood. Be that as it may... it is not how I see it.”

Alcina’s nostrils flared for a brief second, she had a feeling that the woman before her was about to cross a line that should never be crossed. Not with her. It was as if she was pushing all her buttons just to see if she could. A mistake. Nevertheless, she pressed on, “How do you see it?”, she glowered, daring her to speak her mind.

Angela didn’t look the tiniest bit regretful. It drove Alcina mad. She was a lady, therefore making a scene was absolutely out of the question, but Gods be damned, if the woman in front of her didn’t stay in line—

“Complete and utter freedom.” she cooed. The last thing Alcina expected was for the woman to bend at the waist, then, seemingly choosing to remove herself from the conversation now before it ended poorly, and moved to hold the Countess’s hand in her own once more. She paused, allowing Alcina to remove her hand from her grasp. When that didn’t come, she looked up from under her lashes, not moving from the position she was in, and placed a deliberate kiss on her hand, feeling it tense up under her touch. 

Once they stood at eye level, the first thing Angela observed was the Lady’s facial expression. First, her eyes flashed dangerously. Then, her jaw clenched. But then, and much to the brunettes dismay, Alcina’s face went blank. All terrible signs, when one is making an attempt at courtship, really. No matter though, because the last thing Angela noticed before finally moving away from the Countess were her eyes. One’s body always betrays them, it would seem, for the woman’s pupils were blown and only one word was written all over her face. Desire.

“In another life, perhaps?” was all the infuriating woman said, a soft smile on her face, before finally moving away, turning her back on the Lady and disappearing into the crowd. She left just as the Countess’s husband decided to join in on the conversation he had just missed. Whatever it was that he said, it earned him a hissed out reply from his wife. 

 ———————————————

“My decision is final, there will be no argument.  Remember from whence you came,” was all the priestess had to say for the room to settle down, “Unless any of you provide me with a reason as to why our plan should change, I advise you all spare me your childish, petty squabbles”. Her voice was cold and left no room for disagreement. Heisenberg looked at his sister, his chest puffed and a ridiculously smug grin on his face. There was nothing more she wanted to do at that moment than wipe it off his face. With his hammer, perhaps. 

He had always been an irksome man, yet became even more so after his transformation. Alcina was thankful for the fact that she did not have to deal with his presence on a daily basis. He was like an annoying smell you simply could not get rid of and having to deal with familial issues even after your death felt like a poor joke. He did not respect her. She would have to change that.

“Thank you, Mother Miranda,” he patronisingly said, bowing to his sister mockingly, “you will not be disappointed”. There was his wolffish grin again. Alcina tsked and moved to stand behind her seat once more. Losing Ethan Winters did not irritate her too much - she did not care for the man nor for his safety - the fact that she was losing him to her brother, of all people, however... Now, that was a different story. It seemed that, even in death, men attempted to reach for things that were not theirs to claim. She knew her brother. His irresponsible nature would end up getting the best of him and she would have to clean up his mess. That’s how it always went. She and her daughters would’ve killed the mortal so much quicker. 

He turned to face the man in shackles then, opened his arms wide and began, loudly, “Lycans and gentlemen, we thank you for waiting! And, now, let the games beg—“ 

He would have finished his speech if he had not been rudely interrupted by the sound of the doors, leading to the old, dilapidated chapel, slamming against the walls, a woman standing on the threshold. She was wearing all black garments, which were softly swaying in the cold, winter breeze, her face fully shadowed and hidden both by her hood and some kind of plain, black material covering the lower half of her face. Not a single hint of skin in sight. Her ensamble was not poor or dirty in the slightest. It was perhaps a bit hard on the eyes, but one could tell it was carefully handpicked by its wearer. Clothes do make others perceive you differently, after all. Whatever it was that she was trying to achieve by dressing in such fashion, it seemed that she had succeeded.

Her posture was straight and one of her, gloved, hands was holding on to some kind of satchel. Everyone in the room was surprised by the sudden interruption, including the mortal, who was now making pathetic attempts to uncomfortably turn and face whatever new threat he would have to deal with later. Everyone looked as if the woman was trespassing. Everyone but the priestess. 

“You have decided to join us after all, I see,” her tone was far from welcoming. It almost sounded as if she was reprimanding the woman, not just for interrupting their meeting, but for showing up at all, “Do you come bearing news?”, once again, her tone was flat, giving away the impression of utter disinterest and boredom. 

Heisenberg was leaning against his hammer and pinching the bridge of his nose with his right hand, probably wondering when he was going to be allowed to play with his food. Alcina, on the other hand, was watching this woman, who had not yet made a sound, carefully. It was almost like they had been interrupted by a ghost. A ghost they were not meant to see. She took the other woman in once more, noticing how she was, surprisingly, not as short as the others around her. Still not as tall as the Countess, but definitely much taller than her brother, for instance. How interesting. 

“My suspicions were correct,” that voice.... where could she have heard it before? Lady Dimitrescu stood taller then, her eyes widening for a split second and her lips forming a thin line before she could keep her facial expressions under check. It could not be, could it? After all those years? 

“You took your precious time,” Miranda critiqued, “what have you learned?”, the room was dead silent, save for a few lycans who were growling lowly at the new guest. All eyes were set on this newcomer, which, interestingly enough, seemed to upset her. Her hand had left her satchel and was now gripping her black cloak, as if she was trying to wrap it around herself even tighter. Only one other person in the room kept most of her body covered - Donna, the head of House Benenviento, but even she was a poor example. One woman was a... grieving daughter, the other was not.

“Our enemy, our true enemy, is one Chris Redfield. He plans to strike from the shadows once we are all too exhausted to retaliate.” Her voice was being somewhat muffled by the material covering her face, but it was clear enough that no one needed to listen closely to understand what she was saying. Even if she looked utterly uncomfortable, her posture did not give that away at all. She stood tall. Proud. She did not cower or shift closer to the shadows, no matter how badly she wanted to. In all honesty, it was not a poor effort, but there was one person who could see right through her. 

“And you know this how, exactly?” Heisenberg drawled. Moving away from his hammer and sliding his glasses down the bridge of his nose just to take a better look at the woman.

“He is here. In your village. Roaming around your property. Studying you. Something that is only happening because you were much too busy hunting down this stupid, useless man for sport,” the woman snapped, yet kept the volume of her voice relatively low and her tone neutral, clearly not entertained by the man’s behaviour. Her eyes gave out this orange glow with a red tint to it - they flashed whenever Heisenberg tried to address her. Some curses become a blessing though, because the man’s infuriating demeanour made the woman let go of her cloak, her posture straightening once more, but not out of discomfort this time. 

“Careful, Angela,” the priestess warned, cutting their argument short, “know your place.” it was posed as a warning, not a threat,  but, frankly, Angela had been roaming the Earth for far too long, now, and standing down was not something she was inclined to do. Ever.

“With all due respect, my Priestess, my place is something I am excruciating and painfully aware of.” Angela spat out, her tone making Alcina’s lips curl upwards in acknowledgement for a brief moment. That did sound like the woman she had met on that dreadful party all those years ago. Though she was, obviously, not the same as she once was... in more ways than one.

The room fell silent for the umpteenth time that day and remained that way for a few, uncomfortable seconds. Angela’s chest rose and fell steadily, her eyes never leaving the priestess’s. The awkward, tense moment was broken when the House Beneviento puppet, Angie, coughed once, followed by a small, meek “.... sorry...”. This was going to be a long day. 

“I just want my daughter—“ general grumbles of annoyance and a loud ‘shut the fuck up’ came from the people around him. Well. Maybe that would have to come later.

“You cannot be suggesting we let this man go?” the word was practically spat out, which was definitely in character for Lady Dimitrescu, “For once, I agree with my sister,” was what Heisenberg said, earning him a disgusted look from the Countess. 

“Maybe I have not made myself clear,” Angela turned to face Alcina for the first time in literal centuries, then. The taller woman wished she could see her face, her fingers twitched momentarily at the thought. Still, she refused to let any kind of emotion seep through her mask, opting to pretend to be completely unfazed by their conversation instead. 

The other woman did not seem particularly glad to see her, which sent an uncomfortable feeling through the lady vampire’s chest. This kind of behaviour was not to be rewarded.

.... Surely she had not forgotten her? 

“I suggest we move our efforts towards a more fruitful endeavour, such as doing away with the man who wants to eradicate us. It is entirely up to you, however,” her eyes scanned the taller woman’s face. Looking at her eyes, her hair, the laugh lines around her mouth and, then, settling on her lips before looking away entirely. 

It was strange, seeing her like this. Her fiery personality was, of course, still there, but before the Countess stood a woman who was merely a shell of who she used to be. She had often thought about the woman who had boldly courted her for all to see. Wondered if she had lived a full life. Happy and free, as she was. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. She looked utterly miserable now, which was a clear indication of just how consensual the experiments that were inflicted upon her were. There they stood. What had once separated them centuries ago seemed to separate them now. One was still a caged animal, struggling to get free. 

A pang of something hit Alcina’s chest. That was definitely not a feeling she welcomed with open arms. Some things are meant to be secured under lock and key. Never to be brought up, not once. This was one of those things. 

The woman bowed her head slightly, a sign of respect towards the Countess. Having seen that, Heisenberg made a disgusted sound, immediately destroying whatever moment they were about to have. 

“Fine. If this one goes, I want the other one,” he turned towards Miranda, “It is only fair,” the smug smile returning to his face.

The Houses argued amongst each other whilst Angela stood on the sidelines watching it all unfold. The dynamic between them seemed about what you’d expect from a bunch of dysfunctional monsters whose Mother was hellbent on calling them a family, though it was borderline comical most of the time. Angela pursed her lips and looked away from the scene with disinterest, her gaze landing on the mortal, instead. Funnily enough, he looked more confused than frightened, which almost made the woman’s lips curl up in amusement. His expression was understandable.

She was pulled away from her thoughts when Alcina threw a particularly petty insult at her brother, her eyes flashing dangerously and her booming voice carrying throughout the entire building. Even after centuries having passed, she remained the most strikingly powerful and beautiful woman Angela had ever seen. She took her time observing her then - the way the veins on her neck became more noticeable when she began raising her voice; the way her nose scrunched up in disgust whenever her brother tried to speak to her; the way she scoffed and waved her hand at him dismissively whenever he made another stupid comment. Even so, she remained positively regal throughout the entire verbal exchange. Angela wished for nothing more than to be a painter, at that exact moment, so she could immortalise the Countess as she saw her. Gazing upon her this freely almost felt like a privilege. 

If only she could go back in time, she would have taken her away from that blasted party and her stupid husband and kept her all to herself, though she doubts the Countess would have let her. 

Sighing in relief when Miranda put an end to their fighting for the second time that morning, Angela awaited her orders. She could spend the rest of her days admiring the taller woman, the screaming, on the other hand, was beginning to wear her down. That was when the priestess finally made her decision. Ethan Winters was no longer a priority, though he should not be allowed to leave the village as of yet. This earned her several shouts of protest from the man, who ended up being taken away by two of Miranda’s helpers. 

“Do not stray from the village, Angela. I need you here,” Miranda commanded, “Alcina, take her with you. You are to await further instructions,” her wings fluttered as she spoke. Her demeanour calm, as always. 

Heisenberg’s mouth opened, but before he could say anything, Angela interjected, “Very well. I will find my own way to the Castle,” and with that, she abruptly turned and walked confidently towards the exit. She needed to get out of there as soon as possible. The amount of eyes on her were making her skin crawl.

“She’s going to walk there?”, Heisenberg scrutinised, glaring at the woman as she left. His sister didn’t seem to be paying attention to what he had said, seemingly lost in thought, which was definitely uncharacteristic of her.

“Heisenberg...,” the priestess warned. The conversation was over. 

 Having realised his mistake, he raised his hands up in defeat, though his eyebrows were still snapped together, either in confusion or irritation. 

——-

Angela could technically use her powers to get to the Castle in the blink of an eye, yet saw fit to do the exact opposite of that. Call it stubbornness or whatever else you wish - she saw her powers as entirely unnatural. Animalistic, even. There was not one thing about her transformation that she had come to terms with over the decades. There was no encore, there was no sense of accomplishment. It didn’t make her feel more powerful. No, there was only blood, sweat and tears. That’s all there ever was. No need to romanticise it. You couldn’t, even if you tried.

She looked up, trying to take in the Castle in all its glory. She wondered what the Countess had done to her husband once she was turned, the thought making her purse her lips in amusement. She didn���t seem particularly fond of the man, so her best guess was that he died an excruciating death. Whether or not he deserved it was not up to her to decide. She got exactly what she wanted, in the end. She was officially the Head of the House, no man holding her back and keeping her from achieving her fullest potential. Good. She deserved it. She deserved all of it.

Yet... facing her now, after all that had transpired? Gods forgive her. She didn’t know if she could take it. 

She walked steadily towards the main entrance, her fist hovering over the flat surface of the door before finally giving it three, strong knocks. The doors were opened by two, frail looking maids who immediately stepped to the side to let her in. Choosing not to give it much thought, Angela walked through the threshold and looked around. It all looked exactly the same. A pang of nostalgia and sadness hit the woman’s chest, but her reverie was broken when the sound of two loudly beating hearts overcame her senses. Her head turned slowly towards the two maids. Their chests were rising and falling rapidly, meaning they definitely saw her as a threat - she didn’t blame them, all they could see were her eyes, and they were not really welcoming, either. Her gaze traveled along the women’s faces yet settled on their necks as soon and she noticed how they had both been... branded. The bite marks were small, so they were not given to them by the Countess. How intriguing. 

“Lady Drăculea,” Ugh, “so nice of you to finally join us,” he sauntered towards her, his hammer resting on his right shoulder, “how was your morning stroll? Not too many corpses on the way, I hope”, he grinned. There were... a lot of corpses, actually. It made her stomach turn, but she would never tell him this, regardless of whether or not he was right. His ego was already too big for his own good. 

“Why do you pester me,” she asked, her tone flat and her mouth twitching downwards when she realised he planned on annoying her even further. Thank goodness her face was covered, that way he had absolutely no way of knowing if he was getting under her skin. 

He gave out a mocking smile and pressed on even further, “You know, I have just been made aware of the most interesting piece of information,” he toyed with the handle of his hammer and eyed the woman up and down, sizing her up. It was ridiculous. He was ridiculous. 

Angela clenched her jaw, her mouth set in a hard line. She moved to the side in an attempt to walk past him, but he would not let her - sidestepping in front of her whenever she tried to leave. 

“This isn’t your first time in the Castle. You came here once long before you were turned into one of us,” he stated matter of factly. He turned to the side, then, and used his free hand to wave it around, never letting go of his hammer, “this must really take you back. Say,” he moved closer then, his voice barely a whisper, “on a scale of one to ten, how awful was my sister?” there was his stupid grin again. Angela didn’t have the faintest clue as to how he came to know of her past - Alcina certainly had not told him, so that leaves.... who, exactly?

She heard the distinct sound of heels clicking on marble in the distance before finally deciding to give the Countess’s brother a reply, “I remember being bothered by a pesky, little man that evening and I can certainly relate to that now,” she said, curtly, “this feeling brings me back more than the haunting halls of this Castle ever could”, that was when a flash of white entered her peripheral vision. There stood the Lady of the House, in all her glorious beauty, at the top of the stairs. Her left, gloved hand resting on the railing, she seemed to be accessing the situation, trying to decide whether or not she would step in and get her brother in line. The two, poor maids were still standing on the very same spot, not being allowed to leave until the guest moves away from the front entrance and into the Castle. It was, overall, an incredibly uncomfortable situation. 

Heisenberg stared at her blankly at first, but then his face broke into an almost predatory smile. He stepped closer to Angela, who refused to step back, “I am going to tell you this once and only once. Do not test me any further. I am not as patient as the Priestess, dog,” she sneered, her voice dripping with venom. It looked as if she had grown ten inches taller. Maybe she had. It certainly felt like she had. Heisenberg’s grip on his hammer tightened at the final word the woman spat out, the air around them almost crackling from all the tension. Funny how she was several inches taller than him and yet the man was still  brave, or bold... stupid enough to irk her. She half hoped he would keep going - she needed to release some pent up anger anyway. Heisenberg’s posture stiffened. 

Having had enough of the display of ego measuring, the Countess decided to interrupt their special moment before they ruined her day even further, “That’s enough,” she said, her voice had an edge to it. She was obviously not pleased with their behaviour - they were both just guests in her Castle, after all. She continued then, her voice much more neutral this time around, “Your chambers are this way,” she was speaking to the woman, yet her eyes were trained on her brother. The Countess slowly extended a long arm towards one of the corridors to her right, her movements precise, and her left hand, still resting on the railing, gripped it tighter. 

Angela took that as her queue to finally leave Heisenberg behind, glaring at him one last time before moving away from the door, which put the two maids out of their misery and allowed them to leave the spot they were stuck in moments ago, and going up the stairs. Alcina was still standing near the railing and still eyeing her brother, who now had turned to face the two women, craning his neck slightly to look up at them. Angela watched as the two siblings seemed to communicate telepathically. She didn’t fully understand it, but felt as if it was not something she wanted to insert herself into or interrupt. 

Her brother grunted something under his breath before tipping his hat at his sister and finally walking out. She was asking — no, telling — him to stand down. He was on her turf, now. No one understands the implications of that better than a dog, Angela thought. 

They were alone now and, for someone who was bold enough to flirt with a married Countess at a social gathering her husband hosted, Angela did not seem to be able to meet her gaze. The taller woman enjoyed seeing her squirm, apparently, because they remained silent for a few, long seconds before the brunette was forced to say something to break the ice, “I humbly thank you, my Countess, for your gracious hospitality. It has not gone unnoticed”. Maybe her boldness was not what it used to be, but her courteousness and charm were still very much intact, Alcina noted. 

All that came from Alcina was a soft hum. She stood there, accessing the woman before her. It was almost as if she was expecting something from her - Angela, being the chivalrous person that she was, knew exactly what was missing, but chose to ignore it for the time being, “That way, yes?”, she looked down the corridor Alcina had previously extended her arm towards. She secretly hoped she could simply go looking for the room herself. Standing near the Countess was torture - in the best way possible, of course. 

“Indeed,” came the sharp response. She was not pleased with Angela’s choices leading up to this moment. The Lady’s lips curled downwards, something the other woman missed, since she was not even looking at her to begin with. A mistake. 

Not one more word was said before the raven haired woman turned and began taking long strides towards her guest’s assigned chambers. Angela followed. She always would. 

Clenching her fists to keep herself from drifting her eyes downwards and along the Countess’s frame, arriving to her guest room came as a distraction and was therefore a god given gift. Someone please. Put her out of her misery.

She watched as Alcina opened the, now ridiculously small, door, bending over at the waist to enter the room. Angela had to do the same, only she did not bend as low as her host. The room was elegantly decorated, as was expected, and surprisingly clean.  She wondered just how many maids Alcina actually had and how long it would take scrape the floors clean, let alone dust each and every room off. She was glad she was not in their shoes, to say the very least. 

“I won’t be needing that,” Angela said, flatly. 

She could sense the taller woman’s rising anger, but her statement left the Countess confused enough that she ended up allowing the brunette to keep her head, “A mirror,” Alcina deadpanned. It was posed as a question, but when Angela turned her head to look the woman in the eyes, all she saw was utter disinterest.

“Yes. I would rather not,” she clasped her hands at her front and looked around the room. She should really stop doing that. The way she refused to meet Alcina’s eyes when she spoke to her was beginning to anger her. She could tell. 

“The tone you have been carrying thus far is extremely ill-advised. You are a guest in my Castle. Do not make me remind you again,” her voice was as cold as steel, yet the Lady of the House seemed to show leniency for the second time that morning. If Angela were someone else, her head would probably be on a spike in the Castle grounds. Still, abusing her luck any further would be unwise. 

The shorter woman’s pulse quickened and she bit on the insides of her cheek to keep herself grounded. Turning to fully face the Lady once more, she began removing the garments that were covering her face. First her hood and then her black mask, letting it settle around her neck, instead. 

Alcina’s eyes seemed to immediately absorb the newly exposed features, her gaze scanning her face shamelessly before falling squarely on her lips and on a scar on the left side of her upper lip, which was new to her. Her hair also looked different. Gone was the intricate hairstyle with braids - taking its place was a loose bun. Alcina’s eyes were, once again, the only thing that betrayed her emotions and cracked her mask, for everything else in the woman, from her face down to her posture, was absolutely still and unreadable. Angela was aware of the fact that she looked older. Pale. The agony she felt over the decades written all over her face.

She did not bother to decipher how Alcina saw her now, it was ultimately pointless and she doubted the Countess cared that much about whatever it was that she thought she saw in her. It had been years since the smaller woman had looked at herself in a mirror - she refused to do it ever since her transformation, in fact, which explained her aversion towards them now. 

“Forgive me, offending you was not my intention. It never will be,” her eyes were tired, yet she did not break eye contact with the woman this time, “it was poor of me,” she was visibly choosing her words in the most careful way possible, “I simply need to cover it, is all,” she hoped that her choice of words did not anger her host this time around. She awaited her response

 ...

“Do as you must,” and with that, the Lady left. 

Angela sighed to herself and began looking for spare sheets so she could cover the blasted thing and not have to look at it any longer. Thankfully, no one was there to see her as she struggled to place the sheets over the mirror - not wanting to look at herself as she did it made the affair ten times harder. It almost made her laugh, in fact. It was too ridiculous. A low chuckle resonated throughout the room all of the sudden. It... didn’t come from her. Turning slowly, she was met with a pair of bright, yellow eyes, lurking in the shadows. 

“It would be easier if you turned them to the side and tucked them behind it,” the young woman said, nodding her head towards the sheets Angela was holding. The brunette stared at her for a few seconds before looking down and taking her advice, turning the sheets, placing them over the mirror - though she turned her face to not look at her reflection - and, after a couple of attempts, managing to tuck them behind the damned thing. Finally.

“Well, would you look at that,” Angela mused. 

“That took you way longer than it should have,” the faceless woman deadpanned.

That seemed to catch Angela off guard and she snorted, against her better judgment, before clearing her throat and facing the pair of eyes once more, “I don’t think we’ve met. Angela D—“, she thought about extending a hand to greet the mysterious figure in the shadows, but was interrupted before she could even finish saying her name. 

“I know who you are,” she teased, “Mother has told us all we need to know about you,” she continued. That made Angela’s posture straighten. Us? Mother? 

“I seem to be at a disadvantage, then. The Countess has not told me your name,” Angela countered. She didn’t feel threatened by the girl, still, she seemed clever. And nothing good can come out of Alcina’s children, surely.

The mystery girl left the shadows then and, curiously enough, she did not seem to resemble Alcina at all, yet the way she carried herself did remind her of the Countess. Her calm, yet reserved demeanour almost too close to her mother’s. 

“Bela,” she told the taller woman, her face blank. 

“It is an honour to meet one of the Countess’s daughters,” she bowed her head slightly at the girl. 

“Mother spoke of you often,” the girl told her, apparently seeming to be more inclined towards skipping the pleasantries, “though I must warn you, do not upset her,” monotoned the daughter, “my sisters and I are not kind to those who do.” 

Angela didn’t take it as a threat, though she knew she probably should. Part of her was glad Alcina had such devoted daughters. The other half was amused at the child’s boldness. 

“I understand,” she told her, wanting to reassure her. Upsetting the Lady of the House was definitely not on Angela’s list of things to do, yet she didn’t want her daughters to think that she, a guest, planned on harming their mother. Gods forbid. 

“Good,” Bela finished. As soon as the word was out of her mouth she all but dissipated in front of Angela’s eyes, leaving in her wake a cloud of small insects who disappeared through the cracks in the walls and left the room. Were the cracks there to allow them to traverse the Castle faster...? Angela stood there for a second, trying to understand what had just happened before giving up and shaking her head slightly. Hopefully this day was done with throwing things at her and actually allowed her to finally rest before being summoned by Miranda. 

She was out of luck, it seemed. The nights were always so much harder on her for no apparent reason. At least not one that she was aware of. Before she tried to go to bed and call it a day, she had to ask Alcina for.... a bigger nightdress. It was utterly embarrassing, but thankfully the Countess was kind enough to not make any comments. The maids then gave her a silk nightgown - it didn’t fit her particularly well since the Lady was still taller than her, but it was better than wearing nothing at all. 

She was in bed and staring at the ceiling, her fingers intertwined and her hands resting on her chest. She was tired, but knew that having a good nights sleep was not something that would happen any time soon. Even if she did manage to rest her eyes for a couple of hours, the nightmares would certainly wake her up. She longed for the nights, before her transformation, when she simply had to shut her eyes to fall asleep for as long as she wished. Now she didn’t need to sleep as much, true, but the nightmares proved themselves to be much more than a nuisance. They plagued her almost every night. It frustrated the woman beyond words. 

Choosing to do something else with her “free” time, she got up, put her, or Alcina’s, slippers on, which were also not the right size for her, and left her room. The Castle was not as cold as it appeared to be, for whatever reason, so discomfort was not something she had to deal with as she explored the halls of a Castle she had already been in... in another life. Something caught her eye, then, as she roamed around, taking everything in. A piano. An expensive looking one, at that. She drew nearer to take a closer look, running her hands over the keys without pressing too hard on them so as to not make any sound. It was clean. Not a speck of dust on it. Those poor maids.

She felt a pair of eyes on her again, but the way the energy in the room shifted dramatically told her this wasn’t one of the daughters.

“Do you play?” Angela asked softly, her fingers still running over the surface of the piano. She heard a low hum first - the actual reply came a few seconds later.

“Yes, though it’s been centuries since I last indulged in it,” said the Countess, her tone was almost matching the other woman’s. It wasn’t soft per se, but it was softer than usual. 

“Ah,” Angela let out a bitter, halfhearted chuckle, “the mundane getting left behind once more, yes?”, she rested her hand on top of the piano and turned her head slightly, awaiting the other woman’s response but still not looking at her. 

“You speak of the past most fondly,” Alcina’s tone indicated that she disapproved of such notion, though she was clearly trying to not flat out say it. The comment made Angela’s expression close up immediately and she moved to stand next to a big window, trying to distract herself from the unpleasant thoughts creeping up on her. Ah. The moon and her were well acquainted by now.

“If I could go back in time, I would.” she retorted. That was all she wanted to say on the matter, though she doubted the conversation would end there. 

Alcina was still watching her from the shadows, her gaze trained on her. The scenario reminded Angela of a sinner confessing the unspeakable to a priest. Funny how the Countess was the priest in that situation. The thought had Angela biting the inside of her cheek to keep herself from smiling. The amusement quickly dissipated from her mind, however, as it often did.

“I have.... regrets. Nothing has meaning now,” the woman confessed, she crossed her arms at her midriff then, her nails digging into her biceps. 

“If you feel as if there may not be meaning, then find one and seize it,” the reply was not meant to sting, but it did nonetheless. Of course she would say that. Why wouldn’t she? 

“It is easier said than done,” Angela said bitterly. The conversation was beginning to turn sour. 

She heard the Lady tsk and then felt her getting closer, her steps almost soundless. She doesn’t hear the telltale clicking of her heels, so she must not be wearing them, “Excuses, excuses,” she was standing right next to her now, though she wasn’t facing the shorter woman. They were both looking out. Facing the moon. Angela found it preferable, that way. Stripping herself of all her walls in front of the Countess was easier if she did not have to stare into her eyes. The shadows served as her shield. The dark making her feel at home. 

They stayed in comfortable silence for awhile before Angela broke it “I still feel it,” she had an almost pained expression, her voice no more than a whisper, “withering away, like a dying ember, and rotting inside me,” 

That made Alcina turn her head to face her, waiting for her to continue. She watched as the woman’s arms dropped, only for her to begin pinching the area between her index finger and thumb with her other hand. It looked painful.

“My humanity,” Silence. Her jaw clenched and her bottom lip trembled for a brief second, not out of sadness but anger, “she took everything from me” she sneered. 

“Mother Miranda only does what is best for us,” Angela wanted to interrupt her before she even had the chance to finish her sentence, but thought better of it. She pinched her hand harder. Alcina noticed. 

“Do not say that. It might be what you tell yourself, but do not say it to me. Please.” Her face twisted in both anger and frustration. She was trying her damnedest not to snap at the Countess. 

“The world could fit in your hands now. Seeing that as a curse and not a blessing is completely unfathomable,” Alcina coldly said. It was almost as if she was daring the shorter woman to test her patience once more. 

��“To you,”

 “To me, and everyone else,” 

Angela knew she could not make the other woman listen. Alcina had everything she had ever wanted - her transformation opened doors for her that would otherwise remain closed. Angela could understand that and was glad that the Lady of the House belonged to no one but herself. Still, that’s not how she saw it. Angela was taken, against her will, and experimented on by a woman whose only goal was to take what made Angela herself, turning her into one those.... things. And for what? What purpose did that serve her? They were all failed experiments. The rejects wrapped around her finger, some more than others. It was hell. How could Alcina not see that?

The point was, Alcina would never understand what she felt. Angela didn’t even fully understand it herself, to be quite honest. All she knew was she was not living. She wouldn’t wish what she was going through on her worst enemy. 

Knowing that debating the Countess was a pointless resistance for her, she simply turned to walk away, wanting to put some distance between them. She was so incredibly tired...

... and she would have left, if the other woman hadn’t grabbed her wrist with inhuman speed. Being forced to turn her entire body and face the Countess, she tried to pull her wrist back, which she failed to do. Alcina was unsurprisingly strong and her grip unrelenting. The amount of force she used caused Angela to stumble forward a bit and into her - they were practically breathing the same air now, though the shorter woman had to crane her head upwards to actually lock eyes with the Countess. Her height allowed her to be at eye level with Alcina’s collarbone, but no more than that. It didn’t bother her too much.... no reason behind it.

“Do not turn your back on me,” the Countess warned, a scowl painting her face. 

Even in this moment she looked absolutely magnificent, making Angela’s heart squeeze almost painfully in her chest for the first time in years. It dawned on her then, that the Countess was out of her normal attire - she wore a silken nightgown, much like her own, only hers actually fit her, and a sheer, black robe with a floral pattern; her hat was also missing. Closing her eyes to keep her gaze from wandering lower, all she could feel was the woman’s cold, yet impossibly soft, hand wrapped around her wrist. 

She knew the tips of her ears would’ve turned pink by now, if they could. Thinking about it only made it worse. Her chest was heaving, her heart hammering in her chest, and their breaths mingled. Angela gulped slightly before opening her eyes again. She desperately wished to caress the other woman’s face, right about now - the light provided by the moon highlighted her features in the most beautiful of ways. She was utterly and completely under the Countess’s spell. 

Alcina was still holding on to her wrist and using the same amount of force. Angela’s hand was trapped in between their bodies, if the Countess were to let go of her.... Well. 

There was a scowl on her face no longer and she seemed to be struggling to keep her facial expressions under control. Her eyes dropped to Angela’s, now parted, lips, particularly on her scar, causing her own lips to twitch. The brunette noticed and was overtook by longing almost immediately. She needed to get away from the other woman, though she didn’t know how and every second that went by made it harder for her to tell Alcina to unhand her. Maybe she didn’t need to get away. Maybe what she needed was to draw even closer. 

She could smell something floral - the other woman’s perfume? Maybe to honor the crest of House Dimitrescu? She could smell the Countess’s perfume, so, yes, they were that close. 

Choosing to blame it on how intoxicating the woman’s scent was, Angela’s right hand, the one that was free, slowly moved upwards and towards the taller woman’s face, her fingers ghosting over it, not daring to touch just yet. She was silently asking for the Countess’s consent - she knew she should’ve verbalised it, but all her senses were malfunctioning. All she could see was her. All she knew was Her. 

Alcina did not object, though her jaw clenched for a brief second. Angela suspected it was not due to anger, so she took it as her confirmation.

Initially, her touch resembled that of a feather - she feared that if she moved too quickly she would lose the woman just as fast. So far, so good. She ran the pads of her index and middle fingers over the Countess’s cheekbones, her eyes tracing the movement. Then, she ran the tips of her fingers over her nose, her brow; memorising every feature. Her pupils dilated when she traced them over the woman’s lips, which were now bare and without any lipstick. She wondered if she was taking more than she should, but her worries floated away when she heard the taller woman’s breath quicken before she was able to control it once more. 

Feeling emboldened, Angela cupped the right side of her face. Alcina was no longer forcefully grabbing her wrist, but gently holding it. The brunette’s hand then fell to the right side of her neck, sliding down to settle on the top of her breast and near her heart. 

And there they stayed for awhile. The moon their only witness. If this was a dream, Angela would kill whoever dared to wake her up. It didn’t seem like a dream, though, because what the other woman said next was vocalised much too clearly.

“You have haunted me for years,” she professed, her brow furrowed - she was clearly struggling to come to terms with whatever it was that she was currently feeling. Angela didn’t blame her. 

“Good,” it was said absentmindedly, though there was honesty behind it. 

Alcina’s chin turned upwards. She seemed... determined, maybe? Or was it something else? Angela was distracted. 

Oh, it was definitely determination, for the Countess’s hand, the one that was holding Angela’s wrist, snaked around the shorter woman’s neck and pulled her towards her for their lips to meet. 

Angela’s eyes all but bulged out of her head at first, but she quickly regained her senses. She was not a shy lover and she’d be lying if she said she hadn’t thought about this specific moment several times throughout the years - she was not going to blow it now. Grabbing a fistful of Alcina’s robe and nightgown, she parted her lips, allowing the other woman to deepen the kiss further. They fit together perfectly - it was as if Angela had finally found the missing piece to her jigsaw puzzle. They had finally come full circle. This is what they should’ve done the first time they met. They both knew this. This was a second chance they were not going to miss. 

Turns out the Countess was an excellent kisser, not that it was of any surprise. She did have centuries to practice, after all, but it still made Angela’s heart flutter in her chest, the feeling settling on the pit of her stomach. Damn, that woman. The shorter woman inhaled through her nose sharply when Alcina’s hand, the one that was previously resting on her neck, moved upwards to grab a fistful of her hair - angling her head just so. Angela was more than happy to comply. 

Suddenly, Alcina broke their kiss, her lips now pink, causing Angela to lick her own in anticipation. She wanted nothing more than to hear her name leave those lips. Would the Countess even allow herself to do such a thing? Her thoughts were interrupted when the taller woman wordlessly began freeing her hair from the bun it was in. Her eyes burned with lust, but her movements were slow and gentle - they told a different story. 

When her hair cascaded down, Alcina’s lips upturned, making Angela’s twist into a smile. They gazed into each other’s eyes then. Alcina’s, in particular, revealing too much. They both knew this. It was too soon. 

The tender moment was broken when the black haired woman took notice of how Angela’s nightgown, which was hers - the thought sending a wave of possessiveness through her chest - was beginning to slip off her shoulders. Something dawned on her face then, and she used her left hand to pull one of the sleeves down, fully exposing Angela’s shoulder to the night air. She shivered, which did not go unnoticed by the other woman - her nipples were practically tearing holes through the soft fabric of the nightgown. The Countess locked eyes with her then, and what she saw only confirmed what was about to happen. 

Angela’s eyes wordlessly told her ‘Consume me’. And so she did.  

———

It seemed that it was possible for Angela to sleep without being plagued by nightmares, after all. Maybe it was due to how exhausted she was. She chose not to overthink it, now was not the time.

“What’s that,” Heisenberg said, flatly, looking to start another argument for the third time that morning. It seemed that not even during breakfast did the man mind his business. It didn’t help how he was sitting directly in front of her, either. Why had Alcina arranged the seats like that? 

Angela’s expression seemed to speak for her, because the man felt like he had to explain what he had meant by his question, “That,” he pointed with his fork, “on your neck,”. Ah. Well. 

She can’t talk about how the Head of House Dimitrescu picked her up effortlessly, placed her on top of her grand piano and... pushed her over the edge. Several times. She most definitely cannot talk about how, even after not allowing Angela to catch her breath, the Countess picked her up bridal style - the brunette’s legs shaking too much for her to walk - and took her to her chambers to make the shorter woman sing her name again. Over and over again. She certainly will not mention how the woman branded her with her mouth, though never actually biting into the soft flesh, as she allowed Angela to come down from the heights, her fingers still inside her as she did it. No. She couldn’t say any of that. 

The woman looked down at her plate to keep her composure before meeting the man’s prying gaze again, “I woke up with it,” she paused to chew her food, not daring to look at anyone else. Alcina was on her left - she could tell she was watching her - and her girls were on her right - also watching her, “Maybe I have began decomposing faster than expected,”. She heard one of the daughters snicker before being forced to keep it down after being kicked  under the table - by Bela, she was guessing.

The reply didn’t seem to satisfy Heisenberg, but he choose not to pry, for he sensed that the truth would probably end up disgusting him. 

Angela gave Alcina a sidelong glance then, noticing the way she was hiding how the edge of her lips were turning upwards behind her glass.

 ......

  In another life, indeed.

[mochegato]

Even the Losers

Chapter 6

Chapter 1     Chapter 5

Marinette collapsed onto the barstool and immediately motioned to the bartender, ordering a drink before Adrien had even sat down. She downed the drink as soon as it came and motioned for another.  The bartender raised an eyebrow at her.  “Want me to just leave the bottle?”

“Yes,” Marinette answered gratefully with a bright smile.

“No,” Adrien answered over her.  “Just another drink for now and a water for me, please.” The bartender looked between the two of them, waiting for her response to his interruption.  Marinette pouted and slumped in her stool, but didn’t counter him so the bartender nodded and left to pour the drinks.

“Leaving the bottle would be easier,” she commented, slightly annoyed.

“And more dangerous,” he warned.  Marinette rolled her eyes and looked away.  It wasn’t that she disagreed.  She knew it was stupid.  She knew she shouldn’t drink until she blacked out.  She knew it wasn’t safe, especially in Gotham.  But honestly, she didn’t care.  The entire day had been a clusterfuck of dark thoughts and tears, after their meeting with M. Fox, and now she just wanted to forget… everything.  She wanted to forget her day.  She wanted to forget the last twenty odd years.  She wanted to forget her feelings.  She wanted to forget how to feel.  She wanted to forget how to think.

“You might want to try something else,” Adrien tried instead.  If self-preservation wasn’t going to get through to her, maybe he could use her self-destruction against her.  “If you get the bottle, you’re committed to that liquor.  If you just go by the glass, you can try different ones.”

Marinette looked at him from the corner of her eye, knowing exactly what he was doing but unable to fault his logic.  Instead she propped her elbows on the bar and buried her face in her hands.  She mumbled a thank you to the bartender when she heard him set her drink in front of her but groaned when she heard someone sit on the stool next to her.  There were plenty of open seats around the room, plenty of seats at the bar, if that’s where the person wanted to sit.  

The only reason for the person to sit so close was because they wanted to talk to her.  And while she would normally be polite and give the person a smile and maybe talk with them before turning them down, she was utterly, completely, and in all ways, not in the mood.  So, regardless of whether the person was there to hit on her or talk to her because she was a Wayne, she had no interest in any kind of a conversation.

She moved her hands just enough to clearly enunciate, “Not even remotely interested.  Move along, please.”

The man chuckled and leaned against the bar himself. “Good to hear it.  I'm pretty sure the Press would have a field day with that.”

Adrien scowled at the men who had taken the seat by them and wouldn’t take no for an answer.  “Hey, buddy, she said not interested.  Find someone else,” he growled threateningly.  

The man shook his head.  “I only have so many sisters and the others don’t drink. Well, not with me anyway.”  He motioned to the bartender.  “Actually, the only other sibling we have that can drink, besides Cass, is Dick and he is going to be absolutely insufferable for months over this, trying to make you feel welcome in the family.  So I’m avoiding him too.”

Marinette eased her head out of her hands to look at the man.  She immediately recognized him from the gala.  Jason Todd.  One of Bruce’s sons.  She narrowed her eyes at him.  What was he doing here?  How did he find her?  “You followed me here.”

Jason shook his head with a light chuckle.  He looked up as the bartender approached. “Hey Jay, Roy.  The usual?”

Jason nodded.  “Thanks, Jack.”  He waited for the bartender to retreat to pour the drinks before turning back to her. “If anything, you followed me here.”

Marinette scoffed and turned back to her drink.  “I was just looking for some place to get drunk and forget about the whole,” she motioned to him, “drama.”  She glared down at her purse.  “Lucky me.  I chose this bar.  Sorry for the accusation.”

Jason waved her off.  “No.  I get it. Paranoia is justified in this family.  Welcome to the family.  It doesn't get better.”

Marinette groaned and dropped her head into her hands again.  She motioned to the bartender as he brought Jason and Roy their drinks.  “What do you want?  Same?”

“I don't care.  Whatever you have and make it a double… please.  Is a triple a thing?”  Her eyes brightened at the idea.  Adrien motioned no behind her, his eyes pleading with the bartender.

Bartender nodded.  “Yes, ma'am.  Double it is.”

Adrien let out a relieved breath and turned to the boys.  “Hi.  I’m Adrien,” Adrien finally cut in after a few moments of awkward silence.

“Nice to meet you.  So you’re the one schtupping my sister.”  Jason reached out to shake his hand.

Marinette wrinkled her nose in confusion.  “Schtup?  What is schtup?”  She downed the last of her drink as she waited for them to respond.

“Screwing,” Roy answered.

Adrien choked on air and Marinette spit out the whiskey she had just drank.  Marinette glared at him and shot Jack an apologetic smile.  “Sorry about that.  This one and the next are on the asshole.”  The bartender looked to Jason with a laugh and nodded.

“It was just an observation,” Jason answered with a smirk.

“Don’t be an asshole,” Marinette grunted.

“That’s a tall order for Jason,” Roy grinned.

“He’s tall.  He can handle it,” Marinette snarked with a shrug.  She turned back to Jason.  “No.  No we are not stooping.”

“Schtupping,” Jason corrected.

“Stopping…” Marinette tried again.

“Sch…toooo…ping,” he corrected again, accentuating each sound for her.

Marinette blinked a few times at him.  “Screwing,” she finally finished with a decided nod.  Roy laughed hard.  “He’s my brother Adrien.  Adrien…”

“Her other brother, Jason.”  Jason finished for her.  Marinette narrowed her eyes at him but didn’t contradict him.  “And this is my partner, Roy,” Jason continued, motioning toward Roy who gave a short wave before taking another drink.

Marinette waved back at him.  She turned back to Jason.  “Partner… is that another word for screwing too?”  

Jason sputtered and narrowed his eyes at her, frustrated that he walked into that so easily, but Roy laughed loudly again.  “I like her.  New favorite sibling… don’t tell Cass… or Dick.”  He grinned charmingly at Marinette.  “But no.  Business partner.  Not currently schtupping anyone.”

Jason rounded on him and glared.  Roy looked back at him innocently.  “Yes?”

“No,” he said warningly.

“Are you another Wayne?” Marinette asked Roy.

“No?”  He stared at her for a few seconds before realization set in.  “No.  I hang out with them a lot.  Dick and I used to be on a team together so we were around each other constantly for a while there.  Our families used to be together a lot.  They feel like family sometimes.”  He grinned at her.  “But, no. Not in any way related to you.”

Marinette nodded and looked back at her drink.  At least that’s one person in Gotham her… M. Wayne hadn’t adopted after chucking her out.  Jason glared harder at Roy and punched his shoulder.  “Sister,” he hissed.

Roy grinned back.  “Yours, not mine.  We just established that.  Keep up.”

Jason narrowed his eyes even further before relaxing them as he turned back to Marinette.  “So, how are you handling… you know, everything?”

Marinette and Adrien both stared at him with deadpan expressions.  Marinette looked pointedly around the bar and her drink.  “Oh, you know… well.”  She kept eye contact with him as she downed the rest of her drink, wincing at the feeling. She looked down at her drink critically. “Why do I drink this stuff?  I hate it.”

“Maybe you should ease off then,” Adrien offered gently.

“No.  Fuck off. I want to get drunk,” she glowered back at him.  Roy chuckled and motioned to Jack for her.

Adrien sighed and raised his hands in defeat. “Okay.  Maybe something that tastes better then?”

Marinette cocked her head in consideration. “Okay.  Excuse me, M. bartender?  Can I get something that will get me very drunk very fast and taste better than this, please?”

Jack blinked at her a few times and looked over to Jason.  Roy laughed at her response while Jason shook his head.  “She’s had a rough day.  You got anything?”

Jack grunted and shook his head as he looked around. “I’ll look.”

“Thank you, M. bartender,” Marinette chirped at him. He waved her off without looking back at her.

“I think you came to the wrong bar if you’re looking for something other than the basics,” Roy mock whispered at her.

She leaned in closer, leaning past Jason to talk to Roy. “I came to get drunk and away from reporters and forget about all this,” she motioned toward Jason.  “I came to the wrong bar for more reasons than my liquor preference.”  

She suspiciously eyed the drink Jack put in front of her with a grunt, but plastered a smile on her face.  “Thank you.”  She tentatively took a sip and wrinkled her nose in disgust.  There was no way she was going to be able to drink this slowly.  The only solution was all at once.  She removed the tiny umbrella she was pretty sure he added to mock her and downed the drink like a shot.  She gasped at the horrific sensation.  Adrien just barely missed getting his water away from her before she grabbed it to get rid of the taste.

She handed the now empty glass back to Adrien and buried her head in her hands.  “Regretting your decision?” he asked with a smirk.  Served her right for stealing his water.

Marinette groaned into her hands and nodded.  After a few seconds she leaned back in her chair, eyes unfocused.  “I should never have come here.”

“Told you so,” Roy singsonged.  “Now there’s a different bar a few streets over you might like better…”  The rest of his sentence got cut off when Jason smacked his shoulder with the back of his hand.

Jason turned to Marinette with a sympathetic smile. “I often feel that way, but usually after a few more drinks.”

Marinette shook her head.  “I knew it was stupid to come.  I knew I shouldn’t have,” she groaned pitifully.  “I could feel something bad was going to happen, I just thought that was the part before we came not… not,” she motioned all around her. “God, I was so stupid.  I should have known I wouldn’t be able to just sneak in and out.”  She leaned her head on Adrien’s shoulder, fighting the tears.

“So why did you?” Jason asked as though he didn’t know.

She looked over at him for a second without raising her head from Adrien’s shoulder before closing her eyes again.  “Friend needed a job.  Was getting sc… schtuped by the hiring committee at WE and scouted by a few other places that I didn’t trust… I mean Lexcorp gets blown up less than Palmer but then he’d have to work for M. Luthor.  And, yeah, I don’t think so.  So that leaves your dad.”

“Our dad,” Jason corrected pointedly.

“So you thought you'd use your connections to get him a job and didn't think you would get noticed?” Roy asked not even bothering to hide his amusement at the apparent stupidity of the plan.  It wasn’t often he got to enjoy how laughably bad other people’s plans were.

“So,” she countered pointedly, looking directly at him, “I thought I’d use my charismatic personality to charm M. Fox into noticing him and let him know one of his scouts is poaching ideas.  You were never supposed to know I was here.”  She squeezed her eyes shut and let out another long sigh.

“But I was so stupid and now everyone knows and once they know...” she groaned and let her head drop onto the bar top with a resounding thud.  She popped her head up quickly and rubbed her head.  “Ewww.  It’s sticky. I don’t even want to know what caused that.”  She pulled some hand sanitizer out of her purse and wiped her forehead with it.

“You approached Lucius Fox with nothing more than charisma and got him to do what you asked?” Roy asked in amazement.

“And my brains, but…” she leaned closer to him as if passing on a secret, “I can be very charming when I want to be…”  She looked down at herself and frowned.  “When I’m not,” she motioned to herself, “you know. A mess.”

Roy smiled charmingly.  “I believe that.  Even when you aren’t trying.  And if this is you as a mess, normal you must blow people away.”

Marinette scoffed and turned back to her drink.  Jason waited until her attention was on her glass and shoved Roy hard enough to knock him off his chair.  Adrien raises an amused eyebrow at them before shaking his head and looking down.  Marinette looked over at the sound.  Her brow furrowed in concern.  Jason smiled casually and motioned to Roy.  “Too much to drink.”

Roy narrowed his eyes at him and rubbed his hip. “Overprotective much?” he grumbled quietly enough for Marinette not to hear.

Marinette turned back to her drink, noting it was awfully low.  She swirled the contents and nodded distractedly.  “Lucky.”

Roy bit his tongue as he climbed back onto the stool to stop from asking if she wants to be, because there's no way asking Jason’s new sister, in front of him, if she wants to get lucky, ends well for him.

“I’ll have whatever he had, please,” Marinette called out to the bartender, motioning toward Roy.

“So what now?” Jason asked.

“Now… fuck,” she whined.  She almost dropped her head on the bartop again but stopped herself just before actually making contact.  She eyed the surface suspiciously and whimpered instead.

Roy took a long drink to keep himself from talking because “Is that an invitation?” was not going to end well for him either and he was not looking to get a black eye out of tonight.  He frowned at his drink.  What was in his drink tonight?  He didn’t usually have this much trouble keeping his comments in check.

“I don’t know.  Now everything is…” she made a jumbled motion with her hands that almost caused her to fall out of her chair.  “I haven’t even…” she whimpered and eyed the bartop again before grabbing a napkin and setting it down in front of her.  She dropped her head onto the napkin with an audible thunk.

“You know your hair is still touching the counter,” Adrien mentioned with more amusement in his tone than Marinette appreciated.  Marinette groaned and sat back up.  She pulled her hair in front of her eyes to look for traces of gunk.  “She only found out about all this a few days ago and by then we were already on our way to the gala and in mission headspace so she hasn’t even had the chance to deal with it yet,” Adrien explained, keeping his eyes on Marinette.

“You didn’t know?” Roy asked incredulously.

“Nope,” Marinette responded popping the p and nodding in gratitude to the bartender for bringing her another drink and motioned for another.

“What the fuck?” Roy grunted.  “That’s messed up.  How did you find out?”

Marinette downed the entire glass.  “Heard my maman talking on the phone and distinctly heard ‘if you would like to actually meet your daughter…’ and she wasn’t speaking with my papa.  And I just…” she shrugged, staring at the empty glass like it might have an answer for her.  “… knew. I had a friend trace the call. And then I was here the next day and…”

“I think B was expecting more time to deal with it too,” Jason nodded along.

“He’s only had 20 years.  If that wasn’t enough, I may not live to when he finally has the time he needed,” Marinette groused.

“Twenty years,” Roy mused.  “Isn’t that when…” he trailed off and his eyes got wide realizing the timing of Dick’s adoption.

“I think he was planning on doing something soon,” Jason said louder than was necessary for their close proximity, leaning forward slightly to cover Roy.  “And being able to ease into it, slowly, making sure you… and Damian, weren’t too overwhelmed and you could move at your own pace,” Jason offered, fighting down the odd feeling defending Bruce left in his chest.

Marinette stared at him, swaying slightly in her seat. “Did you come here to drink or defend your dad?”

“Our dad,” he corrected.

“Because you seem to be doing a lot of one and not the other,” she continued as though he hadn’t said anything.  

Jason shrugged.  “Easy fix for that,” he said raising up his glass and finishing the contents.  “So… you staying around or what?”

Marinette whimpered again and eyed the bartop.  “I haven’t thought that through yet.  That wasn’t the plan, but then again getting found out wasn’t the plan.  Getting drunk tonight is now the plan.”  She looked over at the hoodie Roy had thrown over the back of his chair and back at the bartop.  “Can I…” she motioned toward the hoodie and reached for it at the same time.

“Oh, are you cold?  Yeah sure,” Roy almost fell out of his chair trying to get out of the way so he could hand the hoodie to her.  She gave him a weak smile and thanked him before spreading it out on the bartop and dropping her head audibly on it again.  She sighed almost happily as she let her head stay down on the bartop. Roy watched her in amused fascination and let out an amused huff.  “Not what I was expecting, but glad you’re getting use out of it, I guess…” he chortled.

“And do you always need to have a plan?” Jason asked curiously

Marinette and Adrien snorted in sync.  “Do you have a plan,” Marinette mocked, raising her head purely so she could take another drink, but decided to keep it up to educate them. Jason looked over to Roy to see if he was as confused as Jason was.  “I have lots of plans,” Marinette continued swinging her glass around to accentuate her words.  

“I have plans.  I have contingency plans.  I have backup plans.  I have plans for plans,” she started listing off on her fingers.  She looked at her hands accusingly as she ran out of fingers and almost dropped her drink.  She set down her drink with a frown and continued counting off her plans.

“I have plans to back up backup plans.  I have plans for contingencies that the contingency plans didn’t cover.  I have plans for when things go sideways.  I have plans for when things go to shit.  I have plans for when things go exactly to plan,” She leaned over to them. “I’ve never once gotten to use one of those.  I have life plans.  I have death plans.  I have future plans.”

“That’s a lot of plans,” Roy noted, fascination laced his voice. “Any of them turn out for you?”

“No!”  She threw her hands up in exasperation.  “And then I have to make a new plan on the fly.”

“Sounds familiar,” Jason grumbled.

“If all your plans get destroyed before you can complete them, why bother making them at all?” Roy asked.

Marinette brought the fingers together in front of her face and stared at it as though she were holding something precious.  “It’s all about the illusion.”

Roy snorted and nodded.  “She’ll fit in.”

Marinette narrowed her eyes at Roy.  “Is that an insult?”

Jason laughed and Adrien dropped his head into his hands.  “Jesus, Mari,” he groaned.

She scrunched her nose at him.  “What?  He said I’d fit well with M. Wayne.”

“I meant his kids,” Roy assured her.

“Oh…” Marinette answered sheepishly.  “Sorry.”

Roy waved her off.  “Nah. It’s okay.  I get it.  I meant you’re smart, sassy,” he eyed her with an amused glint in his eyes, “short…”

Marinette rounded on him, mouth agape in insult.  She quickly closed her mouth and glared at him.  “Not too short to kick your ass.”

Roy laughed and grinned at her.  “Violent.”

Marinette scrunched up her nose and turned back to her drink. “Not like I’m out there every night beating people up.”  She took a swig of her drink, missing the glance Jason and Roy sent each other before looking back at her for any indication she had meant something more by it. “Anymore…” she muttered under her breath just loud enough for Adrien’s sensitive ears to hear it.

“But,” Adrien cut in.  He motioned toward Jason.  “Short?”

“Yeah,” Roy granted, “Jason’s the exception to the short part.”

“Damian’s the exception to the sassy part,” Jason added.

“Who’s the exception to the smart part?” Marinette asked.

“Dick,” Jason and Roy answered at the same time.

“Who’s the exception to the violent part?” Adrien asked, concern edging into his voice, because that wasn’t exactly a comforting quality to be associated with Marinette’s new family.  

Jason scoffed at the idea of any of them not being violent.  “We were hoping it was going to be her,” he motioned toward Marinette.

“But, nope,” Roy finished, popping the p.  “I mean Duke isn’t particularly violent.  He can protect himself but, like, he’s chill about it.”  Roy eyed Marinette analytically.  “Maybe you can be the exception to the emotional car crash part,” he offered.

Marinette snorted inelegantly, took a swig of her drink, and looked back at him.  “That wasn’t on the list.”

Adrien leaned past her to look at the boys.  “She wouldn’t be the exception.  She’d be leading the pack.”

Marinette shoved his shoulder.  “Like you’re any better.”

Adrien raised his glass to her.  “Never said I was, Bug.”  He eyed his glass with contempt.  “You know, this would be a lot more effective if there was alcohol in here.”

Jason ordered another round for them and raised his glass to Marinette when the drinks came.  “Well, at least now I know why you were completely uninterested at the gala. Because I'm your brother.”

Marinette scowled slightly and hunched over her drink at the bar.  “Not my brother.”

Jason looked at her curiously, a frown forming on his lips before a hurt look flashed in his eyes.  Almost immediately, the hurt turned into annoyance.  He pressed his lips together hard.  “Right, another blood child.  Another kid that thinks only blood matters. So adoption doesn't count?”

Marinette furrowed her brow in confusion. She faced toward him and pointed toward herself.  “Given away and never contacted again doesn't count.  You he cared for.  You he wanted.  You're his son, but I am not his daughter.”

Jason’s eyes softened looking at her and he nodded in understanding.  Feeling unwanted, he understood.  Feeling abandoned, he understood.  Feeling like you weren’t considered good enough, he understood.  Feeling replaced, he understood.  And the fact that Bruce had made someone else feel that too, that it wasn’t just him, pissed Jason off more than he could express.  He didn’t even bother reacting when Roy punched his shoulder.  “Maybe not. But you're still my sister,” he assured her.  “I want you.”

Marinette scoffed.  “You don’t even know me.”  Adrien gently bumped her shoulder with his and gave her a gentle warning look.

“I know you better than he did,” Jason reminded her calmly.  “I have more to base my decision on than he did, and I know enough to know you’re my sister and nobody can change that.”  He gave her a devilish smile.  “You’re stuck with me now.  Fuck the old man.  He did this to himself.”

“And,” Roy interrupted excitedly.  He raised his drink for her to clink.  “Now you get to be an official member of the Shitty Dad Club.”

“Oh,” Adrien perked up.  “Can I be a member of that club?”

Roy eyed him suspiciously.  “What are your qualifications?”

“Neglect, severe emotional abuse, and he was a supervillain who tried to kill me regularly,” Adrien rattled off nonchalantly.

Roy blinked a few times.  He looked to Marinette for confirmation.  She nodded almost imperceptibly.  He turned back to Adrien and raised his drink.  “Right.  Welcome to the club.  We meet whenever there are drinks.  We should get you one.  You deserve it.”

Chapter 7

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