#a snippet of slow burn

[the-broken-pen]

Hello! Hope you're doing well!!! I have a request you may like? Hero with a fractured wrist/arm!!!!!!! Villian finds them after a whole excruciating 2 weeks of them ignoring the villian in a grocery store!!! AND YO WHY ARE THEY HOLDING HEAVY BAGS ALONE

pls write them when they're still on that transition level from enemies to lovers. They're not lovers yet. They're far, from when they used to be enemies, but certainly they both know they're soooon going to be lovers <3 just not yet.

“You’re ignoring me,” the villain said, and the tiny amount of energy the hero had saved up inside of themself shriveled up and died. The villain was upset, the hero knew. It wasn’t hard to tell. The hero had seen the news. Had watched the reports come in and just–let someone else handle it. 

They stared blankly at the shelf in front of them–beans, maybe. Something canned. But their vision was blurry, and the plastic of their other bags was digging into their wrist and god did it hurt, it hurt something vicious searing white and constant–

The hero breathed out. Told their arm to go numb. 

Pretended it did. 

“Do I get to know why?” The villain said. Their voice was harsh, and to whatever poor employee was probably watching this, it probably looked like the villain was angry enough to hurt the hero. And a part of them was, the hero knew. But mostly, they knew the villain was scared the hero was leaving them. Taking the fragile and blooming thing between them that the both of them refused to acknowledge, and killing it. 

“It’s not you,” the hero managed, voice dry, and the villain went still in their periphery. “It’s just been a long…couple of weeks, that's all.”

“You’re sick.”

“I’m not sick,” the hero corrected, and they heard the scoff the villain tried to stifle. 

“So then why are you passing up every case involving me? Most of your cases, in fact. You haven’t been out in days–”

“I’m not passing up on cases,” the hero objected. 

“Then why haven’t I–”

“Okay, fine, I’m sick,” The hero’s voice broke. The villain went silent. Distantly, the registers beeped. “I’ve been sick. That’s all. It’s not you. So can you just go, please?”

The villain’s boot scuffed on the shiny white flooring, and a second later, the hero was turned, the villain’s hand resting on their shoulder. 

It took everything in them not to yelp, and they counted it as a blessing that it was the good arm, and not the one that refused to heal.

The villain, somehow, went more still than the hero had ever seen them, face shuttering until there was nothing other than an intent focus on the hero’s face. They ran their eyes over the hero, found nothing, and then made eye contact again. 

“You’re hurt.”

The hero shifted, slightly, to hide their shock at how quickly the villain had figured it out. This was why they had been avoiding them. 

“I’m not,” the hero corrected, and the villain’s expression didn’t change.

“Where does it hurt.”

“I’m not hurt,” the hero said, voice slightly firmer, and then choked around the air in their throat as their arm spasmed. It took everything to lower the bags to the floor instead of letting them drop, splaying at their feet. Instantly, before the hero had even really processed that they had dropped anything, the villain had the hero’s arm between their palms. 

Their touch was gentle, ghosting over every inch of it, until they glanced back up at the hero, brow pinched. 

“This is broken,” the villain remarked, and the hero could only blink at them.

“No it’s not.”

“You’re an idiot,” the villain advised. They slung the hero’s bags onto their elbow with an ease the hero couldn’t dream of attaining at the moment, and then pulled the hero into a bone crushing hug. “You also look like shit.”

The hero blew out a breath against the villain’s neck, allowing themself that one, tiny moment of respite, before they shoved the villain away, keeping their other arm tucked close against their side. The villain just watched them as they did it, something close enough to fondness in their eyes that the hero refused to think about it deeply. Above that, though, their face was smeared with worry. Too much worry for a grocery store. 

“You’re saying mean things to me in the canned goods aisle,” the hero protested, because if they didn’t, they were likely to cry, and then if the villain pulled them into a hug again, the hero was not likely to push them away–and something like a smile tugged at the edges of the villain’s mouth. 

“I’m saying facts to you in the canned goods aisle,” the villain corrected. “Did you get everything you came here for?”

The hero glanced down at their hand, which theoretically should be holding their list, and found nothing other than their currently raw cuticles and a series of tearing and healing calluses. Where they had lost their list, they had no idea. Honestly, they wouldn’t be surprised if they had never had a list. They honestly couldn’t really remember when they had gotten to the grocery store, or when they had decided to go to the grocery store, or when they had last even picked up a case or responded to a crime in the past couple weeks–

“Probably,” the hero said slowly, and the villain sighed. 

“I feel you may be an unreliable source on this matter.”

The hero was far, far too tired for banter.

“Okay, you’re currently hijacking my shopping trip.” The hero glanced at the reusable shopping bags in the villain’s hand–they could remember shopping bags but not a list? That’s great, brain, the hero thought, only slightly bitter. Really hammering the important stuff, here–and caught the edge of an Advil bottle, buried under a box of crackers they were almost certain they had hated the last time they tried them. 

But the villain likes them, a very tiny, clearly not exhausted enough part of them whispered with glee, and the hero was not willing to unpack that right now. They had, at some point, gotten Advil, which was really the only thing they needed right now. Other than sleep, which was hard to do, because their wrist just wouldn’t heal–

“You were staring blankly at the beans,” the villain said, and the hero frowned at them. 

“Can you give me back my bags, please?”

“No.”

The hero rubbed their good hand over their brow. 

“I really don’t need this right now.”

Without giving them any sort of glance, the villain swapped some things around, before rummaging through the hero’s grocery bags.

Their eyes slowed on the crackers, one brief, miniscule and rapid glance towards the hero out of the corner of their eye, before they flipped over the Advil bottle, and their frown deepened. 

“You’re hurt,” the villain repeated, like it was the most wretched thing they had ever even considered, the very words sour on their tongue. 

The hero contemplated a nap, right there, on the gross and slightly sticky linoleum. 

“I am not.”

“You’re buying the biggest bottle of Advil they sell,” the villain remarked, voice somehow managing to be dry. 

“Headache,” the hero said noncommittally, and the villain’s eyes simply narrowed. 

“Do you have a concussion?” They settled the hero’s groceries onto the floor, hands coming up to cradle the hero’s face. They tipped it slightly to the side, studying the hero’s pupils with easy, practiced motions, and the hero was slightly too stunned by the manhandling and the gentleness of it to stop them.

“I don’t–stop it, I don’t have a concussion,” they spluttered, and the villain raised an eyebrow.

“Oh?”

They looked about one second away from shining a light in the hero’s eyes. 

“If you shine a flashlight in my eye, I will bite you,” the hero warned, and they meant it. The villain seemed to accept that for the threat it was, and did not procure a flashlight. 

The villain gave them a look, a silent, go on, then. What’s wrong with you?

“It’s–,” the hero tried, glancing down. “My arm. I sprained it, or something–”

“It’s fractured,” the villain said, gently triumphant. The hero got the sense they were deeply upset about being right.

The hero felt a little like they had been through the washer, and the dryer. They sighed, and it hurt a little. 

“Yeah,” they admitted. “Maybe.”

“It needs a splint,” the villain said gently. “At the very least. How long has it been broken?”

The hero shifted uneasily. “Three weeks. Maybe?”

“Maybe,” the villain repeated, and the hero could almost see them visibly going through the timeline of the past month. “You had just taken care of that smuggling ring, right?”

Blearily, the hero considered this. “Yes?”

“It should be healed by now,” the villain said. They didn’t need to mention the hero’s faster than normal healing to imply that they were directly referencing its absence.

“Yeah,” the hero said, and their voice cracked a little, because they were just so tired, and yeah, yeah it should be better by now, and not keeping them awake. “It should be.”

“Magical artefact,” the villain murmured, eyeing the hero over, before fixing their grip on the bags. “I know a guy.”

“You know a guy,” the hero repeated.

“A clinic,” the villain said. “Confidential. For people like us. Very nice.”

Their arm throbbed at their side. And, it was the villain, after all–

“Okay,” they said finally. “Okay.”

The villain nodded once, like this was the obvious solution, inevitable and the only thing that made sense.

Maybe, after all, it was.

The villain was giving them that stupid look again as they set the hero’s bags onto the ground.

“I need those,” the hero protested, and the villain laughed.

“Darling, that is distinctly not a problem,” the villain said, and the hero let them take their elbow and guide them out of the exit. “I’ll take care of it.”

The hero shivered slightly, and then the villain’s jacket was over their shoulders, and they were in the villain’s car, heat blasting. 

The thrum of the engine was a smooth, lovely thing.

“Next time,” the villain said, quietly, voice slightly raw with something the hero once more refused to examine. “Call me. Okay?”

The hero slumped themself against the window, breath fogging the glass. The weight of the villain’s attention was a heavy, almost comfortable thing. 

“Okay,” the hero agreed, and they peeled off into the night.

They let–yes, let–the villain hold their hand while they were checked, minor curse undone with some sort of simple magic, and then given a splint and some very effective pain medication. 

The hero also pretended they couldn’t see the villain’s guy smirking at the two of them, as the hero, loopy and exhausted, drooped against the villain’s shoulder. 

Later, when the villain carried the hero, asleep, head lolling against the villain’s chest, out to the car, and the hero woke up in the villain’s guest room the next day, the both of them got very good at pretending that hadn’t happened, either. 

At the front desk of the clinic, the secretary passed a twenty to the clinician.

[jittersbitters]

Ive hit 4K and taking a break to eat. Have another Vik x reader smut snippet while I wait for more coffee to brew (its only midnight). On that 2nd cup and my drink isn't the only thing getting steamy.

Part 3 is already being outlined and I'm thinking Heimerdinger's lab or Hoskels house 🤭

Part 1 Here

“In.” His thumb started to stroke between my shoulder blades as his breath fanned the side of my face, voice a low thrum in my ear. My breath hitched as I felt myself gravitate toward him, eyeing him from the corners of my vision. My heart starting to make its nervous ascent up my throat again. “What?” “It’s incautious.” His corrected with a self-satisfied smile, delighting in my surprise as his hand shifted up to thumb at the cord wrapping around my neck to hold up the front of my dress. He played with it, running the finger along the stack, his hand resting at the base of my neck. Holding me gently as he guided me away from the increasingly crowded table, deliberately closing any lingering distance between us as our sides came together. “How do you say…” We were so close he only needed to murmur, “The student becomes the master.” A rush of heat coursed through me, breath hitching in my throat. The cord around my neck felt suddenly too tight, and I weakly pulled with it in search of relief. His thumb slid under the cords in response, relieving some of the pressure from the back. Simultaneously, pulling them into my throat, the contrast made my insides twist and flutter. Did he know just what he was doing? “Viktor—"

I seemed to have devolved in the tags. Read at your own risk teehee

[blimbosworlddd]

“Why don’t I just walk out of this arena right now and act like none of this ever happened?” You challenge.

Lee frowns as he lets his hand fall from your shoulder to caress your arm. You hate how good it feels. You also hate how he looks at you- as if there’s still no one else in the world he’d rather look at than you.

“Because we both know you won’t,” he answers. “Look, I know you deserve better than this, and baby I am so sorry that you’ve been dragged into it. But I’m never gonna let him hurt you.”

You drop your gaze to the floor with a rueful chuckle, “Yeah, right.”

Lee lifts your chin up with a chilling quickness: a stern gaze carrying such frightening resolve, like he’s offended you would even consider doubting him. It sucks away your breath, stirring that familiar heat between your legs. 

“I will protect you,” he vows, the stark authority in his low voice sending shivers down your back. When Lee gets like this, anything he says is law. This is just your first time experiencing it. “You understand?”

There’s a foreign hunger behind his eyes. A foreign hunger for whatever it takes to keep you safe- it melts you from the inside.

You ogle at his pretty lips while resting your hands on his broad chest. You slowly run your fingers up to feel his contours until they reach his nape, not really grasping that your tender movements are melting him just as overwhelmingly. Deep down, you know Lee would do anything to protect you. Your faith in him is simply being tested on a greater scale.

“Yeah, I… I understand,” you mutter shyly.

Lee relaxes with a soft grin at your compliance. What did I do to deserve you? He swoons to himself.

Your hands pull him in, relieved that you can embrace him with no resistance. Your foreheads lean into each other, basking in the closest thing to quiet you both will ever share for the day. But when you’re this close, it’s easy to block everything else out. You slightly angle your head to the side, nose swiping his cheek as you lean in for a kiss. And when your lips languidly interlock, he happily breathes in the sweetness of your scent. He wraps his strong arms around your pudgy waist and pulls you flush against him. This is really all he needs: to encase the love of his life in his hold.

Reluctantly, Lee gradually pulls back from your lips but not too far from where he was initially.

“I know we’ve been dating for quite some time, but uhh…” He breathes while gently rubbing your curves. His eyes dart in random directions, thinking of what to say before looking at you. You stroke his warm cheek with a reassuring thumb, urging him to take his time.

And when he finally meets your gaze, you’re left haunted by the pure vulnerability in those mesmeric eyes.

“Will you be my girlfriend?”

It’s crazy how despite the countless times you’ve daydreamed about some random guy professing to you, never in your life would you have expected it to unfold this way. Despite your career goals, despite your individual pursuit of greatness, this is truly all you’ve ever wanted in life. Maybe… maybe it’s not only magical for some. 

As you take the time to gush over your new- and hopefully last- romantic partner, Lee notices Neji approaching with carefully wrapped ice packs in hand, ultimately ripping him from his love-induced trance. 

“Our dojo will be back on the mat soon,” Announces Neji with a knowing smile. 

Lee throws his game-face on, “Right!”

Guess I’ll answer him later, you think to yourself.

-- Nirvana: Chapter 10

A/N: Hiiiii! This is a teaser of my latest chapter that i've yet to publish. Like, reblog and comment!

This work belongs solely to ©️ blimbosworlddd. Do not plagiarize, steal, copy or repost. I worked very hard on this; reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated.

[mw00nie]

Softly, Suddenly:

Y/N's POV:

It wasn’t a sudden realization.

It wasn't falling in love either, More like… growing to love him.

At first it was small things; Remembering each other’s coffee orders, Knowing each other’s takeout orders, Each other’s fears, hopes, dreams,

Long nights spent in surveillance For hours and hours until you fell asleep On his shoulder.

Grueling cases that kept you in the precinct until 3am Whining together over trying to find An open restaurant to order dinner from.

Sharing playlists that you sung to While driving to a crime scene.

And suddenly the goofy, obnoxious ,Sarcastic, man-child of a detective

Didn’t seem so bad.

You saw him in a different light. You noticed every. little. thing. The way he held his pen weird, the furrow in his brows when he focused on paperwork, how he mumbled while writing down things, the little doodles in his notepad that was meant for important notes. Everything.

You often denied liking him romantically claiming he’s just your “best friend” but no one wanted to kiss their best friend, right…?

You’d often find yourself glancing at his lips when he spoke. Noting how they looked so soft and pretty…and kissable. You hoped he didn’t notice. Hoped. You just had to like a detective, didn’t you?

The individuals trained to notice everything. Even the way you’d get lost in his eyes or lips whenever you spoke…You lost track of what Jake was even saying at this point. Because all you could think about  Was how his voice made you feel safe, How his laugh could drag you out of the darkest mood, How his eyes crinkled when he smiled at you. Only at you. 

You started remembering things You had no business remembering: The day he lent you his jacket when you were shivering, The dumb joke he made that made you laugh until you cried, The way his hand brushed against yours and you didn’t pull away.

And maybe he noticed. Maybe he always did. Because sometimes, He looked at you like you were the only person in the room. Like the world faded away And it was just the two of you; Partners, friends, Maybe something more.

He never pushed, never crossed a line. But sometimes his hand lingered when he passed you your coffee. Sometimes his compliments were a little softer, His gaze a little longer.

And you started hoping. Hoping he felt it too. Hoping this wasn’t all in your head.

Because you were already gone; Not in the crashing, burning way you feared, But in the way that crept up on you, Softly, sweetly, Until he felt like home.

♡—————♡—————♡—————♡—————♡—————♡

A/N: i might write jake's POV too if i have time :P

[jandrichov]

“You’re lost in that head of yours again,” he said, half-smiling.

Henry nodded, his face pressed to Hans’s collarbone. “Just trying to take it all in. It’s… a lot. But it’s good. Really good.”

Hans threaded his fingers gently through Henry’s hair. “There’s no rush. No one’s here to bother us. No messages, no wounds, no… commands. Just you and me. And the dog, who’s probably taken over the kitchen by now.”

—

A quiet moment from 

Weight of a Name – Part I: Of Ash and Blood.

[link]

[narrativeglitch]

I’m so fucked.

I shouldn’t have. But it happened.

I slept with my best friend’s evil twin.

Okay—technically not evil. Just… emotionally stunted, space-faring, murdery adjacent, and definitely not the Mark I grew up with.

But he has Mark’s face. Mark’s voice. Mark’s hands.

Just not Mark’s hesitation.

And now I’m sitting on my own fire escape with a cold cup of tea and a warm alien puppy curled against my hip, staring at the stars like they’re gonna give me advice.

They won’t.

Because the stars don’t know what to do when you sleep with a version of your best friend who kisses like a war crime and watches you like you’re the first soft thing he’s ever touched.

And somehow, this all started with me saying I wasn't his “guy in the chair.” You know, the tactical genius, behind-the-scenes handler who keeps the hero grounded while they go off and save the world.

That was never supposed to be me. I was just Aaliyah. Best friend. Voice of reason. The one who didn’t get involved.

And now?

I’m so fucked.

[monada43]

"Bee..."

Summary: Sharing nicknames, and ill-fitting outfits Pairing: Tyrion x reader Words: 3.542

Note: Just wanted to write more about them! Enjoy! :) Warning: (This little story features a female character, she/her pronouns and cisgender. While this identity is important for the plot, readers of all backgrounds are welcome as I try to not add too much information of her features, etc.)

Trepidation coursed through his body as it did most nights since he had been married off.

Duty, Duty, Duty…

The thoughts and comments kept running over his head, hanging almost like a swinging sword since the gossipy "little birds" around the Keep had reached his father's ear with the lack of proof of their marital consummation.

The orders had been explicit; he did remember the cold and apathetic chastising orders he had received from his father. A reminder of his duty: Bed her, wed her, put a baby in her.

But a girl like her, a girl like that - pretty, with a good name, a good title attached - should have had far better prospects than, well… Him.

He reached the door to their shared chambers, allowing himself in as he entered the common room that separated their individual chambers. Face marred with worry, which didn't help his already difficult features, or so would others have mentioned in polite conversation had they dared.

The expression soon softening, replacing itself for one of surprise, slight worry even at the presence of the little maid fidgeting with her hands as she looked on across the open doors of his Beesbury- No. Of his Lannister wife's chambers.

The girl startled as he stood beside her, the sound of the door closing as she turned quickly, offering a quick bow as her cheeks remained flushed. "M'lord!"

Tyrion did not particularly care for who his wife's maids were, so long as they were not close to Cersei (if they were close to father or Varys, 'the spider', well... Those he would not know about until it was already too late). However, he did know this one, her presence as constant as his headaches. A girl no younger than his own wife, no doubt having been her maid long before this.

Perhaps a friend, a confidant. The only thing she had been allowed to keep from her old life.

He quirked an eyebrow as the girl looked on after the quiet display of formalities, as if inviting her to continue.

"M'lady is… indisposed"

"Indisposed?" Tyrion frowned further, no doubt the ugly visage making the girl pale further. "Is she sick?"

"No, she's-"

From inside, he could hear the aggressive movements. The huffing and puffing of someone exerting themselves as other movements could be heard.

Tyrion paled softly, clearing his throat. "By herself?"

The little maid - Elena? Elaera? He knew it was something with an 'E', something pretty and yet very common in the Reach. Not enough to be memorized, much to his personal chagrin. - cleared her throat as she fidgeted with her hands.

"She's occupied, m'lord" She began softly, as if speaking about it destroyed some confidentiality between the two women he was not meant to know. "She's… She's not having a good moment"

"Ah…" Was his lamely response.

What husband- What man would offer such a response?

Stepping past the wooden doors, the vision from inside was completely different from the thousands of images his mind had been conjuring:

Huffing, cheeks slightly flushed from the activity of picking and throwing away silks and skirts, capes and dresses. A furrow on her brows as she stood in her simple summer dress and hair slightly disheveled, glaring at the interior of her wardrobe as if it had personally offended her.

But what worried him, were the silent unshed tears inside her glassed eyes.

Tyrion lingered at the threshold, uncertain whether to speak or simply turn away. There was something disarming - no, painful - in seein her like this; not poised, or carefully veiled in her usual civility, in the soft smiles that usually followed her. But rather unraveled perhaps, pretenses casted off like the silks strewn across the floor.

She hadn't noticed him yet, and perhaps that could make the moment worse. He thought of clearing his throat again, then thought better of it. What could he offer? Sympathy that would taste of bitterness? A husband she hadn't chosen?

With an abrupt turn, perhaps as if sensing new eyes on her, their eyes met. And for an awkward moment, they only stared at each other.

The eyes that had usually been soft and warm, now were sharp, wet, defensive, ashamed. Not the frightened look of a girl caught misbehaving, but rather the look of someone who had been hurt.

"My apologies, my lady" He began quietly, with a quick glance at the meek maid looking on from the threshold (whom quickly moved away, disappeared, silently dismissed) before continuing. "I was not aware a war had been declared onto our wardrobes…"

A long pause. But speaking fairly, he hadn't expected another reaction from that horrible joke.

Unexpectedly, however, after much hesitation, she offered a small smile.

"I cannot find… good clothing" she muttered, turning back to the wardrobe but not touching it. "Not one dress feels… appropriate. Not one thing feels like it belongs…"

Her voice cracked on the last word, and Tyrion felt a pang - an unexpected ache that started somewhere behind his ribs and spread out.

What an awful thing, not belonging, he thought. He had felt the same his entire life. Didn't think it would extent to someone as sweet as this (his) girl.

He could imagine that something had happened. Could see it in her every movement, in the very weight of her shoulders. The inadequacy, most definitely lacking the courtly skills of the Keep.

Could see it almost as if it had happened to him. As it had happened to him countless times before since childhood: She felt out. She most definitely wanted her old life back, her old rooms, her old name. Probably had began to realize how fake and convenient friendships were amongst the court, the sycophants and bootlickers roaming around Robert's court. Even more pompous and desperate as Cersei had established herself as a desperate lioness, offering predilect spots for those whose presences she liked.

Were he in her position, where everything was disgustingly new, and unwanted… Well, he would understand the need for garments that didn't reek of new alliances and bargains struck between men who'd never asked what she wanted. Seven hells, nobody ever asked him what he damn wanted too, anyways.

But he had long learned that tantrums and tears weren't the solution.

"I can summon a tailor," he offered carefully, bending slightly over with his bad knees to pick up a dress of a green as deep as wet grass. One he had seen her in many times since her beginnings to accommodate herself at court.

To see it disregarded, made the ache grow a little more, the words resonating louder. Duty. Duty. Duty…

"A better one," he offered then, looking up at her as he held the green in his hands. Looking up as her hands tightened around the fabrics of the dress she wore now, a pale green that seemed almost yellowish. "You could have your pick of good fabrics, cuts, whatever you like."

She hesitated, her eyes - those beautiful pools of colour of hers - regarding him as though strange. Foreign, yet never wrong.

She shook her head, arms crossing, fidgeting against each other over her stomach where a corset of simple details rested.

"It… It would not change much, would it?"

He stepped further into the room now, not close, but enough that he could be heard without raising his voice.

"No," he agreed. "But it might make belonging a little easier. Pretending."

That made her look at him again. The warmth slowly returning, now, alongside a sliver of curiosity.

"Is that what you do, my lord?" She asked, her voice meek. As though sharing this was a secret. A tentative. She didn't know if to believe him just yet. "Pretend?"

Tyrion offered a small smile. "I pretend I am wanted. It works until I remember I am not"

The words hung in the air between them, too heavy to be brushed aside. It was a branch, almost as green as the dress he held in his fist.

His words on their uneventful wedding night had been true.

They didn't have to do anything they didn't want, not between the walls of this marriage of theirs. - It would be nice to have something pleasant. He wanted to offer her something as pleasant as she was. This his Beesbury girl.

Her mouth twitched as if she might say something, then didn't. Instead, she bent down, picking up a dark pinkish gown with gold threads at the sleeves. She held it up, inspected it. Her fingers caressing softly.

Tyrion felt another kind of ache as he followed her digits, another kind of ache that had no space in this moment but that arose regardless.

She spoke softly then, eyes not meeting his just yet. "I… I miss my father's halls… There aren't gardens here that are free, everybody is busy promenading. I used to sit alongside Elena in the mornings, before the sun got too high."

So it was Elena.

Tyrion nodded slowly. "There is a glass garden on the western side of the Keep. I'm sure it cannot compare to the gardens back in the Reach, but it is quiet. Secluded. I can have Elena take you there.

She gave him a sidelong glance, something quiet, hesitant. The velvet was held a little firmer in her hands. Something in her softened, just a little, like the surface of water stirred by the wind.

"You must think me a child…" She murmured then, little words escaping out almost like the very wind that had softened her. "But I… I just need a moment where nobody judges…"

"Then let us both be children," Tyrion offered, carefully setting the green dress on the edge of a chaise, dusting off nonexistent dirt with a flick of his wrist. "I have been judged all my life - by my stature, my face, by my name, by things I never chose…" He began gently.

The branch growing, even if hesitantly, even if he knew he had been hurt before. Even when he knew it had never ended well. That he had never been allowed to have things that ended well…

"I imagine you now feel much the same, yes?"

Her eyes rose to meet his again, and this time they did not flinch.

For the first time since their wedding, since the stiff meals they shared and the courtesies expected of them at public outings, the breath between them didn't feel so strained. It felt like something was giving way - just slightly, just enough to allow air in where before there had only been the suffocating pressure of expectation.

"I thought… I thought I would have had the hang of it by now. I had been prepared my whole life," She hesitated, then gave away a soft, bitter laugh. "I knew it would not be easy. But perhaps, I would find a way… to manage. But I am apparently so out of place, even my dresses ruin my chances…"

She held back a lump in her throat. He could see it, bobbing in her neck as she scrunched up her nose.

"It has been... Like being a child again, but I am simply judged without being taught… How was I supposed to know there is a dress for something as stupid as taking a walk?"

Tyrion tilted his head at her words, watching the way her fingers twisted nervously into the fabric of her gown. His gaze softened - not out of pity, but recognition.

She was unraveling in the same way he had countless times before, each thread pulled not by her own hands, but by the world that refused to let her be anything other than what it was expected of her.

"Dresses do not ruin chances," he said, voice quiet but firm. "People do. Customs. Courts. A bunch of stupid rules that aren't even written but somehow everybody seems to know better than oneself."

She gave him a small, rueful smile. "You speak like someone who's worn a thousand ill-fitting costumes. You are a Lannister my lord"

"Ah… Someone must remind that to my father and the court," Tyrion replied with a short, dry laugh. "More often than not, he and others usually address me as a jester, or a monster… Does not truly matter how rich my clothes are. Although the name does stir them away from speaking out their nasty words… At times…"

She looked at him again, for longer this time. Truly looked.

And for the first time of many perhaps, she saw not just the Lannister name. Not the twisted dwarf those closest to her had warned her about, not the political pawn he was sure she had been coached to endure - but the tired truth behind tired eyes. A man who understood what it meant to feel out of place in every room.

"You make it sound easy…" She murmured. "Pretending. Managing this" She gestured to everything around her. And he understood.

"It can be, "he said, softly. "When one finds ways for it. When one finds allies…"

She blinked, surprised by the simplicity of it. And perhaps something in her softened further at that - at the idea that shared loneliness was less sharp, less suffocating.

After a pause, she breathed out, almost a sigh. "I do not know what I am doing, my lord…" She confessed softly, a bit more bold. "I thought I was prepared…"

"And now?"

"Now I do not even know which dress makes it so that I am no longer ridiculed…"

He stepped forward, gently reaching for the discarded green one he'd set aside. "Then we will find new ones," he said. "New dresses. New places to enjoy…"

Her hand hovered over the velvet in his. Then, slowly, she accepted it - not just the fabric, but what it meant.

A small gesture. A beginning. Something hers.

But his too.

"I…" She hesitated, then gave another soft, small laugh. "I do not wish to make this more difficult for yourself. I thought I could manage courtly life with ease"

Tyrion gave a wry smile, his eyes glittering with something between his usual humor and exhaustion. "Ah, splendid… Kindred souls then, my lady. I too thought I could manage the court with ease - until I realized the game is rigged, and the rules change the moment you think you have learned them. Or worse, that others have already decided for you."

He took a step back, offering her space, but not distance. "You are not making this more difficult. Difficult was already here, waiting in the walls and hallways long before you arrived. You are simply… learning how to breathe in it."

Her lips parted as if to object, to insist again that she was failing no doubt, that she was not enough - an absurd notion. But instead, she closed them around a quiet breath and nodded.

Tyrion inclined his head, softer now. "Ease is a myth sold to girls like you so men," Not me. Never me. I am barely a man. "could sleep easier at night as they stumble. What you are doing - trying - that is the hard, honest part.

A beat passed between them, calm and tentative.

"I won't lie and tell you it gets easier," He said. "But I can promise that at least, you won't have to do it entirely alone. That is, if you would have my company.. Even if it is just as someone who understands what it is like to feel… ill-fitted…"

"I would like that," She whispered, smile soft. Eyes glassy still. "The company, that is…"

A pause.

"Even if it is borrowed…?"

Tyrion smiled. Not triumphant, not smug - just grateful. "Then borrow freely, my lady. I have plenty to hand. I am after all a walking library of courtly knowledge, sharp wit, and unpleasant reputation." She laughed softly, a hand still ringless - another part of his duty he would also need to acknowledge at another moment - covering her face as it twisted and her eyes crinkled.

It was genuine, quiet, like warmth poking from behind closed curtains.

"You will regret that," She offered gently, inclining her head as if to seal a pact.

Her hair shifted with the movement, having taken to style it as the ladies around court did during the evenings in tight, deliberate curls that mimicked Cersei's. Curls that swept upward, held aloft by pearl pins and the faint glimmer of other jewels nestled inside them like secrets among them. One curl brushed against the open skin of her neck, trailing down like a whisper.

A silent understanding passing between two people who hadn't chosen each other - but who might, in time, choose something together. If not pleasantness, then decency. If not trust, then the comfort of shared solitude. A kindred ache.

"I might rely on you too much… Might turn annoying"

Her eyes gleamed with something more—intelligence, mischief, maybe a trace of hope she hadn’t quite extinguished.

He saw her then—not just the sharp tongue or the wary, shy glances, but the whole of her: someone caught in a life neither of them had chosen, yet still standing tall within it.

Between them hung something new, fragile and wordless: a pact formed not of affection, but of understanding. They might never find comfort in romance or sweetness, but there was something quieter that could be just as binding.

Tyrion offered another faint smile, not mocking. Just honest. He could be honest here. "I have suffered worse." He said, and for once, it wasn't a deflection.

She lowered her hand then, not looking away. That alone felt like an offering.

"Would it be too much of a first request," she asked, her voice softer now, "to not be called 'my lady' so often?"

Tyrion hesitated, as if considering the weight of such a small thing. Then nodded.

"Not wrong," he said, his voice gentler than it had been all evening. "But I must warn you - the Keep, its people, cling to titles like armor. They will address you as 'my lady' until our bones are dust. Unless they decide on something worse."

Her lips curved at that - just slightly - amused despite herself as they faced each other, eye to eye as she remained by the floor. The flicker of understanding passing between hem like a secret handshake.

"Then it will be something borrowed between us…" She hesitated, eyes flicking up to meet his with something cautious, yet warm. "Husband."

The title even sounded different coming from her mouth. Not formal. Not forced. Not dutiful as it had been from the thousand others that dared repeat it back to him. Just… his. As though she had tested the taste of it before, in silence, and only now dared to give it breath.

Tyrion inclined his head, light enough to suggest playfulness, but sincere enough to match the sincerity in her own eyes. "I can allow that," he said, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. "For the sake of this companionship between us, lady-"

She winced, though not harshly. More amused than offended. Something soft passed over her face - not quite embarrassment, not quite grief. A memory brushing against the edge of her voice.

"Not by name." She murmured. "I have… Since childhood, I always heard my parents speak to each other in less formal ways. Private names. Things that no one else called them. It always seemed… kinder…"

She glanced down, as though unsure of how much to share. But it was already out there, gently hanging in the space between them.

"It always made them seem closer," she added after a moment. "More like people, less like… ill-fitting outfits."

Tyrion raised a brow, intrigued now. "You want something private." He said slowly, as if weighing the taste of it. "in a place where privacy is a dying language."

He didn't answer at once. Just looked at her - truly, deliberately - as though considering what such a word might be, what it might mean to share a thing so small and so rare.

"Something small enough to hide in plain sight. Something between us…"

And then he smiled again - not faintly this time, not with his usual mask of irony, but with the kind of expression that made him look years younger, less shadowed. His eyes drifting to her collarbone, where the firelight glinted softly off the delicate chain she always wore, the pendant resting against the modest curve of her décolletage.

A bee, for House Beesbury.

He had seen it before, often, but never allowed himself to linger. Now, with her seated before him, her guard lowered just enough for trust to slip in, it seemed suddenly obvious - inevitable even.

"Bee…" He murmured.

The single syllable hung between them, soft as breath and twice as warm. Her eyes widened just slightly, not from surprise, but from recognition. She reached for the pendant reflexively, fingers brushing over it as it to confirm it was still there.

"My mother's," she offered, her voice quieter now, the words more exposed than she had meant them to be. "She said that even if our symbol was small, we should be proud. Bees are tireless workers, always bountiful. Fragile, yes - but determined. Loyal, when treated gently."

Tyrion's gaze lingered on her hand at her throat. "And dangerous, when not." he added, with the faintest curl of amusement.

Lions and Bees as prideful, rich creatures. What a funny thing. What a funny coincidence.

She smiled at that. "Exactly."

he tilted his head, his voice dipping into something private. "Then it is perfect. A name only I will use. A name earned, yes?"

"Say it again, then" She said softly, not quite a request, not quite a command.

And Tyrion, with a voice that held no jest and no armor, answered. "Bee…"

[lemony-snickers]

whyyyyy is it so hard to find the exact romance story i want to read?

[lamb-of-wrath]

me: +60k words into my au also me: OH MY GOD THEY ARE H U G G I N G?!

no but fr have a peek

ao3

[spaceboyden]

I really wanna explore Jeckole but if they don’t meet during Nicole’s first week of school. We know that Jecka ran with a pretty typical group of preppy girls (that we never see) so she feels inclined to stay in that comfortable clique she’s used to but she can’t help but be so drawn to the new girl who keeps causing problems.

She can’t help but laugh when Nicole says something rightfully disrespectful to a teacher or when she catches her telling off Crispin in the hallway.

Even though Jecka’s preppy, she’s not perfect and she finds herself in the office for getting caught up in something stupid and that’s when they meet.

Nicole’s typing something on her phone, not paying attention and Jecka doesn’t know why but she’s intimidated to just be in her presence. She’s seen how ruthless she can be.

Still though she takes her chances

“You’re Nicole right?”

She looks the blonde girl up and down. Her freshly manicured nails and her crisp pink collar. The same boring bitch she’s seen at countless other schools, clearly this won’t be any different.

“So?”

[estrellami-1]

If I Should Stay

Once again I’m later than I’d like to be… ngl I kinda forgot I was supposed to post today 😬

Part 1 | . . . | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21

Just then, there’s another knock at the door. “All good in here?” Eddie asks.

“No,” Steve deadpans, “Robin’s torturing me.”

“I’m telling him to take care of himself,” Robin snarks back.

“How’s everyone out there?” Steve asks.

A pause, during which Steve and Robin look at each other. “That’s… about what I’m here for,” he finally answers. “Joyce Byers is here and I don’t think any of us have enough answers for her.”

“Christ,” Steve mutters, thunking his head back against the wall. “Okay. Thanks, Eddie. We’ll be out in a minute.”

“Alright.” He knocks once more, lets his knuckles drag down the wood before he walks away.

“So,” Robin says, wrapping a bandage around his torso. “Joyce.”

“Joyce,” Steve agrees.

“You ready?”

Steve pulls his shirt down, then considers the tear, the blood staining the edges. “I think maybe I should change first.”

She chuckles and pushes him in the direction of his room. “Go,” she says. “I’ll clean up.”

“I don’t deserve you!” He calls down the hall.

“You’d better believe it!” She yells back, and he cackles as he shuts his door.

His laugh wakes El, who’s sleeping in his bed. He winces as she murmurs sleepily. “Sorry, El,” he murmurs, moving to his bed to pass a hand over her head. “Forgot you were in here.”

She yawns, eyes fighting to stay open. “Okay?”

He smiles. “We’re fine, El. Go back to sleep, okay?”

“M’kay,” she mumbles, and does just that. She’s out again before he even reaches his closet.

He passes by the bathroom just as Robin opens the door, having finished putting everything away. He grabs her hand and squeezes once, letting her squeeze back before he drops her hand and squares his shoulders, walking into his living room like he’s preparing for battle.

“Everyone alright?” He asks Nancy, who nods, then cuts her eyes to Joyce’s anxious figure in the kitchen. She’s talking to Jonathan. Steve sees tears in both their eyes and decides to let them come to him before Joyce suddenly turns and faces him.

“You brought him back,” she whispers, tears dripping onto her cheeks as she moves to embrace him. “Thank you.” He accepts the hug before she suddenly pulls back. “I need to know, though… Jonathan told me about these… demonic-looking things-”

Steve nods, offers her a seat. Sits next to her and explains the Upside Down all over again. Her gaze hardens when he lifts his shirt and carefully moves the bandages, at her request.

“Okay,” she finally says. “What can I do?”

Steve smiles kindly. “Rest,” he says. “If you’d like to stay here for now, there’s room. If you’d like to go home, you can. But Will…” he sighs. “He’s… marked, now.”

“He’s involved,” Joyce nods and sets her jaw. “If he’s involved, fine. But know I will do everything in my power to keep him safe.”

“We all will,” Steve answers. “There’s more.” He waves Robin over. “She and I… we’re from the future. We’ve been through all this before.”

“Oh,” Joyce whispers. “You poor dears.”

Robin and Steve share a look. “It gets worse,” Robin admits, taking a seat next to Steve.

Steve grimaces. “It started with me,” he admits. “I, uh. Well. I was a bully. And I broke Jonathan’s camera.”

Robin rolls her eyes. “If you won’t tell the full story, I will. You only broke it because he took pictures of you and Nancy in your room.”

“He was looking for Will-”

“He took pictures of you-”

“Robs,” Steve sighs. “Water under the bridge. Hasn’t happened this time around, remember?”

Robin sighs dramatically, trying to get him to smile. It works. “But it happened last time before I knew you. Do you know how many things I wanted to say to him?”

Steve just raises a brow in response. “I’m pretty sure half of what you wanted to say is only legal in Russia.”

“I’m sorry,” Joyce says, effectively derailing them. “Did you say Jonathan took pictures of you and Nancy? Alone in your room?”

“Yeah, but we’re fine now. Or… we were fine. Last week. When we knew each other.”

Joyce rubs her temples. “Christ,” she mutters. “Are you… I don’t even know what to ask at this point. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Steve shrugs, then thinks about it. “I mean… as fine as you can be after everything, I guess.”

Joyce hums thoughtfully. “Okay,” she decides. “I think you need to tell me everything.”

So they do, taking turns when one forgets something, sometimes getting sidetracked, with Joyce guiding them back onto the topic.

“And that’s it,” Steve finally says with another shrug. “Now we’re here and we found Will and Barb, so it’s already going better than last time.”

“I think I need a drink,” Joyce says. “And I think you need several drinks.” She takes a breath. “Okay. I’m going to take you up on the offer of rest here, since I think Will’s happy here. After that, I’m in. Whatever you need.”

Permanent Taglist: @justforthedead89 @ilovecupcakesandtea @madigoround @bookbinderbitch @suddenlyinlove @nburkhardt @artiststarme @paintsplatteredandimperfect @i-less-than-three-you @alyelf @quarble @messrs-weasley @littlewildflowerkitten @vankaar @starman-jpg @bornonthesavage @steddie-there @goodolefashionedloverboi @andienotannie @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @platinum-sunset @just-ladyme @steddiestains @swimmingbirdrunningrock @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @martinskis-lydias @notaqueenakhaleesi @sleepyboosstuff @bestwifehaver @m-owo-n @thatonebadideapanda @finalmoondragon @velocitytimes2 @callmeanythjing @ajeff855 @ilikeititspretty @knitsforthetrail @sillysparrow @that-one-corvid @ace-is-bored @muricel @harpymoth @weirdandabsurd42

Fic Taglist: @blondlanfear @do-you-want-something-more @str4wb3rry-guy @paperbackribs @ninjapirateunicorns @bisexualdisastersworld @hiscrimsonangel @lolawonsstuff @xo-r4e @thedragonsaunt @l0st-strawberry

[1eaf-me-alone]

Here are some snippets for a Jing Yuan Persephone x Hades AU I'm in the process of currently writing (very slowly)

Legend says that a long, long time ago, there lived a General.

His rule over the people kept Luofu at peace. He was commanding and calculative, earning respect from most and fear from some — but only if they defied his orders.

Luofu was a large, orderly city filled with bustling markets, tall temples, cobbled streets, and crowds gathering like pigeons in front of Jing Yuan’s ship.

The architecture was a beauty: tall slabs of sandstone and rock, sanded down to perfection, intricate swirls and patterns etched into every building, every window, every door. Jing Yuan’s world was one of precision — because without order, chaos would reign...

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

(A section from their first meeting..)

The azure sky welcomed Jing Yuan as he knelt on the ground, his eyes scanning the surroundings. The viridescent leaves swayed gently, tickling his legs

Then he heard it — the faintest rustle from nearby bushes.

He shifted his gaze cautiously and spotted a small finch, its feathers painted in blacks and greys, its head a soft beige, its beak a vivid crimson. The bird was beautiful, delicate.

Tentatively, Jing Yuan edged closer, but the faintest movement startled the finch, and it fluttered away into the city.

Swiftly, Jing Yuan rose and followed the bird’s erratic trail. It darted under signboards, hopped onto the pebbled pavement, slipped beneath arches of towering buildings — all attempts to elude him in vain.

After scattering crumbs of food, the finch finally perched on his shoulder.

But Jing Yuan no longer paid attention to it.

Ahead stood you — a beauty humming softly, picking flowers from the lawn with grace.

You wore a long robe swirling with golden and red patterns, brushing the ground. Your eyes were deep and sweet, capturing his gaze.

For the first time, Jing Yuan’s heart thumped.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

(A section from a little later...)

“Capture them,” he ordered his guards.

They nodded, prepared to follow his command.

“Stop,” he said suddenly.

“Do not hurt them. Bring them back safe. Feed them, let them rest if they need to.”

The guards hesitated, then marched away in line.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

(also a little later)

You looked at him coldly.

“I don’t want to be here,” you said, voice firm.

Jing Yuan frowned, his voice low.

“I can give you anything you want. All you have to do is ask.”

You shook your head.

“I hate you.”

End snippets.

My writing has been very sporadic for this fic, but.. I don't want to reveal too much in case I ever do post it.. so, hope you enjoy!

[blimbosworlddd]

Lee practically sprints to his fallen student, kneeling down before her unconscious state. He gently but quickly slides his arms under her frail body and lifts her up. While carrying her back to the back room, the rest of his students follow behind. Luckily, each room has treatment beds and basic medical equipment.

Amanda opens the door so nothing will be in Lee’s way. He frantically scans the room for any necessities, only to find Might Guy, Neji and-

…You.

Beautiful, majestic you. 

Despite the crowd of students surrounding you with glee, the only thing in your field of vision is Lee holding a gravely injured and unconscious Orchid. Your sweet Orchid. You look up at Lee, and the sight simply breaks you: his eyebrows knitted together on top of a gaze haunted by desperate sorrow. Lee’s widened eyes flicker down to the student in his arms before looking up to you. He’s trying so hard to keep his wrath at bay. He has to.

Please… help her, his pained face begs.

You take steady steps towards Lee, as if you fear he will close himself off from you. As if he’d ever do that. You return his despairing stare with a tender one, leaning your forehead against his own. His eyes shut at the feeling of your touch. A distressed sigh escapes his lips as he feels all the pent up shame and fear dissipate from his bones. God, I missed you so much, he tells himself.

You wrap your arms securely around Orchid’s body, waiting patiently for Lee to let go. And when he does, you carry her to the nearest bed you can find. You lay her down and the first thing you notice is a purple-adjacent bruise in the center of her throat. You glare at it in subtle horror. The students surrounding the bed mirror your expression. You check the pulse right below her jaw, and luckily she’s still breathing.

-- Nirvana: Chapter 9

AN: Hello all! This is a snippet from my latest chapter of Nirvana. I decided to show this part instead of the fight scenes cuz i gotta revise them. T-T Any questions you have just message me. Enjoy the rabbit hole of my fic!

This work belongs solely to ©️ blimbosworlddd. Do not plagiarize, steal, copy or repost. I worked very hard on this; reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated.

[newnewtheicon]

First Love: Where it Began

Bill’s POV

I get on my computer and log into Roblox—something I don’t usually do, but whatever. I start playing Mingle. The server is almost empty, but it’s 2 a.m., so I’m not surprised. I just wanted to play something. I’ve already finished all my essays for school—stuff that isn’t due until next month, and half of it hasn’t even been covered in class yet.

As I play, I notice there are only two other players. One of them is this girl in the red room, shouting through voice chat.

“Stop being stupid and come into the room!”

I jump in. “Yo, stop yelling. You don’t wanna get banned.”

“Okay, true—but people are just standing there!”

“Alright, fair. But why is your name Lunareclipse0819?”

“How do you get to talk about usernames? Discardedmrtyr?”

“Sassy much.”

“No, I’m a woman with words and opinions. Lots of them.”

“I like you. You’re a challenge.”

(We get back on the platform in-game.)

“Wanna add me on Discord?” I ask, feeling a little weird—like I’m some random creep.

“Sure… I guess.” (She scoffs.) “It’s the same as my Roblox username.”

She sends me a friend request. We play for about 25 more minutes, then hop on Discord. We end up chatting for hours. I’ve never met a girl online who’s so captivating. The way she talks, the passion in her voice—it’s different.

“What should we call each other?” I ask.

“To you, I’m Luna.”

“I’m…” I pause, trying to come up with something cool. “I’m Sherlock. I grew up wanting to be like Sherlock Holmes.”

We dive into a deep conversation about politics. She opens my mind to things I hadn’t even considered.

“The reason Black people are so strongly offended by non-Black people wearing our hairstyles,” she says, “is because we were mocked for them. And historically, our hair was literally stripped from us when we were brought to the West. It’s generational trauma. That’s why it matters.”

a/n: Au is by @dyellogin love you dyell

[cannonqueerbait]

student/TA - AU

chloe doesn’t need help with her paper. she’s got a 98. but she keeps coming to office hours anyway. always brings something — coffee, candy, chaos. beca pretends not to notice. “just wanted a second opinion,” chloe says. “on your thesis?” “on my outfit.”

[narrativeglitch]

Vendetta

(Oc/Y/N maybe another thought plot/rewatching the show. Let me know any thoughts)

The sonic boom was a crack of a colossal whip across the sky, and an instant later, she was there.

No warning. No grand entrance. Just a shimmer in the air, a blur of cobalt and silver that slammed into one of the Marks, sending them both skidding across the polished expanse of the floor. They struck the far wall with a sickening thud that echoed in the sudden, sharp silence.

Her arms were a vise around his torso from behind, her cheek pressed against his jaw. His name was a ragged whisper, torn between breathlessness and profound, soul-deep relief. “Mark,” she breathed, the word a prayer held captive in her chest for years. “I got your message. Gods, I thought I was too late.”

A shaky exhalation escaped her, but as her eyes fluttered open, the world and everything in it stalled.

Across the vast room, another Mark stood, eyes locked with her’s, statue-still. Same broad frame. Same look of her Mark, her best friend that she grew up with. But why was he over there when she was hugging him.

Her gaze swept wider, and the air punched from her lungs. Seven more. Standing. Sitting. Watching her with an unnerving stillness.

She recoiled from the Mark she’d tackled in an embrace. His expression was an unreadable mask. Amani took a good look at the impostor’s Mark’s face. Too sharp, the angles too severe. Too still, like a predator assessing prey. His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, met hers, but there was no flicker of recognition, no warmth, nothing of the man she knew.

Her boots stuttered a half-step back on the slick floor. Her pulse hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She scanned the room again, her mind struggling to process the impossible. these duplicates, these echoes of the person she thought she knew, the man she’d crossed galaxies for.

She didn’t speak. Couldn’t. But her body screamed her confusion and dawning horror.

On the far side of a long, metallic table, one of the Marks, this one draped in a worn, crimson cape, a jagged scar bisecting his jaw, tilted his head, a flicker of something like amusement in his eyes. “Well,” he drawled, his voice a low rumble. “That’s a first.”

Another one of the Imposter Marks didn’t look away from her. As he pushed himself off of the wall he was leaning on let out a soft chuckle. “Didn’t realize we were expecting… company.”

Across the room, another version, whose suit had darker, almost predatory stripes folded his arms with an audible creak of leather. “You texted her?” he directed at her Mark, his tone incredulous. “Right now? With all of us here?”

Her Mark, the one she’d sought, the one whose signal had been a beacon, raised his hands, palms half-up in a gesture of helpless placation. “I wasn’t sure she’d even get it, let alone show.”

Prisonincible, clad in a stark, utilitarian version of the suit, shifted from his crouched position near a bank of monitors. “I’ve never seen her before, she’s not from my reality.” His voice was flat, devoid of inflection.

The Mark she’d tackled, leaner, harder, his expression now carefully neutral, finally brushed himself off, his gaze sweeping over her as if she were an unpredictable weapon that had just discharged in his hands. “She’s not from mine either,”

Silence descended again, thick and heavy. One of the others, Imposter Mark, his eyes unnervingly bare and piercing, studied her without a word, his gaze never leaving her face. Another leaned back against the wall, his features shadowed and unreadable. None of the other Imposter Mark’s knew who she was, she hadn’t been present in their realities.

Amani hadn’t moved.

Her fingers curled, nails biting into her palms, then consciously, slowly, relaxed. She hadn’t expected this. Any of this. Her return wasn’t supposed to be a plunge into a hall of fractured mirrors.

Mark, her Mark, took a hesitant step forward. He didn’t say her name, just looked at her with an expression that spoke volumes, a silent question of whether he still had the right to even look at her that way. “I didn’t think you’d come,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

She stared at him for a long, suspended moment before taking a slow, deliberate step towards him. The hug was firm, steady, a desperate anchor in a storm of unreality. Something familiar she could still, hopefully, trust.

“I came the second I saw your name flash on my screen,” she murmured against his shoulder, her voice thick with unshed tears. “But you failed to mention… all of this.”

He nodded, a small, jerky movement, his arms tentatively closing around her. “Didn’t exactly know how to phrase it in a text.”

She pulled back, but only slightly, her eyes drawn inexorably to the silent assembly of Marks. It was still too much, a cognitive dissonance that made her head spin. The silence stretched, taut and fragile. Then, her voice, though quiet, cut through the tension. “Are you going to tell me what fresh hell I just walked into?”

At the far end of the room, a figure hunched over a glowing console finally spoke, his voice dry and weary. Cecil Stedman didn’t look up.

“We’ve been trying to answer that exact question since this morning, Vendetta.”

Amani’s head snapped towards the new voice. And when she saw him, standing there, older, more lines etched around his eyes, but unmistakably him, her expression underwent a chilling transformation.

Whatever fragile ease had begun to settle on her face, whatever hope had flickered, vanished as if it had never been. Replaced by something cold, hard, and dangerous. The warmth she’d just shown Mark? Erased.

She stepped out of his arms without a word, spine straight, shoulders squared.

“Don’t call me that,” she said, voice flat and sharp. “Not anymore.”

Cecil let out a slow breath. The kind that meant he’d expected this, just not how much it would still sting.