#Someone who is using blood to destroy blood around him

[secondsistershelby3]

A MONSTER BUT NOT FOR YOU [1]

Pairings: Joel Miller x immune!Reader

Summary: you were born and raised in shit, like so many other people born during the apocalypse, you knew that things would be even more difficult since that fateful day in 2015, but did you ever imagine that people would no longer see you as a human being, or maybe someone would?

Warnings: !SPOILER TLOU!, typical violence of the last of us, angst, blood, quite specific descriptions gore, age gap, SMUT, 18+, obscenity, !Legal!, flashbacks, I will try to make Joel behave in a fairly canonical way

Notes: I don't have specific days to publish, but I will try to post at least once a week if this series will continue.

You were born on December 30, 2005, during that damn shit apocalypse, your memories were so vivid, usually memories of when you were little fade like clouds of smoke over the years, but not yours. Your most vivid memory is when you were infected at the age of 10, it was on May 25, 2015, or at least that's what the calendar said that it was already in that half-destroyed house where you lived then

—

May 25, 2015

"Thomas what's going on?" you asked as your brother quickly picked you up, while your sister grabbed a backpack ready to go out. "We have to go honey, it's not safe anymore" Your brother tried to be as sweet as possible but hearing the effects banging against the doors was quite difficult. "Tom..." Denise, your sister, looked at the door and then at him looking worried. "I know, I know" they both put a freshly prepared backpack on their shoulders and both went out the back.

You were with your face pressed against your brother's shoulder scared, your heart was beating a thousand times, as if you had just run a marathon. "ok ok" Thomas said quickly with agitation, up ahead there should be the car we had left when we got here, let's take it and get out of this shitty place" Every time going outside was like setting off a fire alarm, the danger was lurking, anything could happen, infected, humans, they were one more dangerous than the other. That evening you must have forgotten it in part or maybe from the adrenaline you weren't thinking about it.

"Tommy…I'm afraid" you gasped while you were afraid even to turn your head to look around

"I know, I know but we're almost there honey, hold on" tears began to come down from your eyes and suddenly you heard grunts not far from you until your sister's scream broke the air

"TOMMY WATCH OUT!" An infected rushed with superhuman speed towards you and Thomas, the crash was confused, you only felt your whole body burn, especially just below the shoulder. You had your face slammed against the grass. Maybe a few seconds or maybe minutes had passed but you heard someone take you again. It was Tommy sweaty and with blood on him and you could see out of the corner of your eye the infected person who had attacked you with a slightly dented head.

"COME ON" Your brother quickly put you in the car and all three of you quickly partied with the infected behind you.

"Everything okay honey?" Your sister turned slightly putting a hand on your knee "My shoulder is burning a little" you whispered with your hand over your shoulder

His hand never left your body "as soon as we find a safe place I'll check it out" his head turned to you to give you a reassuring smile and turned his head back to the road or at least what was left of it.

Shortly after your sister turned you looked at the spot where he burned you, you slowly removed your hand and saw a bite, the mark of the infected's teeth penetrating your skin, it had been so fast that you hadn't even noticed. Your breathing increased just by seeing it.

If there was one thing you had learned since you were in the world it was: "bite = death"

You wouldn't have said it then given your age but if it were now you would have said that .you were.fucked. You didn't even hear your brother and sister arguing about the next destination, because in fact you didn't know, you had been in that house for almost two months, you had stopped to look for fireflies, they say they would have saved you and your destination was that.

10 or 20 minutes passed where you were staring straight ahead, you didn't want to die, that wasn't in your plan, no fucking fuck; the beat up car stopped

"no no shit, fuck FUCK!" you jumped at your brother's scream as he slammed his hands against the steering wheel. He looked in the mirror and saw you crouched down. He swallowed and spoke "sorry honey, I didn't mean to scare you..it's..it's just a bad time" He slumped down in the seat and ran a hand through his hair.

"We'll have to walk" your brother nodded to your sister and the three of you got out of the car cautiously, in case there were any infected.

"come here sweetheart we'll check your shoulder" your sister approached you while Thomas checked the surroundings turning his head in all directions. You continued to press your hand against your arm.

Denise lowered herself to your height and gently took your arm "Ok, let's see how to disinfect and then see- "

silence

you looked at her with a trembling lip while Denise stared fixedly at your arm with her mouth that slightly opened but no words came out. She shook her head and began to rave

"No, no, no, it can't be, it can't!" He was constantly rubbing his wrist against the bite hoping it was just a nightmare "please oh my god!" He put a hand on his mouth and started crying as he finally looked at you

your brother noticed the commotion and walked over to a crying Denise and you who had teary eyes as you looked at your older sister "what the hell is going on?! Why are you-" your brother gasped as he knelt down to check what was happening.

still silence

He gently ran his hand over the bite spot "it was…it was that infected..right?" he asked as he looked at you who was on the verge of bursting into tears as much as your sister. You nodded as you looked up to look at him.

"it's all my fault…" you and your sister looked up at him

"it's all my fault, I should have protected you" his composure slowly disappeared. He put a hand over his eyes

"I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry" he took you by the shoulders and hugged you. You pressed your head into his shoulder without hesitation as tears began to fall from your eyes.

You heard your sister muttering continuous "we can't, we can't do this"

your life would have ended here, bitten by an infected at only 10 years old, what a sad life you thought. What would they have done to you, you kept asking yourself. Would they have shot you? Suffocated you? Or would they have let you transform because they won't be strong enough to kill you?

You didn't know if you were afraid because you were going to die or because you would have left the people you love alone.

—

Boston, 2023

"What the fuck are you trying to do Marlene?" one of the many fireflies asked.

"I want to find a cure for this fucking virus, that's what I'm doing" the firefly glared at Marlene

"They explicitly told us not to take more than one sample and if she breaks free, do you know what the fuck she could do to us?! We've all seen her in action and she's a fucking animal!"

Marlene looked coldly at the firefly. "I don't want to carry her, I want her to help us transport our real cure along with the others"

"So why the hell are we keeping her here?" Marlene looked away from the firefly and looked at the closed door in front of her "because I want to see how much she can give if she gets to the final stage"

"she'll tear us apart!" - "not if we take her straight to F.E.D.R.A. She'll be our transporter"

Marlene didn't even have a vague idea of ​​what you could do and only when she's one step away from death will she understand it

[corvusalbus93]

Good observations and I think I had a similar journey.

When I did the first run with the drow monk I honestly wasn’t sure, who she should romance. I had her backstory down, a basic idea of her characterization, but when it came to the companions, I just tried to roleplay as best I could and see who a) would suit her best and b) would make for an interesting dynamic.

Having conceived of her as someone who generally will help people when she’s able, while also cautious and pragmatic, due to her decades of experience, and because she’s a drow; she would be used to dealing with a lot of animosity throughout the century she’s been around on the surface. This incidentally became one of the reasons I eventually decided to pair her up with Astarion; both are being seen as evil or monstrous by the general public, which I figured would give her reason to sympathize and give him a genuine chance.

I myself actually didn’t like him all that much, and getting disapprovals for just accepting quests was not helping. But that’s the thing: I as a player know I get XP and gear, which a character in universe just can’t. As you said – why would he approve of the group putting themselves in danger? And then of course, alongside one’s character, you learn more about him, which adds a lot of context and shines a new light on many of these approvals/disapprovals. He is no saint, but clearly not as evil as it seemed at first glance.

As you rightfully pointed out, his desire for safety (and freedom) motivates so much of his actions and opinions. This also goes for power; ultimately it’s a means to an end. In Act 2, he even says as much, when talking about the tadpoles. And there’s more to it than that, it’s a complex relationship he has with power. On the one hand he seeks power when possible to secure his freedom and safety, but he immediately decries fully-fledged vampires as power-hungry beasts. And when he’s drunk from blood, he angrily states how people with power can do whatever they want. This is the worldview he knows and has suffered under, why he thinks he needs power himself, while hating the injustices he’s suffered. What other way is there? Tav can, with both actions and words, either challenge that notion or reaffirm it.

What I also found interesting is that he seems to trust a Tav, who helps to destroy the Grove & kill the Tieflings much less. Someone put the scenes of the Golbin and Tiefling party together and during the Goblin party he seems more on edge, carful and after sleeping with Tav is almost in a hurry to get away, while in the Tiefling-party version he sticks around ‘til Dawn and is much more relaxed.

I actually had Tav deny his initial advances; it didn’t feel right at that point of the story and though I don’t quite like you have to sleep with him at some point during Act 1 for the romance to happen at all, I felt like it made a lot more sense for that Tav at the end of the Act 1. Until after a few more interactions, a few more glimpses behind the mask and the person behind it.

A have a very abbreviated summary of their overall development in a recent post.

Look forward to reading more of your thoughts.

The Truth Behind the Mask

(1/? part of “Astarion: In Search of True Self” — [masterpost here])

Even before I played, I kept stumbling upon Astarion fanart and memes that made me assume he was just some overrated character who was only popular because of his flirty, sassy attitude (I’m so sorry Q^Q). That’s why I didn’t have the best first impression even before I started.

And even in-game, when you first meet him, Astarion seems like a shallow, selfish and flirty guy - someone who doesn’t really care what others think and just follows his whims.

Couldn’t be further from the truth!

From what I’ve seen in some discussions on social media, though, a lot of players still hold that first impression - even after completing his route. I’ve even seen people call him a red flag, label him evil or say they were disappointed in general.

Also, I feel like most guides (at least the ones I’ve come across) simplify his character too much - mainly focusing on which choices will gain his approval or disapproval. Maybe that’s to avoid spoilers, but still. There are definitely other players who see the deeper layers too - so this is just my way of sharing my personal journey of discovering the real Astarion.

So, how did that first impression start to unravel? When checking with the guide and watching his reactions and body language, I started thinking about why the approval/disapproval tips work.

How Approval Looks on the Surface

Let’s look at some general tips for gaining Astarion’s approval points: 

choosing evil replies/actions 

seeking power 

siding with evil characters 

deceiving your opponents  

supporting his desires  

being understanding and accepting towards him 

(bonus one, haven’t seen guides mention this) sarcastic replies  

And disapproval points: 

making pompous heroic statements (like “Worry not! I shall save everyone!”) 

helping the weak 

being open about your party's situation (tadpoles)

being judgmental or unsupportive towards him  

naive/goodie-two-shoes responses  

In most cases, it is explained by his natural inclination towards evil forces and power, making Astarion seem like a self-centred and power-hungry vampire who might, with Tav’s influence, turn to become a bit of a better person. Or not. 

But while it’s technically true that those actions affect his approval, there’s much more nuance to why Astarion reacts the way he does - especially in the early stages.

So what's really going on?

The first contradiction that made me feel confused about the reasons for Astarion’s reactions was how nice Tav is being to him (of course, if you chose good replies during their interactions) – a person who is mean to everyone else would be just as mean to Astarion. It didn’t make sense to me; a kind and understanding Tav would fit much better in the story.  

So what is going on there? Why does Astarion need a kind and gentle Tav who is cold and dismissive to the rest of the world?

Because he is terrified.  

When we first meet our pale elf, he has just escaped (as in been kidnapped) from 200 years of slavery, humiliation and torture where his wellbeing completely depended on Cazador’s whims and every mistake meant punishment. Of course he’s paranoid. Of course he’s always calculating risk. 

It’s not about Tav’s choices being good or evil, it’s about their possible consequences for Astarion. He doesn’t want Tav to be evil, he just wants to feel safe. That’s all.  

Let’s Look at That List Again

So let’s look at his approval/disapproval list again: 

refusing to help someone - approve! we don’t want to risk 

seeking power - yes, please! power means safety!

siding up with evil characters - they are strong, so why not use this to our benefit? 

deceiving your opponents - we didn’t even have to fight and got want we wanted? don’t see a problem  

supporting his desires - maybe this time, I won’t have to fight for what I want

being understanding and accepting towards him - finally someone doesn't treat me as a monster

sarcasm - humor is our everything, especially when there’s nothing else left 

On the other hand:

making pompous heroic statements - you are saying these cringe things with a straight face AND putting us in danger? hard nope! 

helping the weak - no one helped me, why should we bother 

disclosing truth about their situation - have you heard about caution?!  

being judgmental or unsupportive towards him - no thanks, had enough of that

naive/goodie-two-shoes responses - are we going to be fine with a leader like that?..  

What Kind of Tav Does He Need?

Astarion isn’t looking for an "evil" Tav - he’s looking for safety. Well, technically, he isn’t looking for anyone at all. But the kind of Tav he opens up to tends to be:

pragmatic, cautious and clever

emotionally intelligent

non-judgmental

strong enough to lead and survive

That’s why he feels comfortable with a Tav who might choose to be distant toward strangers but treats him with consistent care. In this context it’s not suspicious, it’s sensible. He doesn’t expect help from the world, and he respects those who understand that reality. In a hostile world, survival is more likely in a group, so he clings to the party and tries to secure his place using the only tools he knows: charm, wit and usefulness. And a part of that strategy, making sure the leader favors him and he won’t be cast aside, leads to his initial approaches for Tav. But we’ll get into that more in another post.

So if Tav shows kindness to him? That’s exactly what he’s aiming for. And it doesn’t even matter that much if they still go out of their way to help others - because if the care they show him feels real, that already shifts something deep inside. That already gives him a reason to start hoping that this might be real.

The Mask

So there’s the charm, the flirtation, the flair for drama. Some players may read that as shallow or even foolish. But it’s not. It’s a mask - one he’s worn so well and for so long that it feels real. It’s what kept him alive under Cazador for the last 200 years.

But if you keep going, if you give him time and space to feel safe, you start to see it slip. The closer Tav gets to him, the more glimpses we get of his real self - thoughtful and warm, wary and sharp, sometimes silly and awkward, and, beneath it all, deeply hurt. And if you stay with him through to the end, when he finally feels safe enough to stop performing, his whole demeanor changes. He’s calmer. More grounded. Still witty - but in a different way.

Still Astarion. Just more himself.

<next part>

<back to masterpost>

[bakedgoodsforbucky]

Thinking about tbosas from the other perspective is so funny to me because imagine you’re Lucy Gray and the way you make a living is by singing and being a charming, charismatic performer. The people in your district love you, you have a nice family, sure your parents are dead but things aren’t so bad.

Then you get Reaped because your boyfriend cheated on you - so now you have to fight for your life in an arena.

When you get to the Capitol you’re met by a guy around your age who says his job is to take care of you in the arena, so you figure you should probably use some of those charms you live by on him so you have a better chance at survival. So you flirt with him a little, save his life etc. It works! He helps you! Now you’ve won the Hunger Games! You get to go home and see your family! Thank you random Capitol guy for your help, bye bye now.

And then you’re singing on stage, with your family who you literally killed people to see again, thrilled to be alive and this fuckin Capitol guy has followed you home.

Oh and also he’s a peacekeeper now so is legally allowed a gun.

And now he kind of won’t leave you alone - the charm worked too well and he’s obsessed with you. Brilliant. But you’re a survivor. So you let him get closer, just enough to feel safe. And as you get to know him better, maybe you’re thinking, hey this guy isn’t so bad, he’s kind of cute with his buzzcut and he seems to really like you, maybe this could be something. Also it might be useful to have a peacekeeper on side - everything in your district is about survival.

Things are going well, you write a song about him, he cries, your little cousin loves him.

And then he murders someone in front of you and you’re like oh shit he crazy. And THEN you realise that because of the person he murdered, the mayor is now out for your blood and you’re probably gonna die so you have to get out of there ASAP so you say bye to this guy and he INVITES HIMSELF TO YOUR ESCAPE PLAN and you have to be like “oh sure, that’s super news, would absolutely love to have you along with me, I’m so glad you asked.” So now you’re stuck with him again.

And THEN you’re in the middle of escaping and he fuckin tells you he’s murdered an extra person you didn’t know about and when you ask him who, he says his old self and now you’re thinking oh shit he CRAZY crazy. And THEN he finds the gun he used and you realise that if he destroys that evidence then you’re the only loose end and he has a kind of crazy look in his eye so you’re like, okay time to nip this in the bud, I’m outta here gotta go pick some katniss. So you run away from him and THEN he follows you again and fuckin shoots at you so you run FASTER and now you’ve disappeared and no one will ever find out what happened to you which drives him absolutely crazy for 60+ years.

Oh and also they’re going to erase all footage of your Games so no one will remember you and he’s going to become a tyrannical dictator who has personal beef with three different sixteen year olds from your district over the years, all because you hurt his feelings one time.

[cupcakedieabetes]

DPXDC PROMPT: DEMON TWINS, BUT DANYAL NEVER REVIVED

Imagine Danyal never getting revived by the Pits after he had to battle Damian to the death. Ra's instantly destroys the body at the last breath that Danyal takes because he knows that his daughter will have a moment of weakness and he wasn't willing to let a weak one live. I'd like to put them around the ages of 5-6 ish.

Damian thought it was normal, and treated everything as fine because it was always expected of him. His twin was the weaker one after all. All emotional and soft despite the training. He has never called his brother "Akhi" bc he was weak and refused to acknowledge him as a brother

Meanwhile, Talia was grieving her son. Danyal who was just like his father where the people in League would call weak because he was reluctant to kill and was very soft at heart. That's when she made plans to remove her only remaining child from the League and overtake her father.

So Damian was sent off to his father.

Now, Danyal Al Ghul has been reincarnated into Daniel 'Danny' Fenton. He was born and raised in the Fenton's family and has no idea about his past life.

Now, I kind of want Danny to get turned into a ghost at a younger age. Maybe age 10 so Damian would be 16, so there would be an age gap of 5-6 years.

Damian has lived with the Waynes for years now. When he was younger, he didn’t and had never regretted killing his brother. After all, was it a surprise that the moment he entered the Manor, he tried killing Tim? He had already killed one brother, more over his own blood, so what is another, if not an inferior one due to having no relation to him at all?

But now, he regrets it so much. But it's been years, and he barely even remembers Danyal's face. He didn’t tell his family bc he didn't want them to grieve over a family that was long dead. That was practically destroyed the moment he died, so there was nothing left of him. He has no memories of his brother either, only his name, so how could he offer comfort to the other bats when he couldn’t even tell some stories about him either?

The bats are now tied up by a cult, and Damian was in the center of the sacrificial circle.

The cult was summoning someone of Damian's deceased family or something like plot convenience for a summoning. To use them to fight against the bats bc how sad it would be bc they would have to fight against a dead family member that was controlled by them. Damian was struggling bc it could be anyone from the League.

Then, to his horror, it was his brother who was summoned. He was suspended in the air in a fetal position asleep, but he appeared transparent with a tail.

"Danyal" He said, horrified. He appeared older for some reason, but the instant he was summoned, he knew it was him.

Batman, who was trying to reach for Damian, stared at the sleeping ghost. He appeared similar to Damian and his mind did the mental math. He didn’t know exactly when did the ghost died, but judging by his age, he looked to be about the age Damian came to the Manor. And judging by how anguished Damian looked, he came to the right conclusion that the ghost was Damian's brother, his son.

He mourned. This was simultaneously the oldest and the youngest he would have ever seen.

That is also what the rest of the bat thinks and comes to the conclusion of. They broke out of their restrains due to fury and stuff, and the circle is erased, the ghost gone before they had a chance to use him against them.

Meanwhile, (pre-Ghost King maybe) Danny just jolted in bed, confused about what happened bc he had a feeling he turned into a ghost. But he shrugged it off and went back to sleep.

[sunderwight]

Fic where Su Xiyan lives but she's like, a huge asshole about it.

Tianlang Jun still gets stuck under the mountain, see, and Su Xiyan's been thoroughly betrayed by her own master, and seemingly not just him but also all the other major sects too. They all sided against her and against her lover based on prejudice. The fact that they were tricked likely wouldn't be known to her, from the outside it would just look as though they all readily dogpiled on at the first opportunity to take down a heavenly demon, even though he never did anything wrong.

Plus her own reputation has been ground to dust, going from the respected head disciple of the second greatest sect to being slandered as a honeypot who seduced a demon emperor in order to bring him down. She was used to destroy the man she loves, she almost died trying to keep her baby, her cultivation's probably taken a massive hit and she has no chance of getting to that mountain and digging her lover out from under it. Even if she could, he believes she betrayed him, so what kind of reception could she hope for?

Not that this will stop her from trying to dig him out anyway, but it's not like she can just snap her fingers and get him out. There's a whole mountain on him, and she's on the run with an infant.

So she decides she's going to make this everyone's problem as much as she can.

For a couple of years she lays low, just trying to rebuild her cultivation and look after the baby. If she's being honest, she's not great at it. She loves her son but maternal instincts don't really kick in, he's kind of a shriveled ball of misery and mess, and she doesn't really see the appeal. It gets better as he starts to get bigger and more of a personality asserts itself, and she can start treating him more like a small human than a wailing parasite that's latched onto her tit.

She would still hire someone else to look after him at the first possible opportunity, but she's paranoid about some aspect of his seal slipping and giving them away. With no body ever recovered, Huan Hua Palace is still looking for her. So she's stuck with childcare and she hates every minute of it and spends most of her time changing diapers just seething about dropping her old shifu into a mountain of shit and watching him suffocate.

Once Binghe is big enough to walk, and Su Xiyan is well enough to fight, they make for the borderlands. Su Xiyan starts teaching her son the earliest forms of cultivation he can learn, but his demon heritage is still sealed and right now he's too weak and small to risk unsealing it. So she focuses on herself, on rebuilding her own strength, turning to demonic methods and forbidden techniques (why not, when one has already been tarred and feathered and was never particularly precious about righteousness to begin with?) and hunting other cultivators just as often as demonic beasts.

Time passes and Su Xiyan begins to build a reputation even worse than Wu Yanzi's. A deadly rogue cultivator known only by some epithet or other who kills even powerful disciples of mighty sects. She experiments with what it would take to destroy a mountain, how much force, and what could provide it. Sacrificial arrays that feed off of the energy of cultivators or demons. Rituals and artifacts that demand high prices. Ways to summon demons or open gateways for them to possess others. She even considers using her son -- his blood is heavenly demon blood, his body is the closest thing she has to a suitable vessel for Tianlang Jun.

It would probably work, is the thing.

As the thought turns around her mind and she washes the blood from her hands, she decides that she's got to send her son away, actually. He's too weak and burdensome (and the fact she'd even consider using him such a way means that not even she is fully safe for him to be around any longer, not with the kinds of things she's doing, not with the kind of creature she's becoming). Now that he's big enough to survive on his own, she can ditch him somewhere to level up and bring him back once he's got enough strength to actually make himself useful.

So she sends him off, tells him not to come back until he's strong, ignores the tears and the hands gripping her robes until she finally has to wrench them away and strand the boy in a city far enough from her hunting grounds that he can't easily get back on his own.

Of course, he does still try, but he's lost and doesn't know where he's going. A kindly washerwoman takes pity on him and takes him in. The now-named Luo Binghe (his mother only ever called him 'son') isn't sure what he's supposed to be doing, but he suspects it's not just keeping house with his new caretaker. However, at the ripe old age of five he doesn't really know what else to do, so he stays and gradually the memories of the cold-eyed woman he called mother start to fade, until he wonders how much of it was merely a dream.

When his second mother dies and encourages him to go become a cultivator, Binghe decides that sounds right, so he goes to the Cang Qiong entrance exams and gets taken in. There's something familiar about his new shizun. Not in his looks, really, but in the way he acts, how he snaps and sneers, how he seems to hate Binghe but also claims him. Luo Binghe finds himself utterly desperate for the man's approval, even though he can't completely explain why. But it feels like, if he could just get this person to love him, the world might make sense.

Shen Qingqiu doesn't love him, though, if anything he hates him, and that only seems to change at random after a qi deviation. Which at first drives Luo Binghe slightly mad trying to figure out what he did and guarantee he can keep it, but gradually his thoughts and feelings on his master start to shift as, it seems, the man becomes someone completely different.

Meanwhile Su Xiyan has built up enough strength and information that she has a plan to move a mountain using a legendary blade that can open portals. She's also gradually begun to infiltrate her old sect again, using dark techniques to turn some of her former shidimei into puppets. By the time the Immortal Alliance Conference comes around, she's built the underpinnings to take the entire sect out from under her old master, and the chaos of the conference provides the perfect opportunity.

Shen Yuan has no idea what he did to cause the Huan Hua Palace Master to get ripped apart by demons during the invasion, and he's even more confused by the woman who materializes during the final hour and does him the favor of throwing Luo Binghe into the Endless Abyss herself, saying something about needing him to fetch a sword for her before she'll welcome him back to her side.

[r4m1el]

can you tell i like the classpect system and fixated on nothing else besides maybe trolls

Bro you’re scaring the hoes with your cringe crossover aus

[pitlanepeach]

Invisible String | Chapter One (1/5)

( MAX VERSTAPPEN x CELESTE S. PEREIRA )

SUMMARY — Born into a life of luxury, Celeste chose ambition over inheritance. Max buried his fame to have a chance at being known. Loving him might destroy them both.

WARNINGS — Sexually suggestive content. Chronic illness (Type 1 Diabetes). Lying and deception. Mentions of death of a parent. Emotional themes (grief, trust issues). Identity concealment. Angst + Fluff.

A new chapter will be posted every Monday.

WORD COUNT — 15k

A huge thank you to @emma-manuhpe for her assistance with this beast of a chapter!

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

January 2021

Celeste was in a rush.

Lately, she was always in a rush.

No matter how fast she moved, it never seemed fast enough — and it was starting to piss her off.

She stood at the crosswalk, glaring at the slow, deliberate tick of the timed streetlight. Thirty seconds to stop traffic; she knew because she’d spent her whole life on these streets, one of the rare few actually born in Monaco. She could chart the whole of the Principality by heart, every shortcut, every back alley, and still, today, it felt like the whole place was against her.

This morning had been a disaster from the get-go.

Ripping out her old CGM sensor, fumbling to stick the new one into her arm with fingers that wouldn’t stop shaking. Trying not to cry when it peeled off the first time because she'd rushed the adhesive. Re-sticking it with a backup patch, already late before she even left the house.

Then sprinting from one side of the city to the other for a client who thought the world revolved around him — and he was a Saudi oligarch, so it probably did.

Contracts to be signed, outstanding documents that still needed to be chased down, blood sugar levels already threatening a nosedive that she could sense at the edges of her vision. 

And on top of it all, she was going to be late. Again.

Plus, she was stuck walking across the city because her car had died on her the week before, right in the middle of Avenue Princesse Grace, at the worst possible time, because of course it had. And the garage, run bya group of men who had spoken to her like she was eight years old rather than twenty-six, still hadn’t given her a straight answer about when it would be fixed.

(“Next week, maybe. Parts delay. You know how it is, mademoiselle.”)

She ground her teeth every time she thought about it. Yeah. She knew exactly how it was.

They’d seen the Birkin, the dress, the heels.

They’d seen money.

Maybe she had it. Maybe, just maybe,  she had too much of it to be allowed to complain about anything. She had a closet full of handbags she barely used, a jewellery case she forgot about half the time, and a collection of dresses that cost more than most people’s yearly salaries. She had a degree from the best university in Europe. She had a career people would kill for.

She was lucky.

She knew she was lucky.

It didn’t stop the bitterness from curling up in her chest anyway, thick and sour and stupid. It didn’t stop the part of her brain that wanted to scream every time someone smiled too slowly at her, talked down to her, or dragged their feet because they assumed she could afford to wait.

And it definitely didn’t stop the part of her that kept whispering, quietly, cruelly, that it was all about to fall apart; that she was balancing her life on a thread, that any second now, she’d lose her grip.

She knew she was being dramatic.

“Doom-thinking,” her therapist had called it.

Her brain’s worst party trick.

It didn’t matter.

Today, it felt real.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

She shifted her weight, feeling the CGM itch under her sleeve, the patch tugging against her skin with every impatient move.

She clenched her jaw and stared hard at the crossing signal, willing it to turn before she did something reckless — like scream, or cry, or tear the damn pole out of the sidewalk and hurl it into the street.

It would pass.

It always did.

But right now, the world was too slow, and she was too fast, and it felt like the whole damn thing was pulling itself apart at the seams.

Then her phone rang, vibrating sharp and sudden in the pocket of her coat, and in the split second it took her to pull it out and glance at the caller ID, she stepped off the curb without looking.

A flash of silver.

Screeching tires.

A horn blasting so loud it rattled her teeth.

She jerked back instinctively as a low-slung car, some sleek, priceless thing, slammed to a halt inches from her knees. For a moment, everything froze. Her heart felt like it had been punched clean out of her chest.

The driver's side door flew open, and a guy stumbled out, one hand up, his face wide with horror.

"I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you. Are you okay?!" He rushed out, his words tumbling over each other, voice rough with panic and an accent she didn’t have time to place.

Celeste barely looked at him.

She waved him off with the sharp, impatient flick of someone hanging on by a thread.

"I’m fine," she snapped, already thumbing her phone open as she answered the call. "Hello? Yes, hi — I’m just five minutes away," she said breathlessly, forcing her voice into something bright and professional even as she side-eyed the car like it might still lurch forward and finish the job.

(Which was a lie, anyway. She was twenty minutes away, minimum.)

The client barked something about urgency. She rushed through polite apologies and promises that she was just around the corner and had everything in hand. 

When she finally hung up, the world came rushing back in: the noise, the heat, the lingering adrenaline still making her hands shake.

Only then did she properly look at the guy who had almost killed her.

He was standing there awkwardly, one hand braced on the roof of the car. Brown hair, messy like he’d been running his hands through it. Strong jaw, dark jeans, and a leather jacket that looked very out of place in Monaco’s usual parade of suits and loafers. 

Dammit.

He was cute.

An almost-murderer. But cute.

Celeste glared at him anyway, because her heart was still jackhammering against her ribs, and being almost flattened wasn’t something you just got over because the reckless driver was handsome. 

She shoved her phone into her pocket and started to step around him.

"Hey— Hold on a minute. Wait," he called out, jogging a few steps after her. "At least let me give you a ride. You seem like you're in a hurry. And... seriously, I’m sorry. I really didn’t see you."

She stopped, turning just enough to pin him with a look. Everything in her screamed no. Stranger. Car. Disaster.

But she was going to be late.

And late meant dead when it came to this client.

Her eyes flicked to the front of the car, a beautiful silver-grey Aston Martin, of course, and caught the license plate: MV333.

She hesitated for one breath, two.

Then yanked her phone back out, snapped a photo of the plate, and tucked it away again like a weapon.

He watched her do it without flinching, just sort of half-smiling. 

"If you kill me," she said flatly, "everyone will know."

“Of course,” he said, holding his hands up. “But I am very non-murderous. Promise."

She gave him one last hard look, then yanked open the passenger door and slid inside.

"Rue Princesse Caroline," she said crisply, already fastening her seatbelt. "Avoid Boulevard Albert if you can. Construction’s a nightmare."

There was a beat of silence, him blinking at her sudden efficiency, before he scrambled around the car and dropped back behind the wheel. “Right. Of course. Got it," he said, throwing the car into gear.

Celeste leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms tightly over her chest, heart still pounding. She stared straight ahead, refusing to look at him.

— 

What the hell am I doing? Celeste cursed in her head.

Getting into a car with a stranger was stupid. She was smarter than this.

Her mother would kill her if she found out. She’d say she was reckless, irresponsible—“just like your father.” Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind, but she shoved it aside.

"You're late to something?" The stranger’s voice snapped her out of her thoughts.

"Client meeting," she muttered, not offering more. She wasn’t late yet—she had at least ten minutes before that became an issue. Her phone buzzed again. Ignoring it, she turned to glance at the stranger. "So, you’re new to Monaco? Visiting or...?" He glanced at her, clearly caught off guard. She couldn't resist teasing. "Well, you clearly don’t know the roads."

He winced. "Ah. Right. I’m... relatively new. Moved here a few months ago."

"Impressive." She sized him up. Nice jacket, expensive leather. The jeans were probably from Zara. But those shoes? Expensive. She raised an eyebrow. "You’re in business?"

Might as well distract myself before I spiral, she thought bitterly.

He seemed unsure how to answer. 

She smirked. "Trust fund kid?" she asked, half-playful. "Don’t be ashamed of it. I am too, technically, but I get bored. That’s the only reason I went to university, and then I fell in love with property law.” She shrugged.

He glanced at her, squinted slightly, then exhaled, seeming to relax. "Right. Yeah. I guess." His response was vague. 

Her phone buzzed again. She rolled her eyes. 

Damn oligarchs and their huge egos.

"Uh. You’ve lived here for a while, then?” He asked, his fingers tapping a steady rhythm on the steering wheel. 

She glanced at him, her patience thinning. Maybe it was just the exhaustion creeping in or the frustration from the morning’s chaos. Whatever it was, she was clearly irritable. She needed to check her sugars; the near-collision had probably caused a dip. "Forever. I was born here. My mom’s Brazilian; my dad died before I was born — but she moved here while she was pregnant with me. We lived in Saint-Tropez for a few years when I was a teenager, but Monaco has always been home." She glanced at the centre console. "Do you have any gum?"

He nodded, waving a hand toward the slim glove compartment. She reached for the latch and pulled it open, sighing in relief at the sight of gum with real sugar—thank God, not the sugar-free kind that would do her no good. She unwrapped a stick, popped it into her mouth, and looked at him, matter-of-fact. "I’m stealing the rest of these. Payment for almost killing me." Then she eyed him curiously. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-three.” He said, then frowned at the road for a moment glancing at her. "Can you… I don’t know where I need to go from here. Give me directions?" 

She blinked, but quickly gave him the rundown, pointing out the turns and landmarks as they navigated the winding streets. He took it all in with an efficient nod, his focus on the road sharp and steady.

In the meantime, she considered his answer. Twenty-three. Three years younger than her, then. Not a huge gap, but still… he looked older. She would’ve guessed twenty-five. 

Adjusting her handbag on her lap, Celeste glanced around the interior of the car. She was looking for anything to distract her, and she found it. 

She scoffed, lip curling in dissatisfaction. “You don’t have a girlfriend?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. 

His head snapped toward her, clearly thrown. "Uh— No. I don’t. Why?" He sounded a little defensive. 

She sighed. “You don’t have a handbag hook. It’s annoying. I hate having it on my lap, but I’m not putting it in the footwell.” She made a face as she shifted the weight of her bag, trying to make it more comfortable.

He let out a huff of laughter. “You really leaned into the rich kid stereotype there.” 

She shot him a quick, narrowed look. “Says you.” Hadn’t they established that they were both trust-fund kids? “You don’t have any female friends?” She asked, referring once again to the lack of a handbag hook. 

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t look at her this time. “None that would care about that.”

She glared at him. “I’m allowed to not want my bag digging into my stomach every time you turn.”

He glanced at her again, a grin tugging at his lips. “Alright. My apologies. Next time, I’ll have a hook there for you.”

Next time, huh? She almost laughed. She’d probably never see him again.

He pulled into a spot outside the office building and stopped.

Celeste brushed down her skirt, giving him a cursory glance. “I won’t say thank you for almost flattening me, but… I appreciate the ride. I hate being late.”

He nodded.

She thought about the car, his outfit, and the networking potential. She dug around in her bag and handed him a business card.

Celeste S Pereira

Property and Asset Management

Cavallier Legal Services LLC

Tel: +377 93 123 456

Email: CelesteSPereira@cavallierlegal.mc

He glanced at it, then back at her.

She flashed him a charming smile. “If you ever decide to buy property in Monaco— or your father. Mother. Wherever your riches come from,” she shrugged.

He stared at her for a moment, his eyes sparkling. “I’ll keep this safe. Good luck with your meeting.”

She climbed out of the car and, after a quick glance back at him, disappeared into the building.

— 

Her Valentino heels clicked against the polished stone floor as Celeste moved past the receptionist, offering the woman a polite nod. The lobby was pristine, all chrome and glass, as if it had been frozen in time, a mirror of Monaco’s glossy exterior. Her heart rate ticked up just slightly, a small, familiar flutter of nerves. She wasn’t sure if it was from the anticipation of the meeting, or the gnawing feeling in her stomach that told her something was off. She checked her watch; plenty of time to spare.

The elevator pinged, and she stepped in, alone with her thoughts. As the doors closed, she allowed herself to relax for a moment, taking a deep, steadying breath. 

When the elevator doors slid open, she straightened her posture instinctively. The meeting with Khitfa Salim was only one of many, but it felt significant, a chance to prove herself. He stood by the window, his back to her, gazing out over the glittering Mediterranean. The blue water stretched out below the building, a calm contrast to the storm she expected to weather inside.

She recognized him immediately. Khitfa Salim, Saudi oligarch, notorious for his large wealth and sharp temper. She’d heard the rumours. Seen his name on the list of 100 Wealthiest Men in 2020. 

Celeste squared her shoulders and walked into the room, her heels clicking with purpose. "Mr. Salim,” she greeted him, her voice smooth, confident. She extended her hand, maintaining eye contact as she did.

He turned toward her, his sharp eyes immediately taking in her appearance—tailored dress, perfect makeup, the kind of polished professionalism that made her hard to forget. His gaze lingered just a moment too long on her chest before he reached out, taking her hand with a firm grip.

"Ms. Pereira," he replied, his voice thick with accent, deep and commanding. "I trust it wasn’t too difficult for you to meet me here?”

"Not at all," she replied easily, keeping her expression neutral, offering a practiced smile. "Shall we get started?"

Khitfa nodded, gesturing to the polished walnut table where a set of documents lay neatly arranged. She had sent over the initial service contract she’d drafted for him ahead of time; there was no need to go over that again. 

He settled into a chair, folding his hands in front of him. “Now, Monaco is attractive for its tax benefits; we all understand this. But I want more than just a place to park money. I require a property that will appreciate in value over time. Something unique and beautiful. My wife likes pretty things." He said, his voice cool and calculated.

Celeste leaned forward slightly, flipping through the papers she’d brought along. "Understood," she said, her fingers touching the edge of the listings she had prepared. "There are several properties on the market that fit your criteria. I’ve already drafted some preliminary options for you. What’s your timeline?" she asked, pulling a particular listing from the bottom of her pile. She glanced up and met his gaze. 

"I need something within the next few months," he replied, his eyes narrowing just slightly. "I have capital that cannot stay where it is being kept for much longer without suffering for it.”

"Of course," she said, pursing her lips as she tapped her pen thoughtfully on the paper. "We can streamline the process, make it as quick as possible. I can facilitate that for you."

His expression remained unchanged. "I trust you will, Ms. Pereira."

"Now, you’re aware that there are no property taxes in the province," she continued smoothly, sliding a few more documents his way, "but you’ll still owe approximately six percent in closing fees. Nothing you need to concern yourself with. I’ll ensure it’s all structured properly as soon as we settle on a property."

“This!” Khitfa said, his voice sharp as a knife, slicing through the air. He nodded in approval as he thumbed through the mini property portfolio she had put together for him. "This is why I hired you. I don’t want to waste time, and I don’t want surprises."

Celeste laid out the details of the properties she had in mind: prime real estate, luxury developments, and discrete locations perfectly suited for someone of Khitfa’s stature. She watched as his sharp eyes flicked over the listings, taking in each option.

"I am fond of this one," Khitfa said, jamming his finger onto one of the properties, his voice taking on a more satisfied edge.

Celeste peered at the listing he’d singled out, recognising it immediately. Ah, just as she’d thought, the castle. A sprawling estate on the outskirts of Monaco, with its breathtaking views of the sea and its historic architecture. It was the kind of property that would fit a man like Khitfa. 

She gave him a polite smile. “Of course.” 

He nodded, his expression hardening slightly. "Prepare the final documents. I’ll need them ready to sign as soon as I’ve seen the property in person."

She nodded, agreeing easily. "I’ll arrange the viewing as soon as possible."

The meeting came to an easy close. He shook her hand, and she tried to ignore the way his gaze lingered on her chest again. 

Rich or poor, men were all the same. 

— 

The moment the door clicked shut behind him, Celeste let out a quiet breath of relief. She moved away from the table, her posture stiff. Another deal was all but sealed, but her brain felt cloudy. The dizziness that she’d been ignoring was more pronounced now; almost like the room was tilting slightly. She rubbed her temples, hoping it would pass, but it didn’t. 

Her stomach churned uncomfortably, a familiar feeling. She tried to ignore it, but the edge was there: the telltale signs of a blood sugar dip. She could feel the fog creeping into her mind, and she knew what it meant.

Dammit.

She quickly grabbed her phone, opened the app that synced with her CGM, and checked the numbers. Her heart sank. 3.1 mmol/L. She cursed under her breath. That was dangerously low.

“Shit.” She whispered, pulling at the hem of her dress as she turned toward the bathroom.

Her hands were starting to shake. She moved toward the bathroom, her steps quicker than usual. The stall clicked shut behind her, and she fumbled through her handbag to retrieve her glucose tabs. She was always prepared for this, of course, but she hated the vulnerability of it.

It was different at home. In her apartment. In her bathroom.

She didn’t need her insulin pen this time—this wasn’t about bringing her sugars down. This was survival mode. A glucose tab, fast-acting sugar, something—anything—to get her numbers back up.

She popped two tabs into her mouth, the chalky texture familiar and unpleasant. It didn’t matter. They worked fast, and that was what mattered.

Diabetes was equal-opportunity.

It didn’t care how much money you had, how prepared you thought you were, or how many backup plans you had in place.

The numbers on the CGM still flashed in her mind: 3.1 mmol/L. Below 3.3, and she could easily lose concentration—and if it dropped any further, she was running the risk of losing consciousness, too.

She cursed again and grabbed a juice box from the bottom of her bag, one of those emergency ones she’d stuffed in there months ago. Warm, slightly squished—but full of sugar. She took a few sips, forcing herself to breathe slowly between each one.

Her pulse was erratic, her vision still slightly off. But she’d done what she needed to. Now it was just the waiting.

She rested her back against the cool stall door. Her fingers still trembled slightly as she refreshed the CGM screen. 3.1. Still. But she knew how this worked. It was frustratingly slow, but the sugar would kick in soon.

Ten minutes. That’s what they always said—ten to fifteen to feel it.

Her last meal had been about three hours ago. A light salad with protein. Enough carbs to keep her stable, in theory. But stress had a way of messing with the numbers. The near miss on the street probably spiked her adrenaline—and now, here she was.

Minutes passed. She checked again. 4.5 mmol/L.

It was rising. Not perfect, not where she wanted—but better.

The fog started to lift, just slightly. The world around her shifted from a dull blur to something sharper, more navigable.

She gave herself a few more minutes to gather herself before standing up, adjusting her dress, and leaning over the sink to swipe a hand under her eye. She pulled her lipstick out of her handbag and reapplied the mauve pink, giving the mirror a performative pout that completely contrasted the way she was feeling. 

Then she took one more steadying breath and squared her shoulders before she walked out, the faint taste of glucose on her tongue, and a hundred things to do before sunset. 

— 

Later that evening, Celeste stood at the large window of her mother’s sprawling villa, watching the golden hues of the setting sun dip beneath the horizon. The property was everything her mother adored: grand and opulent, yet still homely.

The marble floors gleamed under the soft glow of chandeliers, and the long hallway opened up into rooms filled with priceless pieces of furniture: heirlooms, gifts from old friends, and treasures from their travels. Outside, the garden stretched across the estate, lush and green, offering undisturbed views of the sparkling Mediterranean.

"Filha, you’re finally here," her mother’s voice broke through her thoughts, warm and soft, with that familiar Brazilian lilt that never failed to soothe her. Celeste turned, her lips curling into a smile. Her mother stood next to the dining table, gesturing for her to join her.

She crossed the room, the click of her heels against the stone floors echoing in the otherwise quiet house. She kissed her mother on both cheeks, inhaling the comforting mix of jasmine and roses from her perfume, a scent she could never forget.

"Mother," Celeste greeted, using mãe—the affectionate term for mom in Portuguese—as she always did when speaking to her. It felt natural, intimate. It was what she’d heard her mother call her grandmother, after all.

Her mother smiled warmly, her tanned skin glowing under the soft light of the chandelier. "You’re looking a bit pale, minha filha. Are you eating enough? You’re so thin," she said, concern in her eyes as she eyed Celeste critically.

Celeste settled into the chair across from her, glancing at the spread laid out on the table. Grilled fish, fresh salad, feijoada simmering on the stove, and a basket of warm pão de queijo. Her mother was an amazing cook; in a different life, Celeste was certain she could’ve made a career out of it.

"I’m fine, mãe," Celeste reassured her, her voice carrying a hint of affectionate amusement at the way her mother fussed. "Just a busy day."

Her mother’s gaze lingered on her, clearly unconvinced, before she sighed and sat down. "You’re always working," she muttered, lifting a glass of wine to her lips. "You should slow down. You’re young, filha, enjoy life. Monaco is a beautiful place to live—why not embrace it?"

Celeste bit her lip, stifling the sharp retort bubbling up. Her mother was content to live her life without a care, focusing only on the next pilates class or social event. She would never judge her for it; life had been hard enough on her, but Celeste just needed more. She needed purpose. "I enjoy it, just in my own way," she said finally. "I like keeping busy."

Her mother raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in her eye. "Keeping busy is one way of saying you hide behind your work, yes?" She teased, her smile softening the words.

Celeste couldn’t help it. She laughed, the sound escaping before she could think. "Maybe. But it’s better than hiding behind something else, isn’t it?"

Her mother swirled her wine, taking a sip. “Yes. There are worse things to hide behind than work, I suppose." She gave a soft sigh, then pointed her fork at Celeste. "But take care of yourself, querida. Get more sunshine. And please, start looking for a husband. I do not want to be waiting forever for—"

"Mãe!" Celeste interrupted, laughing in disbelief at the familiar jab. "I’m only twenty-six. I’ve got plenty of time to meet the right man. Don’t worry."

Her mother sighed but nodded, her eyes soft with a mixture of concern and love. "I will stop asking, then."

Celeste gave her a fond smile. "Thank you. I love you. I promise I’ll give you grandchildren, just…" She held up a hand as though to make a point. "Not yet, okay?"

Her mother shook her head, the smile tugging at her lips. "You say that now, but mark my words, one day you’ll be wishing you listened to your mother."

"Maybe," Celeste replied with a smile, the warmth of the moment settling between them like a quiet understanding. "But not today."

— 

The week passed in a blur of meetings, endless email threads, and, thankfully, much more stable blood sugars.

By Thursday, Celeste had completed the sale of the twenty-million-dollar castle to Khitfa Salim. The deal had gone smoothly, even though his indifference toward everything except the numbers made her stomach twist. It wasn’t the money, or the property, that left her unsettled; it was the hollow feeling that came with the constant transactional nature of her work.

The property was beautiful. Grand, historical, something that might’ve taken her breath away had she been someone else, but instead, she’d simply signed the paperwork, her pen gliding across the documents with practiced ease. Another day, another sale. Another step further away from the person she thought she might be, beneath the layers of personality she’d crafted. 

She’d had no time to process it. Instead, the next day, she stood in front of the garage, staring at her car. 

She’d been hoping they’d finally managed to fix the issue. 

But when she asked, the older technician shook his head and kissed his teeth sympathetically. “Nothing we can do. It’s a total loss. We recommend scrapping it.”

Her chest tightened, but she forced herself to breathe slowly, swallowing back the frustration. The car had been her father’s, once upon a time. It was, therefore, older than she was, and it hadn’t been in the best of conditions then, let alone now. But it had been hers. It represented the life she’d built, the legacy she was trying to escape, and now it was just… gone.

She managed a stiff nod, turning on her heel to leave. The world outside was loud, the traffic almost deafening, but Celeste didn’t feel it. She felt a quiet anger simmering under her skin, a frustration with the entire week, with everything that had seemed to fall apart in small, painful ways.

By Friday night, she was drained. She could barely bring herself to check her messages, but she did anyway. 

Come out with us tonight!!! We’re going to Jimmy’z. You need a break.

She read the message twice, her finger hovering over the screen as she debated. Part of her wanted to decline, remain in the quiet comfort of her apartment, and wallow in self-pity. 

But that was a stupid idea, and it would only make her feel worse. 

I’ll meet you there at eight.

A distraction was exactly what she needed.

Celeste moved quickly through her routine—her version of quick. Two hours between the shower and the final spritz of perfume before stepping out the door.

She had chosen a dress that fit her mood: a limited edition Saint Laurent, black and sleek, hugging her curves in all the right ways. She swiped on her favourite red lipstick, the colour bold enough to make a statement without saying a word. Her freshly manicured feet slipped into a pair of black stiletto heels; tall enough to give her an edge.  

She studied herself in the mirror, the reflection that always felt like it was missing something. A subtle, quiet thought nudged at her; the small white device on her arm, the one that monitored her blood glucose. It was attached right above her elbow. 

She stared at it for a moment. It was visible, just there—uncovered, unhidden. But it didn’t matter. She didn’t feel the need to hide it. Too much pride to feel shame, she reminded herself. No, it wasn’t something she was ashamed of. It was part of her. 

She took a breath and smiled, just a little, before stepping away from the mirror, feeling the sting of her plumping lip gloss against her lips as the familiar rush of confidence settled in.

— 

When Celeste arrived at Jimmy’z, the pulsating beats of music mixed with the hum of conversation and bursts of laughter enveloped her the moment she stepped through the door. The lights were low, flashing in sync with the rhythm of the DJ’s set.

Her friends greeted her immediately, a wave of affection and light-hearted teasing. 

"Finally!" Maria exclaimed, a cocktail already in her hand. "We thought you were going to stand us up again."

Celeste laughed, leaning in to kiss both of her friends on the cheeks. "I almost did," she confessed, "But here I am."

“And you look amazing," Clara added, her eyes taking in Celeste’s outfit with approval. "That dress? Wow. You're stealing all of the attention." She pouted. 

Celeste chuckled, sipping her drink. “I like the attention,” she said with a wink, feeling a small, mischievous spark ignite within her.

As they made their way to their table (VIP with bottle service, of course), she took in the surroundings, allowing herself to get lost in the thrum of the music. 

Her friends weren’t concerned with business deals, tax breaks, or property markets. Instead, they pulled her into conversations about boys, gossip, and the latest celebrity drama. They made her laugh until her stomach ached, joked about her love life (or lack thereof), and passed around a cocktail list that made her forget that she'd been living on a constant diet of stress for the last seven days. 

She excused herself from the table after a few hours with a playful smile to her friends and made her way to the restroom, hoping to clear her head for a moment.

The bathroom was cool, offering a welcome reprieve from the heat of the club. She touched up her lipstick, running her fingers through her hair to smooth it down, and gave herself a brief glance in the mirror, her eyes lingering on the faint line of tiredness that had started to settle into her face.

With a quick sigh, she pushed the thoughts of the week’s pressure out of her mind. Tonight wasn’t about that.

As she stepped back into the club, the hum of conversation and laughter greeted her like an old friend. She wove her way through the crowd with ease, her heels clicking against the polished floors. The bar was busy, but there was a spot open at the far end, near where the bottles of top-shelf liquor were displayed like trophies.

She walked over, ordering a glass of water, already feeling the slight buzz from her previous drinks start to settle. As she waited for the bartender, she glanced around, taking in the people around her; some lost in conversations, and others caught in their own world, dancing and laughing.

But just as the bartender handed her a chilled glass of water, her gaze landed on… him. 

He was leaning casually against the bar, a glass in hand, visibly more relaxed than the last time she’d seen him. Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was just the fact that he hadn’t just almost murdered someone, but he seemed significantly more laid-back. 

And he looked good.

Really, really good.

The way his white shirt fit across his broad shoulders made her stomach tighten in a way that was unexpected but not all that surprising. She liked arms, specifically men's arms, and she liked them even more when they were attached to broad shoulders and strong, muscular necks.

Check, check, and... check.

Their eyes locked across the bar. A flash of recognition passed on his face, followed by that lazy grin, full of something playful, something just a little daring. 

Before she could look away, he was moving toward her, a slow, deliberate walk that didn't seem in a rush but still had purpose. His eyes never left hers, and as he stopped just a few feet away from her, his grin only deepened.

“So, let me guess,” he said, his voice low, but not too serious. “You’re stalking me now?”

Celeste raised an eyebrow, amusement dancing in her eyes. She took a sip from her water, her lips curling into a smile before she answered. “Don’t flatter yourself,” she said, her tone teasing but with a touch of something sharper. “Do you really think I have time to stalk anybody?”

He chuckled. “I have no idea what you have time for.” He leaned a little closer, but not enough to invade her space. She narrowed her eyes at him. His presence was... oddly magnetic. A quiet tension simmered in the air between them, probably amplified by the fact that they were both very clearly more than three drinks deep. 

“You’ve got a serious ego. Have you already forgotten that you almost killed me?” She asked, her eyebrows raised.

He laughed, the sound was rough, and she hated how much she liked it. “Guilty. But I did offer you a ride, didn’t I? And you stole my gum. I could’ve just left you on the sidewalk, but I didn’t.” His gaze flickered down to her lips, a brief glance before it shifted back to her eyes.

She caught the look, and her lower stomach clenched, a feeling she couldn’t quite ignore.

“You did,” she agreed, the playful edge in her voice matching his. “But I had to give you directions, and you didn’t have a hook for my handbag, so who really suffered, hm?”

His eyes narrowed slightly, intrigued. He wasn’t used to being challenged, and that only made her more amused. She wanted to smirk. “The handbag hook. I forgot about that,” he confessed, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

She tilted her head, her gaze steady on him, and hummed a little in mock disappointment. “You’ll need to fix that, of course, if you ever want me in your passenger seat again.”

He leaned in just a little closer, and for a moment, the air between them grew thick with something unspoken, something undeniably charged. His breath was warm against her ear, his voice lower now, smooth and slow. “And what else would I have to do to get you there? A little plaque with your name on it, declaring the seat as yours alone? Maybe I’ll get an upholsterer to stitch your name into the headrest, to make it clear exactly who belongs there.”

Her heart beat a little faster, the way his eyes held hers, the way his words hung in the air. 

She couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow, a slow, seductive smile spreading across her face. “You think a silly little stitch will be enough?” She asked, her voice low, teasing, but with an edge that told him she was far from the kind of woman who could be won over by something as simple as that. “No. I would want something more obvious. When something is mine, I like everyone to know it.”

He let out a soft laugh, his lips curling into a smirk. “So, no upholstering, then?”

“No.” She smiled at him, her eyes flickering with something dangerous, something playful, but also… daring. “Something much more.”

With that, she leaned in close enough to brush her lips against his jaw, just a fleeting, barely-there touch. The warmth of his skin lingered, and for a second, everything else faded. When she pulled away, she could feel the pulse in her neck, the rapid thumping in her chest.

“Have a good night, stranger,” she teased, her voice almost a whisper, before she turned on her heel, heading back toward her table. She could feel his eyes on her, heavy, persistent, the entire time. 

— 

She was in her home office when her work phone started ringing.

After nursing a two-day hangover into remission, and getting her blood sugars back on track with her usual diet and routine, Celeste was finally feeling like herself again.

She answered the call, an unknown number flashing on the screen. “This is Celeste Pereira, who am I speaking to?”

“Max.” 

The gentle lilt of his accent was unmistakable.

She straightened in her chair, eyes narrowing at the abstract painting across from her desk. Splashes of blues and whites.

“This is my work number,” she said sharply.

“I’m aware.” He paused, and she could practically hear the grin in his voice. “I’m interested in buying some property in Monaco. I’d like to start an investment portfolio.”

“Conflict of interest,” she replied flatly.

There was a beat of silence on the other end. Good. He hadn’t expected that.

“I—”

“Do you want to ask me about properties, Max?” She teased, letting his name linger in her mouth. It suited him. “Or do you want to ask me on a date?”

He barked out a laugh. “Wow. I— yes. Yes, I want to ask you on a date.” He said. 

Celeste smirked, pursing her lips. “Okay. Plan something. I’ll text you my address.”

“That’s it?” His surprise was evident. “I thought I’d have to beg.”

She hummed, amused. “No begging. But just so you know, I judge first dates pretty harshly. But… no pressure.”

He laughed. “Text me your address.”

Huh. He was good at taking charge, then. Didn’t mind the fact that she could be too sharp, too quick, too cold. 

She liked that a lot.

“I will.” She told him. Then she ended the call and set the phone down, her gaze flicking back to the incomplete stack of paperwork on her desk. She had hours of redlining to do, but now, at least, she had something to occupy her mind while she did so. 

—

Saturday, 7pm. Black tie. Bring a jacket.

His instructions had been precise and clear.

She’d ignored them completely.

Wearing a floor-length gown, Celeste supposed she’d ticked the ‘black tie’ box. But it was already seven, and she hadn’t even started on her hair yet.

So, when Max texted to let her know he was outside, she sent him the code to her apartment without a second thought, then went back to running the Dyson through her hair.

She barely noticed the door opening as he stepped inside, but when she heard the soft thud of his footsteps, she glanced up from her vanity. And there he was. Max. Looking impossibly good. Black suit, crisp white shirt, and a grey tie that only accentuated his broad shoulders. A wave of sudden impulse struck her, the urge to walk over and adjust his collar.

Without thinking, she set the hairdryer down, switched it off, and moved towards him. She let her fingers slide along his collar, straightening it with the gentleness of a gesture that felt oddly intimate.

“You look handsome,” she said, her voice light, as she pulled back slightly.

He glanced down at her, his lips twitching into a half-smile. “You look beautiful. And also like you’re not ready. It’s past seven.” His tone was matter-of-fact, not a hint of impatience in his voice.

Celeste gave a half-hearted shrug. “Sorry.” The word was polite, but her tone suggested she didn’t actually mean it.

Max just shrugged. “It’s fine. I can wait.” He walked to the other side of the room, settling into her chaise lounge with ease, crossing his ankle over his knee. The casualness of it, the way he made himself at home in her beauty room, was somehow disarming.

She couldn’t help the smile tugging at her lips as she turned back to her vanity, picking up the Dyson again. Five more minutes. They’d be fashionably late, but that was exactly the point.

Celeste’s eyes flicked to him as she worked. 

He had passed her test. With flying colours.

— 

Celeste slid into the passenger seat of Max’s car, smoothing her dress over her thighs, her bag tucked carefully into her lap. She was reaching for the seatbelt when she noticed it. A small, silver hook installed neatly on the side of the centre console.

She froze, staring for a second.

Max shifted slightly behind the wheel, catching her look. “For your bag,” he said, a little awkward, a little smug. “You made it sound like a non-negotiable.”

For a beat, she could only blink at him, something warm and strange blooming low in her chest. She reached out and hooked the strap of her handbag over it with exaggerated care.

“My Birkin is very thankful," she said, voice tipping toward playfulness even as something deeper stirred inside her.

Max glanced over, and when he saw her smile, something in his face relaxed. He looked… pleased. Not smug anymore. More like he was genuinely happy that he’d managed to impress her. 

He laughed under his breath, brushing a hand over his jaw. “Is that… an expensive bag?” He asked teasingly, but there was a boyish curiosity in it too, like he actually wanted to know.

Celeste tilted her head, feigning innocence. “No, not really.”

He gave her a look, skeptical, but amused.

She tightened her seatbelt, feeling a little reckless all of a sudden, her mouth curving into a slow, knowing smile. “Why? Are you thinking about buying me one?”

Max glanced at her sideways, and the look he gave her made her skin prickle with awareness. It was steady, a little heated, a little dangerous in a way that made her stomach flip.

“Maybe,” he said, voice low and lazy. “If you’re good.”

Celeste laughed, her heart picking up speed. She tipped her head back against the seat, feeling the easy pull between them, like a live wire stretched too tight.

Tonight was going to be fun.

—

The restaurant he’d chosen was nothing short of breathtaking.

Located on the top floor of a glamorous Monaco skyscraper, it boasted panoramic views of the city and the Mediterranean, the lights below twinkling like stars. The interior was a symphony of elegance, gleaming floors, sleek black and gold accents, and soft, intimate lighting. 

Every table was draped in crisp white linens, silverware gleaming, and the air was filled with a delicate blend of rich, expensive perfumes and the soft hum of violin symphonies. 

She let Max lead her, her arm tucked lightly into his elbow, enjoying the way the soft fabric of her dress brushed against her legs with each step. 

“Ms. Pereira,” the maître d’ greeted her with a familiar smile as soon as he saw her, his French accent thick with professional warmth. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

Celeste returned his smile with practised politeness, but as she did, her attention shifted to Max. She watched the exact moment his posture stiffened, his eyes darting between her and the maître d’ in subtle confusion. It was a fleeting moment, but it was there. 

She caught the subtle tightening of his jaw, the faint crease in his brow, and she couldn’t help the slight smile that tugged at the corners of her lips. She had to admit, the moment was... entertaining.

Max cleared his throat, his voice tinged with a slight edge of discomfort. “You know him?” He asked, his tone more curious than accusatory.

Celeste offered him a reassuring squeeze on the arm before giving him a look. “Yes,” she said smoothly, making sure her voice was light and matter-of-fact. “I’ve been here before, a few times. It’s nice. You chose well.”

His gaze lingered on her for a heartbeat longer, and she could see the flicker of relief in his eyes. 

—

They ordered far too much food. Max, apparently, had a big appetite.

He insisted on ordering three dishes; the exact ones Celeste had been torn between. When she raised an eyebrow, he gave her a sheepish grin. "Pure coincidence," he said with a shrug. 

Then, in a move that would have been more fitting at a casual diner, he pushed all of the plates into the middle of the table. Celeste stared at him, her cheeks flushing ever so slightly. She should’ve been embarrassed by his lack of decorum, but she couldn’t bring herself to care.

Instead, she speared a piece of scampi with her fork, taking a bite. The taste was fantastic, and she couldn’t help the pleased hum that escaped her lips.

Max’s grin grew wider, his chest puffing out a little in self-satisfaction. It was a Neanderthal response to providing for her, but damn if it wasn’t cute.

The bill never came. He’d already paid before they even stepped foot in the restaurant. His card was on file. She’d assumed that he would pay, of course, and the lack of fumbling for a credit card at the end of the meal was a relief.

On the walk back to his car, Max reached for her hand. It was a step up from the elbow hold, and she couldn’t suppress the pleased hum that bubbled up. He glanced at her, grinning as if he’d just won something. And not for the first time that night, she thought to herself, God, I actually really like this guy.

The drive back was easy, quiet. He parked the car, turned it off, and then walked her all the way to her apartment. They stopped in front of her door, the air between them thick. Celeste looked at him for a beat before her hands found the collar of his shirt, tugging him down toward her. Their lips brushed together, just a feather-light touch, but it was enough. 

She pulled away, a smile tugging at her lips as she saw the lipstick marks left on his mouth. She reached up, using her thumb to gently wipe them off.

"Do you like padel?" he asked, his voice low and warm.

"No," she said, honestly. "But I like golf."

— 

Max was terrible at golf.

He had awful form. His swing was all wrong, and he had an unfortunate tendency to hold the club backwards. Celeste watched, barely suppressing a laugh, as he swung wildly at the ball, only for it to veer off in the completely wrong direction. 

It was a disaster, but it was also the most fun she’d had in a long time. 

They spent more time talking than actually hitting balls, but Celeste couldn’t bring herself to care. Max was fascinating, and his words flowed easily. There was never an awkward silence between them. He did all the talking, and she didn’t mind at all.

He told her about his family: his mom, his sisters, his nephews, and his dad. His stories were filled with warmth and laughter, and it was easy to picture the people he loved. Celeste shared stories about her own family, too. Her mother, grandmother, and the handful of aunts scattered around the world, each one adding a different layer to the patchwork of her childhood.

They didn’t talk about work. She’d concluded that he was just living off his trust fund, and honestly, who was she to judge? She had her own way of surviving. When he asked about her job once, the wince that followed her answer was enough to make him drop the subject entirely.

They fell into an easy rhythm, hit a ball, walked around the green, and laughed about something silly. It was simple and unhurried. The way it felt between them was… relaxed. Natural.

Then Max said, out of nowhere, “I have two cats. Jimmy and Sassy.”

Celeste froze, her lips trembling with something that felt a lot like amusement. "You named your cats after Monaco nightclubs?"

He looked entirely serious, nodding with complete sincerity.

She stared at him, not sure whether to laugh or be horrified. "I need to meet them."

Max’s grin widened. "You’d like them, I think. Jimmy’s a bit of a troublemaker, but Sassy… she's just the sweetest thing."

Celeste shook her head, a soft chuckle escaping her lips as she picked up her club again. “Take me to meet them after we eat dinner.” She tells him. 

He smiles at her, and it’s something so soft and sweet that she feels it in her chest. 

— 

They were sitting on the low stone wall near the ninth hole, their golf clubs forgotten behind them, two half-finished bottles of water at their feet. The sun dipped lower, turning the world around them molten gold. For the first time all afternoon, the easy flow of conversation slowed.

Celeste pulled out her phone, flicking through her app without thinking. She felt his eyes on her. Steady, focused.

"Everything okay?" Max asked, his voice low and careful, like he was ready to act if it wasn’t.

She hesitated, then tilted the screen toward him briefly before letting it fall back into her lap. "It’s for my glucose monitor," she said. "I’m diabetic. This keeps track of my numbers."

Max didn’t flinch. No awkward glances, no false sympathy. Just a simple nod, like he was absorbing the information and tucking it somewhere important.

"Do you need anything?" he asked, after a beat. His tone was rougher, a little more serious than his baseline. "Snacks, juice, emergency stuff? I can keep whatever you need on me."

The way he said it, like it was already decided, like she wouldn’t ever need to ask; threw her off more than the question itself.

"I’m okay," she said, her voice softer now. "But if we keep seeing each other… maybe I could leave a travel kit in your car. Emergency insulin."

"Done," he said without hesitation.

His gaze on her was warm and steady, and there was something grounding about it. No pity. No big show. Just an easy protectiveness. 

"You didn’t make it weird," she said, smiling at him, feeling something tug loose in her chest.

Max leaned back on his hands, a slow grin pulling at his mouth. "Good. Do people usually?"

"Yeah," she said, laughing lightly. "Either way too much sympathy or not enough. And the classic—'but you’re not fat'—as if that’s the only way you can be diabetic."

His jaw tightened, just slightly, like the thought alone pissed him off on her behalf. "Anyone who says shit like that around me, I’ll sort them out."

It was ridiculous, but it was sweet, and it made her feel something dangerous bloom in her chest.

She stared at him, her heart thudding a little harder. His hair was messy from the breeze, his shirt slightly wrinkled from sitting, and she had the sudden, absurd urge to lean over and kiss him right there.

Instead, she just smiled, slow and knowing, and bumped her shoulder lightly against his.

Maybe it was the sunset, or the soft murmur of music from the restaurant nearby. Maybe it was the way he looked at her like she wasn’t fragile at all—but still worth protecting.

Or maybe it was just him.

But Celeste couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so seen.

— 

Celeste tugged her sweater tighter around herself as she followed Max down the quiet hallway.

He lived at the top of one of the newer buildings in Monte Carlo. Glass, steel, and sharp, deliberate lines.

She'd worked on a few contracts for these apartments before; she knew exactly what they sold for.

Even by her standards, it was an eye-watering number.

When he pushed open the door and let her step inside first, she stopped short, her mouth parting slightly.

“Oh,” she muttered under her breath.

The place was huge. Not just big, but huge. Wide open spaces, high ceilings, and  entire walls of glass looking out over the glittering sea. The furniture was sleek but comfortable:, low couches and thick rugs. A little empty for her tastes, but it was… masculine, in a very deliberate, moneyed way.

Max chuckled behind her as he set his keys down. “You approve?”

She turned and gave him a look. “It’s very impressive.”

Before he could say anything else, a flash of grey and black came barreling toward her.

“Oh my God," Celeste gasped, laughing as a very fluffy cat wrapped around her ankles, purring loudly enough to fill the space. "Is this Jimmy or Sassy?"

"That’s Jimmy," Max said, smiling almost shyly as he crouched to scoop the cat into his arms. "Sassy’s probably plotting your murder from behind the couch."

Sure enough, a smaller, sleeker cat peered out suspiciously from under the coffee table, eyes narrowed into snake-like slits.

Celeste crouched down, holding out her hand, and after a few moments, Sassy slinked over and butted her head against Celeste’s fingers.

Betrayed by her own curiosity, Celeste thought, laughing softly.

“They’re perfect," she said, glancing up at Max, and her heart gave a weird little kick at the way he was looking at her:; soft, pleased, almost a little bashful.

As she straightened up, something else caught her eye across the room. A dark, tucked-away corner filled with sleek screens, a massive monitor, pedals on the floor, and — was that —?

“Is that a racing rig?” she asked, eyebrows furrowing as she wandered closer.

Max shoved a hand through his hair, the tips of his ears turning slightly pink.

"Uh, yeah. Sometimes. Just a hobby."

Celeste turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised, something complex flickering in her eyes. "A hobby?"

He gave her a crooked smile, leaning casually against the wall. "What? You think less of me now?"

She pursed her lips, picking up the steering wheel lightly and giving it a playful spin.

"No," she said. "It makes sense. You strike me as someone who needs hobbies." Her gaze swept the vast apartment. "You’ve got enough space for a golf simulator, you know."

She tossed him a teasing smile.

"If you ask nicely", Max said, his cheeks twitching, "I might just set one up."

She tossed him a look over her shoulder. "Is that your way of inviting me over again?"

"Maybe," Max said, voice low and casual. But there was that spark again — the same pull she felt every time he looked at her a little too long.

She dropped her bag onto his couch without a second thought and sank down onto the white fabric. Jimmy immediately jumped into her lap like he’d known her his whole life.

She scratched behind his ears and smiled up at Max. “Ah. I think your cats have already decided that for me."

— 

They were curled up on Max’s couch, a half-empty tray of sushi between them, the low hum of a foreign film playing on the screen. Celeste popped a piece of salmon nigiri into her mouth and laughed as a Brazilian character butchered his Portuguese.

“God,” she said, grinning, “my grandmother would’ve thrown her slipper at the TV if she heard that accent.”

Max chuckled, stretching an arm lazily across the back of the couch behind her. “Did you live with her growing up? Your grandma?” He asked, his tone casual but curious.

Celeste nodded, picking at the rice with her chopsticks. “Yes. I was raised around lot of strong women. My mom raised me here in Monaco of course, my grandmother too, but I spent my summers in countries all over the world.” She smiled a little, thinking of sun-drenched afternoons and kitchen conversations that ran late into the night. “A lot of culture.” 

He watched her with a soft sort of curiosity, like he was picturing it all. “Sounds nice.”

She tilted her head, looking at him. “What about you?” She asked. “Dutch upbringing?”

Max smiled a little, leaning back against the cushions. “Yes. Pretty normal. Bikes everywhere, strict schools, rainy afternoons. I travelled a lot, though. My mom’s Belgian, so I spent a lot of time between the Netherlands and Belgium.” His voice was easy, like he was glossing over something personal without really wanting to dive into it.

Celeste raised an eyebrow, sensing that Max had sidestepped the subject, but she wasn’t about to push. They were still figuring each other out, and she liked that he was reserved. He didn’t owe her every detail of his life, not yet.

“Ah, so lots of travel. That sounds… well, exhausting, really.”

Max nodded, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Yeah, well. It was never boring.” He nudged her lightly, a teasing smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “But I think you’d like it. A lot of waffles in Belgium.”

“I do like waffles,” she said with a small laugh, then tilted her head, the glint in her eyes mischievous. “Bring me some next time?”

Max leaned a little closer, his lips just brushing against her ear as he murmured, “okay. Next time, I’ll bring you waffles.” His voice was warm, soft, and there was something in the way he looked at her now that made her pulse quicken.

She felt the heat of his proximity, the weight of his gaze as he watched her with an intensity that made the air around them feel charged. Her breath hitched slightly, but she smirked, trying to keep it light. “Expensive ones?” She teased, her lips curling into a playful smile.

Max laughed low, a sound that rumbled through his chest, and then his lips were on hers. The kiss was slow at first, gentle, like he was testing the waters, but Celeste didn’t hesitate. She leaned into him, her hands sliding up his chest, fingers grazing the fabric of his shirt, feeling the heat of his body through it. His hand moved to the back of her neck, drawing her closer, his thumb brushing against her skin in a way that made her breath catch.

Her lips parted slightly against his, and she felt the pull of something magnetic between them. He deepened the kiss just enough that the soft warmth of it turned into something more. Max’s hand moved from her neck to her side, his fingers skimming the curve of her waist in a touch that sent a shiver down her spine.

“You really want waffles now, don’t you?” He mumbled against her lips, his voice low, teasing, yet filled with an underlying desire.

Celeste smiled into the kiss, shaking her head slightly. “Not waffles,” she murmured, her hand slipping to his jaw, her thumb tracing the line of it. “Just you.”

Max pulled back just enough to look at her, his lips still ghosting over hers. “Yeah?” he whispered, his voice rough. 

She nodded, her heart racing as she caught her breath. “Yeah. I’m done talking about waffles, Max.”

He chuckled softly, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes. Something that made her heart skip. Then, without warning, he kissed her again, deeper this time, his hand sliding to the back of her thigh, pulling her closer.

She slid her hands down to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath her palms. Her patience quickly wore thin. “Max,” she murmured against his lips, pulling back slightly, her voice breathless. “Take me to your bedroom.”

Max stilled for a moment, pulling away enough to look at her with that intense gaze of his. His chest rose and fell with each breath, his eyes searching hers for any hint of hesitation. “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice low and thick with desire.

She met his gaze, syrupy and full of want, and she saw something deeper in them; something protective, instinctual. Her heart hammered in her chest, and without having to think about it, she nodded. “I’m sure. More sure than anything.”

— 

Max leaned against the doorframe of his bathroom, watching Celeste as she prepared to inject her insulin. It was early, and the soft morning light filtered through the blinds, casting gentle shadows across the room. Celeste had been quiet, almost hesitant, as she set everything up. She didn’t say anything as she reached for the vial, her fingers a little shaky, though she was clearly accustomed to the motion.

He watched her closely, sensing the tension in her posture. “You okay?” He asked softly, his voice breaking the stillness.

Celeste glanced at him, meeting his eyes briefly before focusing back on her hands. “Yeah, just… routine,” she said, her voice steady but guarded.

Max took a few steps into the room, a little unsure of how much space to give. He’d never been in this kind of situation before, never had to witness someone so casually manage something so intimate. “You don’t have to let me watch if you don’t want me to,” he said gently. “I just—well, I guess I don’t really understand it, and I don’t want to seem ignorant. If I’m going to be spending more time with you, I should at least… know.”

Celeste paused mid-action, her hand hovering over the syringe. She looked at him for a long moment, eyes softening as if she were gauging his sincerity. She didn’t pull away, but there was a subtle hesitancy in her movements. Finally, she nodded slowly, her lips curling into a faint smile.

“It’s not a big deal,” she said, a little quieter now. “I just… it's normal for me, you know?” She carefully injected the insulin, her eyes flicking over to him again, catching that earnest look in his eyes. “Do you really care about this?” 

Max took another step closer, his presence calm, unassuming. “I want to learn,” he said softly. “I like you, Celeste. I’m planning on spending a lot more time with you, so... shouldn’t I be educated? I don’t want to be that guy who just stays clueless.”

She didn’t respond immediately, but the way her shoulders relaxed just a little told him everything he needed to know.

“Thank you,” she said after a beat, her voice a little quieter now, almost tender. “I’ll — I won’t hide it, then. If you’re okay with it. And I suppose, sometimes, it might be nice to have somebody help me replace this thing.” She nodded at the little device that sat above her elbow. 

Max smiled, a little unsure but entirely sincere. “I’ll try to be good at it.”

Celeste chuckled softly, the tension easing. She finished up and cleaned the area with an antibacterial swab before turning to face him. There was something sweet about the way he was watching her now, as if it wasn’t just about understanding her condition but understanding her, too.

“You’ll need a sharps container in each bathroom.” She informed him, only a little hesitant to make such a demand. 

Max just nodded, standing just a little closer than before. “Of course,” he said, after a long pause, “And an emergency kit for the car, yes? Which pharmacy can we get that from? I’d rather we have it sooner rather than later.” He told her. 

Celeste studied him for a second, her smile soft but genuine. The morning light caught the edges of his features, making everything feel just a little more perfect. “We can get it later today,” she said quietly, stepping toward him. “Breakfast first?” She asked. 

He leaned down and kissed her, a tender thing. “Of course, liefje.” 

— 

Celeste and Max walked through the sleek, well-lit aisles of the pharmacy, soft music playing overhead. She pushed the mini cart slowly, her gaze flicking from the shelves to Max, who had his hands tucked into his pockets as he shifted his gaze from side to side. 

She picked up a bottle of prescription-strength hand cream, scanning the ingredients before tossing it into the cart. Lavender scented. It would be nice to use before bed — something she could leave on Max’s bedside table. A very quiet claim. 

“Oh,” Max started, glancing over at her with a look that was earnest and hopeful. “Should we pick up some things for my apartment? Shampoo?”

Celeste blinked, taken aback by the suggestion. “Shampoo?” She repeated, a small laugh escaping her lips. “Max, I usually order my hair products online. The brand I like is a bit... niche, I guess you could say.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Niche?”

She nodded. “Yes, it’s a special formula from a small Brazilian company. It’s not in stores.” She thought for a moment, then shrugged. “I can tell you the name, if you want to order some.”

Before she had even finished her sentence, Max pulled out his phone, his thumb already hovering above the screen. “Please,” he said with a smile that was almost too eager.

Celeste bit her lip, trying to suppress the smile tugging at her mouth. “I’ve only stayed at your apartment one time,” she teased, her stomach fluttering. “And you're willing to buy my ridiculously expensive shampoo to keep in your bathroom?”

Max’s expression shifted then, his gaze growing unexpectedly serious. He paused, considering her words, before meeting her eyes with complete sincerity. “Yes,” he said quietly, his voice soft but firm. “You’ll stay again, I hope. And when you do, I want you to be comfortable.” He shrugged as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Celeste’s breath caught for a moment, and she felt something warm unfurl in her chest. There was no joking, no light-hearted tone. He really meant it.

“Well, if you insist,” she said, her teasing tone softened by the unexpected sincerity of his words. She dictated the name of the shampoo, feeling oddly tender.

Max’s fingers moved swiftly across his screen as he typed it down. “Good,” he said, slipping his phone back into his pocket. His gaze softened when he looked at her again, unwavering and calm. “Do they sell sharps bins here? We’ll buy one for every room,” he said, clearly serious.

Celeste blinked, startled by his sudden practicality, then watched as he moved toward the medical section with purpose. “Max, we really only need them in the bathrooms!” She called after him, a hint of exasperated amusement in her voice as she pushed the cart after him.

He was already waving down a pharmacy technician, enquiring about diabetic kits, when she caught up to him.

She hung back, resting a hand on her hip, watching the way he interacted with the staff. It felt juvenile to call the feeling in her stomach butterflies, but that’s what it was. 

— 

March 2021

Celeste sat at the small café, morning sunlight spilling over the table, her coffee stirring absentmindedly as memories of the past few weeks drifted through her mind.

Lazy mornings with Max had become the highlight of her week. Breakfast in bed, delivered by him, warm and fresh, the hum of the city outside muted by the height of his penthouse.

The dates he took her on had also become a highlight. Between the exclusive restaurants and the small family-run diners by the harbour, he’d taken her to places she never would have considered otherwise. Somehow, he made her feel like she could belong anywhere.

Max’s thoughtfulness had taken her by surprise. The handbag hook in his car, the emergency insulin stored in his glove compartment in a temperature-controlled case, and the little things that now filled his apartment, like the Brazilian hair products crowding his shower shelves and the small Brazilian flag miniature figurine that she’d seen in a store window, thought was cute, and he’d insisted on buying for her.

He paid attention. 

It wasn’t clear when things had shifted, from casual to something more serious. One moment she was keeping her distance; the next, she found herself looking forward to every moment they could spend together. 

She hadn’t meant to get attached, but she had.

And she couldn’t help but wonder if the clench in her chest when she saw him meant that it was too late to turn back.

— 

Celeste sat at her sleek, modern desk, the sound of her keyboard clicking punctuating the quiet in her spacious office. The walls were lined with shelves of law textbooks, client files, and architectural plans, all neatly organised in the way only someone like her could manage. It was just past noon, and the sunlight streamed in from the large windows that overlooked the Monte Carlo skyline, casting soft light over the papers spread before her.

She was deep in her work, going over a new development contract for a client who was planning to buy a luxury property in the heart of the city. The legal language was dense, full of clauses and contingencies, but she navigated it with ease, her attention fixed. She could feel the slight tension in her shoulders, the result of long hours spent reviewing the fine details, but this was the kind of work she excelled at. She thrived on the pressure.

Her phone buzzed, breaking her concentration. Glancing at the screen, she saw it was a text from Max. 

Need a break later? Thought I’d bring you lunch.

A pleased smile tugged at her lips, but she didn’t immediately respond. She was knee-deep in another clause that seemed to contradict an earlier one, and it was taking her longer than usual to sort it out. She hadn’t had the luxury of taking a proper break in weeks; work was a constant. 

Her mind wandered back to Max as she continued to redline the contract. She’d never had anyone take such an interest in the details of her day-to-day life as he did.

She tapped her pen against the desk as she reread a particularly convoluted clause. It didn’t seem to align with a provision in the client’s earlier contract, and she needed to figure out why before sending anything to the client. She shifted in her seat, pulling her thoughts back to the task at hand. This was what she was paid to do:, make sure nothing slipped through the cracks, make sure everything was legally sound.

Still, it was hard not to think of Max’s offer of lunch. She hadn’t eaten a very good breakfast, and the idea of spending a few hours not buried in contracts sounded... incredibly appealing.

With a small sigh, she decided to text him back. 

Lunch sounds perfect. Take me somewhere with a nice view? I need to get out of my office.

She hit send, then turned back to her papers, already thinking of ways to address the issue she’d found in the contract. 

— 

Max sat across from Celeste at their usual spot, a small bistro tucked into a quiet corner of the café. Sunlight filtered through the awning above, casting a soft glow on their plates of food. Max usually insisted on getting their favourite salads and sandwiches, but today, his usual enthusiasm was absent. He poked at his food, clearly distracted.

Celeste’s gaze flicked from her own plate to Max, noting the tension in his posture, the unease that had crept into his expression. Something was off.

"What's going on, Max?" She asked, the words slipping out before she could stop them. Her voice was more pointed than she meant it to be. "You're acting strange.”

Max hesitated, his fork hovering in the air before he set it down. He looked at her for a beat, eyes searching for the right words, but he seemed to struggle with them. Finally, he sighed, leaning back in his chair. "I’ve got some travel coming up," he told her. "I’ll be gone a lot over the next couple of months."

Celeste blinked, confusion pulling at her. "Travel?” She asked, her stomach tightening with unease. They hadn’t talked about this, not once.

Max nodded, avoiding her eyes. "It’s a regular thing. Every year. Just... long trips. I’ve had a bit of a break over the winter, obviously.”

Her brow furrowed. "A regular thing?" She repeated it, feeling a knot form in her chest. "Why didn’t you mention this before now?"

He didn’t look at her, instead fiddling with the water glass in front of him. "It didn’t seem important," he muttered, the words not quite matching the guilt in his eyes. “At the time.” 

"Of course it was important," Celeste said, her voice sharp now. "We’ve been spending every single day together, and now you’re just leaving? And you didn’t think I deserved to know about it sooner?”

Max shifted uncomfortably in his chair, clearly thrown off by her reaction. "I’m sorry. I’ll be back in Monaco more than you think, every few weeks, probably. But between then, we can FaceTime. Call. It won’t be so bad."

Her lips pressed into a thin line. "Is this, like, a work thing?" She asked, her eyebrows drawn together. She was trying to make sense of this, trying to decode everything he wasn’t saying. "Something you're doing for your father?" She clarified. 

He hesitated, just for a second, but long enough for Celeste to catch it. Finally, he nodded, his gaze flickering briefly to hers. "Yeah. Yeah. It is."

Celeste’s chest tightened, her heart sinking. She felt a sudden coldness creep over her. Intentionally or not, he’d put up a wall between them, and she hated it. "You could’ve told me," she said quietly, her voice betraying the hurt she felt. "I’ll miss you. I can’t believe you didn’t… warn me about this. I feel like I’m just an afterthought right now, Max."

Max’s jaw jumped. "You’re not. I’m sorry. I just didn’t want to make it a big thing," he said, his tone low. "I didn’t want to complicate things when things between us were so new.”

Celeste shook her head, frustration bubbling to the surface. "Max, I’m not a convenience to slot in when it’s easy. I deserve to know what’s going on in your life."

She could see the guilt flicker across his face, but it wasn’t enough to ease the tightness in her chest. "I’m sorry," he said softly, his hand reaching out to brush against hers. "I don’t want you to feel like that. I just... I’m not good at letting people in, and I’ve loved getting to know you like this, you know? Just Max and Celeste.”

Her breath caught in her throat, the warmth of his touch only deepening her frustration. She stared at him for a long moment, her heart beating painfully in her chest, but it didn’t erase the feeling of abandonment gnawing at her.

"You should have told me about the travelling sooner," she said finally, her voice tight. "But I’ll be here when you get back, I suppose."

Max nodded slowly, his hand lingering on hers, the weight of his unspoken words pressing between them. "I’ll make it up to you. I promise."

Celeste exhaled a shaky breath, forcing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. "Start with another coffee," she muttered, her voice betraying none of the anger swirling inside her. "I’m parched."

— 

Celeste sat on the couch, her legs tucked under her, with a glass of wine in one hand and a half-empty bottle on the coffee table in front of her. Her two closest friends, Lila and Sophie, were sprawled out on the other side of the living room, taking turns offering words of comfort between sips of their own drinks.

It had been a long day, and the frustration of the conversation with Max still simmered in her chest. She’d avoided texting him after their lunch, unsure of what to say. Part of her felt silly for letting it bother her so much, but another part of her was hurt. Hurt by the way he’d decided to keep her at arm’s length when she’d genuinely believed that they’d been growing closer.

Lila, always the direct one in their little trio, leaned forward and set her glass down on the table. “Celeste,” she started, her voice a little softer than usual, “you said he’s a trust fund kid, right?”

Celeste looked at her, her gaze wary. “Yeah. He hasn’t mentioned work once since we met, so I mean, I’m just assuming, so…” She shrugged. 

“Well, trust fund kids—” Lila rolled her eyes dramatically “—they’re all the same. They get used to living in their own bubble, never really having to deal with real life consequences, and they pull this ‘I’m too busy to explain myself’ crap. You should know that by now, we grew up around them. We were them.”

Celeste leaned back against the couch, sighing heavily as she stared at the ceiling. “It’s just… he’s been so available since we met, Lila. I thought that meant something.”

Sophie, who had been quiet until now, offered a reassuring smile from across the room. “He might be genuinely just… bad at feelings. He’s obviously a terrible communicator.”

“Yeah,” Lila agreed. “I get it. I was the same way before I went to uni. I thought the entire world would bend to my will, you know?”

Celeste exhaled a shaky breath, shaking her head. “I want him to be real with me, though. I don’t like all this mystery.” She met their eyes, the vulnerability creeping into her voice. “I just… I don't know if I’m overthinking it. He was so vague about the details. He’s always vague.”

Sophie stood and walked over to her, sitting down beside her on the couch. “Trust your gut. If he’s keeping you in the dark, that’s not fair. I know it’s only been, what, three months since you met? But you guys were basically living together at one point. He can’t just expect you to be oky with him just disappearing on you.”

Celeste managed a weak smile. “Thanks, you guys. I just don’t know what to say to him.”

“Take your time, babe,” Lila said with a shrug. “If he’s really a good guy, he’ll come crawling back to explain himself. If not… well, he can stay the fuck away.”

Celeste laughed softly, the weight in her chest easing just a little. “Yeah. Thanks. I think I needed to hear that.”

“You’re welcome,” Sophie said with a wink. “And we’ve got your back. No matter what happens with him.”

Celeste glanced at her phone and frowned.  

“It’s a regular thing. Every year. Just... long trips,” he’d said.

It had sounded like a half-truth then; and it felt even more like one now as she replayed it in her mind. 

— 

“All rich boys are liars,” her mother declared from across the table.

Celeste blinked, almost choking on the sip of wine she’d just taken. She let out a small laugh, trying to mask her surprise. “Mãe!” 

Her mother lowered her glass, her amused gaze softening as she met Celeste’s eyes. “Your father was the same,” she said quietly. “He could charm anyone, and he had his secrets. I knew that, even when we were teenagers. But I loved him. Loved him deeply. I knew all of his flaws, but I still chose him.” She sighed, a wistful smile tugging at her lips. “We always think we can fix things, especially when we’re young. But some things can’t be changed.”

Celeste’s heart fluttered, and she found herself stunned by the rare openness. “You loved him, even then?” She asked softly, almost uncertainty. ”As teenagers?” 

Her mother’s eyes grew distant, lost in the past. “I did. In a way that no one else could understand. Even when I knew he wasn’t being honest with me, I loved him. I thought love could fix everything. But when you’re young, you don’t realise how much control you don’t have.” Her voice softened, tinged with sadness. “I loved him through it all. And I should’ve told him sooner that I was pregnant with you, but by the time I was ready, it was too late. The chance was taken from me.”

Celeste’s throat tightened, the weight of her mother’s words sinking deep inside. She had always known how painful her father’s death had been for her mother, but hearing the quiet regret now felt like a punch to the gut.

“You never resented him?” Celeste asked, her voice small. “For how it ended?”

Her mother met her gaze, her smile knowing but gentle. “No, darling. I never resented him. How could I? He was complicated, yes, but I loved him for who he was, flaws and all. I think... I think we make mistakes, and we hold on to things we shouldn’t. But I don’t regret loving him. I just... regret losing him before I could give him what he wanted most: you.”

Celeste’s eyes burned with sudden tears. She hastily reached for a napkin to dab at her eyes before they ruined her makeup.

“I guess I’m just trying to understand him. Max,” Celeste clarified, her voice quieter. “Sometimes he’s so guarded. And then sometimes it feels like I’ve known him forever.”

Her mother studied her for a long moment, her expression softening with understanding. “Love makes us vulnerable, darling,” she said gently. “It’s not easy. You can only love them as they are. And you can only hope that they’re ready to love you back.”

Celeste met her mother’s gaze, searching for any answers. “So, what do I do?” She asked desperately. “How do I know what’s real? When he’s hiding something from me?” 

Her mother reached across the table, her hand covering Celeste’s with warmth and certainty. “You trust yourself, baby. Trust your gut, your heart. If this ‘Max’ truly wants to be with you, he’ll give you all of himself—eventually.”

Celeste nodded slowly, the weight of her mother’s words settling in. “I’m impatient,” she admitted, her voice a little less certain than before.

Her mother’s lips quirked into a soft smile. “I know. I raised you.”

— 

April 2021

Celeste had been wandering the dealership for almost an hour, pacing between sleek, polished models, unsure which one would suit her. She hadn’t expected it to feel so... intimidating. Choosing her first car felt monumental, a symbol of independence and a shift in her life. She’d been driving her father’s old car for so long that she’d never considered having to drive anything else. 

Her thoughts were interrupted by the salesman, whose voice seemed to echo too loudly in the otherwise quiet showroom. “This one’s a beauty,” he said, stepping closer and gesturing to a sleek silver coupe. “The interior’s top-notch, and it’s got a V6 engine for power. All the safety features Monaco streets demand. I’d say it’s perfect for you.”

Celeste felt her skin prickle as his gaze lingered just a little too long. She could handle it; she’d been getting this kind of attention for years, but it didn’t make it any less uncomfortable. She’d seen enough of this to know exactly how it worked. Men like him thought they could get away with treating women like they were part of the display, not the customer. She smiled politely and nodded, though her mind was already elsewhere.

The buzz of her phone in her pocket caught her attention. When she saw the caller ID, a flicker of irritation bubbled up. Max. She hadn’t heard from him much over the last few days, nothing substantial, anyway. He’d been vague, disappearing with little more than a few texts here and there. She didn’t want to admit it, but it was starting to wear on her. She missed him. 

With a sigh, she swiped to answer. “Hey,” she greeted, trying to keep the edge of frustration from her voice. As soon as his face appeared on the screen, though, a small smile tugged at her lips. He looked a little out of breath, sweat glistening on his forehead, and his usually perfect hair was a wild mess. “Did you just finish at the gym?” She asked, a small laugh escaping her.

He smiled back, though it was a little lopsided, and his eyes were sparkling with something. Adrenaline, maybe.. “Something like that.” He said. Celeste raised an eyebrow, but before she could ask more, he glanced at her surroundings. “You’re at a car dealership?” He asked. 

“Yeah,” she said, looking back at the cars around her. “I can’t decide what to go for.”

She panned the phone toward the sleek black coupe the salesman had pointed out. “What do you think of this one?”

Max squinted at the phone. “It’s nice,” he said, his voice thoughtful. “Solid. The engine’s reliable. That model’s been on the market for a while, so it’s got a good track record. You won’t be disappointed.”

Her stomach did a little flip. There was something about the way he spoke, like he knew what he was talking about, like he cared. For a split second, she forgot the distance that had been building between them over the last few weeks.

“It’s 85k,” she said, her voice tinged with uncertainty. Of course, she had the money in spades, but looking at the car, it just felt… too high. 

Max’s smile faltered, his brow furrowing slightly. His gaze darkened, and for a brief moment, Celeste could almost feel the weight of the tension in the air. “Let me speak to the salesman,” he said, his tone firm but calm.

Celeste blinked, her confusion creeping in. “What? Max, are you serious?”

“I am.” He replied, his voice quiet but with an underlying sense of control. “Hand him the phone, schat. Please.” He added, after a beat.

She stared at him for a moment, taken aback. The nickname had slipped through, soft and affectionate. 

Reluctantly, she handed the phone over to the salesman. He took it with a strange, wary glance at her, stepping aside to speak quietly.

Celeste watched him from a distance and noticed how his posture stiffened almost immediately. No more smug smiles, no more lingering looks.

It was subtle, but it was there — the shift in how he held himself, the way he nodded along to whatever Max was saying.

She wandered back to the silver coupe, running her fingers lightly over the polished hood. It was a beautiful car. Maybe a little flashy. Maybe a little reckless. But it was hers — or it would be, if she said yes.

When the salesman returned, he thrust her phone back into her hand, the call had already ended.

She frowned at the screen, annoyed that Max hadn’t even said goodbye.

“All set?” she asked, glancing up.

The salesman cleared his throat. “Yes, ma’am. We can offer it at 65k. Premium package waived. Complimentary service included.”

Celeste blinked. “Wait— really?”

He nodded stiffly, avoiding her eyes.

Confused but unwilling to argue, she reached for her bag. “Okay, I’ll just get my—”

“No need, ma’am.” He cut her off quickly. “Your, uh... Max. He’s already taken care of it. Wired the full amount. The car is yours. The title will be in your name.”

She froze, staring at him.

“He— he what?” She asked, her voice thin.

The salesman flushed, fumbling with the paperwork. “Yes, ma’am. Oh, and, uh...” He hesitated, seeming uncertain whether she was even listening. “Tell him we wish him luck this season.”

But Celeste didn’t really hear him. She barely registered anything as she numbly took the keys he pressed into her hand, muttering something about emailing her the deed and just needing an electronic signature.

She stepped outside into the sharp sunshine, the weight of the keyfob in her palm unfamiliar and heavy. 

Max had bought her a fucking car.

A beautiful, brand new car.

Her mind reeled as she slid into the drivers seat, the leather still smelling factory-new. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to cry, or scream, or call him and ask him what the hell he thought he was doing.

Instead, she just sat there for a moment, gripping the steering wheel, heart hammering against her ribs.

— 

She sat there for a long time, fingers clenched around the steering wheel, staring out at the glittering street beyond the dealership.

Eventually, her phone buzzed in her lap.

Max.

She answered without thinking. “What the hell?” She snapped, her voice cracking sharp in the quiet car.

There was a pause, then his voice, low and hoarse. “Celeste—”

“No.” Her throat tightened, but she forced the words out. “You can’t do this, Max. You can’t disappear, hide things from me, and then just—buy me a car and expect everything to be fine.”

She hated how her voice broke at the end, and hated the stupid hot sting behind her eyes.

“I’m not trying to buy you,” he said softly, like he could hear the tears she was fighting. 

“Oh, really?” she snapped. “Because that’s exactly what it feels like. You’ve shut me out, Max. Completely.” He tried to interrupt, but she steamrolled over him, voice shaking. “You have! It genuinely feels like I have no idea who you are. You feel like a stranger, and I hate it.” Her breath hitched. “I hate it so much.”

Silence stretched out between them. She could hear background noise wherever he was – distant voices, the hum of an engine – but he said nothing. Finally, quietly, he said, “You’re right. I’ve not been fair to you. I’m sorry.”

The words hit her like a punch. She blinked hard against the burning in her eyes, pressing her forehead against the steering wheel.

"I just..." Her voice came out in a whisper. "I miss you. I hate not knowing where you are and what you’re doing. I feel like the other woman in my own relationship. And this—" She gestured helplessly at the car around her. "This doesn’t fix anything, Max. It just makes it all so much worse."

There was a heavy exhale on the other end of the line.

“Okay,” he started, his voice steady. “Go to my apartment, yes? See the cats.”

She lifted her head, confused. “What? No— I don't want to be at your place without you.”

But his voice only softened, warm and sure. “I’m coming home. Just for a few nights.” Her heart twisted painfully, hope flaring sharp and hot. “I miss you too, schatje,” he said, all tender and honest and earnest. “I’m sorry.” 

Somewhere deep inside her soul, the anger cracked.

NEXT CHAPTER

[namelessgakusei]

Mada Dame Yo

Mark Grayson x reader

Warnings: Death, violence, use of a gendered term: wife (once)

Notes: Reader is like Homura/Subaru in this case, dying and going back in time whenever Mark becomes a killing machine. Based off my meager knowledge about Invincible. I really need to watch the show.

add. note: I knew I saw a similar idea somewhere and I finally found it again! @tunapestopasta posted an idea like this! Go check it out! :D

Noi! The Clara Dolls! (cont.)

"I dream of the morning. It's not time yet. It's not time yet. What color will the morning be? It's not time yet. It's not time yet. The night is still only half-eaten."

You don't know when it started. When Mark started acting strange. When he got his powers, his personality slowly shifted to a more... sinister one.

Sinister!Mark stood in front of what remains of your city, bloodstained teeth grinning down at your form. You were the only one spared, left to run on your own like a mouse. You were rightfully scared, who wouldn't if your boyfriend suddenly turned on the planet he was supposed to be protecting and ate its residents??

The GDA were no use either, most of them were eaten, if not, too injured to fight anymore. Earth was done for and it's all thanks to this cannibal maniac. His smirk faltered when he saw a small white creature hop to your side.

"Do you want to make a contract with me?"

You woke up in Mark's lap after that. Thinking it's merely a bad dream, you clung to him, eagerly trying to forget what you just witnessed. But this Mark, while chuckling and hugging you back, doesn't sound like your Mark. His voice... is a bit raspier.

You don't notice the ring on your middle finger.

This Mark doesn't possess any powers, but that didn't stopped him from being a daredevil. Since when is Mark so reckless? Sure, he still like Seance Dog and treats you like you're the most precious thing in the world, but...

His eyes look crazed.

It didn't took long for Mohawk!Mark to gain his powers after that. His new found abilities fueled his arrogance, easily creating a rift between him and the GDA. It didn't took long for him to get bored and snap.

Your "dream" repeated itself when he stood in front you, cackling and snaking his arms around your body, the blood from his suit seeping into your clothes. You feel sick. His laughter doesn't sound like the one you grew to love. Maybe he noticed that you were hyperventilating and let you go to inspect what's wrong, but you blacked out after that.

This time, you woke up inside your room. What was that?! Your fingers ghosted over your body, looking for the ghost of blood that Mark's clothes put on you. There's nothing. The world outside your window isn't destroyed. You're safe... You're always safe! Mark... Mark never hurt you!

Mark.

Where's Mark?!

Hastily grabbing your phone, you scrolled through your contacts to look for your boyfriend.

There is no Mark Grayson.

???

Suddenly, a loud crash shook the ground, making you fall face first on the floor. Is that an earthquake? You heard an explosion, is there an attack? You heard nothing for a few minutes, making you slowly get out of your room and out to the yard, but your eyes caught someone's in your backyard.

Those familiar brown eyes bore holes at your shocked form.

Mark?!

You immediately opened the back door and ran to his side. Why is he in a ship? Why did he crash land in your backyard?? Why is he wearing... that?

You don't dare ask about his new suit and just helped him inside your house, fussing over his injuries. But before you can go to get a first aid kit, he caught your arm.

"How do you know my name?"

Viltrumite!Mark was calm. There was a bit of miscalculation when he arrived at Earth but nothing that can jeopardize his mission. He is intrigued by the earthling who knew his name, who looked at him with something he can't decipher. Perhaps he should study humans more before taking action.

At first you thought that he hit his head. That he got alien amnesia or something. But the way he looks at you with such innocence, like he really doesn't know you, breaks your heart. What's going on?

You learn that he wasn't your Mark a few hours after that. He's a Mark who was taken by Nolan after Debbie gave birth to him. Oh. That explains why he doesn't know you, this Mark didn't grew up in Earth. He grew up to be a Viltrumite.

What does that make you? What about you? He's your boyfriend. He was your boyfriend. But he now isn't. He doesn't even know you.

You swallow a sob and made an incredibly foolish decision.

Maybe you could prevent Earth's destruction this time.

All you need to do it guide this Mark to see that it isn't worth it to destroy this planet. That there are many things here worth protecting for. Maybe you'll even arrange a meeting with him and his mom! Debbie's... safe here, right? Probably?

You thought you had everything under control, with him following you around like a puppy, too curious about humanity and how you teach him things. Human culture, food, entertainment, you tried making him invested in your world. He looked so cute when he figure things out and runs to you like a child waiting for praise. The first time you did, he was confused when you touched him so softly. Clearly he's unused to anything aside from the Viltrumite regime.

You thought that this time, no one has to die. Even if it hurts that everything you know isn't what it is now, you chose to ignore it, in lieu of not wanting to remember the previous Marks. You thought that this Mark will be different.

Now you realize that it's a foolish decision on your part. Earth burned, Viltrumites came to conquer, Humanity was almost eradicated, and Mark stands in front of you, with a gentle smile on his face. The same one he practiced with you to not scare other people with his scowl. The same one he wears whenever you two were together.

He kneels down and cups your cheek, a gentle gesture, like you taught him. With bloodshed around you, Mark uttered the words you both love and hate to hear.

"I love you."

You found out that you can manipulate time to an extent by the fourth Mark. This one, like Mohawk!Mark, has a few screw looses. NoGoggles/Lensless!Mark is a damn sadomasochist. He brings you up in the sky purely to see you cling to him in fear, he purposely tortures you for a reaction, and when you fight back? Oh, he's over the moon! He's begging for more, all while clinging to your leg.

He was about to kill the entirety of the GDA when you accidentally stopped time, allowing the others to escape. You don't know if it's fear of seeing your friends die again, but suddenly, your clothes changed, a small shield appeared on your arm with a gemstone on the back of your hand. Cecil didn't let you go by then, having you support the team while they fight back against Mark. Your abilities don't last forever, so they're on a time limit. But it seems like no matter what they do, they just can't seem to kill him.

He accidentally killed you when your ability ran out and time continued, you don't remember if you died from his punches or from the car that was thrown at your direction.

By the fifth Mark, you were so sick of it. You want your life back. You want your Mark back. Not the one who looks like his dad and demands that you become his wife. Omni!Mark pursued you relentlessly when you fought back with your powers. Stopping time to steal firearms, you found that you could also store items inside your shield. This could do, you'll help the GDA fight off this bastard who wears the face of your beloved.

You ended up in his arms not long after. Not in a loving embrace, he's literally squeezing the life out of you as he spats about you being ungrateful.

Your life ended with him as the last thing you saw.

The cycle continued for so long that you became desensitized. You wake up, Mark's there, Mark becomes an enemy, You fight back, you die and then you wake up again. You've seen so many variations of him, both the reasonable and unreasonable ones. Some of them were reluctant to conquer Earth, only doing it because it's too much to fight off the Viltrumite Empire. Some of them joined you in the rebellion. Some of them outright killed you for not seeing their ways.

Each and everytime, you wake up in his arms.

This version is no different. You opened your eyes and you're in Mark's room. Some of his versions doesn't even have one. Seance Dog posters are on the walls, the comic books were on his table, his bed smells like the faint memory of your original Mark.

You don't even remember him anymore.

This world's Mark is sure to be the same as the others. The harbinger of destruction. Those with eyes who look at you with so much love that it makes you sick.

The door opens and Mainstream!Mark smiles at you.

[sanjisluvbot]

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ Take Me Home

⋆.˚ PAIRING: Mark Grayson Variants/Reader

⋆.˚ SYNOPSIS: The chaos of the past few days has been indescribable. The world, shaken to its core, is now in a state of panic. The Invincible variants—once a symbol of hope, now ominous harbingers of a twisted fate—have revealed their plan to the world. They’ve openly declared that Y/n L/n, the one person who could tip the scales, is the reason for the madness that’s consuming reality itself.

⋆.˚ NOTES: Posting this while editing CH 3 of Intuition. If you'd like a full fic please let me know and you can expect it within a week!! I might change some things, but this is my current base!! ENJOY ♡

The world had gotten used to the impossible happening. After Omni-man revealed himself to be a mass murdering villain among all types of creatures and monsters roaming the earth, humanity became jaded. The screams and destruction woke you bright and early that day, maniacal laughter eerily familiar to your ex-boyfriend brought you to the window. 

There was not one, not two, but multiple people destroying the planet under the name of ‘Invincible’. You and your family made it safely to the bunkers with the rest of the scared, tired, and confused. The government allowed everyone to see with their own eyes the destruction of everything humanity worked for millions of years to be easily destroyed in less than twenty-four hours. 

“ Oh god… Mark,” you whisper to yourself. 

Although the world was shaken to its core, even now in a state of panic and fear there were still some bold enough. News reporters going as far as to film on top of buildings that still stood tall to get a closer look at the multiple Invincibles. However, being bold means potentially getting unwanted attention. The camera focused on one of the invaders destroying a prison when he finally caught eye with someone he has yet to tear in half. 

A devious smirk and in a split second the camera fell, gasps surrounded the room as people gathered around the tv screen. The screen was no longer in focus and you could only make out feet and the background of fire and rubble. You could hear the poor man losing his life, gurgling on his own blood while the bastard laughed. Once the gurgling stopped and the blood painted the camera lens crimson the body was tossed aside. 

The camera was picked up, you could only make out his smile before he wiped the lens with his finger smudging the blood to the left. “ oooh Y/n, where are you hiding— Get outta here!” 

The screen went black and everyone around you began to scramble. You were stuck in place. That was Mark, not your Mark but a Mark with his hair shaved into a mohawk and bags under his eyes that made him look like a complete psychopath. There were many questions but the one simple one that made your heart race. 

Why.

Why was he searching for you. 

You and Mark had made the difficult decision to break up almost a year ago, and the two of you moved on. Thinking about your past while trembling in this present as everyone began to whisper about what they’d just seen. Eyes turned to you, was there a possibility they were talking about Y/n L/n who was hiding out with them. Your parents quickly shut the rumors down, but the people began to avoid you until they couldn’t anymore. 

“ You have no proof! Other than the fact that the maniac on the screen was talking about someone with the same name! You can’t just harass my daughter!” Your poor sweet mother yelled. 

The crowd surrounded you and your family, you felt sympathy and regret they were simply scared. However, as your mother said, they can’t just harass you and your family when all they had was a name without a face. 

The madness continued, the chaos turned people against anyone with the name Y/n across the globe. The GDA not only had to deal with the death, the destruction of humanity, and multiple versions of one of the strongest men in the universe, but they needed to find Y/n. They were able to gain control of the media being broadcasted, all of the Mark’s were searching for the same person, letting you know that the longer you hide the worse it would get. 

Cecil sighed to himself. Half of his hero’s dead or in critical conditions all because of one person. He felt bad for Mark, but this just furthered his desire to have a weapon strong enough to deal with the kid if need be. When Mark arrived battered up having fought himself for hours on end Cecil asked him who Y/n was, just to see if he’d lie. 

“ Y/n… is my ex girlfriend. I don’t know where she is–”

“ Don’t worry about it, we found her already.”

“ What? Where is she– is she okay?”

“ She’s fine Mark, and so is her family, why don’t you go check on Eve.”

Mark felt relieved that you hadn’t been found by his counterparts, he couldn’t live with himself knowing you were possibly hurt by him even if it was a different version. He quickly went to check on Eve while Cecil made a hard decision. 

When the GDA came to the compound they told everyone things would be alright soon, and picked you and your family up telling everyone that you were just going into extra protection. The people felt relief as they no longer had a target on their back.

Under the guise of providing safety you and your parents followed them. You couldn’t ease the uncertainty though, were they really trying to protect you or were they protecting the innocents without the name Y/n? The pentagon was intimidating, a lump in your throat formed with the seriousness of your situation beginning to dwell on you. You grabbed onto your mother’s hand and she squeezed, providing you the comfort she always did. 

Now that you were far from the eyes of the public you were forcefully separated from our parents. Tears forming in your eyes as you’re pushed into a sterile white room. Cecil sat in front of you motioning you to sit and as you did armed officers appeared from thin air. Large rapid fire guns pointed directly at your chest and head. The silence of the room is suffocating, and it’s as though time itself is holding its breath. 

You were hyperventilating in full hysterics, Cecil could do little to comfort you. His face is tight, full of regret, but his voice is steady. "Y/n," he begins, his words laced with an apology that he can’t fully express, "I’m sorry it had to come to this. But you have to understand, this is about earth’s survival. Think of the billions of people who have been murdered over the last two days. If you’re handed over to them, they’ll stop the destruction. It’s the only way to save what we have left."

“ How can you be so sure? How can you be so sure that they won’t just rip me in half and leave this planet disintegrated.” you argue.

“ Because I’ve already come to an agreement with them.”

Before you could question anything else you were blinded by a light beyond your comprehension and then everything went dark. 

The first thing you felt was the wind, running through your hair while the sun warmed your cheeks. Rough hands cradle you into a sturdy chest and you lean into the familiarity, letting out a soft sigh when you realize it was Mark. He came to save you, take you away from the GDA and away from the evil versions of him. “ Oh, Y/n you’re even cuter on this earth.”  

The chaos of the past few days has been indescribable. The world, shaken to its core, is now in a state of panic. The Mark variants—once figures of influence, now ominous harbingers of a twisted fate—have revealed their twisted plan to the world. They’ve openly declared that Y/n L/n, the one person who could tip the scales, is the reason for the madness that’s consuming reality itself. The world has descended into a frenzy of desperate attempts to find her, each moment pushing humanity further toward the edge of its own unraveling.

The government has been scrambling to restore order, but in truth, it’s been a helpless race against time. The Global Defense Agency (GDA) gets involved, but not to protect Y/n, as she first thought. No, their involvement is a calculated move. Under the guise of providing safety, they’re planning to turn Y/n over to the Mark variants to ensure the earth’s survival. The GDA has long believed that the Marks hold the key to stopping the chaos—and they’re willing to sacrifice one person to preserve the greater good.

Y/n is brought into a fortified government building, far from the eyes of the public, and led into an ominous, sterile room. She can feel the weight of every eye upon her, even though there is no one there. The silence of the room is suffocating, and it’s as though time itself is holding its breath.

Cecil, the GDA operative who had been an ally, stands before her. His face is tight, full of regret, but his voice is steady. "Y/n," he begins, his words laced with an apology that he can’t fully express, "I’m sorry it had to come to this. But you have to understand. The Marks—they hold the balance. If you’re handed over to them, they’ll stop the destruction. It’s the only way to save everything."

Y/n feels a surge of anger, betrayal, and fear in her chest. The only way to save everything? Her mind races through every possibility, every outcome, but one thing remains clear: this is no longer just about saving the world. This is about survival, about sacrificing herself to a twisted fate or becoming the puppet of beings that have already caused irreparable harm.

Cecil’s face hardens, though his eyes flicker with a sense of sadness. "You can either be the good guy, or you can save the world. But you can’t do both."

The words echo in her mind as the walls seem to close in around her. The good guy, or the world? The weight of her decision has never been heavier. She knows what has to happen. The choice is excruciating, but it’s becoming clear that there may not be another way.

Y/n's mind flashes to the alternate versions of Mark—those who have been wreaking havoc, making themselves into shadows of their former selves. They are no longer just individuals; they have become symbols of the madness that has consumed reality. But what if they could be stopped? What if there was a way to break the cycle? What if she could find a way to shut down the alternate versions of Mark without sacrificing herself or falling into their trap?

She stands tall, her eyes locked with Cecil’s. "If I go to them, there’s no guarantee they’ll stop. What if they want more than just the world? What if I’m their ultimate prize?"

Cecil hesitates, clearly torn. He can’t answer her. He doesn’t know the full truth either. All he knows is what the higher-ups in the GDA have told him—what they believe. But Y/n feels it now: the truth is slipping through their fingers, and her fate is slipping further away with every passing second.

"Tell me," she demands, her voice quivering with a mixture of fear and determination, "how many others have they done this to? How many people have sacrificed themselves to them already? How many more will there be?"

Cecil remains silent. He doesn’t have an answer for that. But he knows what she means. The Marks have already been through countless others—versions of people, lives torn apart, worlds left in ruin. Y/n feels the weight of all those lost possibilities pressing down on her.

And then, in that moment, a new resolve fills her. She can’t let this be the end of everything. She won’t let herself become another pawn in their game. There has to be another way. She can stop the alternate Marks. She has to.

With every ounce of strength she has left, she turns away from Cecil. "I won’t be the prize they want me to be. I’ll find another way. I’ll stop them."

Cecil calls out, his voice pleading, "Y/n, don’t—"

But she’s already gone, slipping into the shadows of the building. She may be alone now, but her mind is clearer than it’s ever been. It’s time to end this—her way.

The stakes are higher than ever, and the final confrontation looms, but the fate of the world lies in the hands of one person: Y/n L/n. Will she find a way to destroy the alternate Marks and save herself, or will she be forced to make the ultimate sacrifice to prevent reality from unraveling completely? The clock is ticking, and there’s no turning back now

[mintyys-blog]

Hellooo mintyyyy !! I was wondering if you'd be willing to write for the different mark variants x a reader who likes to cook? Like after destroying a whole city and going back to the forest they come back to their house with reader to a home cooked meal and a warm bed?

Thanks uuu bbg!!

HEADCANONS | variants with reader who loves cooking.

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST | WARNINGS: mention of blood, power imbalance, pregnancy, implied kidnapping

MAIN MARK

The door creaked open as Mark stepped in, hair damp with sweat, suit still clinging to him from a day of rescues and debris. He smelled faintly of smoke and city air, but his smile—tired and warm—was everything. His eyes scanned the room until they landed on the kitchen, where you stood finishing up the last touches of dinner.

Your daughter was babbling happily in her little bouncer near the counter, her tiny hands flailing with excitement the moment she spotted him.

“There’s my girl,” Mark murmured, crouching down with a soft grin. He ruffled her curly hair gently, letting her grab onto his finger with a gummy squeal. “You being good for mommy?”

The smell of garlic and herbs filled the house, and Mark’s gaze drifted back to you. You turned slightly, catching him staring, and offered a small, knowing smile.

“You made it back for dinner.”

Mark stood and walked over to you without a word, pressing a kiss to your forehead before capturing your lips in a slower, more tender one. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate. It felt like home.

“Like hell I’d ever miss your cooking,” he murmured against your lips.

You rolled your eyes and laughed as he peeked into the pan, sneaking a bite before you could stop him.

“Hands off.”

“Too late. You married a menace.”

Later, he sat at the table with your daughter in his lap, making dramatic airplane sounds with a spoon while she giggled and kicked. You watched them from the sink, your heart full. No blood. No war. Just warmth, laughter, and the quiet clink of cutlery in a house where love lived in the smallest moments.

SINISTER MARK

The door slammed shut behind him like thunder, shaking dust from the beams. Another city gone—its skyline now nothing more than molten ruin.

Sinister Mark’s boots thudded across the wooden floor, leaving a trail of soot and blood behind. He rolled his neck, cracked his knuckles. His gloves were torn, smeared with red. But his eyes? His eyes softened the moment they landed on you.

There you were—barefoot in his kitchen, wearing one of his old shirts over your round, pregnant belly. A soft apron tied around your waist, your hands busy stirring the stew he liked just a little too spicy. The air was warm, filled with the scent of roasted vegetables and seasoned meat. Domestic. Safe.

Exactly how he wanted you. “Took your time,” you said, not looking back at him, but you didn’t sound mad. You sounded like someone who already knew he’d return.

He came up behind you without a word, pressing his bloody hands to your hips. You didn’t flinch. You never did. Mark leaned in close, his chin dropping to your shoulder as his fingers slipped to rub over your swollen belly with uncharacteristic care. “Smells perfect. Just like you.”

“You’re tracking blood in again,” you whispered, exasperated, but it lacked heat.

He grinned, low and dark. “You’ll clean it. That’s what you’re for.” You rolled your eyes. He kissed your temple anyway. Then lower, brushing his lips against your neck, your shoulder, the exposed skin of your collarbone.

“You cook,” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. “You keep warm for me. You give me peace.” You finally turned to face him, spoon still in hand. “You wiped out another city?”

“They had the nerve to threaten this. Us.” His palm returned to your belly. “They don’t exist anymore.”

You said nothing. Just turned back to the food and gave the stew a final stir. “Go sit,” you said softly. “Dinner’s ready.”

Mark did exactly that, like a king expecting to be fed. He leaned back in the chair, still covered in blood, still humming with the afterglow of destruction. Watching you serve him.

“You haven’t seen the sky in months,” he said casually between bites. “It’s overrated,” you replied. “I have everything I need here.”

He smiled. Really smiled. Not the sadistic twist he gave his enemies, but something quieter. Deeper. Because you belonged to him. Perfect. Tame. Glowing.

And he was going to make sure you stayed that way. Always.

MOHAWK MARK

The grand doors to Mark’s personal chambers swung open, the heavy wood creaking in protest as he entered. The faint sound of his boots clicking against the marble floor echoed through the vast, quiet space. His posture was as commanding as ever, even with the weight of ruling the Viltrumite Empire on his shoulders.

But when he caught sight of you in the kitchen, cooking for him once more, his expression softened—just for a moment. You were there, as always, waiting for him. The way you dressed, revealing and deliberate, was all for him. His gaze lingered, hungry and possessive, as he took in the curve of your figure, the glint in your eyes. You had chosen to wear something that was undoubtedly for his eyes only, and he appreciated that.

“You’re home,” you said, your voice a soft but eager whisper. You didn’t stand up immediately. There was no need for formalities between the two of you. You were his equal in the quiet moments when no one was watching.

Mark closed the distance between you in just a few strides, his usual, domineering smirk playing across his lips. He didn’t say a word as he lowered himself to the couch, settling back with his arms draped lazily across the backrest. You didn’t hesitate to join him, sliding onto his lap with the familiar ease that only came with shared trust and intimacy. His hand naturally settled on the curve of your ass as you leaned in to kiss him, soft and slow.

“Been waiting for me?” he asked, voice low and thick with both authority and desire.

You nodded, offering him a teasing smile. “Always.”

He pulled you closer, pressing your bodies together, feeling the heat radiating from your skin. His hand tightened on your waist, before trailing down to rest firmly on your ass. He didn’t bother hiding the way his fingers flexed possessively against you.

“I don’t know what I’ve been doing,” he mused, looking down at you with a mixture of amusement and hunger, “but it always feels like the day’s not complete until I get to have you like this. All mine.”

You tilted your head, feeding him the meal you had prepared with a gentle hand, as if to further prove just how much you belonged to him. The intimacy between you was a world of its own—there was no need to speak about it. He had everything under control; you knew that. His hand on your ass, the way his gaze lingered possessively on you, all confirmed it. You were his.

Mark hummed appreciatively, leaning forward to kiss you again, his tongue sweeping over your lips with quiet intensity. His hand on your ass gave a gentle squeeze as he pulled you closer, and you moved to feed him another bite, making him grin against your mouth.

“Good,” he muttered. “Perfect, as always.”

Your smile was satisfied. “Anything for you.” He leaned back against the couch, pulling you with him so that you were comfortably sprawled on top of him. His grip on you didn’t loosen. His power, his position—it all came to a head in these private moments with you. You were the one thing in his empire he could truly claim as his own. The one thing that made him feel whole.

His fingers ran slowly over your skin, savoring the way your body molded to his as he continued to rest his hand on your ass. His Viltrumite empire could burn, the galaxies could crumble—but you? You were his.

And he would make sure you knew that every time.

PRISONER MARK

The front door creaked open with a familiar groan, the sound of Mark’s boots heavy against the floorboards as he entered the home. His eyes scanned the room before settling on you, standing in the kitchen, waiting for him. He was dressed casually today, wearing a hoodie and a half-face mask with sunglasses— his way of blending in, of protecting you. He hated being seen, but you were his safe place, his retreat from everything the Viltrumites had made him.

Mark’s disguise wasn’t elaborate, just a makeshift cover to hide his identity—he couldn’t risk being recognized by anyone. But as you noticed him enter, a sense of relief washed over his features. He was home. Safe. At least, for now.

You walked up to him with a soft smile and gently took his hand, pulling him into the house further. His tense shoulders relaxed just slightly under your touch, though he couldn’t entirely let go of the constant wariness that had become second nature to him. He was still on high alert, but with you, he could find a semblance of peace.

He placed the groceries on the kitchen table with a sigh, rolling his shoulders back as he stood tall for a moment. He took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the day lifting ever so slightly.

“You cooked again?” His voice was low, a little tired but grateful. There was a genuine smile tugging at his lips as he looked at the spread you had prepared—his favorite dish, steaming on the table, just like you always made.

You nodded, stepping closer to him as you gently removed his mask. His face, though still slightly bruised from whatever skirmishes he’d endured, relaxed at the sight of you, his tension dissipating with every passing second. Your fingers brushed the skin of his face, and his eyes softened, something unspoken passing between you both.

You led him to the table, pulling out the chair for him and sitting down next to him. The smell of the food was comforting, familiar—it made him feel human again, not like the monster he had to be in front of the Viltrumites.

“I’ll get your drink,” you said softly, starting to turn away.

Before you could take more than a step, Mark moved with the speed of a blur, grabbing his own glass and pulling you back into him effortlessly. You gasped, surprised by his sudden movement, but his grin was mischievous, like he knew he’d caught you off guard.

“Just eat with me,” he murmured, his tone low but filled with quiet longing. “I’ve been missing you all day.”

You smiled, leaning in to press a quick kiss to his cheek. His hand rested on your waist, his grip firm but gentle as he pulled you closer, guiding you to sit beside him. The sound of his breath was steady now, no longer rushing, no longer worried. You made him feel safe, like the world outside didn’t matter as long as he was here with you.

And as the two of you shared the meal, the mundane warmth of being together in this small, quiet moment made the danger of the Viltrumites, the secrecy, and the tension outside all seem far away.

He was still the prisoner, still running, still fighting—yet in your presence, he could simply be Mark. And for once, that was enough.

OMNI MARK

The door to the house creaked open, and Omni Mark stepped through, his presence filling the entryway. He stood there for a moment, scanning the familiar surroundings of the house he barely let himself enjoy—his expression as neutral and unreadable as ever. The weight of his duties was always in his posture, the unspoken tension in the lines of his body.

You were already there, waiting. You always were, patiently keeping the home fires burning for him. It didn’t matter what world he’d just saved, what chaos he’d caused, or what new threat had appeared on the horizon. You were always there, waiting for him to return, to shed the cold shell he wore out in the world and be… something else.

He didn’t speak at first. Just dropped the bag of groceries onto the kitchen counter. The faint noise of bags being tossed aside echoed in the otherwise quiet room.

Then he turned, his eyes locking onto yours.

“Dinner’s ready?” His voice was calm, even flat, as if he weren’t already expecting it.

You smiled, unbothered by his distance, and nodded, setting the plate down with a flourish on the table. “I made your favorite.”

There was a brief flash of something in his eyes—something like a flicker of warmth, before it was masked again by the cold indifference that often ruled him. You could tell he appreciated it, though. You always knew.

He moved toward you with the slow, deliberate pace of someone who was never in a hurry to get anywhere. His movements were almost predatory, like everything in his world revolved around control. But when he was here, with you, he didn’t need that control. He didn’t have to be Omni, the cold, calculating hero. Not with you.

You led him to the table, where he sat down, already taking off his gloves. His posture was rigid, but his eyes softened as you went about the simple, domestic task of making sure everything was just right for him. You pulled the chair out for him, your hand briefly brushing his as you set down the glass of water in front of him.

You slid into the seat beside him, just close enough that your arm brushed his. His gaze lingered on you for a moment before he reached over and placed his hand on your waist. There was something possessive, something unspoken in that simple touch. Even in his cold detachment, he couldn’t help but want to pull you closer.

He picked up his utensils, taking a bite of the food you’d prepared. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, and he let out a small hum of approval. For a brief second, the mask he wore for the rest of the world slipped.

“You’re the only thing I look forward to,” he murmured, just loud enough for you to hear, though his voice remained as level as ever. “The rest of it doesn’t matter.”

You gave him a soft smile, one that told him you understood. “I’m glad I can make it easier for you, Mark.”

He didn’t respond right away, but there was a quiet change in his demeanor. The harsh lines around his eyes softened, and he leaned a little closer, his thumb lightly tracing the edge of your hand where it rested on the table.

“Don’t get used to me being this… comfortable,” he muttered, but there was an undercurrent of something gentler in his tone. “I’m only this way for you.”

For a second, you didn’t say anything. You just squeezed his hand and held his gaze. With all the power, the worlds, and the responsibility on his shoulders, you were the one thing he would always make time for, always come home to. And in this quiet moment, you didn’t need him to say anything more.

He didn’t need to protect you from the universe right now. He just needed you.

“I’m just glad you’re home,” you said softly, leaning into his side, resting your head on his shoulder. You felt his body relax slightly as his free arm settled around you.

SHIESTY MARK

The door swung open with a loud thud as Shiesty Mark entered the house, his eyes scanning the room with the cool confidence that was always present. His swagger, the way he moved like he owned every damn thing in sight, was in full effect as he kicked off his boots, stepping into the warmth of the home. But that cocky grin he wore was quickly replaced with something a little more sincere, though still masked by his usual bravado, when he spotted you.

You were there, just like always. The center of his world—though he’d never admit it, not with that big ego of his. You were wearing something casual, and Mark couldn’t help but appreciate the way you moved, the way you were. It was a mixture of both relaxed and teasing, that effortless appeal that drove him wild.

“You back to your little domestic duties, huh?” he said with a chuckle, tossing a bag of groceries onto the counter, but his tone wasn’t as dismissive as usual. There was a glint in his eye, something that betrayed the usual arrogance.

You smirked, wiping your hands on a towel before walking over to him. “Well, someone has to keep you fed and happy.”

He raised an eyebrow, impressed, his grin spreading wider. “You really think you can handle all this?” He motioned to himself, a cocky gleam in his eyes as he leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “I mean, I’m a catch and a half, babe.”

You shook your head, laughing, before stepping closer and tugging at his arm to guide him into the dining room. “Oh, trust me, I can handle you just fine.”

He followed you, his hand sliding over your waist as he sat at the table, eyes still scanning you like you were the most interesting thing in the room, even though he’d seen you a million times. He wasn’t going to admit it, but he loved these moments—when it was just the two of you. No world-ending events, no enemies lurking around, just you and him, sharing a moment.

You began to serve him his food, and his eyes softened as he looked at you. He had to admit, you always did a damn good job cooking. The meal you made was exactly what he needed after a long, grueling day of making deals, fighting, and doing what he did best. He didn’t say it, but the appreciation was clear when he looked at the plate you’d prepared.

“You really outdo yourself, huh?” he said, his tone a little less cocky, a little more genuine.

You smiled, walking around to the other side of the table and sitting down next to him. He didn’t hesitate to pull you into his lap, his hand resting possessively on your hip. His fingers traced lightly over your skin, though there was a bit of urgency in his touch.

“Guess I just can’t stay away from you,” he said with a grin, clearly trying to keep the mood light, but the sentiment was there.

You leaned in to kiss him, just a soft peck on the lips, before breaking away with a teasing smile. “You never can. Not when I’m the one who keeps you fed and sane.”

Mark’s eyes narrowed, but the smile he gave you was different this time—something tender behind all the bravado. “Keep talking like that, and I might start thinking you actually care about me.”

“Oh, I care,” you said, leaning into his chest. “Just don’t go getting too cocky now.”

He chuckled, rubbing your back slowly. “I’m always cocky, babe. Comes with the package.”

As you sat there, you could feel the weight of the world lift from his shoulders—just for a moment. He was still Shiesty Mark, still ruthless and cunning in his dealings, but here, with you, he could drop the mask, just for a while.

The food was still warm, and the quiet comfort of the moment settled between you both. Mark may have been a cocky, materialistic, unfiltered bastard to the world, but when it came to you, all that bravado was just a cover for how much he truly needed you.

And as you fed him, he didn’t speak much, but there was something in his eyes—a gratitude for this peace you gave him that words couldn’t describe.

EMPEROR MARK

The sharp echo of bickering filled the hallway as Emperor Mark stepped into the quiet entrance of the royal home. His expression unreadable as always—sharp jaw set, golden eyes gleaming with authority. He didn’t need to raise his voice to command attention—his presence alone was enough.

And he could already hear them. The sound of high-pitched whines and soft thuds—his children refusing to sit still, refusing to listen to their mother. Again.

You stood in the grand kitchen of the palace, sleeves rolled up, trying to plate the dinner you’d worked hard on with a tired but determined expression. One hand on your hip, the other lifting a spoon, your eyes flicked toward the sound of the chaos behind you.

Two of your children were already wrestling over a toy in the dining room, the third climbing into a chair that wasn’t theirs, all while your back was turned.

You sighed, barely getting a word out before a deep, commanding voice sliced through the noise.

“Enough.”

It was calm. Cold. Unyielding.

Silence swept through the room like a sudden drop in temperature. The children froze mid-motion, heads snapping toward the doorway. Emperor Mark stood there now, fully revealed, the kind of stillness radiating off him that warned anyone nearby not to test him.

Their little bodies straightened immediately.

“Sit. Now,” he ordered.

All three obeyed without question, scampering to their seats like frightened kittens. Not another peep came out of them. You turned, exhaustion melting off your face as your eyes met his.

“Thank you,” you said quietly, walking up to him. You were still holding a serving spoon, a streak of sauce on your apron. “I was about to lose my mind.”

He stepped closer, his hand resting gently on your waist, the touch a quiet comfort that only you were ever allowed to feel from him. “They should’ve listened the first time.”

You smiled, brushing a hand over his chestplate before nodding toward the dining table. “Dinner’s ready. Sit. I’ll serve.”

Mark moved with that same controlled confidence, taking his place at the head of the table—his usual seat, even when he wasn’t in formal regalia. He watched you from his chair, the way you moved so effortlessly, how you handed out each plate with care. Despite being a queen in title, you never lost the softness in you—the kindness that balanced his ruthless nature.

The children stayed quiet, glancing at their father every so often, still very much aware of his presence.

Once everyone had their plates, you set Mark’s down last, smoothing your hand over his shoulder as you did. He looked up at you with a glint of something fond in his eyes—brief, subtle, but there.

“You made it home in time,” you murmured with a soft smile.

“I always do,” he replied, reaching up to briefly rest his hand over yours.

You sat beside him, your eyes flicking toward your now-behaved children. The peace wouldn’t last long—you knew that. But for now, the family was together, and things felt… right.

Even as Emperor of the strongest empire in the galaxy, Mark always returned home. Because this, right here—your voice, your cooking, your tired smile, and your chaos-bringing children—this was his empire too.

VILTRUMITE MARK

The kitchen was quiet, save for the soft bubbling of sauce and the occasional clink of a spoon against the pot. The warm aroma of seasoned meat and roasted vegetables hung in the air like a comforting cloud, rich and earthy.

She stood at the stove with her sleeves rolled up, an apron tied snug around her waist—tighter than usual to accommodate the gentle swell of her belly. Only a few months along, but it was already enough to slow her movements just slightly, enough that Mark had noticed… and had nearly banned her from the kitchen again.

But she’d insisted. Begged him, even. Not out of desperation, but for some piece of normalcy—something she could hold onto in a world where she was otherwise protected, sheltered, and, at times, restricted. So Mark, Viltrumite warrior, conqueror, and protector, had granted her that one small freedom with a gruff warning and his hands resting over her stomach like a shield.

She could cook—but only when he was around. Only when he could watch her. Ensure she didn’t lift anything too heavy or strain herself.

And tonight, he was already home.

Mark leaned against the archway of the kitchen with his arms crossed, his white and gray viltrum uniform. Still, unmoving as he silently watched her work.

His sharp gaze dropped to her exposed bump, the apron tied just above it, framing the subtle curve in a way that stirred something primal in him. His child. Growing inside the woman he claimed as his own. It didn’t matter how many worlds he’d fought to keep, how many enemies had fallen under his fists—this was the only thing that truly made his chest ache with possessiveness.

She turned slightly, catching sight of him, and her face lit up in a soft, breathless smile.

“You’re staring again,” she teased, her voice gentle, affectionate. “Dinner’s almost ready. I didn’t overdo it.”

He didn’t smile back—not the way a normal man would—but there was something unmistakably warm in the way he moved toward her, hands slipping around her waist as he stepped behind her. His palms settled over her bump, thumbs brushing slow circles.

“I allow this one thing,” he said lowly, voice deep against her ear. “That doesn’t mean I won’t stop it the second you push yourself too far.”

She leaned into his chest, sighing contentedly. “I know. But I’m alright, Mark. This… it makes me happy. Feels like I’m doing something for us.”

“You’re growing our legacy,” he replied, his breath brushing over her cheek. “That’s more than enough. But if cooking gives you peace, then I’ll allow it.”

She chuckled, placing a warm hand over his. “Just wait until the cravings really hit. You’ll regret letting me in here.”

“I’ll get you whatever you need,” he said simply. “Even if I have to take down a planet to get it.”

He let her go after a moment, but not before placing a firm kiss against the side of her neck. As she turned to plate the food, he moved to sit at the head of their table, his eyes never leaving her.

There were no enemies here. No conquests. No blood to spill. Just the woman he adored and the future growing inside her.

And for a man like Mark, who had everything a Viltrumite could want—power, command, fear—this was the one thing that made him feel truly victorious.

NO GOGGLES MARK

He was never one to pretend. He didn’t soften things for comfort, didn’t offer tenderness unless he felt it was earned. Sadistic, cocky, and often full of himself, he thrived off power, off dominance. And yet—despite the blood on his hands and the chaos that often followed in his wake—there was something uniquely possessive about how he treated her. His woman. His home. His future.

So when he opened the door to the scent of sizzling spices and slow-cooked meat, his expression twitched—not with surprise, but smug satisfaction. His sharp gaze landed on her, apron tied around her waist, her pregnant belly rounding out slightly beneath the fabric. She was glowing in the low light of the kitchen, focused, humming softly as she stirred the pot.

“You’re still up,” he said casually, voice low and slick, the kind of tone that made people flinch when they didn’t know him. But her? She didn’t flinch. She turned to him with that familiar smirk, one brow arched in amusement.

“You think I’d let you come home to nothing?” she replied. “Please. I’ve been waiting on you.”

He licked his lips as he stepped closer, boots heavy against the floor. He didn’t even take off his blood-splattered jacket. “Damn right you have.”

Mark didn’t ask if she needed help. He didn’t apologize for being late or ask how she was feeling. He never did that. But his eyes? They dropped to her belly, lingered there with a slow, possessive hunger—something almost reverent hidden beneath all that ego.

His hand reached out, fingers curling under her chin, lifting her face to his.

“You know I could’ve just ordered someone to cook for you, right? Someone to serve you, carry you, give you whatever you want.” His voice dropped as he leaned in. “You’re carrying a Viltrumite. My child.”

“I know,” she whispered, lips brushing his, teasing. “But you let me cook. Said I earned it.”

“Damn right you did,” he growled before kissing her, deep and unrelenting, like he was claiming her all over again.

When he pulled back, he was smirking. “I kill for you all day. You feed me at night. That’s balance, baby.”

She chuckled, turning back toward the stove. “Food’s almost done. Sit your ass down.”

He did—only for her. Slouched in his seat, eyes sharp and gleaming, he watched her serve their plates. She moved slow, deliberate, graceful even with the weight of pregnancy curving her body forward. It made his jaw clench. He never thought he’d have something like this. He never thought he’d want it.

But the way she looked in his kitchen, with his child in her belly, cooking just for him? That was power. That was control.

And as she placed his plate down and kissed his cheek, he let out a breathless laugh.

“You’re lucky I like you so much,” he muttered.

She leaned in closer, brushing her lips over his ear. “You love me.”

He paused, smirk curling sharp. “Maybe I do.”

And for Mark, that was a confession no one else in the galaxy would ever hear.

[22ayla21]

Their Children, Their Treasures

How the men of Amphoreus spend time with their children.

Mydei is not the type to just sit and tell children how the world works. He shows them. He trains with his eldest son, but he doesn’t turn it into a tough workout — more of a game, testing his agility and reaction. He can throw him a wooden sword, forcing him to catch it, and then laughs when he proudly declares that he has become stronger. He takes his time with his daughter. Instead of combat training, he teaches her observation: he shows her how to read facial expressions, discern lies, understand when a person says one thing and means another.

Sometimes, when the night is quiet and the palace is asleep, Mydei takes the children for a walk. His son walks alongside him, trying not to show that he is a little nervous about the mysterious atmosphere. His daughter sits on his shoulders, clinging to his hair with her tiny hands. They walk, talk about something insignificant, look at the stars. For the children, this is an adventure, for him, a rare moment when he can simply enjoy their presence.

He has small rituals that are dear only to them. Every morning when he is home, he always plays with his daughter, letting her sit on his lap while he drinks his pomegranate juice. She chatters, sometimes incoherently, but he listens, answering in short phrases, because it is important for her to be heard. He has a special tradition with his eldest son - they arrange small competitions, who can tie a belt faster, who will be the first to notice something unusual around. These are not competitions in strength, but simply a test of attentiveness and ingenuity.

If one of the servants or courtiers looks at his children too appraisingly, he silently gives a look that makes the blood run cold. After that, no one dares to say anything unnecessary to the children. If a son comes to him with a question that is difficult to ask out loud, he never ridicules him. He does not say "you are still small", but calmly explains, because he knows that if not him, then someone else will give an answer, and it is not a fact that it is the right one. If his daughter gets tangled in ribbons or can't fasten her dress, he silently helps. His rough fingers can undo intricate knots with no less dexterity than they can handle a weapon.

The son has almost gotten used to the fact that his father rarely talks about his feelings. But he notices how he always puts his hand in front of him if someone comes too close, how he discreetly straightens his cloak, how he puts food in front of him first. And his daughter... She is his little princess, and he doesn't even try to hide it. He picks her up in his arms without saying a word if he sees that she is tired. If she plays with his hair or jewelry, he simply allows it silently. When she reaches out to him to take her, he never refuses. Mydei does not say loud words. But his children know that there is no one who will protect them more.

Silence at home? Not in their family. When Anaxa has free time, he organizes intellectual discussions, where each of his daughters tries to prove her point. Usually this develops into a heated argument, and he, sitting with a cup of tea, calmly observes and only occasionally throws out provocative questions, forcing them to think even deeper.

"Theory without practice is meaningless," says Anaxa, and his daughters immediately find a reason to prove this in practice. "Scientific disasters" regularly occur in the house: self-igniting mixtures, strange bubbling solutions or a device that was supposed to make life easier, but almost destroyed the kitchen.

Anaxa comes up with logical riddles that his daughters must solve using reasoning. Sometimes he does this on purpose in everyday life: he hides things, leaves encrypted notes or deliberately draws false conclusions to see if they will notice the mistake. If the evening is quiet, he sits in a chair, his daughters on either side of him, each with her own book. The elder reads serious literature, the younger something more daring and provocative, and Anaxa just smirks, seeing how their reading tastes reflect their personalities.

Despite all their intellectual development, they remain a family. Sometimes Anaxa allows his daughters to braid his hair (even if he pretends that he is not interested), sometimes he himself makes things for them that seem completely unrelated to science - beautiful jewelry or unusual objects that carry a hidden meaning.

Anaxa rarely speaks openly about his feelings, but if his daughters face difficulties, he is always there. When they achieve success, he simply looks at them with a barely noticeable smile and says: "I had no doubt. After all, you are my daughters."

When his first son was a baby, Phainon still hoped that his child would be calm, obedient, and perhaps even gentle. He imagined reading to him, teaching him high ideals… But as soon as the baby learned to crawl, the house turned into an arena of chaos. And then came the second. And now Phainon has two little whirlwinds that run around, fight each other with toy swords, and turn everything upside down.

Phainon may be a hero, but when his two sons jump on him from the couch with battle cries, he sincerely wonders if it is his destiny they are trying to overthrow. They use him as a living arena, clinging to his arms, tugging at his hair, and demanding that he play battles with them, which he invariably loses.

Phainon still reads them ancient Amphoraean legends, hoping to instill nobility and greatness of spirit in them. He sits with a book, telling stories about great heroes... and his sons listen with bated breath. And then one of them suddenly asks:

"Dad, if you were an evil god, would you lose to us?" Phainon exhales heavily.

Although he would never admit it, Phainon loves to tidy up their tousled hair. When they are little, he gently combs it, sometimes combing it with his hands. Later, when they grow up, he continues to do it mechanically, and when his sons begin to complain, he only smiles with a note of melancholy that they are growing up too fast.

When his sons begin training, he becomes a strict mentor. He teaches them to take blows, to think strategically, not to waste their strength. But if one of them hurts another or behaves dishonestly, his gaze becomes icy, telling them that they must be strong not for the sake of destruction, but for the sake of protection. And they remember this for the rest of their lives.

Despite the chaos, he loves it when his sons, tired of playing, crawl to him and fall asleep next to him. At such moments, he carefully covers them with a blanket, looks at their faces and says with a slight smile, almost in a whisper: “But I wanted a daughter…” But there is no disappointment in his voice – only warm affection. Phainon is a father who wanted a little princess, but in the end got two little whirlwinds who make his life chaotic, but happy. And even if they turn the house upside down, he would never trade them for anything in this world.

[cherrysweets-world]

Eyes of the Gods VIII

series masterlist - part seven

Pairing - Caracalla x fem!Reader x Geta

Summary - The pot finally boils over.

Warnings - 18+, minors dni, historical inaccuracies, mentions of injured animals, reader is briefly intoxicated, dub-con, forced proximity, obsessive/possessive/unhealthy relationships & behavior, biting, dirty talk, reader is traumatized, alcohol consumption, violence depicted, blood, gore, vomit, slight breeding kink

Word Count - 5.4k

The cuffs on your wrists felt unnatural and heavy. They were not unlike the cuffs that slaves wore to signal who they belonged to, although yours were dotted with jewels and made with solid gold.

They had a matching necklace; a big, chunky thing that made you feel as though you were about to topple over. The jewelry paired with the fine clothing made you feel unrecognizable. Anyone who looked at you would not assume you had once been a simple worker.

The crowd roared with excitement and the sound created a buzz in your ears. Never had you thought you would have to endure the games again; once had been more than enough for you. Now, not only were you being forced to watch the games, you would be doing so from a prime viewing position.

It could have been your imagination but you felt as though you could already smell the scent of blood in the air. Cloying, suffocating. You reached up a hand to adjust the necklace and quickly dropped it when Geta side-eyed you.

You had thought the games would distract them from you. Their attention had become even harder to shake since your room had been destroyed. Crushed under the weight of it, you were desperate for a break that would not come.

Once again you had been placed on a wooden chair, but this time it was between the seats of the emperors. A position of honor. You wanted to tear the jewellery from your body and flee, disappear into the crowd and become invisible once more.

Occasionally you would catch the eye of someone in the crowd. You were getting used to receiving that same pondering look from everyone you saw. They wanted to know who you were, why you were sitting with the emperors, why their hands were all over you.

It was as if they were stripping you of you past, moulding you into someone who was more suitable. Dressing you up as they would a prized doll. Jewelry, clothes - there was even a smearing of kohl on your outer lids.

Would your friends recognize you if they saw you now?

The emperors were dripping in luxury. Draped with expensive clothing with the most intricate of patterns and colors you could not even name; you couldn't help but admire them up close. They looked every bit the gods you had believed them to be.

Caracalla's enthusiasm was palpable. He kept yanking you close to his side, pointing out things in the crowd or regaling you with tales of past games. You nodded numbly through his explanations, too wrapped up in your own nerves.

Geta was unusually twitchy and it took you a moment to realise that he, too, was eager for the games to begin. Your hands clenched around the fan you had been given and you glanced over your shoulder, at Lucilla and her husband.

General Acacius was striking man. Tall, muscular and certainly handsome. Together, he and Lucilla made an impressive couple.

Geta leaned close and hissed, "Is there something particularly interesting back there?"

"I have never seen a General before," you said stiffly, returning your attention back to the arena.

Geta's lips twisted and he placed a warm hand on your thigh, squeezing.

The crowd adored Acacius. Geta instructed him to speak and he did so, offering a few coarse words before returning to his seat beside his wife. Geta and Caracalla earned similar applause, likely because of the food that had been provided. People were all too easy to please.

With that, the games began.

Your face tightened as several men rode out on exotic animals, swiping and slashing at the gladiators to thunderous applause. It seemed such a waste - both of human and animal life. You snapped open your fan and attempted to breath steadily.

Caracalla pushed a cup of wine into your hands and you drank it down in its entirety. It was more potent that what you were used to and you leaned heavily on the side of Geta's throne, exploring the bitter taste in your mouth.

Both emperors were enraptured by the games. When the first man died you gasped, craning your neck to watch him flail in the sand. Red blossomed around him and it felt as though it took hours for him to finally go still.

The smells were getting to you. Blood, filthy men and animals. You stuck your nose into another cup of wine and attempted to drink slowly.

"That gladiator is talented, is he not?" Geta asked.

"Certainly," Caracalla agreed.

You felt their eyes on you, gauging your level of interest. You busied yourself with another cup of wine, drinking it down in big gulps. You felt nervous and yearned for a distraction. You had found one in the bottom of your cup.

Once your cup was empty Geta signalled for it to be filled again. Your hand trembled as the attendant topped up your cup. You stared at the woman and she finally met your gaze and dipped her head.

"My lady," she said.

You breathed slowly out of your nose. You were so far from a lady it was comical. Could no one else see that? Could they not feel it the way you felt it?

Caracalla pinched your waist. "My lady," he cackled. "You certainly look the part."

"It is all thanks to the generosity of my emperors," you smiled tightly.

Caracalla's attention was pulled from you once more when the crowd cried out. He got to his feet, pressed himself to the edge of the box for a better look.

Geta eyed you, an unfamiliar look on his face. "You are going to be drunk by the end of this if you continue."

"I am thirsty," you lied.

It had been an age since you had last been drunk. And never off of something so exquisite. The wine drowned out the roars of the crowd and the squealing of injured animals.

Miserable, you scanned the crowd. How could they dislike the emperors when they, too, were so bloodthirsty? As long as it was not theirs, they did not care. How was that any different to Geta or Caracalla?

Nauseous, you finally set down your cup. It would not do to make yourself physically sick.

Geta ran and finger down your inner arm before entwining his hand with yours. The physical affection startled you and you would have moved if you didn't feel so suddenly ill.

He called for a refill - of water this time. He used his free hand to push the cup into yours, telling you to drink.

"Fool," he shook his head, "you should not have drank so quickly. Now sit up and look amused."

You did your best to sit up straight and do as he had ordered. Whenever you began to shiver or look away his hand would tighten on yours ever so slightly. You were almost grateful; the last thing you wanted to do was humiliate yourself in front of any curious onlookers.

Even shaded from the sun you felt hot. So many heaving bodies pressed together generated almost unbearable heat, even from your position in the emperor's box.

An hour slipped lazily by. You felt every moment of it even in your drunken state. Men died below you like flies. The crowd devoured every death until they became meaningless.

It took a moment for you to realise why Geta was getting to his feet. The games were almost over. There was one man standing and another on his knees. Both were bloodied and dirty, sweating in the hot sun.

The winner looked up to Geta for his answer. Geta paced for a moment, palms upturned as though asking for guidance from the gods. It looked real enough from where you sat; you could not imagine how he appeared to those in the crowd.

Geta held out his hand, shaking as though coursing with power. You stilled, leaning forward. What would he decide? What would the gods decide?

When Geta flipped up his thumb you nearly vomited with relief. The crowd went wild, rising to their feet and screaming for the hero in the arena. Relief - albeit temporary. The man would likely meet his death before he earned his freedom.

Your feet felt unsteady as you attempted to get up. Geta saw you sway and locked your elbows together, jerking his head at Caracalla who appeared on your other side.

If you spoke to Lucilla or Acacius you did not remember it. The emperors were doing a good job of making it look like you weren't about to spill all over the floor. You leaned heavily on them, teetering down the steps like a newborn babe.

The journey back to the palace felt torturous. Geta's hands wandered, encouraged by your inebriated state. His rings were cool against your skin and you welcomed his touch, sagging into his side. Pleased with your reaction, he peppered tiny kisses behind your ear whilst scolding you for drinking so much alcohol.

Geta's forwardness would have been startling if not for your current state. The heat of the afternoon sun combined with the wine was making you delirious.

Once you were back in the confines of Geta's rooms, Caracalla placed a smacking kiss on your lips.

"You taste of wine," he commented, squeezing your chin. He leaned in for another kiss, relishing the taste.

You took a step back, evading Caracalla's grabbing hands. He pouted and followed, hands tight at your waist. You swayed in his arms, letting your head drop onto his shoulder. The jewelry he wore dug into your forehead but you felt paralysed.

"I am not well," you moaned.

"Poor girl," Caracalla cooed, hands cupping your ass. "She cannot hold her wine, brother."

He released you and you sank to the floor, curling into a ball and breathing heavily through your nose to ward of the nausea. Foolish indeed.

You could hear Caracalla and Geta arguing but it barely registered. Your thoughts turned slow and syrupy and you succumbed to the alluring lull of wine-fueled dreams.

Sleep was filled with feverish dreams. Crowns of golden laurels, soft hands, red hair. You awoke sweating, dizzy and alone.

Staggering to the table, you poured yourself a cup of water. It went down smoothly, soothing your throat. Geta's rooms were empty and you were, for once, blissfully alone.

The cuffs had left indents in your skin and you hissed as you pulled them off, followed by the chunky necklace. You rubbed at your neck, absentmindedly tracing the patterns it had left on your skin.

You poured yourself another glass, lowering yourself to the floor in a sitting position. The sky had darkened considerably since you had slept and it left you feeling disorientated.

Lifting your hand to your eyes, you patted gingerly at the corners, pulling away to see kohl still on your fingers.

You no longer felt entirely fearful around the emperors. There was always a level of uncertainty, naturally, but it was exhausting to constantly be afraid. They would always be unpredictable and you would never be able to fully understand them but you had come to feel somewhat. . .secure.

You did not know what you had done to deserve this. Both the positive and the negative.

Your days all blurred together in a smear of gold and red. They had inserted themselves in your life - or, rather, forced you into theirs.

They could still have you killed at any moment. The way Geta had looked at you when he caught you staring at Acacius had turned your stomach. How far would you have to push to have the full brunt of that aggression turned on you?

Their violence was something you had to keep reminding yourself of. You had seen it with your own eyes and heard so much worse. Yet it was hard to remember when none of it had been directed at you and it made you feel like a traitor to those who had been beaten bloody and killed on the orders of Geta and Caracalla.

Sighing, you got back to your feet. You put the jewelry back on. It was probably best the emperors did not see you took it off without their permission.

With no one around to tell you otherwise, you left the room under the pretence of searching for the emperors. You needed to get out of Geta's rooms for at least a little while.

There was a Praetorian waiting outside the room. For you, you realised. He told you that the emperors were in a meeting of sorts with Macrinus and that he was to bring you to them once you awoke.

You nodded. "I'd like to go this way, please."

The Praetorian allowed you to lead him the longer way round. He did not comment if he noticed you dragging your feet.

Being trailed by a guard felt strange. It had been enough just to have their eyes on you, now they were ordering others to watch you as well. You did not have it in you to protest. Whatever boundaries you had had been crushed by Geta and Caracalla days ago.

The shadows deepened the longer you walked. Cool air floated through the windows, dusting across your cheeks. The scent of food and smoke was in the air. You inhaled eagerly, a smile forming on your lips. In a moment like this it was simple to pretend everything was normal.

It disappeared as you went further into the palace. Once you entered the entertainment hall you stalled, glancing about at unlit walls. It was an odd place to be when it was empty of revellers.

A thump sounded from behind you and you glanced over your shoulder at the unexpected noise. Everything stopped as the guard fell forward, clutching at his throat and trying to stop the red river that was pouring from it.

He fell to the floor, amour clanking, body spasming. Your mouth parted and you tore your eyes from his body, meeting eyes with the man who had slid up behind him and slit his throat to the bone.

Iron, you thought, it stinks of iron.

There was nothing unusual about him; he looked like any man you would pass in a market or brush shoulders with in the hallway. The only thing that stood out was the knife he held and the serious expression on his face.

"Who - who are you?" you spat out, staggering back.

There were no guards in sight other than the dead one on the floor. Never had you so yearned for the sight of a Praetorian. Your hands twitched at your side, desperate for a weapon of your own.

"It does not matter," he said. "This is nothing to do with me. Or you. Not really."

There was no time to consider his words. He dove at you and you screamed and raised your hands. By some luck the knife glanced off of the cuff and clattered to the floor. The man considered this for only a moment before tackling you to the floor and securing his hands around your throat.

Being choked was more painful that you expected. You could feel the grinding of your bones beneath his hands, the full weight of his upper body being forced down onto such a fragile body part.

You could feel your legs flailing on the floor behind him. Your hands scrabbled at his fingers but you could not get him to release. Finally you turned your attention elsewhere, clawing at his eyes until he gave a shout and released you.

Turning on your stomach, you heaved painful breaths and tried to blink the bleariness out of your eyes, crawling frantically across the floor to reach the dropped knife.

The man swore and, still clutching his right eye, ran past you. You grabbed at his ankles and he fell with an almighty thud.

Each breath felt like agony but you had the knife in your hands. Shaking, you held it with both hands and pointed it at your attacker.

It was him, you thought, he broke my wolf.

This time, when he charged, you were somewhat ready. You swung your arm back and slashed with the knife. Blood splattered over the marble as he wrestled with you for the weapon.

"Please," you sobbed through clenched teeth, "please, please."  

You could not say how it happened. Only that, in one moment the man was on top of you and the next he was looking up, distracted. Sensing a moment of opportunity you slid the blade through his fingers and into the side of his neck.

Free once more, you screamed. The sound was painful and croaky and muffled by blood falling into your open mouth. You turned your head to the side and vomited. You could not tell what was wine and what was blood.

The man fell off to the side, suffocating on his own blood, writhing amongst it.

Everything ached as you struggled to sit up. Your ribs, your wrists, your throat. Your lungs were on fire as you took huge, greedy gulps of air. You would never take it for granted again.

A heavy hand fell on your shoulder and you screamed again, scratching at it and trying to get away.

"Shhh," Geta hauled you up from the floor, "shhh, it's okay."

His eyes were wide and he could not stop looking at you and the men on the floor. There was so much blood. He could not tell how much of it was yours.

"No," you sobbed, "it is not okay. He tried to kill me. I killed him. I killed a man."

Before, you had been so angry at the person who had destroyed your carving. You had thought you wanted to see him dead. And maybe you had - but not by your own hand!

You were covered in his life's essence. It would stain more than your clothes.

"Praetorians!" Geta roared. His entire body was shaking in unbridled rage, you could feel it.

"He killed that Praetorian," you said numbly, pointing.

Caracalla appeared next to you, furious. "Good!" he cried, "What use was he if he could not protect you?"

You flinched as Caracalla kicked the corpse of the fallen Praetorian. It made a disturbingly meaty sound and you would've thrown up if you hadn't already emptied your stomach.

Caracalla knelt beside your attacker. "This one is still alive, brother. Barely."

"No, no," you shook your head. "I killed him."

Guilt was clawing it's way up your throat. You had ended a man's life and you did not even know why it had happened.

Caracalla pulled the knife from the man's neck and he jolted. You gasped and stepped back further into Geta's arms. The man let out a garbled moan and Caracalla spat at him, plunging the knife once, twice, into his neck again.

"You did not kill him," Caracalla said, "I did. See? It will be okay."

The tears would not stop coming. You looked down at yourself and saw nothing but blood.

Geta cupped your cheek and forced you to turn to him. "What did he do to you?"

"He strangled me," your own hands came up to encircle your throat. "Hurts. Bad."

Geta's nostrils flared. Praetorians had began to fill up the room behind him but you could not focus on them. Caracalla was in front of them, furious. He kept pointing over at you, gesturing wildly, his voice getting louder and louder.

"He - he said it was not about him," your words hardly made sense to your own ears but you continued, "or me. He was on top of me, strangling me -"

"Shhhh," Geta soothed once more, cupping your face. "It will be okay."

"I'm covered in his blood," you said, "how can it be okay?"

Geta called over a woman. She was elderly and appeared kind. She took your hand in hers and squeezed.

"Take her to our baths," Geta ordered, "we need to see how bad the injuries are."

"No," you shuddered, "what if someone else comes?"

Geta considered this, his own eyes wide and frantic. You sensed that he wanted to go with you but he needed to deal with the Praetorians.

In the end, he chose six of them to accompany you and the woman to the baths. He watched you leave the room as though he couldn't bear to tear his eyes from you.

Numb, you followed the woman. You would have been too afraid to go if not for the sheer amount of Praetorians accompanying you.

The woman led you down an unfamiliar route until you came to an ornate set of doors. Upon opening, steam spilled out and soothed your aching throat.

A bath suddenly seemed appealing, the urge to be clean overtaking any of your reservations. The woman gestured to go with you but you shook your head and told her she could wait outside with the Praetorians. Being alone was scary but your trust of strangers was slipping away.

The bath was huge and the waterwould come up to your neck once you were sat. There were several tiny windows littered across the top of the room to reduce the steam. Small enough that no-one could climb in. There were petals scattered across the surface of the water and bottles of oils and perfumes littered the side. There was a small set of steps leading up to it, allowing you to clamber over the sides. This was the bath of the emperors.

Breathing heavily, you peeled your blood-soaked clothes from your body. The blood had begun to dry and tugged at your skin. You stripped as quickly as you could and dumped your clothes in the corner.

You stepped back, biting your lip, before bending down and arrange them so that you could not see the blood. You ran your fingers over the cuffs, reluctant to take them off. You could see a slight indent in one where the knife had threatened to pierce you.

It took a moment but you eventually took it all off, laying the pieces reverently on top of your clothing.

Naked, you shivered. You let your hands explore your body, searching for any injuries. Apart from your throat and several cuts on your hands you could not find any. The gods had been merciful.

You tip-toed up the steps before bending and seating yourself on the edge. The stone was comfortingly warm beneath your bare ass. You slipped your toes in and moaned at the delicious heat licking up your calves.

You allowed yourself a moment to adjust before sliding in. The sensation was incredible, the water clean and scented. The heat seemed to help your throat and you ventured further in.

The water on the outskirts of the bath came up to your shoulders in place but varied in shallowness. As you neared the centre it began to deepen until you were kneeling. You half walked half swam to the furthest side, pressing your back to the edge and curling in on yourself.

Blood flaked from your skin in the water. Although you wanted it off of you, you could not bring yourself to touch it.

Your eyes fluttered shut. The only sound was that of the water. Exhaustion settled in every line of your body, battling with fear. Someone had tried to kill you.

He was dead now. By your hand and Caracalla's. A combination of relief and guilt stirred in your gut and you buried it deep, recalling your previous words.

Kill or be killed.

The hinges of the door squeaked as it opened and you sat up, almost spilling water over the edge. Your heart calmed as Caracalla entered, his eyes rounding at the sight of you in the bath.

You said nothing and watched as he shut the door, eyes never leaving you. He began to tug off his own clothes, expensive accessories clattering to the floor as though they were nothing.

Something else stirred in your gut at the sight of his chest, dusted with hair. Your eyes drifted lower, naturally, until they settled on his cock, bare and twitching against his thigh.

The tip was flushed red. It was thick and longer than you had imagined, nestled in a bed of reddish-brown hair. It seemed to perk up beneath your gaze and you swallowed, eyes jerking up back to his face.

His expression was one of pure want. The blatant desire did something to you, made the ache in your throat fade. You watched as he climbed into the bath and made his way to you, water lapping at your shoulders.

Caracalla stopped in front of you and settled his chin on your knees.

"Show me where it hurts," he urged. It reminded you of that first night in his room.

You found his hand under the water. He was watching your face carefully, looking for something. You brought up his hand and settled it on the base of your throat.

"Here," you croaked.

Caracalla's hand was gentle. He reached over your shoulder to pick up a woven cloth, dipping it into the water and dabbing at the blood crusted on your face.

It was a bad idea to let him touch you the way he was but no part of you wanted him to stop. You yearned for a distraction, for tenderness in the wake of such violence.

So you let him pull your knees from your chest. His breathing got heavy at the sight of your breasts and he wiped at your chest with a cloth, wiped your arms and legs until there was no more blood and the water took on a pinkish tint.

You reached out to grab his hand and he stilled, eyes bleary but questioning. You gently tugged the cloth from his grip and brought his hands up to cup your breasts.

"Oh," he breathed, palms firm against your puckered nipples.

"Please," you begged.

Caracalla's hands left your breasts to cup your face and slot your lips together. His tongue flickered into your mouth, drawing a languid moan from you as you melted in his hands.

You shuddered in his hands as his tongue began to massage yours. When he parted from your lips you felt dazed, blood buzzing in your ears. Caracalla urged you up, higher out of the water until your breasts broke the surface.

The feeling of his mouth on your breasts was intoxicating. You let your head fall back, burying your hands in his hair in encouragement. He lapped at your nipples, teasing them, before taking them in his mouth and sucking.

"Gods," you purred, "Caracalla."

He pulled from your nipple with a wet pop, looking at you with red cheeks and damp hair. His breathing was ragged and you could see the wetness on his lips from where he had kissed you.

"You want it too," he rasped, hands coming to part your knees under the water.

Then he seemed to change his mind. With some careful rearranging, he got you out of the water and perched on the side of the bath. There was enough room for you to sit back, half supported by the wall.

You felt a little dizzy at how exposed the position left you as Caracalla knelt and spread your knees. Your hands fluttered at your sides, not entirely sure what to do.

"Elysium," Caracalla moaned, eyes glued to your cunt and the wetness that was glistening on your puffy folds.

He tucked his arms under your thighs and moved you until you were right in front of his face. He took one, long lick from the bottom to the top of your cunt, eyes on yours the entire time. He lapped at the wetness gathering at your entrance, parting your lips to expose even more of you because he wanted to see and taste everything.

Babbling incoherently, you let yourself be feasted on. You could feel yourself dissolving into pleasure, your only connection to earth being Caracalla's hot tongue flicking across your clit. He watched your every reaction greedily, determined not to miss a thing.

He ate like a man starved, devouring your wetness with broad strokes of his tongue that left you reeling.

You jolted when one of his hands left your thighs, delving under the water. It pumped rhythmically, sending ripples across the bath.

Fire seared across your skin. "Are you. . .?"

"Yes," he murmured. "Your cunt is so pretty. Tastes like ambrosia."

Your orgasm pulsed through you, made you draw your legs up to your body and cry out. Hips undulating, you rode out the shockwaves of your orgasm on Caracalla's tongue as he stroked his cock beneath the water.

Before you could think, Caracalla rose from the water. Water sluiced down his body, his cock was heavy and flushed against his stomach. His eyes were scorching and he grabbed himself and positioned you at the edge of the bath.

"Wanted this," he said, "wanted you so bad."

He positioned the fat head of his cock against your cunt, rutting against you several times until you could hear the slick mess you had made. You keened when he sank inside in one slow move, all the way in until your hips were flush together.

Panting, he pressed one bruising kiss onto your lips, keeping you pinned with his cock until you were practically writhing, yearning for movement.

"Fuck me," you cried wantonly, "Caracalla, need you to fuck me."

From the moment he pulled back his hips and slammed into you, you knew there was no denying it. You were his. Would soon be Geta's too. A part of you whispered that you would do terrible, terrible things so long as he kept making you feel like this.

Caracalla must have read it on your face. "Tell me you're mine."

"'M yours," you breathed, rolling your hips to meet his.

Hands on your hips, he rolled into you as though you had been made for this - made for them. When your eyes threatened to flutter shut he cupped your cheek, directing your gaze to downward and to his cock pumping inside of you.

"Need you to see this," he swore, "want you to remember how good I made you feel."

You were not sure you could ever forget. The room became an orchestra of sloshing water and slick, wet sounds from your union, punctuated by Caracalla's possessive words.

"You belong to us," he thrust into you as though that would make you believe it. "Ours. With us, always."

"Yes, yes, yes," you babbled, believing it entirely.

Everything had been working up to this moment; you could see it now. There was no need for confusion or fear when there was this. Blissful, mindless pleasure.

When Caracalla slotted his hand between you and began to rub tight circles on your clit, you nearly lost your mind. Your nails dug into his back and then his hips, drawing him impossibly closer and urging him on. No experience you had had before compared to this and pleasure was quickly mounting again.

"I can feel you," Caracalla fucked into you harder, faster, "can feel you tightening on my cock. You want me inside you, want to be ours forever."

You squeezed your eyes shut, white light splintering across your vision as you came once more. Caracalla followed close behind you, rutting desperately and palming at your breasts until he reached his own orgasm. He rode it out, hips stuttering into yours as his chest heaved and he partially collapsed onto you.

He did not pull out of you immediately. He pressed soft kisses to the base of your neck and your cheeks, whispering filthy things into your ears. You did not push him away. Instead you ran your fingers through his damp hair and let him nuzzle at your jaw.

Finally, he pulled out. You bit your lip at the feeling of his seed spilling out of you. Caracalla ran a finger through your swollen folds, collecting some on his fingers before pushing it back in. You whined a little but held still, letting him push his seed deep inside of you.

"I hope it takes," he whispered, nipping at your lips.

You slid back into the water, boneless. You had heard other women talk about their sexual experiences before, about how sometimes when you gave in the man lost all interest. You had had two partners before but had never cared enough about them to be bothered when you lost contact so you were not sure what to expect with Caracalla.

If possible, he was more affectionate than before. He pressed his body tight to your side, hands busying themselves with your breasts and exploring your inner thighs. Insatiable.

Caracalla picked a glass bottle from the side, pouring the oil in contained into his hands. You held still as he oiled your shoulders and body, covering you thoroughly.

"Smells like you," you said.

He giggled before pushing the bottle into your hands and turning around. He had several scars on his back and chest that seemed to have healed. You bit your lip at the scratches that now adorned his back along with several puncture marks from your nails. He shuddered when you ran your fingers across them.

You let the oil pour across his back and began to massage it into his skin. He sank into your touch until there was no space between you and his back was pressed against your chest. Intimacy was something you had not experienced in a long time and you almost teared up at how relaxed you felt.

Caracalla took the bottle. "Don't cry," he cooed, "no more tears because of those animals."

"No more tears," you agreed.

It had been a very fucking long day.

Author’s Note - okay guys how did I do??? Let me know with notes/comments/reblogs and asks!!! Interactions with you guys is my favourite thing♥️

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[dronningreid]

Between letters.

When reader has been acting weird lately, Reid thinks she's going to break up with him but she's actually terrified because she has to give him some life-changing news.

who? Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

category: angst/fluff

warnings: Reid is hopeless, reader is a little mean because she doesn't know how to deal with the stress of her secret. Both must work on their communication. English is not my first language (if i forget something let me know, this is my first time doing this)

word count: 2.6K

a/n: Hello! Thank you to everyone who took the time to read what i wrote with so much love. I have written books, stories, poems but never a fanfic and i must admit that i enjoyed this a lot. Well, without further ado i hope you enjoy this and let me know if you liked it.

It is said that we should wait for good things. But it is so difficult to wait for them when we find ourselves in such a deep abyss, where we believe that the only thing we need is that warm ray of joy to get us out of the pond, to save us from dying in agony.

Spencer needed that warm ray of joy after Maeve's death. He desperately needed to feel alive again, but he had to wait what seemed like an eternity for you to come into his life.

Yet every devastating event like that leaves wounds that bleed into scars, some take perhaps too long and as the blood pours out, it destroys hope.

That's what happened to Reid. Because the day Maeve died, his hopes of having a wife and children, of having a family, died with her…

You came along a couple of years later. You admit that winning Spencer over was something that took time, it was slow but it was worth every second.

You were also thankful that he wasn't like the other jerks you dated before, who thought you would die for them just because you were the one who made the first move.

And that was the difference between you and Spencer. You never let that get you down, you kept trying until you found the one. Who knew it would be someone with three PhDs? Your trusted tarot reader, duh. But you didn't believe it, the guy seemed too perfect to be real.

But there he was, spinning around in his swivel chair when you first walked into the BAU bullpen.

"Who is he?" you asked with a curiosity you hadn't experienced in years.

"Oh, that's Spencer. One of our resident geniuses." The sweet Penelope Garcia cleared up your doubts.

Spencer.

The name tasted so sweet on your lips, it sounded so right. That was the day you decided he would be for you.

Of course you needed some extra help. You were trying to win over someone who hadn't dated in a long time and was also a bit reserved. Luckily for you, Morgan's advice scared him off so you followed JJ's, although it also helped that he was definitely mhm curious? about you.

Well no, he actually thought you were a little crazy for staring at him so intently from a distance. And he thought you were weird, but he was too so it just made both fit together like puzzle pieces.

The relationship seemed to be going great, both loved each other and he couldn't imagine his life without you. But if Spencer Reid had learned something in his life, it was that happiness lasts much less time than pain.

You were acting a little weird around him lately, you were irritable and he definitely knew you were hiding something.

"I think she's going to break up with me." One day he decided to confess his feelings to Morgan, when they were alone in the conference room.

Morgan frowned and dropped the current case file onto the table. “You’re kidding, right?” But with no response, Morgan knew otherwise. "Reid. She loves you so much it makes me a little sick.”

Reid remained with his worried expression. "She's slow to respond to my texts, she avoids me, and there's definitely something she's not telling me.” He counted your recent actions on his fingers before crossing his arms.

Morgan raised an eyebrow. "Don't tell me you're profiling her."

Reid frowned. "What? Of course not." Yeah, that means of course yes.

Morgan shrugged. "Just talk to her or ask the girls, they should know something." This time he gave some good advice, not like the ones he used to give you.

Reid did as Morgan told him, but absolutely no one knew what was going on with you. Although everyone agreed that you were definitely hiding something.

You took a sip of coffee. "I watched that movie last night. People said it was really funny but I found it boring, although I admit the plot twist made me cry.” Yes, lately many things made you cry and it wasn't because of your moon in Pisces.

Anderson nodded. "Exactly! I couldn't even finish watching. I fell asleep."

“Anderson, would you excuse us for a minute?" Reid's appearance was a surprise, his insistence on talking to you wasn't.

"Of course, see you later." Then once Anderson left, Reid stood in front of you.

"What's wrong?" He got straight to the point, not like the previous times.

"Me? Nothing's wrong, I'm perfectly fine." But the drumming of your fingers on your coffee glass gave you away.

"Oh, of course." He crossed his arms, oh no, it seems his infinite patience turned out to be finite.

You immediately took a defensive stance. "Yes. I was perfectly fine before you came to interrupt my conversation with Anderson."

"About movies?" He didn't say it, but you knew he thought it was a nonsense, at least now that he was definitely irritated.

“Yes!" Your outburst earned you a few glances from the other agents. But both were too wrapped up in the tense conversation to deal with them.

"Sure, you have time to talk to other people about movies, but you don't even say a damn good morning to me.” You had to be careful what you said, you were in unfamiliar territory now, as Reid didn't usually swear.

"You're overreacting." Yeah... That probably wasn't the most brilliant thing you've ever said, but you were trying not to give away your secret, at least not yet.

“Overacting?” He was offended by your words. “You talk to everyone in the building except me. You used to spend as much time with me as possible, did I do something wrong?” A hint of fear and insecurity crept into his annoyed tone.

You shook your head. “Of course not.”

He put his hand on your shoulder. “Then tell me what’s wrong.” His tone was firm, but not harsh. Although it was obvious that he wasn't making a request of you.

"Spencer, I already told you that nothing is wrong with me." You emphasized the nothing.

He exhaled in frustration, he was 90% sure that this would work. "Fine! Then don't tell me anything." His patience had run out and he wasn't going to beg you anymore. It had been a week like this and he couldn't take it anymore, so he let go of your shoulder and walked away without even looking at you or giving you a sweet kiss on the cheek.

∗⋅✧⋅∗

Everything was dark, you reached for the light switch and then the spotlight illuminated your apartment. It was a less warm space without Spencer there.

You sighed before throwing your bag on the couch and closed the door.

You stood there for a couple of minutes staring at the lonely space. Well since you became Spencer Reid's girlfriend there weren't many lonely nights, mornings or afternoons.

You would definitely prefer him to be here right now, rambling or mumbling a foreign language movie to you. But for now you had to keep your secret, and that meant keeping Reid away.

The growl of your stomach snapped you out of your mind, so you headed straight for the fridge. But the smell of something made you nauseous, so you immediately ran to the bathroom to empty the contents of your stomach on the toilet.

Yes. You had to hurry to sweeten this horrible memory with a concerned Spencer who would hold your hair and rub your back while you threw up.

After dinner and take a warm shower, you were tired enough to do anything else, so you settled into bed to sleep. But your brain had other plans…

"You look... not very awake." Tara commented as soon as you dropped your coat on the back of your chair.

"I only slept three damn hours," you nearly growled before throwing yourself into the chair and running your hands over your face. You needed a liter of coffee.

Tara stopped typing on her computer and looked at you. "Is this something to do with your strange behavior the last week?" When she got no response, she said your name seriously.

You pulled your hands away from your face. “I…” you began to fiddle with the rings on your fingers, the burden of unspoken words beginning to weigh on your shoulders. "God, why does everyone suddenly care about my fucking life?" You opted for annoyance as the perfect disguise for your vulnerability.

"Hey. None of us want to bother you, but we care about your life because we are your friends and we love you." Tara used a serious tone, like a scolding, but there was genuine affection behind her words. "Besides, Reid is suffering because of your attitude."

A pang of guilt hit your chest. “I don’t want to hurt him.” You whispered.

“I know.” She walked over to your desk. “But you’re hurting him, even if you don’t mean to.”

You swallowed before looking up. "It's just that there's something..." You took a deep breath, this was harder than you thought. "Things are changing, things are definitely going to change if I say this, it's going to be real and I don't know how to feel about it. I need someone to tell me what to do, because I feel so lost."

Tara placed one of her hands over yours. "Well, if I'm going to help you, I need you to tell me what's wrong." Her voice was warm.

"I want Spencer to know first." But your half-hearted answer was enough for her to know.

"In that case you should tell him, because none of his PhDs include mind reading." She made a little joke that actually made you smile.

"Yeah, I know. He'll probably solve everything out like he always does." Then you looked straight at his empty desk, at the nameplate: Spencer Reid. "But I want to give him a surprise, something that will make him happy. I can't just walk up and say hey…” Then you forced yourself to close your mouth when you realized you were going to say more than necessary, although in reality Tara already had her suspicions.

"Okay, I'll help you." She sounded very determined and you really appreciated her help and that she wouldn't question you as much as the others.

∗⋅✧⋅∗

You spun around in your chair and then had an epiphany, but not like the Taylor Swift song. "Crossword!" Your excitement got you the looks of several agents in the bullpen, luckily one of them was Tara.

"With a secret message?"

"Yes. It's literally the best way." You said excitedly.

But in your mind everything was easier than it really was.

You ruffled your hair as you forced yourself to think more, giving you a splitting headache. "When did I think this would be a good idea? Doing a crossword puzzle for the average person is easy, but not for a genius with an IQ of 187." You dropped your head onto your desk.

"You need help."

"But who's as smart as Spencer?" You muttered defeated, still with your head hidden between your arms and the wood of the desk.

Someone ruffled your hair. “Mhm. Tesla? Einstein?”

You immediately raised your head, only to see the famous Derek Morgan. “They’re dead.” You snorted.

Morgan raised his hands in peace. "Hey, what's the bad mood, baby girl? I just answered your question." He let out one of his signature laughs.

You rolled your eyes. You wished you could turn off some damn switch that was responsible for making you so easily angry. God, WHY? You were starting to get desperate.

"Blake!" Another epiphany, you were really on top of it. You didn't even explain it to Tara, you just ran to the parking lot to get your phone which you had forgotten in the car.

Alex Blake was happy to help you put together a crossword puzzle for Spencer. Although she warned you that he once solved one in about five minutes.

Yeah, well, you were going to take the risk.

Once the crossword puzzle with the secret message was ready, you set out to find Reid.

As you were leaving Garcia's office he was getting out of the elevator, but he didn't even notice you. He continued on his way and god, why did he look so attractive?

"Spencer." You caught up to him as he walked up the stairs.

"Not now, I'm busy." He replied with a seriousness not typical of him.

"With what?" You frowned.

"I said I'm busy." I didn't even look at you as he continued walking to the conference room.

You called out to him, but he ignored you. “We need to talk.” You said seriously, raising your voice.

He stopped in his tracks immediately, freezing halfway. He had never experienced anything like this before, but he knew well what we need to talk meant.

He turned to look at you, with an expression that betrayed nothing of what he truly felt. "I said I'm busy, we'll talk later." That didn't convince you. “I have to do a geographic profile and you have to work on victimology like Hotch asked you to.”

The end was near? You were beginning to doubt and he was very sure, only that he would delay it as much as he could.

∗⋅✧⋅∗

You were about to give up, but you really needed him to know. So you resorted to plan B.

"Derek Morgan, my favorite person in the world." You appeared in front of him, with a big smile.

Morgan let out a light laugh. "Yeah sure, what can I do for you, gorgeous?"

"I think Spencer is upset with me."

"He definitely is." He said it without hesitation and it definitely didn't help the state of your aching heart.

"Okay..." You handed him the crossword puzzle. "Could you please give him this for me?"

He picked up the crossword puzzle. "If you think he's going to forgive you for avoiding him for a week just by giving him a crossword puzzle that he'll finish in two seconds, you might be right."

"Just give it to her, okay?"

"Of course. But in exchange for Penelope being the godmother.”

You immediately frowned, but you reacted a little late because Morgan had already left to deliver your order.

From your desk you watched everything. From how Morgan entered the conference room to give Spencer the crossword puzzle to how the bastard answered it in five minutes. When it took you like three hours to do.

But the best part was when he realized the secret message and ran out of the conference room.

But when he saw you, his quickened steps took on a much, much slower pace.

"Tell me what's true." His low tone sounded like a plea.

A slight smile appeared on your face. "Yeah. That's why I've been acting weird, you know I can't keep secre-"

Your words were cut off when his lips met yours. In a kiss so sweet and soft that it was enough to dispel every single one of your doubts.

A few seconds later, he pulled away from the kiss, leaving you wanting more.

He caressed your cheek with his thumb. "You didn't have to do a crossword puzzle to tell me you were pregnant."

"I wanted to surprise you." You whispered.

A smile that could light up this whole town formed on his lips. "I love you so much." He then kissed you warmly again.

🏷️ @floraisunwell

And so it was that the foundations that had crumbled with Maeve's death slowly re-emerged. They began to build themselves again with your arrival and now with this news, their foundations were stronger than ever, because at last he was going to have the family he had dreamed of for a tortuous time.

[controld3vil]

SO PROUD OF YOU

pairing: sinister invincible x villain!reader

synopsis: You had reasons for everything you did. Letting Mark was one of them.

notes -> the finale was crazyyy reader has invisibility powers and can create force fields cw: canon typical violence, exes to enemies trope, angst, post-break-up, foreshadowing (if you caught it)

The first realization that the world may never get better came when you witnessed the brutal fight between Mark and his father, Omni-Man. You had been a superhero for as long as you could remember, once standing side by side with Mark before he became Invincible. You knew him before he was the symbol of hope the world would come to depend on. He had always admired you, and you believed that you would make the world a better place with him by your side. 

But that all changed when Invincible fought against Omni-Man in a violent and brutal battle that left cities in ruins and innocent lives lost in the crossfire. You watched as the father and son clashed, unable to reconcile their differences and the destruction that followed fell personal.

It wasn’t just that fight that shook you though – it was Mark’s unwillingness to take the hard, necessary steps to protect Earth from those who would harm it. You found yourself growing more and more frustrated with his hesitation, his refusal to do what was necessary. You had always believed in his potential to be the hero that the world needed, but after everything that happened, you started to wonder if that potential was holding him back. 

It all came to a head one day when you confronted Mark after another failed attempt to stop a threat – Angstrom Levy. The villain had managed to escape yet again after Mark had spared his life in a moment of mercy. The destruction and chaos Levy had caused was like an endless cycle and Mark’s reluctance to finish it once and for all fueled your frustrations. 

“Mark, why didn’t you just finish it? Angstrom Levy – he’s gone again, and you’ve given him the chance to hurt more people, maybe even your family. You had him! You had the chance to stop everything and you just let him!” You voiced, frustrated. 

Mark shakes his head, trying to explain. “I couldn’t. He’s not like… I can’t just kill someone in cold blood, even if he’s a threat. I don’t want to be that kind of person.”

Your eyes narrowed down at him, a bitter tone escaping your mouth. “And what about all the people he’s hurt? What about the families he destroyed? What about all the lives he’s endangered? You don’t think your mercy is just another way of allowing people to get hurt?” These bitter and gnawing thoughts pile up from your subconscious as you step forward. “You can’t keep fighting with this idea that everyone can change. Some people don’t deserve a second chance.”

He looks at you and looks away hesitantly. “I... I don’t want to be like my dad.”

“Look around, Mark. The world is falling apart, and you’re trying to hold onto this.. this naive idea that mercy will fix everything. Wait until another intergalactic being invades Earth, and then what?” You scoff, with a bitter laugh, offended by his reasoning. “The only way for us to survive is to take matters into our own hands. And if killing those who deserved it to keep us safe, then it’s worth it.” 

Mark’s eyes open wide, voice trembling in disbelief. “Wait.. what? No… no, why would you say that?”

“Because it’s true and you know it!” You raised your hands, frustrated. “You can’t save everyone, Mark. It’s not until Angstrom comes back with more little tricks up his sleeve and then? More lives will be gone, cities, towns, more people will die.”

“You can’t be serious.” 

“I am. And the sooner you understand this, the sooner you’ll realize how all of your failures to finish the job cost lives.” Your eyes are hardening, voice is absolutely in every fiber of your body. Having known each other for a long time, you rarely argued with Mark. But this was one of the very few instances where it was needed. Mark’s world has been the same since he got his powers. He still couldn’t grasp the consequences of his actions. Every time he wanted to negotiate with a villain or talk it out was a waste of time. 

“I thought you were better than this, Mark.” You stared at him in disbelief. “I can’t– We can’t do this anymore.”

“No– no.” He gripped both of your hands, terrified of the thought of you leaving – giving up on him. “You can’t just give up on us.”

“Why can’t I?” You snapped. “Mark… I don’t want to argue with you every time I see you. This isn’t healthy.”

“Oh really? Says the person who made a deal with The Order!” You thrashed your arms away from Mark, knowing he would bring it up sooner or later.

“At least they understand–”

“Oh, I understand.” You can feel his intense stare at the back of your head, hoping – pleading with you to turn around to see the truth. “You’d rather get involved with criminals than help me fight whatever alien or extraterrestrial creature that is trying to invade Earth!”

No words were spoken from either of you. It felt as though all of the frustrations the two of you built between one another had spilled out into the room. The tension lingers, and you hold onto it like a buoy to a ship in a stranded sea. 

“This is never going to end, Mark.” You whispered, picking up his exhausted sigh from all the shit you’ve pulled. “What I’m doing with The Order has done more good than GDA in the last month. Face it, we’re never going to work.” When you finally turn to look at him, the first reaction you felt was sorrow. Because Mark looks distraught and almost willing to give everything up. He’s always had a strong heart but seeing him so broken and emotional, all because of you was enough to break your heart into a million pieces. 

Both of your hands cupped his face, your thumbs tracing the fallen tears. “Let me go.”

“No–”

“I mean it, Mark.” You give him a weak smile, attempting to lighten the mood. “After everything we’ve been through, I can’t keep following you down this path of mercy you always talk about. Because the world just got a lot bigger and I can’t avoid losing you because you can’t fucking kill.”

Your name slips out as a desperate plea. “If– If I go down that path, I’ll just be like my dad… I can’t…” 

“I’m not asking you to.” You hummed, with a smile never reaching your eyes. “All I want is for you to let me go.” 

And he did and you fucking cried over it. 

For a while, you went AWOL on Cecil and the GDA. You didn’t answer their calls and ignored every chance they visited your door. Cecil was mad – disappointed in your resignation because ultimately you were a great asset, he might even say you were one of the good ones. The ones that didn’t question his intentions and moved on with the job, because in your heart, you knew this was for the greater good. He’d guessed along the lines of catastrophe after catastrophe, you couldn’t handle the pressure. 

Mark did you a favor by never giving any information about you. He prevailed with his promise and continued to fight bad guys and help the Guardians. But after your disappearance, he felt you left a hole in his heart. 

Even if he couldn’t call you, news about Invincible followed you everywhere, even underground. 

“So Invincible caught you.” 

“Yeah, how many times do I have to tell you?” Your new acquaintance with Multi-Paul was still fresh and annoyingly frustrating to work with. Your boss, Titan, had close ties with Master Liu, Paul’s boss and crime lord. “He was an asshole.”

“Hey,” As you stood up from the chair, standing opposite of Paul. Titan told you specifically that Paul needed to be broken out, simply because Mister Liu insisted on it. He had more power over Titan and that made him paranoid about what he was able to do. So he consoled you, hoping you would be able to compromise with Paul to lay low for a bit longer before you decided to help him break out. “I just need you to postpone this a bit longer. Titan–”

“I don’t negotiate with Titan. I work for Mister Liu and when he says I’m out, I’m out.” The assassin scoffs, dangling his carbon seal handcuffed to prove his point. “I don’t work for you so whatever your boss told you to do, it won’t work on me.” 

“Stop being an asshole for a second and listen.” You sneered, slamming your palm against the metallic table separating the distance between you two. “All Titan asks is to wait a few more days. That’s all, and then he and I will break you out. Mister Lie agreed to this.”

“I gotta hear it from him then,” He mockingly grins, as he senses how thin your temper is getting. But in the end, you knew he was messing with you. So as you prepare to leave, he says another thing. “And while you’re out there, give my thanks to Invincible. I’ll be waiting for my rematch.” 

You rolled your eyes, not even taking a glance at the inmate before leaving the premises. 

Titan called you on the premises when it happened. When the world went to shit and buildings started collapsing. You barely left your home, understanding what it all meant. You lived in the city and witnessed firsthand what kind of chaos these enemies were capable of. As you rushed past frightened citizens, you watched as a quick flash of yellow zoomed past another building. 

“Don’t worry about me, kid. For now, just focus on helping the people move out of the city. The heroes can’t handle this all by themselves.” You gripped your phone against your ear, as you slowed your jog, looking back and forth where to go. Your mind was racing so fast like on a race track. 

“What about you, boss?!” You urged. 

“I got it under control. Look, watch your head, and contact the others. We need to make it out of this alive.” Titan reassures desperately and hangs up. You stare at the blank screen with frustration. The others? They’re probably dead by now, how are you supposed to contact anyone? 

Seeing humanity crumble so easily made you feel a bit sentimental. It reminded you back to why you got into the superhero business in the first place. Initially, you believed your powers were a gift from grace. As fate chose you to help and save others when times were tough. To a point, your parents and the GDA supported that theory when you joined the task force at the ripe age of twelve. You didn’t know back then but you were setting yourself up for failure the moment you decided to become a superhero. 

Because being a superhero was not always stars and rainbows. You became a prolific figure alongside the Guardians of the Globe and Teen Team. You were always under mentorship by one of the heroes, acting as a sidekick for the day. And eventually, when you got older, you outgrew the program and began to serve the GDA full-time. 

There were small instances where the GDA offered you a civilian life, such as going to public school, allowing you to pursue your interests and take courses that would benefit your abilities. That was how you met Mark. But the fact was he knew you before you officially became a superhero. You both came from the same elementary school, passing mutual greetings ongoing to high school. At some point, you both hit it off and became something more.

Up until Mark got his powers. 

Part of you wished you hadn’t met Mark at all to prevent this type of awkward tension. Because now you can’t even look him in the eye without remembering your last conversation and saying goodbye. 

But you also have to remind yourself that breaking off with Mark was the reason for your fight for the greater good. You joined The Order and now under the mentorship of Titan, you saw what real cruelty was amongst the streets. 

Even now, as you pushed off massive boulders for people to get through to the other side, you had hoped to find another one of your associates somewhere in the middle of this mess. Smog, smoke, and fire lingered everywhere no matter where you turned. You couldn’t see straight without brushing the particles aside with your hands. The hot smell of roasted corpses was unbearable but also a reminder that the perpetrator was nearby. You could sense something, flying past you any second. 

In a quick splash of yellow, you thought you saw Mark. But you knew your mind was playing tricks on you. He didn’t wear the typical yellow, black, and blue suit anymore, not after his fight with Omni-Man. But the figure was zooming in fast velocity, you were sure it was him. 

“You can’t just stay away from danger, can you?” 

You didn’t want to believe it but even with dust flying everything – your bloodied combat outfit and exhaustion creeping up into your body, you wanted to believe it was your mind playing tricks on you. But it wasn’t that simple. There he was, Mark– Invincible hovering over you feet above the ground, arms crossed with a completely stoic expression. 

His attire, with alternating colors of yellow and black, made him stand out like black lettering on white paper. He was intimidating, exuded dominance, and stared down at you like a piece of meat. You didn’t know how to feel about it. 

“You’re not him.” You sneered, taking a few steps backward to relay the distance between you further. 

“No, I’m not.” He lowers himself, only now barely touching the street floor. His goggles shield you from his real expression, what he’s really feeling. It makes you queasy, sick to your stomach to the anticipation of what he wanted from you. To him, you might just be another insect, ready to be squashed. 

“What do you want?” You already knew he could feel your heart beating faster. Your heightened sense, your shaky hands – all of those symptoms made you feel like cattle to a butcher shop ready to be slaughtered. Was he going to play with his food? 

“Never thought I’d see another you.” He clenched his fists together. “It’s a shame, you had to go out like that.” 

“I don’t want to know,” you scoffed, without thinking you lowered yourself into a defensive position. “Look, whatever you and I had in your world doesn’t exist here. And right now you’re trespassing.”

“Trespassing? Is that what you call it?” This time, this Invincible cracks a smile, a reflection of cruel mockery. “Listen I thought about killing you all over again from the moment I stepped foot into this god-awful universe. But now?” You take a slow breath, slowly anticipating the worst. “Now, I’m kinda enjoying this version of you. Not naive or fragile, god you’re nothing alike.” 

“I could say the same.” You glared at him, warning him of the next words he anticipates saying. “And unlike him, you’re actually willing to kill people.”

“Really?!” He sounds genuinely surprised, almost chuckling. “He sounds pathetic.”

At that, you can grind a little. “The Mark from this world couldn’t finish the job of killing Angstrom, and now look at it.” You glance at all of the burning bodies and buildings his doppelganger has made. 

“And out of everyone, I didn’t expect you to be so happy about it.” There’s a smirk on his face, as his teasing is the only thing bringing you down. “You know, back in my world, you’d be the first to resist this kind of control. Always complaining about innocent lives and humanity–”

“Well, I’m nothing like her.” As if you were insulted by the fact he was even bringing that version of you. “Are you here to kill me or not?”

“Nah, I wouldn’t do that.” He could if he wanted to. But for some reason, this version of Mark was much more sinister. He had this kinda taunting tone about him. Even when destruction and chaos surrounded him, he didn’t care. He was looking at you like prey. All this time, you’ve been trying to stall and keep yourself alive. “Torturing you sounds so much better.”

“So what’re you waiting for?”

Then you disappear from the cool sensation of disappearing from the world around you. The air felt heavier, but you were hidden. You can hear him, his every movement amplified by your heightened senses. The sounds of his boots scraping against the cracked asphalt made you shiver, he hadn’t moved but was scanning the perimeter. You couldn’t have gone far, with your abilities, he knew you were trying to stall for time. You were like a ghost, slipping through the cracks and seams. 

He lets out a cold chuckle, as if knowing exactly where you are, though even he couldn’t see you. “You really think you can hide from me?” His tone was colder, sharper.

Without hesitation, he shot forward, his body spiraling forward with immense speed and precision. The air itself shuddered around him as he tore through it, a blur of power and rage. You shifted to the side, avoiding the devastating punch that would’ve shattered you in an instant. 

You almost tripped, momentarily visible, but before he could track your movements, you blurred out of sight again, leaving a singular trace of your presence. You were tense, terrified of his capabilities to kill you in an instant. Your heart was pounding out of your chest, and you were sure he could hear it from above. 

This was the first step, staying out of his sight. You peeked at him slowly, feeling the air shift with every movement he took. 

Suddenly, Mark stopped and turned his head, eyes narrowing. “I can feel you. You can’t be invisible forever.”

You slipped behind a crumbling pillar, fathering your focus. This time, you reappeared out of thin air. You summoned a force field, a shimmering wall of energy that surrounded you like an invisible shield. Your hand extended, and with a thought, you shaped it, making the force field extend outward as a curved barrier in front of you. 

Mark flew toward you, his body moving at lightning speed. Before he could land a punch, you activate the force field, raising between the two of you two. His fist collided with the barrier with an ear-splitting crack, as the force of the impact sent shockwaves through the air. He staggered back, his surprise evident as he gritted his teeth. 

“You think a wall will stop me?” he scoffed. 

You smiled, only slightly. “It’s not just a wall.”

You expanded the force field outward with a burst of energy, sending it toward him like a tidal wave. This caught him off-guard, knocking him backward and sending him crashing into a pile of rubble. He groaned, trying to push himself up. His arrogance was still there, knowing you’d just ticked him off. 

When he rose to his feet, you phased out of the visibility, disappearing again silently drifting through the air. You weren’t just hiding, you were waiting for the right moment. 

His eyes scanned the area. 

Before you could summon another force field, without warning, he shot his fist, punching through the air toward your previous position, hitting the ground with explosive force until there was nothing left in his path. Your invisibility faltered momentarily, revealing your position for a split second, just enough time for him to latch his eyes on you. 

And then he slammed his fist into you before you could react, sending you tumbling backward into the broken street. The blast shook your balance, your head spinning, yet you managed to summon a small force field just in time to shield you away from the debris and fall.  

“Had enough yet?” Sinister Invincible taunts, hovering above you. Even though you couldn’t see his eyes, you knew he was looking at you with distasteful disdain. “Or would you prefer I make it quick?” 

Before you could answer, a sickly distortion ripped through the air, warping space and time around you. The world seemed to twist in on itself, as your senses exploded, running in every single direction like being caught in the middle of a violent storm. Everything spun, everything shifted.

In a blaze of neon green, the city was gone. 

You felt the ground crack beneath you as you were swept away from your surroundings, pulled through space and time into an entirely different location. The world around you shifted, the landscape morphing and distorting like it was falling apart. You activate your force field instinctively, as you shield yourself from instant shifts. The change overwhelmed your senses, and your heart raced. Your breath caught in your throat as you looked around, disoriented.

There was nothing. The landscape was barren – cracked earth, shattered remnants of buildings, jarring metal from the ground like skeletons of a dead city. The sky was an eerie, sickly blue, the only thing you realized that was normal from this reality. There was no sign of life, only the depressive atmosphere. It was a world where hope had died long ago. 

“What the hell just happened?”

[rcmclachlan]

Am I using the 8x16 spoilers as a way to deal with the loss of my own dad almost three years after the fact? I'll never tell!

+

"They want me to say something."

The warm brick wall pressed up against his back shifts a little, and the bed dips beneath their combined weight with a worrying creak. "'They' who?"

From what feels like miles away, Buck wonders how old the mattress is. Standard advice says to change your mattress every ten years, but he's read you should do it as soon as six. He hopes the bed is relatively new. It's insanely comfortable and he always sleeps so well, not to mention all the memories he's made in it. The very thought of hauling it out to the curb so the city can throw it in a dump makes his eyes prickle for the two-hundredth time in the last half hour.

"You can't get rid of the bed," Buck murmurs, staring at the white dresser across the room. It's the only thing in his direct line of sight. He hates the pulls on it. They're too old to be retro and they make the bureau look like it doesn't belong. "You ate me out for the first time on this bed."

Tommy presses a kiss to his head like he's hiding a sigh in Buck's hair. Which he might be. Buck should probably be annoyed by that but he can't muster up the energy.

"So, those are two very separate ideas," Tommy says. "Let's table the bed thing for now."

Hah. Furniture pun.

"Who wants you to say something?" Tommy's always good at following threads of conversation, no matter how they split and weave into something new. He never loses track of that original stitch.

Buck closes his eyes. "A-Athena. She asked if I would say something. At the uh, the..."

He can't make his mouth shape the word. His teeth dig into his bottom lip and he tries to force air around them, to make the 'F' sound, but something in the back of his throat blocks the way.

"Gotcha," Tommy says simply. The arm slung across Buck's chest tightens like a seatbelt during a hard brake. "Is that... something you're comfortable doing?"

"I don't know," Buck says. "I don't know what I'd even say."

The ugly drawer pulls are starting to look like faces. Screws for eyes, the handles for mouths. The way they curve makes it look like they're laughing. If he asked Tommy to get rid of them, he knows Tommy would immediately head down to the garage to get his electric drill. He'd destroy this antique for Buck without asking him a single question.

Hen thinks he's in shock, but he thinks shock's supposed to wear off after a few hours. It's been almost four days since they got the text from Athena—it's him—and he's still existing outside his own body. Every feeling he's ever felt has been vacuumed out of him. Even when Tommy showed up on his doorstep at the end of the first day, eyes rimmed red and glassy, all Buck could say was, "I've never mourned a dad before. Come to show me how it's done?"

Tommy had wrapped Buck up in his arms and said gently, "I've never mourned a dad, either. I'm just here for you."

Loneliness is a bad reason to get back together with someone. Grief is even worse. He wants to say love is behind his desperate refusals to let Tommy leave the house, even for groceries, but he's not sure if it is. But he also knows that without Tommy's seat belt arm around him, Buck would've flown through the proverbial windshield on day two. Maybe it is love. He vaguely remembers what it felt like.

Maybe he needs to bake something. He'd get out of bed to make lemon tarts, but his bones have dissolved. He's just a sack of skin and blood.

"What would you say?" He stares at the open mouths of the drawer pulls and realizes they're not laughing, but screaming. "If it was your father?"

Tommy leans back a little. Buck tenses, then relaxes when Tommy's mouth smears a kiss over his shoulder.

"Mine? Probably 'ashes to ashes, dust to dust, let's now shove this asshole in the earth's crust.'"

Buck huffs with humor that feels like it's coming from two rooms over. "Seriously."

"Seriously." Buck can feel Tommy shrug. "I have nothing to say to him now and I doubt I'd have anything to say if he was dead. But my situation would be completely different."

"How's that?" Buck thinks about rolling over to see his face so he doesn't have to look at the dresser anymore, but then he remembers he doesn't have any bones. Looks like he's stuck here.

"I'd be burying my father. I'm never going to have to bury a dad."

Buck says nothing for a moment. "They're the same thing."

"They aren't, and you know it."

Thank goodness he's belted in by Tommy's arm, because his mind drives wildly across the country to 25 Elm Street, Hershey, PA, where Phillip Buckley is probably puttering around his office, on the phone with someone at his company who needs advice about how to close some multi-million dollar deal. Buck imagines him freezing mid-step, maybe dropping the phone for a little bit of extra drama, then clutching his chest before collapsing to the floor. He thinks about how he would feel getting the call from Maddie.

Maybe that's the difference. If his father died, he'd feel something. Mild shock, maybe, and probably wistful sorrow, thinking about all the time they'd wasted. He'd fly to Hershey and hug his mom when she cried and stand in the receiving line at Hoover Funeral Home and shake people's hands and thank them when they said they were sorry for his loss.

But the world wouldn't lose its color. It wouldn't feel like Buck's heart was fighting for every beat. He wouldn't need Tommy's arm at all.

"I don't know what to... how do I begin to distill what Bobby... what he meant to me?" Buck's eyes prickle hotly. Maybe he'll finally cry. He hasn't yet, which is weird. Usually his taps go on at the drop of a hat. "How do I keep it to, what, three minutes? Is that how long I'm supposed to talk for? T-That's impossible."

"That's a good place to start, actually."

"What, saying there's no way I can keep it to three minutes or less?"

"That you can't condense what Bobby meant—means—to you." Tommy kisses his shoulder again. "Admitting something's too big for you to put into words... well, a lot of people will know exactly what you mean."

"Saying it makes it real," Buck whispers.

"Oh, sweetheart, it's real if you say it or not."

Maybe it's because Tommy sounds so apologetic about telling the truth, or maybe it's because Buck's soul is currently divorced from the rest of him so he's able to hear the other thing Tommy's saying. Whatever it is, it makes his vision swim. Through the blur, he can see a little bit of color eke back into the room. The dresser isn't white; it's light blue.

Sucking in a shuddering breath, Buck rasps, "He's dead."

"I know, Evan," Tommy says, strained, like he's in pain. Like Buck's realization hurts him too.

"Tommy, my dad's dead."

The thing that's been blocking his airway rolls away, and the sob that's been waiting there patiently for days finally tastes freedom. At the same time his soul slams back into his body, his bones rebuild themselves, which gives him the ability to roll over and bury his face into Tommy's neck to muffle the sound of his cries.

He doesn't know how to keep Bobby Nash to three minutes, and even if he manages to come up with something, they'll give him the hook before long. He doesn't know what to do with all the feelings that have broken out of the vacuum and settled right back where they'd been. He doesn't know how to do any of this.

But right now, no one's asking him to. Right now, all he has to do is sit with it.

The seatbelt around Buck's chest tightens, but it doesn't feel like it's because of a hard brake. Tommy is just holding him closer.

[yanderefarm]

yandere vampire's pet

cw;; dehumanization?, blood, vampires, humans as pets, yandere, angst, suggestive

this is the last named and drawn oc i have ready. i still have two more concepts in my drafts but they're not finished yet.

this might not show his yandere tendencies as well as characters like ares or emil but he's more of a self destructive type. he's more likely to hurt himself for doing something wrong than he is likely to hurt someone for touching you.

also i had to include the vampire guilt and angst im only human (human with a guilt kink)

you're a vampire lord in a world run by vampires with a yandere human pet who you found in a run down human farm after he basically threw himself at you. who clung to your leg and insisted he tasted so sweet you wouldn't regret taking in. who you took pity on seeing his scarred neck and decided to take him with you home.

you fed him and brought him to full health in a year. on the anniversary he begged on his knees for you to make him your pet. you complied. you didn't expect the preservation procedure that would allow him to stay with you forever to mess up his brain. or maybe this was always his personality.

he begged you every day to feed on him. he would sneak into your bed chamber and cut his neck to wake you up. he would sit himself in your lap around noon and undo his shirt buttons to give you easy access. if you dared to refuse him he would cry and beg so pathetically.

you made him this way why didn't you want him? he would often cry until you feel guilty for destroying his humanity. you always gave into him. he always got clingier. he tried not to get in your way during work but one day you let him lay his head on your lap and sit in your office quietly all day. so you had to let him again the next day.

if he really pushed too far you would lock him in an old attic room. oh how he sobbed. you would open the door the next day to be met with his bloodshot eyes that held no light. he would kiss your shoes and cling to your legs while he spoke hoarse apologies. you always forgave him and carried him in your arms to eat breakfast.

on the occasions that you two went to a party held by your fellow vampire lords he would always try to show off. you'd buy him new clothes and a new ribbon to hide his old scars. he liked being the most beautiful arm candy for you. it wasn't unusual for high quality pets to get passed around at these parties. at the end of the night he would often find himself in a strange bed, dizzy from being bled and pathetically crying for you.

your dear pet had spent the whole night being ravaged while you were doing business. his naked and used body laying in the unfamiliar bed, barely conscious. you sighed as you sunk onto the bed, your added weight causing him to shift slightly but he made no noise. usually by now he would be sobbing and reaching wildly for you, those degenerates must have really worked him hard.

you reached out and played with a piece of his hair. "I'm sorry, you poor pathetic creature."

your cold lifeless hands gently brush against his warm cheek. his body finally shifts a little, instinctively pulling away from the cold. you can't help the sad smile that falls on your lips seeing that. you forget how cold you are with how he clings to you at every opportunity. you can smell his blood right now and the tug of your instincts tells you to feed. you forget that you're a monster with how he treats you with such adoration and reverence.

"your life would have been better if you never met me." you push his hair away from his neck, revealing the old scars with fresh wounds scattered among them. your fingers brush against his pulse and he gasps.

you watch his olive eyes blink open slowly, they look almost too heavy to open. you want to gently close them like one would a corpse but the wide smile that spreads across his face stops you. if your heart could still beat you're sure it would have skipped.

"good morning." you said softly.

he used all his remaining strength to wrap around your waist. "y/n..."

his voice is so hoarse and he sounds so exhausted but there's the undeniable happiness. you guide his head to your lap, cold fingers twirling around his hair again.

"was i good...?" his eyes blinked slow again.

"yes. you were so amazing again tonight." you felt the weight of guilt pressing against your chest.

"reward m'...~" you knew he was asking you to indulge in him as so many others had tonight so you just ignored him.

you gently gathered him up in your arms, the top sheet draping over his body. you grabbed his discarded ribbon off the bed before you began carrying him out. the ribbon was sat on his stomach and his weak hands fiddled with it idly. he seemed to be too deep in thought to let sleep overtake him again.

"master... 'm glad you made me...." he nuzzled his head against your chest.

"your father made you." you corrected as you approached your carriage.

"no... y'... made m' y'r pathetic creature." his eyes finally started to close. "so glad m' life is master's.."