#the burning emperor

[mocharyc]

Invincible variants x reader ✩ ‧ ₊ ˚

They watched you succumb to death in every twisted, agonizing way in their universes. Unable to prevent it, in this universe... ♡ It would be different ♡ Parts Available: The series is completed - 10 parts

☆ characters: MoHawk Invincible, Omni Invincible, Sinister Invincible, Viltrumite Invincible, Prisoner Invincible, No Mask Invincible, Phantom Invincible(Full masked), and Emperor Invincible.

☆ TW: Reader is manmade 'Viltrumite'

☆ WC: 5k+ [Part 1-]

☆ Author's Note: I'm truly sad I can’t find much Invincible variants x reader stuff, so I decided to make a story myself! This is going to be a long story with many parts, and I mean lonnggggg. If writer's block doesn't succumb me :P I also plan to include sexual content as well in later chapters. First time posting on tumblr, kinda nervous (ᵕ ´ ∇ ˋ ˶) ––––––––––––––––––

☆

The ice cracked, a shudder running through my suspended form, the cryopreservation ending once again. It was a sensation I'd grown intimately familiar with – the cold, the forced awakening, the metallic taste of the seemingly invincible shock collar tightening around my neck. The small sparks of electricity traveling to the wet muscle trapped inside my head. 

My dull eyes flickered open, adjusting to the harsh glare of the white lights of the GDA facility.

"Experiment 1-01, designated Y/N, reactivation complete," a cold, clinical voice echoed from the speakers. Cecil's voice. Always Cecil. The weak, old white man.

"What is it this time?" I growled, my voice rough from disuse. 

My body felt heavy, a dull ache permeating every muscle. Slunking down on the platform I hiss. The heaters appearing from each side of the enclosure wall to warm my aching body back into submission. 

"A… situation," Cecil replied, his tone unusually strained, "Multiple hostile entities, Invincible variants… Viltrumites in origin, are causing widespread destruction. We require your… assistance."

Hostile Viltrumites? My mind struggled to process the information. They were sending me, me, the weapon they kept locked away, against Viltrumite variants of Invincible? This had to be bad.

The ice finally fully melted away, and I was lowered onto the transportation platform. The shock collar pulsed, a constant reminder of my captivity.

I flexed my fingers, feeling the raw power thrumming beneath my skin. My wet hair sticking to the skin of my back. The tight suit clamped to my skin.

They'd honed me, pushed me beyond any natural limit. I was an experiment seemingly born in this dreadful prison. A test tube for them to fill with anything they dreamed of, and use needlssy. Dissecting my body apart to inject with the results of false experiments. Viltrumite blood, from the one Omni-man himself… I was their ultimate weapon in the face of no return. Crafted as the last stand in the face of no return, even if they were terrified to use it.

"What's the mission?" I asked, my voice flat. My eyes glued to the one sided glass wall, where I could sense the heat Signatures of multiple scientists and Cecil standing behind.

"Eliminate all hostile Invincible variants. No collateral damage," Cecil instructed, his voice laced with a thin veneer of control through the speaker.

No collateral damage? They were asking the impossible.

The transport platform hissed, lifting me from the cold, sterile chamber throught the many levels of the base. Finally to the surface of the GDA's hidden base. 

My eyes widen, as I see the sky for the first time in so many long years. The soft blue sky, the cool chill crisp of fresh air, beautifully painted clouds strengthening across the blue canvas stretched above me. I raised my arms spinning softly with a laugh. Fuck it feels good to be out again! The shock collar suddenly pulsed, a cold, insistent command that made me freeze. "Eliminate all hostile Invincible variants," Cecil's voice echoed in my mind.

With a grumble, I launched myself into the air, a surge of raw power propelling me upwards. The world shrank below, the GDA facility becoming a mere speck in the distance. 

I spread my arms, feeling the wind whip through my damp hair, as it instantly dried in the strong breeze of fresh air. The raw energy of flight coursing through my veins. This was what I was made for.

Zooming through the sky I break the sound barrier, flying into New York. 

The city was a chaotic tapestry of destruction, plumes of black smoke rising like grotesque fingers, the skeletal remains of skyscrapers reaching towards the sky. Building Collapsing.

Once again I break the sound barrier with a thunderous boom, the air around me shimmering with heat. The raw, untamed power of flight, the sheer speed, it was soooo intoxicating.

The scents of the city assaulted my senses – burning metal, acrid smoke, the coppery tang of blood, and the faint, terrified screams of the dying citizens trying to hide and running. It was a symphony of chaos, a macabre orchestra conducted by the Invincible variant in New York. 

And I, the weapon, was here to silence it.

A jolt of electricity from the collar snapped me back to the mission. "Focus girl. Eliminate target in New York. Identification, Mohawk Invincible."

My eyes scanned the ruined cityscape, looking onto a scene of imminent destruction for any sign of the killing machine.

A child, no more than a few years old, stood frozen in terror beneath a crumbling building, its foundations groaning ominously. I felt a flicker of something, a faint echo of… what? It was quickly extinguished by the collar's control. A child...weak...protect? No, mission.

With a burst of speed, I was there. I braced myself, catching the falling building with my bare hands, the concrete groaning under the strain as I held the collapsing building up.

I glanced at the child between my legs, its face a mask of terror streaked with tears and mucus. With one arm still bracing the collapsing structure, I scooped the small body against my chest. Its warmth was shocking—so different from the cold sterility of my existence. The tiny heart hammered against my suit, a frantic rhythm that stirred something protective within me.

Releasing my hold on the building, I launched us both skyward as tons of concrete and steel crashed to the street below. Dust and debris erupted in a massive cloud, consuming everything in its path as I carried the child to relative safety, landing on a section of street that wasn't actively burning.

The asphalt cracked beneath my feet, blackened and weakened by the heat of nearby fires. The child in my arms whimpered, one limb bent at an angle that spoke of fracture and pain. I placed the small form on the ground, studying it with clinical detachment as its eyes—wide with terror—stared up at me. Unintelligible words tumbled from its lips, a litany of fear I couldn't process.

"Stay," I commanded, my voice devoid of warmth or reassurance. Yet as I reached down to brush a speck of blood from its cheek, a spark of something undefinable flared within me as tiny fingers clutched desperately at my hand. Why? Why do I feel this?

"Saving citizens is important, but defeating the threat is top priority." Cecil's voice intruded into my moment of connection, the implant in my head ensuring his control remained absolute.

I turned away, the mission reasserting its primacy in my consciousness. But a blur of motion caught my peripheral vision—a figure streaking across the sky on an intercept course.

"Finally, another fucking hero for me to fucking obliterate!!" A voice laced with manic glee echoed through the ruined streets as the figure—Mohawk Mark—accelerated toward me.

There was barely time to react. I pivoted sharply, using my body as a shield for the child, intercepting the charge with my shoulder. The impact was cataclysmic—like colliding with a runaway train. The force sent us both hurtling through the concrete wall of a nearby building, pulverizing it instantly. The shockwave rippled outward, shattering windows for blocks in every direction.

My body shot through the other side of the building, into the street where people were running. 

The bodies of fleeing civilians exploded like fleshy water balloons as I crashed through them, the force of the impact turning them into a spray of blood and bone. I spat, the coppery taste of blood filling my mouth as I picked the strand of intestines off my shoulder, flicking it away. The child I'd tried to protect was now unrecognizable, I was clumsy and squeezed the child so tightly against me it exploded. reduced to a pulped mass of tissue in my arms, its blood staining the front of my suit. A flash of anger and envy flickered through me—this child's suffering was over while mine continued indefinitely—I felt a flash of anger and envy, before the emotions quickly dismissed within me. 

"Insignificant," I hissed, dropping the remains with a wet splat onto the blood-slicked sidewalk.

Rising to my full height, I ignored the pain radiating through my system. Pain was merely information, and information could be disregarded. The mission remained paramount: eliminate the target. And now, the target had revealed himself.

Debris from the shattered building continued to rain down around me as I steadied my stance. My eyes—cold, calculating, devoid of mercy—locked onto the figure hovering above the rubble. Mohawk Mark. His blue and black suit hugged a physique identical to the original, but the spiky mohawk and the arrogant smirk set him apart. It was a face I had been programmed to destroy.

"Well, well, well," he drawled, his voice dripping with cruel amusement that barely masked something deeper, "What do we have here? Another hero comes to play?—" His expression shifted, eyes widening slightly as he studied me more carefully. Recognition dawned in his gaze, followed by confusion that seemed genuine. "Wait... Y/N?"

The name struck me like a physical blow. Something flickered in the recesses of my mind—a half-remembered dream, perhaps, or an echo of a life that had been systematically erased. I groaned, clutching my head as fractured images threatened to coalesce into meaning. The collar responded instantly, electricity searing through my neural pathways, burning away the nascent memories before they could fully form.

My mission remained untainted by sentiment: eliminate the target.

I launched myself at him. My fist aimed for his jaw with enough force to shatter concrete, but he reacted with equal speed, blocking the blow and retaliating with a devastating kick to my ribs. Blood erupted from my mouth as the impact sent me crashing through yet another wall. The concrete disintegrated around me, offering no more resistance than tissue paper.

I rose from the wreckage without hesitation, the pain relegated to some distant corner of my consciousness as I assessed my opponent with newfound respect. It had been a long time since anyone had landed a blow with such force.

Mohawk Mark landed before me, his expression a mix of confusion and something else I couldn't name. He was hesitating, holding back his attacks. Why?

"Y/N, what are you doing?" he asked, his voice tight with emotion. "Don't you remember me? Or did the fucking Mark of this universe not meet you?! Love you!" he hissed, frustration clear in every word.

"Target identified," I responded, my voice empty and cold. I ignored his words completely - they meant nothing to a weapon. "Elimination protocol engaged."

I lunged forward with everything I had, throwing punches that could level buildings. Each blow carried enough force to shatter concrete, aimed to destroy rather than just hurt. But he was good - too good - dodging and blocking with growing desperation in his movements.

Something was wrong. He wasn't fighting back with full strength. He was holding back, his eyes fixed on me with an expression I couldn't understand.

"Fucking stop, Y/N!" he yelled, his voice cracking with desperation. "You don't have to do this y-you bitc–!"

I ignored him completely, focused only on my mission. Finally, an opening! My uppercut connected with his jaw, sending him flying skyward. I followed immediately, delivering another crushing blow to his chest that sent him crashing through the roof of a nearby building.

I zoomed to where he landed, pulling my fist back for what should be a finishing blow. But he caught my punch, his eyes wide and filled with emotion that made me hesitate.

"Y/N... please," he gasped, his voice barely a whisper. When I saw he wasn't defending himself anymore, I delivered a savage kick to his ribs that sent him smashing into a burning bus. The metal folded around his body like it was made of paper.

"Shut up," I growled, feeling nothing as I approached. "You're a target. Nothing more."

He struggled to his feet, his mohawk now crooked, his blue and black suit torn and stained with blood and dirt. Despite the beating, his eyes never left mine.

"But... it's me, Mark! Don't you fucking remember?!" The pain in his voice wasn't just physical.

Remember? The word bounced around inside my empty mind. Remember what? My life was the cold lab, the endless tests, the collar's constant shocks. There was nothing before that. Nothing to remember.

I charged at him again, aiming for his throat this time. He dodged, grabbing my arm as he pulled me down for a punch and suddenly freezing as his eyes locked onto the collar around my neck. Something changed in his expression - understanding dawned.

"Shit, I mean it, stop!" he yelled, his voice mixing anger and desperation. "You don't have to do this! Are they fucking controlling you?!"

The collar sent a massive shock through my body, making my vision blur and my muscles spasm. I stumbled backward, momentarily stunned. He used the chance to grab my head, his fingers pressing against my skull as he pulled my head back to look at him directly. My eyes drazed against his fierce ones.

"Fucking listen to me!" he pleaded, his grip gentler than it should be. "I know who you are! I... loved you in my universe! B-before you—" His voice caught in his throat, and I watched, strangely fascinated, as tears formed in his brown eyes. His hands loosened, now almost cradling my head instead of restraining me.

Loved? The word was strange, meaningless to me. What did it mean to be loved? I shook my head, trying to clear the fog from the collar's shock. For a brief moment, I felt the control slipping, something else trying to surface. But it passed quickly, and I snapped back to my purpose. Kill.

"Fucking listen to me, Y/N," he begged, his voice rough with emotion. "They're controlling you! That collar... it's controlling your damn mind!"

I answered with my elbow, smashing it into his face with all my strength. I felt his nose shatter under the impact. Blood sprayed as he staggered backward, yet he looked unharmed. I didn't hesitate, unleashing a storm of punches that would crush a normal human to paste, but he wasn’t normal, he was a variant, of Invincible. He easily blocked, dodged, but I was relentless.

"Eliminate... target," I mumbled, my voice sounding strange even to my own ears.

As I paused to gather strength for another attack, he lunged forward and grabbed me by the shoulders. Despite everything I'd done to him, his grip was surprisingly gentle.

"SHIT, you have to fight it, Y/N!" he urged, his eyes burning with intensity. "You're stronger than this! Tell me who's controlling you! I will fucking murder them!"

I struggled against his grip, my body fighting like a puppet on strings as the collar shocked me repeatedly. But something about his words, his voice - they were cutting through the fog in my mind, stirring something buried deep inside me. Fight? How could I fight what I was?

"She's not listening," a new voice called out, calm but commanding, making both of us freeze. "She simply can't.. She wasn't made for you, she was made for me."

A new figure landed beside Mohawk Mark - another Mark variant, but this one wore a red and gray suit. A mask with black eyesless goggles. Omni Invincible. His mask couldn't hide his grim expression as he studied me. "Plus, the collar has her completely under their control."

"We have to stop her," another voice hissed as a figure in dark blue and black landed heavily on the rooftop. Phantom Mark. His voice carried deep pain and barely controlled rage. "She's being used... I can't bear to see her again... not like this..."

Used? Why did they care what happened to me?

"Used?" A mocking voice cut through as another Mark variant landed directly in front of me and Mohawk. This one wore black and yellow - Sinister Mark. His smile was cruel as he stared at me with open interest. "She's a weapon. A god damn killing machine. And we're her targets." His grin widened, predatory and cold. "She's perfect, so much better than the fucking pathetic Y/N of my universe."

Perfect? What did he mean? Another… me? 

More Mark variants began to arrive, surrounding me on the rooftop. Each one showed recognition when they saw me, their faces displaying a mix of shock, grief, and something that looked like desperate hope. Viltrumite Mark, Emperor Mark, Prisoner Mark, and No Masked Mark all landed around me. Every threat I was supposed to eliminate was gathering in one place.

"Y/N," Viltrumite Mark said softly, his voice almost tender, his brown eyes wide with disbelief. A stark contrast to his white suit. "Wow... you look just like her. Just like my Y/N. Your face, that beautiful face... and your—" He stopped suddenly, his gaze fixing on the collar around my neck. His expression shifted from wonder to anger.

They all knew me? How was that possible when I didn't know any of them?

I felt something touch my back - warm, gentle - and it broke my frozen state. I lashed out blindly, my fist connecting with No Masked Mark who had tried to hug me. The impact sent him flying across the rooftop. Warmth? No. Target.

The electricity from the collar intensified, becoming nearly unbearable. I staggered under the pain, blood dripping from my nose as my vision blurred. My arm froze mid-swing as my muscles began to lock up. My strength was fading. But I must keep fighting.

"I believe she's too far gone," Emperor Mark said grimly, resignation heavy in his voice. "We have to disable her..."

"Are you fucking insane?! Hell no!" Mohawk Mark shouted, stepping between me and the others. His voice shook with fierce protectiveness. "I watched her die in my universe and I will not let it fucking happen again!"

Die? What did that mean?

The Marks surrounded me, their expressions complex mixtures of determination, sorrow, and fear. They weren't attacking to kill - they were trying to subdue me, to break the collar's hold. But every hit made the collar shock me harder.

Phantom Mark attacked first, moving faster than I could track in my weakened state. His fist aimed for my shoulder, and I managed to catch his arm, but the force still sent me staggering backward. I wasn't prepared for this coordinated attack, especially since they seemed to be holding back.

Omni Mark followed with a precise kick to my ribs. I twisted my body to block, but the impact still sent shockwaves of pain through me, launching me into the sky.

Viltrumite Mark and Emperor Mark moved together with perfect coordination, their attacks aimed to disable, not kill. They fought with ruthless efficiency, their movements showing years of combat experience. I blocked and countered as best I could, but their combined assault was overwhelming.

Prisoner Mark and No Masked Mark fought with less precision but equal power. Their attacks were wild and unpredictable, making them hard to counter. I dodged a powerful swing from Prisoner Mark only to be caught by a kick from No Masked Mark.

Mohawk Mark moved differently from the others. His eyes never left mine, filled with desperate pleading. His attacks lacked killing intent - he was trying to restrain me rather than hurt me. He repeatedly tried to grab me, to hold me still, but I was too quick.

And then there was Sinister Mark. He moved like a predator stalking prey, his attacks brutal and precise. His eyes gleamed with cruel enjoyment, fixed on me with disturbing intensity. He wasn't just fighting - he was enjoying every moment.

He feinted high before kicking my knee with savage force. Pain shot through my leg as I stumbled. He immediately followed with a vicious uppercut to my jaw that made my vision go white for a moment. I spat blood, the metallic taste filling my mouth as I nearly bit through my tongue.

"Come on, Y/N," he taunted, his voice low and excited. "Show me what you've got."

Unlike the others, Sinister Mark wasn't holding back. He reveled in the violence, moving with brutal efficiency. A predatory grin never left his face as he aimed to cripple me. His fist connected with my jaw again, sending another shockwave through my skull. I managed to retaliate with a kick to his chest that sent him crashing through a skyscraper.

New York was completely destroyed around us. I couldn't handle all eight of them at once. It was too many... but I had to fight. Must focus.

"Enough!" Omni Mark shouted, his voice echoing through the ruined city. His face was set with grim determination. "We have to end this!"

He launched himself at me with perfect control and precision. Before I could dodge, he grabbed me in a powerful bear hug, pinning my arms to my sides, his chin pressing to the top of my head. I struggled against his grip, trying desperately to break free, but he was too strong, and I was weakening by the second.

The other Marks surrounded me, their combined strength impossible to overcome. Their expressions mixed pain and resolve as they held me tight. I hissed and fought, biting Sinister's hand when he tried to touch my face. He pulled back, laughing as he licked the drop of blood from his hand.

"She's so feisty, I love it~" he purred, eyes gleaming.

"Enough! Come on guys, we have to get this fucking collar off," Phantom Mark said, his voice strained with sorrow. "That's the only way to free her."

Mohawk Mark reached for the collar, his fingers trembling. Fear and determination battled in his eyes as he hesitated.

"If we remove it, she could lose control," Omni Mark warned gravely. "She could destroy everything, or worse... we could lose her."

"It's the only chance we have," Mohawk Mark replied firmly, his fierce eyes locked with mine. For a moment, they softened with an emotion I couldn't name. "We have to trust her."

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and gripped the collar around my neck.

"AHHHHHHH-!" A scream of pure agony tore from my throat as he tried to break the collar. The device unleashed its final defense - a massive electrical current that ripped through my entire body and into anyone touching me. The pain was beyond anything I'd ever felt, beyond what any human could survive.

The world around me faded to white as electricity consumed everything.

The air crackled with raw energy, the shockwaves from the collar's defense system rippling outwards like violent tsunamis across the already devastated rooftop. Y/N's screams tore through the ruined city—a primal, guttural sound that sliced through the hearts of the gathered Marks like a heated blade. Her body convulsed violently in their grip, crimson streams of blood trickling from her ears as her eyes rolled back, revealing only whites.

Omni Mark's muscles strained beneath his crimson and slate-gray suit, veins bulging like ropes under his skin as he maintained his vise-like grip on Y/N. Despite the electrical current surging through him, his face remained a mask of controlled determination—only the slight twitch at the corner of his right eye betraying his agony.

"Hold steady," he commanded, voice unwavering despite the pain. His analytical gaze never left Y/N's face, studying every microexpression with obsessive intensity. "The collar's defense system is activating exactly as anticipated. Maintain your positions." Behind his disciplined exterior, a possessive gleam flickered in his eyes—the calculated look of a general who had just discovered his most valuable weapon.

"FUCK! This hurts like a motherfucking BITCH!" Mohawk Mark roared, spittle flying from his mouth as he yanked at the collar with manic desperation. His once-proud mohawk now drooped pathetically to one side, plastered to his scalp with sweat that poured down his face in rivulets. His wild, bloodshot eyes darted frantically between Y/N's contorted face and the other Marks. "Back the FUCK off, assholes! This is MY moment with her!" he snarled when Emperor Mark moved closer, his voice cracking with equal parts pain and possessiveness.

Viltrumite Mark held Y/N's thrashing legs with unwavering strength, his pristine white uniform now marred with smoking char marks. Unlike the others who grimaced and cursed through their pain, he maintained an almost regal posture—back ramrod straight, chin lifted imperiously even as electricity danced across his skin.

"Such primitive technology," he remarked coldly, his voice carrying the smooth, cultured tones of someone accustomed to absolute obedience. His steely gaze traced the contours of Y/N's face with unmistakable ownership. "In my empire, she would have been conditioned properly. My Y/N required no such crude devices to ensure compliance." His fingers tightened possessively around her ankles, leaving white imprints on her skin.

No Masked Mark hovered anxiously at the periphery, bouncing on his heels like an impatient child. His unmasked face—so similar yet different from the others—contorted with a peculiar mixture of eagerness and uncertainty.

"Will she remember me when she wakes up?" he asked, voice tinged with childlike hope that seemed bizarrely out of place amid the destruction. His eyes never left Y/N's face, a hungry desperation evident in his gaze. "I won't let you suffer like William and my Y/N did," he murmured, the words tumbling out in a rushed whisper before his expression hardened again with determination.

Phantom Mark's grip on Y/N's arm was white-knuckled, his midnight blue and obsidian suit smoking where electrical feedback scorched the material. Unlike the others whose focus remained entirely on Y/N, his haunted gaze occasionally darted to the ruined cityscape surrounding them, as if seeing ghosts in the debris.

"We're going to lose her!" he cried out, voice thick with an emotion he couldn't fully suppress. The perpetual fury that typically blazed in his eyes momentarily gave way to raw grief—a glimpse into the trauma that drove him. "She looks just like my Y/N when they took her from me." His grip tightened, unwilling to let go even as the pain intensified, a guttural yell tearing from his throat as another surge of electricity pulsed through them all.

Emperor Mark strode forward with the confident swagger of royalty despite the crisis unfolding before him. His uniform, adorned with subtle gold embellishments, smoldered at the edges as he moved to assist despite Mohawk's furious objections.

"This primitive technology is beneath us," he declared, his voice carrying the practiced resonance of one accustomed to addressing multitudes. His movements were precise, efficient—a ruler accustomed to servants handling menial tasks now forced to act himself. "In my empire, she would have been treated with the respect befitting her connection to me." His eyes tracked possessively over Y/N's convulsing form as he grasped part of the collar, a barely audible hiss escaping through clenched teeth as electricity surged through his fingertips.

Through it all, Sinister Mark prowled the perimeter of the group like a predator assessing wounded prey. Unlike the others who betrayed their pain through grimaces and curses, his lips curled into a twisted smile that never quite reached his cold eyes. The black and yellow of his suit seemed to absorb the shadows around them, making him appear more demon than man as he circled the struggling group.

"Look at you pathetic fuckers," he sneered, voice dropping to a dangerous purr that somehow cut through the cacophony of pain and destruction. "All of you, burnt and crying over her like she's the last woman in the multiverse." His eyes gleamed with cruel delight as they raked over Y/N's suffering form, lingering on the places where her suit had torn during the battle. "Mine was weak, useless when it mattered," he continued, tongue darting out to wet his lower lip. "But this one..." His voice trailed off into an appreciative growl. "This one has real potential."

He continued circling them with predatory grace, each step deliberate and measured, like a lion stalking gazelles. The others, too focused on Y/N and their own pain, barely registered his calculating assessment until he suddenly stepped forward with decisive purpose.

"We'll do it my way," he declared, voice slicing through their collective agony with the precision of a surgeon's scalpel. "Otherwise she's fried, and none of us gets what we want." There was no benevolence in his offer—only ruthless pragmatism and thinly veiled desire.

Sinister Mark moved into position with fluid grace, eyes locking with each Mark in turn. His gaze was sharp and challenging, daring them to defy him while simultaneously asserting dominance. "We're going to rip that collar off her neck, all at the same time. Understand that, you pussies?"

"But the shock—" Omni Mark began, his typically calculated façade cracking slightly as another surge of pain tore through his body.

"The shock is killing her!" Sinister Mark snapped, genuine anger flashing in his eyes like lightning. For the briefest moment, something almost like concern flickered across his features before being submerged beneath his usual cruel demeanor. "We either pull it off now, together, or she dies. Are you all going to be useless now?"

Despite their differences, despite the simmering tensions and individual desires to claim Y/N for themselves, the Marks exchanged glances of reluctant agreement. In this moment, keeping her alive took priority over their competition.

Sinister Mark positioned himself beside Omni and Mohawk, placing his hands on the collar with surprising gentleness. A low, unsettling laugh escaped his lips as electricity coursed through him—the pain seemingly pleasurable to his twisted mind. Prisoner and No Masked Mark grabbed the other side, their faces twisting into grimaces of determination. Phantom and Viltrumite followed suit, hissing breaths escaping through clenched teeth.

"On my mark," Sinister commanded, voice cutting through the chaos with sharp authority. "One..." His fingers tightened around the collar. "Two..." His eyes locked onto Y/N's face with possessive intensity. "THREE!"

With a collective roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of what remained of New York City, the Marks pulled. Omni Mark and Mohawk Mark yanked with such force that tendons stood out like steel cables in their necks, while Viltrumite and Phantom used their strength to counter Y/N's violent convulsions. The air around them crackled and sparked with deadly energy, the building beneath them crumbling further as a deafening SNAP echoed through the ruins.

The collar broke free.

The electrical storm ceased instantly, energy dispersing into the air with a final concussive shockwave that sent debris flying in all directions. Y/N's body went limp between them, her screams fading to an eerie silence that felt more ominous than her previous agony. The Marks, exhausted and scorched, collapsed around her on the rooftop, their breath coming in ragged gasps that disturbed the settling dust.

Sinister Mark recovered first, shoving Mohawk aside with unnecessary force to kneel beside Y/N's still form. His eyes traveled over her with unmasked hunger as he reached out to trace the line of her jaw with surprising gentleness—a predator admiring his prize. "She's still alive," he announced, voice unexpectedly soft, almost reverent. "But barely..."

"Get your fucking hands off her," Mohawk Mark growled, struggling to his knees despite his injuries. His normally arrogant demeanor was stripped away, leaving raw desperation in its place as his eyes never left Y/N's face. "I found her first, you sick piece of shit."

"In your juvenile fantasies perhaps," Emperor Mark countered icily, moving closer to Y/N's limp form despite his weakened state. His regal bearing remained intact even while injured, chin lifted with imperial disdain as he regarded Mohawk. "She requires proper care and guidance, which only I am qualified to provide."

Omni Mark silenced them with a sharply raised hand, his authoritative presence reasserting itself even while injured. "Enough," he commanded, voice brooking no argument. "She needs time to recover before any of us make claims." His eyes, however, told a different story—calculating grey depths already mapping out strategies to separate Y/N from the others when the moment was right.

The Marks exchanged wary glances, temporarily united by their shared goal but irrevocably divided by their desire for the same prize. They had saved Y/N from the collar's control, but the battle for her had only just begun—a new war brewing beneath the surface of their temporary alliance.

"We need to get her out of here," Omni Mark said, his voice low and urgent as his eyes methodically scanned the horizon. His brow furrowed in a deep, concerned frown that belied his typically impassive demeanor. "Angstrom won't wait forever. We still have a mission to complete."

A tense silence fell over the group, heavy with unspoken implications. The mission. The destruction of this universe. It was their objective, their reason for being here. But now, with Y/N lying before them, their priorities had irreversibly shifted.

"What now?" No Masked Mark asked, his voice barely a whisper. His eyes, wide and filled with an almost childlike worry, never left Y/N's face. His features drawn and pale, he anxiously gnawed at his lower lip—a nervous habit that revealed the youth beneath his power.

The original mission, Angstrom Levy's directive to destroy the mainstream universe, loomed over them like a shadow. They were here to wreak havoc, to dismantle this reality and claim it for themselves. But the discovery of Y/N had thrown their carefully orchestrated plans into beautiful disarray.

"Well we can't just fucking leave her here, dipshit," Mohawk Mark snapped, his voice cracking with emotion despite his attempt at his usual abrasiveness. His jaw set in a determined line, eyes blazing with fierce protectiveness as he hovered over Y/N's still form. "Not like this anyway. We need to find somewhere safe—" He trailed off, gaze darting around the ruined cityscape as if a solution might materialize from the rubble.

"A safe place?" Prisoner Mark scoffed, voice dripping with bitter cynicism. The scarred tissue of his face twisted into a mocking grimace as he gestured at the devastation surrounding them. "In this ruined world? We destroyed everything worth saving." Despite his harsh words, his eyes betrayed a flicker of concern as they drifted to Y/N's unconscious form.

"We'll find one," Viltrumite Mark stated with cold certainty, voice carrying the weight of imperial decree. His eyes, usually hard as flint, softened imperceptibly when they fell upon Y/N. "There must be somewhere untouched by our... activities." The slight hesitation in his typically smooth delivery revealed an unusual uncertainty.

"We can't abandon Angstrom's mission either," Omni Mark countered pragmatically, crossing muscular arms over his broad chest. His analytical mind was already formulating contingencies, weighing variables with machine-like efficiency. "He'll notice something is wrong if we deviate too significantly from the plan."

Sinister Mark rose to his full height, rolling his shoulders as if shedding a burden. His eyes—cold and calculating—swept across the ruined cityscape with predatory assessment. His features hardened into a mask of ruthless determination as he reached a decision.

"We'll do both," he declared, voice a low growl that somehow carried more authority than Omni Mark's reasoned commands. "We continue the destruction," he elaborated with a careless shrug that belied the intensity of his gaze, "but first, we take her somewhere safe."

He sighed—an oddly human gesture from such a monstrous figure—and pointed toward the outskirts of the city, where the skeletal remains of skyscrapers gradually gave way to the dense, seemingly untouched wilderness beyond. "There," he stated with absolute certainty. "We'll find a secluded spot, somewhere Angstrom won't think to look. Somewhere we can... protect her."

The way he lingered over the word "protect" sent an involuntary shiver through the group, but none dared contradict him. With a collective nod of reluctant agreement, the Marks carefully lifted Y/N's limp form, each positioning themselves to maintain contact with her—their movements gentle despite their immense strength. Viltrumite Mark delicately wiped a droplet of blood from her cheek with a tenderness that seemed entirely at odds with his imperial bearing.

They rose into the air in tight formation, carrying their precious cargo through the smoke-filled sky, leaving behind the ravaged husk of what had once been New York City.

Eventually, they found a secluded cabin nestled deep within the dense forest, a small, unassuming structure that seemed miraculously untouched by the chaos they had unleashed upon the world. Inside, they discovered a lone occupant—an elderly man whose rheumy eyes widened with terror at the sight of eight identical men, each bearing the face of destruction that had dominated emergency broadcasts before they failed.

A swift, brutal act silenced his frightened cries, leaving the cabin empty and waiting for its new occupant—a practical necessity that none of the Marks questioned or regretted.

They laid Y/N on the worn wooden floor of the small cabin with surprising gentleness. Her body remained still and pale against the rough-hewn planks, face tear-stained and peaceful despite the violence of her liberation. Tendrils of her hair fanned out around her head like a dark halo, slightly frizzed from the electrical assault she had endured. The Marks gathered around her in a protective circle, their expressions a complex mixture of concern, determination, and barely concealed desire as they gazed upon the woman who mirrored the one they had each lost in their respective universes.

"We'll take shifts," Omni Mark announced, instantly assuming command with practiced ease. His calculating eyes scanned the modest room with meticulous attention to detail, mentally cataloging potential threats and escape routes. "Someone will stay with her at all times. The rest will continue the destruction, maintaining our cover while we monitor her condition."

"And the mission?" No Masked Mark questioned anxiously, raising his arms in a helpless gesture. His youthful features contorted with uncertainty, clearly torn between their original destructive purpose and this unexpected development.

"We'll continue," Omni Mark replied with firm assurance, locking eyes with No Masked Mark. He placed a steadying hand on the younger variant's shoulder, grip firm but not unkind. "But we'll approach it strategically. Create diversions, spread out our forces, minimize unnecessary collateral damage. We'll maintain the appearance of following Angstrom's directives, but our true priority remains here." His eyes flickered meaningfully toward Y/N's unconscious form.

"She'll wake up," Mohawk Mark insisted with desperate conviction, roughly wiping at his reddened eyes with the back of his hand. The vulnerability in his voice was startling, stripping away his carefully constructed arrogance to reveal raw emotion beneath. "She fucking has to. She can't leave me again... not after I just found her."

Sinister Mark observed Mohawk's naked emotion with evident disgust, a contemptuous sneer curling his lip. Yet when he moved forward to kneel beside Y/N, his movements possessed an unexpected grace, almost reverent in their precision. His fingers—capable of crushing steel and ending lives without effort—traced the delicate lines of her face with obsessive gentleness, exploring every curve and hollow as if committing them to memory.

"She will," he said, his voice a low, rumbling growl that seemed to vibrate through the cabin's wooden bones. Unlike the desperate hope in Mohawk's tone, Sinister's words carried the weight of absolute certainty—a predator's confidence in claiming what he considered already his. His eyes—typically cold and calculating—burned with an intensity that made the other Marks shift uncomfortably. "And when she does, we'll be ready; waiting for those beautiful eyes to reopen to us."

The possessive emphasis he placed on "us" fooled no one—least of all himself. His fingers lingered a moment too long on the pulse point at her throat, his expression momentarily softening into something almost tender before the mask of cruelty slammed back into place.

The Marks had a new mission now. The destruction of the mainstream universe still bound them by obligation and necessity, but they were now equally bound by a newfound sense of purpose—a desperate, collective desire to protect the woman they had found. She was both stranger and intimately familiar, a phantom made flesh, the woman they had each lost in their respective universes, and now, the woman they were collectively determined to save—from others, from the world, and perhaps from themselves.

They began dividing their forces with military precision, Omni Mark drafting plans with Emperor Mark's input while Viltrumite offered cold, tactical suggestions. They would spread across different continents, maintaining the façade of random destruction that Angstrom expected, while rotating shifts to ensure Y/N was never left unguarded. Paris would fall next, then Moscow, Tokyo, and beyond—a symphony of calculated chaos designed to mask their true priority.

The first day of their war against this universe was far from over, but the discovery of Y/N had fundamentally altered its purpose. What had begun as simple conquest—the destruction of one universe among infinite possibilities—had transformed into something far more complex and personal. Each Mark now fought with renewed purpose, their actions guided not merely by Angstrom's directives but by the silent promise they had made to the unconscious woman in the cabin.

The mission was no longer just about conquest; it was about salvation—about reclaiming a lost love, about rewriting a tragic fate that had played out eight different ways across eight different realities. In their own universes, they had failed her, each in their own way. Too weak, too late, too cruel, too blind—their regrets took different forms but shared the same bitter taste. This Y/N offered something none of them had dared hope for: a second chance.

They would keep this Y/N safe at any cost, jealously guarded even from each other. None spoke this truth aloud, but it hung in the air between them, a silent agreement underscored by watchful gazes and lingering touches.

"Mohawk stays with her first," Omni Mark announced, his tone making it clear this was not a suggestion but a command. His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly at the flash of rebellion on Sinister's face. "He found her first. We'll rotate every six hours. No exceptions."

The others nodded with varying degrees of reluctance, Viltrumite's jaw tightening with barely contained objection while Emperor Mark's fingers drummed an impatient rhythm against his thigh. Only Sinister Mark seemed truly at ease, a knowing smile playing at the corners of his mouth as if he already saw moves ahead in a game the others didn't realize they were playing.

As the Marks departed one by one to continue their orchestrated destruction across the globe, Mohawk Mark settled beside Y/N's still form. Alone at last, his carefully maintained façade of arrogance and anger crumbled like the buildings they had destroyed. With shaking fingers, he gently brushed a strand of hair from her face, his touch feather-light against her skin.

"I found you again," he whispered, voice cracking with emotion he would never show the others. "And this time, I won't fucking lose you. I swear it."

Outside the cabin, a gentle breeze stirred the trees, nature continuing its rhythms oblivious to the schemes of gods and monsters. Inside, a different kind of war was just beginning—one fought not with fists and fury, but with patience and possession. Eight versions of the same man, each determined to claim what they believed was rightfully theirs alone.

And at the center of it all, still and silent, lay Y/N—oblivious to the tempest her very existence had unleashed, unaware that she had become the eye of a storm that would reshape this universe and perhaps beyond.

–––––––––––––––––– ☆ TBC!! ☆

Hope ya'll liked it ♡ Leave a comment on whatya think!! next chapter will be from Mohawk's p.o.v Please keep reading, lovely!(｡•̀ᴗ-)✧ Pt.2 ☆ 10 parts total! - The series is completed

[jaggybot3000]

yeah fuck you *melts your ice emperor*

[puffywiz]

"Anuhe."

Some divine highness au... for a treat.

[ladybirdswritings]

HUNTRESS, FIC — emperor geta x reader.

DESCRIPTION: the blood of the emperor’s brother is on your hands, a betrayed huntress facing death in the colosseum. your every move watched by the vengeful emperor who loathes you as much as you despise him. but amidst blood, betrayal, and survival, hatred begins to twist into something dangerous. NOTES - little enemies to lovers fic !! leave me all your thoughts and opinions. i love them <33 | prev part ; next part

two;

“Let go of me!” Your growl came out as more of a cry as the barbaric, mindless men who served the emperors—no, emperor (thanks to you)—dragged you by your arms toward the throne room.

Your knees burned crimson, scraped against the cold, unforgiving floor.

You felt him before you saw him, your stomach plummeting to the floor.

Rage.

The scent of sugared pastries and rich wine made your mouth salivate in protest, your stomach curdling. You were so hungry, and yet, despite your victory, you were still locked away in a cage.

“Uumph—” The air was knocked from your lungs, your ribs burning as your face met the floor.

But they weren’t dragging you anymore.

Blood trickled from the corner of your lips, and you spat it out, clenching your jaw as you raised your head, brushing your hair from your face.

And there he was.

Legs spread, eyes bored, a woman on his lap, another at his feet. They licked at his skin lazily, suckling kisses to express their utter devotion. It made you sick.

You narrowed your gaze, and he did the same.

“Look at you, huntress.” The emperor hissed the word, and it took all your restraint not to lunge at him. The guards would surely stop you, but even a single drop of his blood would be enough to sate you.

He looked at you with unimpressed hazel eyes, nose wrinkling at the sight of your filthy skin. His finger gently traced the pale rouge on his lips, smudging it.

“Don’t. Call me that.” Your teeth were clenched, your voice a caged beast as his gaze dropped to the blood trickling from your lips.

He snapped his fingers, and a guard approached. You tried to shake your head away, but he was too strong, pinching your chin and roughly wiping the blood from your lips.

“Well, it’s what you are, isn’t it? A huntress? Sister of a gladiator—”

“One you slaughtered.”

Then came the worst sound: a laugh, cold and twisted, echoing through the gilded throne room. His mindless women mirrored him, and for a moment, you imagined a violent end for the puppets he played with on his throne.

“Slaughtered? It’s not at all my fault that your brother forgot how to survive in my coliseum.”

Rage scorched your bones, and you could no longer hold yourself back. You lunged with a growl, but the guards stopped you with a swift, iron kick to the ribs and neck. Eyes spinning round the throne room, you saw him raise a hand.

“Pin her there.” He commanded, and they obeyed—kneeling on either side of you to keep you caged, your struggles growing lazier as you wore yourself out.

Where could you run to?

Tears, hot and heavy, threatened to fall, but you held them in. Angered tears, yes—but you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of thinking otherwise, even through your blurred gaze.

Your mind was still made up.

A brother for a brother. Despite his show of superiority, his twin was buried too deep for him to ever find peace. So, your death would offer nothing to him but dissatisfaction. Maybe he knew that.

Slowly, he approached, lips lifting into a smirk as he descended the marble steps and kneeled before you. So close to the man responsible for it all, yet so caged. You squinted, trying to hold back the tears, growling as you bucked against the guards like a rabid beast.

Geta tilted his head.

“Look at you. Fighting so hard to show me how strong you are, hmm?”

Your lips swelled with the effort of withholding emotion, your nose beginning to run. You tucked it away with a sniff, chin held high, jaw clenched. You wanted to plunge your own blade into your chest when a tear slipped free.

“Oh,” he murmured, his eyes following its path lazily. Then, with cruel slowness, he raised a finger, gently swiping the tear from your cheek. He wrapped his rouged lips around his finger, suckling away the damp trail of your emotion.

Your eyes widened, but you masked it with another defiant buck against the guards.

“That’s okay, my huntress. Let it out.” He taunted.

You growled through pressed teeth and swollen lips, and he grinned, a devilish slice of the moon upon his lips.

“I’m not your anything. You will never cage me. I’d sooner plunge my blade into my own throat.”

His amber brow shifted upward at that revelation, pondering your words for a moment. Then, without warning, he reached forward, plucking your golden, ornate blade from its hilt.

“This blade?”

You were wild now—trapped like a horse held back by reins, a snake in an iron cage. You writhed, desperate to free your prized possession from his grasp.

“Oh? Did your brother give you this? It would be awfully poetic if I killed you with it, hmm? If I—perhaps pressed it right there…” His finger brushed the blade’s edge against your neck. “Obedient now?”

Your bucking stopped the moment he flicked the blade free from its weathered case and pressed it against the delicate pulse of your throat.

He grew quiet, his eyes darkening a fraction, sending a shiver up your spine. His veined hand pulsed around the hilt, and he pressed his forehead to yours, his gaze pinning you more than the blade ever could.

“You took my brother from me, little huntress. And your death, though I’d revel in bathing in your blood—won’t satisfy my hunger quite enough…” He shivered the last words, and every curve of the throne room faded as he tilted his head against yours. You were paralyzed, weak—afraid—and you hated yourself for it.

“Hmm? So, I’ve opted to take other measures.”

You felt the scrape of the knife at your jugular, his eyes dark as they focused on the soft skin there. One push forward and your blood would stain his shiny floors, but it never came.

Blood trickled onto the blade’s tip, and he suckled it onto his tongue before throwing the knife aside, as if it were a worthless object.

Your breath shook as you glanced toward it. The guards held you back when you moved to retrieve it.

“Let her go.” He waved lazily, and the barbaric men hesitated before glancing nervously at you.

It was either a test or a gift from the gods. Test, most likely—but even so? You’d fail with pride, as long as his blood stained your hands, even if just a lick of it.

“Do as I say!” He growled, and immediately, you were free, your arms aching from where they had been bound. The awful, grand prints of their hold stained your skin.

Now, it was your turn to hesitate. Your knees ached, and you looked up at his wicked, cruel smirk, your knife now clutched in your trembling hand.

A moment passed.

Then another.

Fuck it.

You lunged. He must have raised another commanding hand, for the guards didn’t stop you this time.

In a swift motion, you grasped your blade and began to climb the precious marble steps toward the traitorous throne.

For the people of Rome.

What utter horseshit.

For the power of Rome seemed more fitting. It was the last thought you had as you lifted your blade with a guttural cry. He wasn’t a gladiator, but he seemed bored as you neared—his guards drawing their bows in haste.

Close, so close. One step further and your blade would pierce that alabaster throat. He’d gurgle on his own crimson, and you’d grin as the arrows pierced your heart. Sated.

He stopped you with a movement so quick and smooth it made your head spin. He towered over you, gripping your wrist with such force that pain shot through your arm, and the blade slipped from your grasp.

His free arm wrapped around your waist, and you bucked against him like a caged bird, but he was unfazed, letting you tire yourself out. As your struggles grew weaker, he tightened his grip, leaning down to whisper in your ear.

“You’re making a scene, huntress.” His voice was low, steady, as he held you close.

“Let me go—” You gasped as his ringed hand wrapped around your throat, squeezing so tight you dropped to your knees before him, looking every bit as obedient as his other mindless subjects.

He leaned over you, a sadistic shadow falling over your face, blocking out the sun—your freedom.

He spoke through clenched teeth, his eyes wild, and it was the first time his resolve slipped.

“You’re making a scene, and you killed my brother.” His face was red as a ruby, spit falling from his mouth as he hunched over you, hand still wrapped tightly around your throat.

“You and I both know you don’t wish to die. Look at you—look at you when I tighten my grasp around your neck.” You gasped as the pressure increased, burning heat tearing through your throat. Tears of struggle blurred your vision as you kicked in protest, proving him very much right against your own will.

“Yes, you’re afraid. And you’re lucky. Because death would be too kind a consequence.” The pressure lessened, just enough for you to breathe, but then he squeezed again. Would this be your end, strangled by the same hands that showed no mercy for Pietro?

“Breathe, pet. I intend to keep you alive a while longer, for my entertainment—and for the entertainment of Rome. They love you, little huntress. A weak, pathetic thing fighting to avenge her dead brother. So much so that you killed—an emperor."

The haze of panic descended, your mind blanketing over with a numb, chilling sense of finality. His grip tightened as if savoring your suffering.

"You will starve, and you will thirst. You will ache a pain so great, you will beg for death. But it will not come. Not until your flesh and bones cannot withstand the cruelty my gladiators will inflict upon you in my colosseum.”

A pinch settled between your brows as his words sunk in, and with each cruel syllable, anger bloomed like fire on your skin. Your body heated, and in a moment too quick to grasp, you gathered spit in your mouth and mirrored his earlier actions-spitting in his nasty face.

He winced, stopping the guards as they moved to pin you again. You cried out like a wounded animal as he threw you with force to the floor by your pretty and purpled neck, wiping your spit from his powdered face.

"Take her away." He growled, frustration spilling from his every pore as he towered over you.

Though the guards dragged you away, fury clutched your mind and fear gripped your heart.

The distance between you and him did nothing to wash away the dread that clung to you, suffocating.

Emperor Geta would be your end.

[chaos-of-the-abyss]

i go absolutely completely totally just a little bit insane when i think about tearza and the red emperor. him building a statue in her honor despite it all. his disbelief and devastation and rage and grief when he realizes what she did to herself, just like nezha's disbelief and devastation and rage and grief when he realizes what rin did to herself. history moves in vicious circles

[captainkirkk]

I'm normally a very slow reader of published novels, but I devoured The Hands of the Emperor by Victoria Goddard and now I can NOT stop thinking about it.

Everyone who has read my Fire Lord Zuko content knows how much I love 1) people of power working tirelessly to make the world a better place for all; and b) kings, slowly being crushed under the weight of their crown and duty, finding love and care in their loyal servants and staff

Except this story is more. The Emperor is worshiped and treated as a god, bound by extreme taboos and protocols that he can't break. It's about his staff (his found family) looking BEYOND the exterior of godhood and finding the human being underneath - who is dying under the weight of being the Emperor - and deciding to reach out, even if by acknowledging his humanity they are technically breaking many laws.

God this book is about so many things, including:

Found family can be the Last Emperor and his senior members of staff

The Emperor learning how to be human again with the help of his friends

There's no romance in this book. The deep friendships are the beating heart of this story, and they very much Love each other.

Breaking down a previously corrupt imperial empire through hard work and radial reforms, leading to sweeping changes including UNIVERSAL INCOME

Embracing cultural heritage, even in the heart of the imperial palace. Our main character is both one of the highest ranking members of government and from an islander culture, and he dedicates himself to both

The struggle for your family (who have a case of tall poppy syndrome, and live far far away from the capital and palace) to see you as a respected adult and understand all of your (many, MANY) achievements, even when you're very literally brought the Emperor home with you.

This book has some BEAUTIFUL confrontations, take-downs, and revelations based on the past two points (and more). If you underestimate or insult our main character, You Will Regret It. Watching him lose his temper is a glorious thing to behold.

Anyway I'm pretty sure this just became my all-time favourite book, because it's beautifully written and touches on all of my favourite tropes.

[prettycalla]

EDDIE MUNSON || ALPHABET HEADCANONS

Pairing: Eddie/Reader

Word Count: 2k

Alphabet template by @ the-coldest-goodbye

(Me? An Eddie fan? Shocking, I know. I’m still writing a ton of Emperor stuff, but it’s been a long while since I’ve done anything for Eddie, so here we are!)

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

Eddie is a menace. He likes to try and live up to the ‘mean and scary’ image that people have of him, but really he’s a big goofball and you both know it. He lifts and spins you when you hug him, he bows theatrically to kiss your hand, and God forbid your shirt rides up even the smallest amount in front of him because he will blow the biggest raspberry on your stomach until you’re shrieking with laughter.

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

You’d likely meet after being partnered with him for a project, which would result in you trying to keep him focused while he kept trying to make you laugh. He’d eventually start seeking you out more and more until you’re firmly part of his friend group.

When he realises he has a crush on you, he’ll act annoyingly aloof and a little mean because he thinks that’s what you’ll like and make you reciprocate. Instead, he ends up hurting your feelings and wants to punch himself for being an idiot. (He might not tell you how he feels right away, but he’ll at least apologise and make sure you make up.)

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

Eddie has no qualms with being touchy if he's comfortable with you. If you’re smaller than him, he’ll drape his arms over your shoulders and rest his chin on the crown of your head. He doesn’t know a lot of people taller than him, so if you're one of them, he’ll secretly love being able to tuck his head under your chin when he hugs you.

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

Any mention of marriage and kids and Eddie’s ready to run for the hills. But that doesn’t mean he’s afraid of commitment. Whenever he thinks of his future, no matter how far ahead, he always pictures you with him. He can’t see a future without you now that you’re a part of his life. He just has difficulty with the labelling of it all.

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

Eddie’s not the best at dealing with his feelings. They get so muddled in his head and make him tongue-tied. Break-ups would be difficult, to say the least.

If you had to break up with him, he'll try and hold it together, but he'll have so many questions, wondering what he did wrong and how he can fix it.

If Eddie had to break up with you, he'll shove a letter at you and hide in his trailer for as long as he can before you finally track him down to talk to him properly.

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

Eddie worries about becoming like his dad. The idea of marriage makes him think too much of his parents, and he'd struggle with it, although he'd certainly be devoted enough to you as if you already are married.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

Eddie has a lot of energy, and it pours out of him in different ways. His moods can change quickly, and he often says and does things on the spur of the moment without thinking them through.

If you're a shy or nervous person, it would take him a while to remember not to sneak up on you or suddenly lift you. He'd learn to become better at smaller gestures, like holding your hand or draping his arm over your shoulder.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

If you're close, Eddie will quickly become a human backpack, to the point where you feel weird when he's not hanging off you.

How he holds you depends on the situation. A quick greeting is an arm slung around your shoulders to pull you close. If he hasn't seen you in a while (or he's just really missed you), he'll gather you up in his arms until you can hardly breathe. If you're stressed or anxious, he'll have you sit between his legs with his arms wrapped around your middle, pressing kisses to the top of your head.

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

He wouldn't plan how he says it - it just falls out of his mouth one day. You're in the middle of telling him the most ridiculous story, the two of you on the verge of tears from laughing, and he blurts it out.

"God, I love you."

Immediately he realises what he's said and desperately tries to play it off, but it's too late. You heard it. It takes quite a bit of coaxing on your part after that to make him tell you how he feels.

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

Eddie's never had the easiest time fitting in. While he's an attractive guy, he's not exactly conventional in how he presents himself, and between that and his reputation, a lot of people tend to steer clear of him. He has his own crowd who understand him and like him as he is.

That being said, Eddie is going to be protective of you. You're like something out of his dreams, how could he not be jealous if someone else shows interest in you? It'll take him a while to settle, and he'll need reassuring. It's not that he doesn't trust you, it's that sometimes he gets too far into his own head and thinks you deserve better.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

As much as I love the idea of Eddie being experienced and amazing at this sort of thing, I don't really buy it when I look at him sometimes.

He either thinks he knows what's he doing and gets so overzealous that his head bumps yours, or he's so nervous about kissing you - because it's you, it has to be perfect - that he starts talking until he's rambling.

It takes you a while to calm him down, but when he eventually does kiss you, it's more than you could have ever asked for.

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

Eddie’s great with kids, because he’s a big kid himself. With very little ones, he crouches down to their level to look them in the eye while they talk. He asks lots of questions and dramatically reacts to everything they say like it's the most exciting thing he's ever heard.

That's not to say that he can't be childish, and sometimes he needs to be reminded that he's the adult in the argument he's in the middle of - especially if it's something DnD related.

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

He is not a morning person. Getting Eddie out of bed requires holding a black coffee and a lit cigarette under his nose like a dog with a treat until he's eventually roused. There’s no getting a coherent sentence out of him for at least an hour, and every day he complains about his sleep schedule and promises he’s gonna get an early night tonight, but he never does.

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

Eddie comes alive at night. He likes to go for little adventures in his van, stopping at all-night convenience stores and finding a quiet spot to stargaze and smoke, and you’re always pulled along for the ride.

If he goes to bed at a reasonable time, he stays up most of the night, writing down ideas for songs or flipping through magazines. He talks for hours, telling you his ideas for a new campaign or about a fantasy book he's been reading. Eventually you have to lie down and pretend to sleep just to get him to settle. He's mad now, but he'll be grateful in the morning that he's slept, even if it was only for a few hours.

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

Eddie has never shut up once in his life. He tries to act cool and mysterious, but things just keep falling out of his mouth. He can’t help himself around you. You know practically everything about him after about a week of knowing him.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

He’s not the most patient, and he’s easily irritated. Eddie seems to struggle with impulsivity and rigid thinking at the same time. He has difficulty with people changing plans at the last minute, but he also gets bored and distracted easily. He has a bit of a short temper, but it’s never aimed at you. He just doesn't know how to describe how he's feeling in the moment, and it frustrates him.

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

When it comes to studying, Eddie can’t remember shit, but with you? He remembers everything. You mention that you like a certain candy bar and he always has one in his jacket for you (sometimes a little worse for wear, but it’s the thought that counts, right?). If you don’t smoke, he’ll be sure he never does it around you, and if you do, he’ll always have a cigarette spare.

He loves asking you questions, he wants to know everything about you. He might not remember it all, but you can't fault him for his enthusiasm.

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

It’s the little things with Eddie. The first time he gave you a ride home in his van, the time he made you laugh so hard that soda came out of your nose. How you look first thing in the morning, and how you feel lying in his arms when you fall asleep.

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

Eddie tends to end up starting quite a lot of shit (he’s impulsive, sue him), but he’s not so great at finishing it. With you, though, it’d be different. He’d always be the first to come to your defence. He might end up with a black eye and a busted nose by the end of it, but you’ll still call him your knight in shining armour as you help clean him up.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

Eddie’s not so great with dates. Time is constantly getting away from him, and he never seems to know what day it is. Calendars and memo pads lie in forgotten piles in his bedroom. It’s not that he doesn’t care - of course he does - his brain just doesn’t work that way. He’s devised the perfect system, though. He always has a few thoughtful gifts for you stashed away, just in case.

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

Eddie is a messy person. His room, a mess. His van, a mess. His head, a mess. He will certainly make an effort to tidy up more for your sake, but don't expect any miracles.

If you have a specific skincare/hair routine, he'll be fascinated by everything in your bathroom and use way too much of it when he's in the shower. You'll know it was him because he immediately acts like a guilty dog and won't look at you when you bring it up.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

Eddie doesn’t really care how he looks by society's standards, but his look is important to him. He’s spent countless nights meticulously sewing on each of his patches (and he’s got the battle scars on his fingers to prove it). It took him a week to thread a chain through the sleeve of his leather jacket, and while his tattoos might not all have deep meanings, he still sat for hours under the needle for them. He's dedicated, to say the least.

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

While he understands that it’s important for you both to have time away from each other, he’ll still miss you the entire time. He likes telling you about his day, and hearing all about yours. Once you have Eddie, you have him for life.

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

He’s great at impressions, and he’s always does it at the worst times. He’ll crack out a perfect Donald Duck just as you’ve taken a drink (the punch on the shoulder he gets after you choke is well-deserved), or he'll mutter things to you as Elmo in the library while you're trying to study until you both end up being thrown out for laughing so hard.

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

He’s very particular about his music, and if you’re not a metal fan, you’ll have to break the news to him very gently. He won’t like it, but he’ll at least agree to turn it down a little. But only a little.

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habit of theirs?)

Eddie starts off clinging to you like a koala, but eventually he ends up taking up the entirety of the bed until he’s in full starfish mode. He snores on his front, he snores on his back, and it’s hell on Earth to wake him up. He'll then have the audacity to be upset when he finds you the next morning on the floor or couch, because he missed waking up to you next to him.

(banners by @ cafekitsune)

[that-roman-arsonist]

Nero would hear what sounded like… little zaps? Like electricity- gods damnit- was something broken?

The noise was nearby, just around the corner it seemed

FucKING HELL WHY DID THINGS HAVE TO BE BROKEN ALL THE TIME.

He stormed towards the place he heard the zaps from, already so pissed at whoever fucked his shit up so bad that it broke- fucking damnit. He hated it.

[ancient-qveen]

"At the time [1993], we were doing a lot of fire breathing with lamp oil... I ended up with two or three degree burns all across my face" - Ihsahn, The Downbeat podcast 2024

Ihsahn and Samoth fire breathing, Ihsahn in Liverpool 1993

[getaandlucius]

A brief taste of honey (emperor Geta story)

Geta is being held captive by Lucius and becomes sad and depressed after his brother Caracalla gets killed. Someone unexpected (Lucius/Paul Mescal) takes care of him. Fluffy/smutty. Please leave a comment if you want another part 💕

Themes: war, love, male intimacy in the ancient times

Warnings: nudity, a little smutty, fluff and mentioning of depression

On his way back from the training grounds to his private quarters, Lucius encountered Marcella, one of the servants assigned to Geta in his new imprisonment: a spacious room in the south wing.

“Lucius, you can’t be serious,” she protested, ignoring any regard for rank or propriety and grabbed him by his arms. “You’re putting me in a room with him? You might as well throw me into a cage with a wild animal!”

“There are two guards posted outside and two inside,” Lucius replied calmly. “If he lays a finger on you, they will intervene.”

“Why me?” she demanded.

“Because he needs a woman’s touch. No—your touch. You’re a healer, intelligent and empathetic. As vile a person as he may be, and as poor a ruler as he was, he needs that now. I need him to survive and regain his health.” He kept to himself that she was also very beautiful, and knowing Geta appreciated the finer things in life, he hoped he would listen to Marcella's soft words and advice.

“Fine. But if anything happens to me, it’s your conscience.”

“I’m aware,” Lucius replied sincerely.

A week later, Lucius returned from a diplomatic trip to Ostia. His first stop was the south wing to check on Geta’s condition.

To his surprise he found Marcella and Athena sitting outside the room with the guards, working on some needlework.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked, knitting his brows together.

“Oh. He begged us to leave the room,” Marcella replied, straightening her shoulders. “We didn’t protest, to be fair." she added. "We couldn’t bear the crying anymore—well, wailing, really.”

“He’s also refusing to eat—or bathe,” Athena added, wrinkling her nose. “He’s getting rather… pungent.”

Lucius groaned softly. “Has he eaten anything at all?”

“Some fruit, I think. But he complained about the variety offered.”

Lucius nodded grimly and ordered the guards to open the door.

Inside, Geta was perched on the windowsill, his head drooping. When Lucius entered, Geta lifted his face, revealing red, tear-swollen eyes and damp cheeks.

Lucius walked over to the window and stood before him. “What is it that you want, Geta?”

“To die,” Geta replied in a voice still thick with tears.

“No. Anything but that.”

He met Lucius’ gaze. “That’s all I want.”

“Starving yourself won’t bring your brother back,” Lucius said, keeping a safe distance to avoid an outburst.

“No,” Geta murmured, his voice breaking. “But it might bring me to him.”

“Don’t speak like that.”

“Just… leave me alone. I want to be alone,” he replied, voice heavy with exhaustion.

“What you need is a bath.”

“No.”

“You smell.”

“I couldn’t care less.”

Lucius sighed, lifting his hands in the air. “Fine. I’ll leave then." He bent a little forward. "After you drink some water, at least.”

Geta didn’t respond so Lucius fetched a cup, holding it out until Geta finally took it, sipping slowly. Lucius found himself staring at his face, the stark contrast of his eyes against the fairness of his skin and hair. He was such a strange creature to look at.

When the cup was empty, Lucius took it from him. “I’ll return in a few days.”

----

Three days later, Lucius found the room quiet. Marcella and Athene were in the sunroom, reading.

“He’s still asleep,” Marcella warned as Lucius passed by.

It was late in the afternoon. This was a bad sign.

Lucius stepped into the sleeping quarters, his eyes adjusting slowly to the dim light. The air felt heavy with the stillness of sleep. Geta’s right arm hung limply over the edge of the bed, the other tucked beneath his cheek. He was still lost to the world, his features slack and unguarded. The skin of his bare back gleamed pale as marble against the deep blue of the linens, a thin sheet draped over his lower half.

Lucius hesitated, then knelt next to the bed. He reached out to shake Geta’s shoulder gently. His skin was warm under his fingers. When Geta didn’t stir, Lucius shook harder.

“No,” Geta croaked, voice thick with sleep, turning his face away. “Leave.”

“It’s nearly evening,” Lucius said. “You’re going to bathe and then join me for supper.”

“I said no.” He moved to the other side of the bed.

Lucius groaned in frustration. Without warning, he bent over the bed, grasped Geta’s arm, and hauled him toward the edge. Wrapping the sheet more securely around him, he slung Geta over his shoulder.

Geta shrieked and kicked, his protests ringing loudly through the halls, but Lucius held firm. Ignoring the wide-eyed stares of Marcella and Athena, he marched toward the bathing house, taking a shortcut to avoid prying eyes. He had no interest in feeding the gossip that already thrived in Rome.

At the bathhouse, Lucius considered tossing Geta into the water, sheet and all, but thought better of it. He suspected Geta knew not how to swim and didn’t want the hassle of fishing him out. Instead, he set him down firmly on his feet.

Geta clutched the sheet tightly, his eyes darting toward a group of men passing nearby. Lucius followed his gaze and decided to drag him to a smaller, unheated bath at the back, one rarely used by anyone.

“We forgot the cleaning supplies.” Lucius remembered then. “ ’ll fetch some from the servants.” Geta gave a brief nod, and Lucius left.

When he returned with honey, oil, and a soda mixture for his hair, he found Geta had not moved an inch.

"Go on, then," Lucius ordered.

Geta hesitated, clutching the sheet. It made Lucius uncomfortably aware of the situation. Nudity was commonplace in their world, but something about this moment felt strange and a little wrong. Lucius turned his gaze to the wall as Geta let the sheet fall to the ground. After a moment, Geta's hand drifted into view, reaching out for the flask of oil. Lucius handed it over and looked away again as Geta began rubbing it into his skin, wondering to himself why he was still standing there like a statue instead of just leaving him to it.

After a while, Geta placed the flask back into Lucius' hand, but instead of reaching for the strigil, he came closer and stood before him, his back facing him and his head bent forward slightly. Lucius frowned in confusion, then realized that Geta was wordlessly asking for help.

Lucius inhaled sharply and tensed, dropping some oil into his palm. He was well aware that this was not his responsibility. There were male and female servants available who could perform this task. Yet, he found himself dutifully starting to apply the oil to Geta’s skin—beginning at his neck and then moving down between his shoulder blades. He kept his touches clinical, distant, not letting his eyes wander. He was simply helping him, he reminded himself.

As he was working with his hands, he was taken aback by the smoothness of Geta’s skin. It was so unlike his own, softer than most women’s he had touched. It felt like the skin of a peach—easily bruised, and delicate like silk. He applied some pressure, and heard Geta’s breath hitch slightly, as though he feared being hurt. Lucius wanted to tell him it was okay, that he could relax and trust him, but he kept his mouth shut. He let his hand drift lower, reaching Geta's lower spine, where he lingered for a moment -almost shy, not daring to move any further.

When Geta’s back was covered, Lucius took a jar of raw honey and began rubbing it into his skin, mixing it with the oil to moisturize and smoothen it. He then took the bronze strigil and began softly scraping the mixture off.

Lucius swallowed when he reached Geta’s buttocks, awkwardly gliding the copper over his skin, briefly dipping into the crease. He even knelt down to reach Geta’s calves.

No words were exchanged—Geta simply allowed him to do it. When Lucius finished with the back, he handed the strigil and honey to Geta.

“You can reach the rest,” he murmured in a low voice.

Geta met his gaze, and said, "Thank you." There was a strange pride in his air, in the way he held his chin. A new-found confidence, while Lucius' had weakened.

Lucius gave a nod in acknowledgment. "Meet me in the dining hall after you've washed off." He replied and left, cheeks flushed with the intimacy of the moment.

Next part:  Part 4

Thank you for reading! If you’d like to read more: there are two previous parts on my page. If you’d like more parts, please leave a comment 💗

[golden-coven]

I know that there is not a single witch burning in Wethersfield, Connecticut cause every one was hanged, but I wanted to practice drawing fire.

100% brain dead rn frfr

Vertical close up ⬇️

[mocharyc]

Invincible variants x reader Pt. 3✩ ‧ ₊ ˚

♡ Will their sleepy beauty awake from her beauty sleep? ♡

Pt.1 Pt.2 Pt.4

Chapter 3: Beast Within

☆ WC: 9k+ [Part 3] ☆ Author's Note: May have gone a bit crazy with this chapter. It's so hard to capture each character's different voice and personally... but I think, I did it ⸜(ˊᗜˋ)⸝

––––––––––––––––

The Peaceful moment, of just sleepy beauty and him; ended as quickly as it came.

The cabin door crashed open with enough force to splinter the frame, sending wooden fragments scattering across the floor like shrapnel. Framed in the doorway, silhouetted against the predawn light, Sinister Mark's massive form filled the space entirely. His black and yellow suit seemed to absorb what little light touched it, creating the unsettling impression of a human-shaped void with only those gleaming, unnatural eyes breaking through the darkness behind those black lenses. The corners of his mouth twitched upward in that familiar, manic way—the smile of a predator who enjoyed playing with his food.

"Time's up, Mohawk," he purred, his voice carrying a honeyed malice that made the air in the cabin feel suddenly thick and oppressive. His fingers flexed at his sides, the black portions of his suit rippling like living shadows eager to taste blood. "My turn with darling."

Mohawk Mark hadn't moved from his position beside Y/N, his large hand still wrapped protectively around hers. The six hours had passed in a blur of memories and promises whispered to her unconscious form, and he'd made his decision long before Sinister arrived. His shoulders tensed visibly, the muscles in his back coiling like springs as he traced his thumb over Y/N's knuckles one last time.

"Fuck off," Mohawk growled, not bothering to look up. The mohawk that gave him his name stood in defiant spikes, catching the dim light filtering through the cabin's broken window. "She stays with me." The possessiveness in his voice was raw, primal—not the usual cockiness he brandished like a weapon, but something deeper, more vulnerable.

Sinister's lips curved into that signature psychotic grin, teeth too sharp to be fully Viltrumite, glinting in the dim light. The temperature in the cabin seemed to drop several degrees as he stepped inside, closing the damaged door behind him with deliberate gentleness that was somehow more threatening than any slam could have been. His eyes never left Y/N's face, drinking in her features with an intensity that bordered on worship.

"Now, now," Sinister chided, his voice dripping with mock disappointment. "We had an agreement, didn't we? Six hours each. That was the deal." He tilted his head, studying Mohawk with predatory intensity, running his tongue over those too-sharp teeth. "Unless you'd like to renegotiate? I'm always up for a little... physical debate."

The black portions of his suit seemed to writhe and shift subtly, like living shadows eager to be unleashed. The yellow highlights pulsed with an internal light that cast sickly patterns across the cabin walls, transforming the rustic space into something from a nightmare. The wooden floor beneath his feet seemed to darken, as if the very materials of the cabin responded to his corrupted presence.

"Try it," Mohawk challenged, finally looking up, his eyes burning with barely contained rage. He positioned himself more fully between Sinister and Y/N's unconscious form, his blue and black suit a stark contrast to Sinister's darkness. "I'll tear your fucking arms off and beat you to death with them." The statement would have seemed like typical Mohawk bravado to anyone who didn't notice the slight tremor in his hands—not fear, but the effort of restraining himself from launching across the room.

Sinister laughed, the sound like broken glass grinding underfoot. "Such vivid imagery! I've always appreciated your creative spirit, Mohawk." He moved closer, each step measured and deliberate, the floorboards creaking beneath his weight as if in protest. "But let's be realistic. We both know I could rip your soul out through your nostrils if I wanted to." His grin widened impossibly, stretching beyond what should have been physically possible. "And I very much want to."

Before either could move, the cabin door opened again—more controlled this time, but no less commanding. Omni Mark stepped inside, his red and gray suit pristine despite the violence they'd all participated in mere hours ago. His presence immediately dominated the room, calm authority radiating from him in palpable waves. Where Sinister was chaos and Mohawk was raw emotion, Omni was cold calculation wrapped in a veneer of reason.

"Enough," he said simply, his voice carrying the weight of someone used to being obeyed without question. His eyes swept over the scene—Mohawk by Y/N's bedside, Sinister poised for violence, the damaged cabin bearing witness to their territorial squabbling. The tension in the room seemed to bend toward him, like metal filings aligning to a magnet.

"This is beneath us," Omni continued, closing the door behind him. Unlike Sinister's theatrical entrance, Omni's movements were economical, purposeful. He clasped his hands behind his back, standing with military precision.

 "We have a mission that requires cooperation, not petty infighting." His gaze lingered for just a moment on Y/N's unconscious form, something flickering in his eyes—concern, possessiveness, calculation—before it was swiftly buried beneath his composed exterior.

"Tell that to Mohawk," Sinister said, his voice taking on a childish whine that was somehow more disturbing coming from someone who could level mountains. He gestured dramatically toward the bed, his movements fluid and unnaturally graceful. "He's not playing by the rules."

"Rules?" Mohawk scoffed, rising to his full height but never releasing Y/N's hand. His mohawk seemed to bristle with his rising anger, his free hand clenching into a fist that could pulverize steel. 

"Since when do you give a shit about rules? Wasn't it in your universe, you turned an entire kindergarten class inside out because you were bored. You turned their fucking little kids bodies inside OUT!" His voice rose with each word until he was practically shouting, the veins in his neck standing out against his skin.

Something dark flickered across Sinister's face—not guilt, but perhaps irritation at having his actions so casually exposed. "They were defective specimens," he dismissed with a wave of his hand, the black material of his suit rippling with the movement. "I was simply... quality testing." His voice dropped to a purr as his gaze returned to Y/N. "I'm much more careful with the things I truly value."

Omni Mark moved between them, his presence creating a buffer zone in the suddenly too-small cabin. Outside, the first hints of dawn were breaking through the trees, casting long shadows through the broken window that stretched across Y/N's still form like spectral fingers.

"The agreement stands," he stated firmly, his gaze settling on Mohawk. "Six hours each. It's Sinister's turn to watch over her." Though his words were reasonable, there was steel beneath them—the voice of a man who had killed his own father to assume his mantle.

"Not happening," Mohawk insisted, his jaw set in stubborn defiance. His grip on Y/N's hand tightened possessively, his thumb absently stroking her skin. "I found her first. She stays with me." There was something almost childlike in his insistence, a stark contrast to his usual abrasive personality.

"Found her?" Omni's eyebrow raised slightly, the subtle movement speaking volumes. "Or recognized her? There's a difference, one you seem intent on blurring." His voice remained level, but there was an edge to it now—the hint of a threat beneath the reasoned exterior.

Mohawk's face hardened, his grip on Y/N's hand tightening imperceptibly. "What's your point?" The question came out as a snarl, the brief flash of vulnerability vanishing beneath his customary aggression.

"My point," Omni said with maddening patience, stepping closer until he towered over Mohawk despite their identical height, "is that you're confusing this Y/N with your dead girlfriend. They may share a face, but they are not the same person." Each word was precisely calibrated to wound, delivered with surgical precision.

The words hit Mohawk like physical blows, each one landing with accuracy on his most vulnerable spots. He flinched, his face momentarily betraying the raw wound that still festered beneath his brash exterior. For a heartbeat, the swagger and bravado fell away, revealing the broken man beneath.

"Fuck you," he spat, but the words lacked their usual venom, hollowed out by the truth in Omni's assessment. His fingers trembled slightly around Y/N's, as if afraid she might dissolve into nothing if he let go.

Sinister's grin returned, wider than ever, feeding on the emotional distress like a shark scenting blood in the water. He slid closer, moving with that unnatural fluidity that made him seem more shadow than solid. "Oh, did we touch a nerve? Poor baby Mohawk, still crying over spilled girlfriend?" His voice was a singsong mockery, designed to cut deep.

Before anyone could react, Mohawk launched himself at Sinister, releasing Y/N's hand for the first time in hours. His fist connected with Sinister's jaw with a thunderclap sound that shook the cabin's foundations, sending both of them crashing through the already damaged wall and into the clearing outside. The impact sent splinters of wood flying in all directions, the cabin itself groaning in protest at the abuse.

Omni didn't move to stop them, simply sighing as if dealing with particularly troublesome children. He glanced down at Y/N, still miraculously unconscious despite the chaos erupting around her. The black lenses of his mask kept his emotions sealed away, but he couldn't help but admire the dawn light caught on her features, highlighting the delicate arch of her cheekbones, the fan of her eyelashes against her skin, the beautiful texturing of her face.

His gaze lingered on the angry red burn around her neck where the collar had chafed, and something tightened in his chest—an unfamiliar sensation he couldn't immediately identify. The urge to reach out, to trace those marks with his fingertips, to soothe the damaged skin, caught him off guard with its intensity. In his universe, weakness was something to be despised, eliminated, she was weak. Yet seeing Y/N injured sparked not contempt but a fierce, protective impulse that both confused and disturbed him.

Outside, the sounds of combat intensified—trees splintering, earth trembling, the distinctive crack of breaking bones followed by inhuman howls of pain and rage. Omni moved to the broken wall, watching dispassionately as Mohawk and Sinister tore into each other with abandon, each blow powerful enough to level city blocks. Mohawk fought with raw fury, his attacks wild but devastating, while Sinister moved like liquid darkness, his laughter echoing through the forest despite the blood streaming from his mouth.

"Predictable," Omni murmured, shaking his head slightly. His attention returned to Y/N, studying her with calculating intensity. In his universe, he'd never had a Y/N—had never allowed himself such a weakness, such an obvious pressure point for enemies to exploit. But looking at her now, he could understand the appeal. The vulnerability. The humanity she represented.

A movement at the treeline caught his attention—a flash of white, there and gone so quickly it might have been imagination. But Omni knew better. His enhanced vision had captured the distinctive white uniform of Viltrumite Mark, watching from the shadows of the forest, a predator biding his time.

Interesting, Omni thought. So the old man isn't out destroying cities with the others. He's keeping watch.

The realization shifted his mental calculations. If Viltrumite was this invested already, the dynamics between the eight of them would grow even more complicated than anticipated. Another contender for Y/N's attention. Another threat to manage.

A particularly violent crash from outside drew his attention back to the fight. Sinister had Mohawk pinned against a massive pine, one hand wrapped around his throat while the other formed into something like a blade, poised to plunge into Mohawk's chest. Sinister's face was a mask of ecstasy, as if Mohawk's suffering was the sweetest nectar.

"Enough!" Omni commanded, his voice carrying effortlessly across the clearing, echoing through the trees with supernatural projection.

Both combatants froze, their heads turning in unison toward the cabin. Sinister's face was split in a rictus of joy, dark red leaking from a cut on his cheek, his black and yellow suit torn in places to reveal unnaturally pale skin beneath. Mohawk looked worse for wear, his mohawk completely flattened, one eye swollen shut, blood streaming from his nose and split lip, but still burning with defiance.

"He started it," Sinister whined, not loosening his grip on Mohawk's throat. His blade-hand hovered centimeters from Mohawk's chest, trembling slightly with restrained violence.

"And I'm ending it," Omni replied coldly, stepping through the ragged hole in the cabin wall. "Release him. Now." The command brooked no argument, delivered with the absolute authority of someone accustomed to having his every word obeyed.

For a moment, it seemed Sinister might refuse—might drive that blade-hand into Mohawk's chest just to prove he could, consequences be damned. But something in Omni's stance, in the quiet certainty of his command, made even Sinister hesitate.

With visible reluctance, he lowered Mohawk to the ground and stepped back, his suit rippling with barely contained violence. The blade melted back into a hand, though the fingers remained unnaturally elongated, twitching with bloodlust.

"Spoilsport," he muttered, but the killing edge had faded from his voice, replaced with childish petulance.

Mohawk massaged his throat, spitting a glob of blood onto the forest floor. The crimson splatter stood out stark against the loamy earth, a testament to the violence that always seemed to follow in their wake. "This isn't fucking over," he promised Sinister, already pushing himself upright despite his injuries, his battered pride more wounded than his body.

"I certainly hope not," Sinister replied with a wink that somehow managed to be both flirtatious and threatening. "I was just getting started." He licked his lips, tasting Mohawk's blood that had splattered there, savoring it like fine wine.

Omni stepped fully through the broken wall, moving to stand between them once more. "We need to establish some ground rules," he stated firmly. 

"This childish territorial behavior stops now. We have a mission—first we remove Y/N's collar without killing her, when she walks we can use her to access GDA's central database." His tone was that of a general outlining a battle plan, brooking no argument.

"And after?" Mohawk demanded, his gaze darting between Omni and the cabin where Y/N still lay unconscious. Blood dripped from his chin, spattering his blue and black suit, but he seemed not to notice, all his focus on Y/N's fate.

A slight smile curved Omni's lips. "After, we'll discuss arrangements. But for now—" He turned to face the treeline directly, raising his voice slightly. "Why don't you join us, Viltrumite? Lurking in shadows doesn't suit a man of your... stature."

A tense silence followed, broken only by the sounds of forest wildlife beginning their morning routines, oblivious to the godlike beings in their midst. Then, with deliberate slowness, a figure emerged from between the ancient pines.

Viltrumite Mark moved with the confidence of someone who had never known true defeat. His white uniform gleamed in the early morning light, pristine despite the forest surroundings, the material somehow repelling even the morning dew. Unlike the others, who wore their power like a threat or a shield, Viltrumite carried his like birthright—unquestioned, absolute. His posture was military-straight, chin raised in perpetual superiority, eyes cold and assessing beneath hooded lids.

"Omni," he acknowledged with a slight inclination of his head. His eyes flicked dismissively over Mohawk and Sinister before returning to Omni. "I see your babysitting duties are keeping you occupied." There was just the faintest curl of contempt in his tone, the barest hint of a sneer playing at the corner of his mouth.

Sinister hissed, the sound more reptilian than human, his suit rippling in response to his agitation. Mohawk's fists clenched at his sides, knuckles cracking loudly, fresh blood welling from his split knuckles.

"Merely maintaining order," Omni replied smoothly, unruffled by the implied slight. "Though I'm curious why you're here instead of razing cities on this planet with the others." His tone was conversational, but his stance had shifted subtly—more alert, ready for whatever came next.

Viltrumite's expression remained impassive, but something calculating flickered in his eyes. "Emperor and Prisoner were enthusiastic enough for all of us. I thought my time might be better spent... observing." He glanced toward the cabin, and though his face revealed nothing, his eyes lingered just a fraction too long on the gap in the wall where Y/N's unconscious form was just visible on the bed inside.

"Spying, you mean," Mohawk accused bluntly, wiping blood from his chin with the back of his hand. The morning light caught the scarlet smear, making it gleam wetly against his skin. "You're not fooling anyone with your superior act, old man."

Viltrumite barely spared him a glance, regarding him with the casual disdain one might show an insect. "Call it what you will. I prefer to know what pieces are in play before committing to a strategy." The way he stood—perfectly still, unnaturally composed—made him seem more like a statue than a living being, save for the calculating intelligence that burned behind his eyes.

"Pieces?" Mohawk's voice rose dangerously, his battered face contorting with fresh rage. The blood vessels in his neck stood out like ropes as he took a threatening step forward. "She's not a fucking chess piece, she's—"

"A resource," Viltrumite cut him off coldly, finally deigning to look directly at Mohawk. "One we need alive and cooperative. Your emotional attachment is..." His lip curled slightly, the first real expression to crack his marble façade. "Inefficient."

Before Mohawk could launch himself at yet another Mark, a faint sound from inside the cabin froze them all—a soft moan, barely audible, but to their enhanced hearing, it might as well have been a thunderclap.

As one, they turned toward the cabin, all pretense of disinterest abandoned. Even Viltrumite's carefully maintained indifference cracked, something hungry flashing across his features before he could suppress it—and beneath that hunger, something softer, almost vulnerable, that vanished so quickly it might have been a trick of the morning light.

"She's waking up," Sinister breathed, his voice dropping to an almost reverent whisper. The manic energy that typically animated his every movement stilled suddenly, replaced by an intense focus that was somehow more disturbing than his usual chaos.

For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then, as if released from a starting gate, all four marks surged toward the cabin—Mohawk and Sinister actually colliding in their haste to be first through the broken wall, Omni and Viltrumite close behind, their usual dignity forgotten in their eagerness to witness Y/N's awakening.

Inside, Y/N's eyelids fluttered, her breathing pattern changing as consciousness began to return. Her fingers twitched against the sheets, her head turning slightly on the pillow as awareness slowly filtered back. A grimace of pain crossed her features even before her eyes fluttered open, her body registering the damage before her mind fully awakened.

Mohawk shoved past Sinister, reaching the bedside first by mere inches. He dropped to his knees beside her, his expression a complex mixture of hope, fear, and naked longing that would have shocked anyone who knew only his brash exterior. Blood still dripped from his injuries, but he seemed entirely unaware of his own condition, all his attention focused on Y/N's awakening.

"Y/N?" he whispered, his normally abrasive voice gentled to something almost tender. The transformation was jarring—like watching a hurricane suddenly calm to a gentle breeze. "Can you hear me?"

Sinister crowded in beside him, his grin feral with anticipation. "Wake up, little one," he crooned, the sound somehow both soothing and deeply unsettling, like a lullaby sung by a demon. His hand hovered just above her cheek, not quite touching, as if savoring the moment before contact. "We have so much to discuss."

Omni and Viltrumite maintained a slight distance, both too controlled to show the same naked eagerness as the others, but their intensity was no less palpable. Omni's hands were clasped behind his back so tightly his knuckles had whitened, the only visible sign of his internal struggle. His eyes never left Y/N's face, cataloging every flicker of expression, every micro-movement as consciousness returned.

Viltrumite stood perfectly still, his breathing barely perceptible, yet there was an almost palpable aura of anticipation surrounding him. The usual cold superiority in his eyes had warmed to something more complex—a mixture of calculation, desire, and proprietary interest that transformed his entire demeanor.

The small cabin seemed to shrink around them, the air growing thick with tension and expectation. The morning light spilling through the gaps in the walls caught dust motes dancing in the air, creating an almost surreal atmosphere around the tableau of identical men gathered around the bed.

Y/N's eyes opened fully at last, unfocused at first, blinking rapidly against the light. A soft whimper of pain escaped her as she tried to move, her body clearly registering the full extent of her injuries from the previous day's battle. Bruises blossomed across her visible skin in violent purples and yellows, and dried blood matted a section of her hair where she'd taken a particularly brutal hit.

Her gaze slowly focused on the impossible sight before her—four identical faces with wildly different expressions, all staring down at her with varying degrees of possession and hunger.

Her lips parted, and the four Marks leaned forward slightly, each desperate to hear her first words in this strange new reality they'd thrust her into.

"What..." Her voice emerged hoarse, rusty from disuse and the trauma of the collar. She swallowed painfully, wincing as the motion irritated the raw skin of her neck, her hand instinctively rising to touch the injury before falling back weakly to the bed. "What the fuck is going on?"

Mohawk's face split into a genuine grin, a bark of laughter escaping him that seemed to contain equal parts relief and delight. "That's my girl," he said softly, the possessive pronoun slipping out before he could stop it. His smile faltered slightly as he realized his mistake, but the pride in his eyes remained undimmed.

Y/N's eyes narrowed, focusing specifically on him. She tried to push herself up on her elbows but collapsed back with a hiss of pain, her muscles trembling with the effort. Recognition flickered across her features—not of him personally, but of the situation, memories rushing back in a disorienting flood.

"You," she managed, her voice strengthening slightly despite the raw pain evident in every syllable. "All of you. The bridge. The fighting." Her eyes immediately widened, her hand rose with more strength this time, instinctively to her neck, fingers tracing the burn left by the collar. Every movement was clearly agonizing, her body a map of pain from the confrontation. "You took me."

"Rescued," Viltrumite corrected smoothly, stepping closer. His white uniform caught the light, creating an almost halo-like effect that contrasted sharply with the cold authority in his voice. "The term is rescued, my dear." The endearment sounded strange coming from him—formal, archaic, yet undeniably possessive.

Y/N's gaze shifted to him, taking in the white uniform, the authoritative stance. Her breath caught momentarily, a flash of something like recognition crossing her features, but not the kind any of them hoped for—this was recognition of danger, of power unchecked by conscience. She shrank back against the pillows, her body language screaming distrust despite her weakened state.

"Kidnapped," she countered, voice firm despite her obvious weakness. Every word seemed to cost her, but her eyes blazed with defiance.

"The term is fucking kidnapped." She attempted once more to sit up, her face contorting with pain as her abused muscles protested.

Omni made an aborted movement toward her, his hand extending slightly before he caught himself and resumed his rigid posture. The brief slip in his composure did not go unnoticed by the others—Sinister's grin widened knowingly, and Viltrumite's eyes narrowed with calculation.

Sinister laughed delightedly, clapping his hands together like a child at a particularly entertaining show. "Oh, she has spirit! I like this one even more now." His eyes gleamed with manic enthusiasm, his entire body vibrating with barely contained energy. "So much more fun when they fight back."

Y/N struggled again to sit up, her muscles protesting after hours of unconsciousness and the brutal beating she'd endured. Sweat beaded on her forehead from the effort, her teeth gritted against the pain that clearly radiated through every limb. Mohawk moved to help her, but she flinched away from his touch, eyes wide with distrust.

"Don't," she warned, the single syllable sharp with fear and determination. Her hand raised weakly in a warding gesture, trembling with the effort.

Mohawk froze, his hand suspended in midair, something raw and wounded flashing across his features before he could mask it. The rejection hit him visibly, like a physical blow, cracking through his usual bravado. He withdrew slowly, jaw clenching, shoulders hunching slightly inward in a defensive posture that betrayed his hurt.

"We're not going to hurt you," Omni said, his voice calm and reasonable—the voice of a man used to being believed. Yet beneath that reasonable tone lurked something else—concern, genuine and unexpected. His gaze lingered on her trembling form, on the visible evidence of her suffering, and something in his expression softened fractionally. "We need your help."

"My help?" Y/N repeated incredulously, looking from one Mark to the next. Her laugh was bitter, ending in a wince as the movement jarred her injured ribs. "You killed people. I saw you. On the bridge, in the city." Her voice rose slightly, cracking with emotion. "You're monsters."

Sinister preened at this, as if she'd paid him a compliment, running his hands down his suit in a gesture of mock modesty. "You flatter me, darling." His tongue flicked out, unnaturally long, wetting his lips in a gesture that was deliberately provocative.

Viltrumite's expression remained impassive, not bothering to deny or justify the slaughter. In his world, such casualties were beneath notice, unworthy of acknowledgment.

Omni had the grace to look slightly troubled, a frown creasing his brow momentarily before his face smoothed back to careful neutrality. "Regrettable but necessary casualties," he said, the words practiced, as if recited from a script he'd used many times before.

But it was Mohawk's reaction that caught her attention—a flinch, subtle but unmistakable, as if her words had struck a physical blow. His eyes dropped, unable to meet her accusing gaze. "Not all of us," he muttered, not meeting her eyes. "Some of us just... got caught up in the wrong crowd." The excuse sounded hollow even to his own ears, his usual swagger entirely absent.

Sinister snorted derisively, the sound oddly wet and inhuman. "Please. You tore through groups of civilians like tissue paper, laughing. Don't pretend you're any better than the rest of us." His grin was knife-sharp, delighting in exposing Mohawk's hypocrisy. "I still remember that mother and child—how you separated them with one punch. Such beautiful screams."

"At least I'm not proud of it," Mohawk shot back, eyes still fixed on Y/N's face, drinking in her features with desperate intensity. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, yearning to reach for her yet respecting the boundary she'd established.

Y/N pushed herself further up against the headboard, each movement a study in agony, her face pale and drawn with pain and shock. She tried to put as much distance between herself and the four identical men as the small bed would allow. Her eyes darted between them, calculating, assessing—looking for weaknesses, for differences, for any advantage she might use.

"Why me?" she finally asked, her voice steadier now despite the rasp. One hand cradled her ribs protectively, while the other braced against the headboard for support. "What do you want?"

The four Marks exchanged glances, a silent communication passing between them—perhaps the first moment of genuine unity since they'd arrived in this universe.

"First we wanted more universes for ourselves, but now. We need the collar," Omni explained, gesturing toward her neck, then to his hand where he was holding the torn piece of metal. "It contains access codes to the GDA's central database. Information we need. I believe you can only access it." His tone was businesslike, but his eyes lingered on the angry burns circling her throat with an expression that might almost have been concern.

Y/N's hand flew to her neck again, fingertips tracing the raised, angry flesh where the metal had burned her. "This? T-that was a security measure! It doesn't hold anything–! " Disbelief colored her voice as she explored the extent of the damage, wincing as her fingers encountered particularly sensitive areas.

"One they were willing to let kill you rather than have it fall into the wrong hands," Viltrumite added, his voice carrying a note of genuine disgust. "Humans. Always ready to sacrifice their own." Despite his contemptuous words, there was something almost protective in his stance as he watched her—the tension in his shoulders, the slight forward tilt of his body, as if ready to catch her should she fall.

Something flashed in Y/N's eyes at his dismissive tone—a spark of defiance, of anger cutting through the pain and fear. "And what would you know about sacrifice? You're not even from this universe." Each word was delivered with precision despite her weakened state, targeting Viltrumite's obvious superiority complex.

Viltrumite's carefully controlled expression slipped for just a moment, revealing something ancient and pained beneath—a wound so deep and well-guarded that its brief exposure was shocking. "More than you might imagine," he said softly, surprising even himself with the admission. For just an instant, the marble façade cracked, revealing a glimpse of the man beneath the imperial bearing.

The atmosphere in the cabin shifted subtly, charged with unspoken histories. Outside, the forest had fully awakened, birds calling to each other in the morning light that streamed through the broken wall and shattered window, creating a surreal backdrop to the tense scene within.

Y/N looked between them again, her gaze settling on each Mark in turn, noting the differences in their expressions, their postures, the way they carried themselves despite wearing the same face. Her analytical scrutiny was impressive given her condition—strength of mind persisting despite her body's weakness.

"So what happens now?" she asked, her voice carrying a forced calm, but the tremor in her hands betrayed her fear. A light sheen of sweat covered her forehead from the effort of remaining upright, her breathing shallow and carefully controlled to minimize the pain in her ribs. "You remove this collar, get your information, and then what? Kill me? Let me go?"

"Kill you?" Mohawk looked genuinely horrified at the suggestion, recoiling physically as if she'd struck him. "No one's fucking killing you." The words burst from him with such raw sincerity that even Sinister's mocking grin faltered momentarily.

"We wouldn't waste such a valuable resource," Viltrumite stated pragmatically, earning a murderous glare from Mohawk. His choice of words was deliberately cold, but there was something in his eyes that contradicted his tone—a possessiveness that went beyond mere utility.

"What my less eloquent companions are trying to say," Omni interjected smoothly, stepping forward slightly, "is that your welfare is of concern to us." His voice was measured, reasonable—the voice of a negotiator, a leader. Yet beneath that calm exterior, something protective lurked, evident in the way his eyes continually assessed her injuries, cataloging each wince, each labored breath.

Sinister's grin widened impossibly. "Some more than others," he purred, eyes glittering with malicious amusement. He circled behind Mohawk, moving with that unnatural fluid grace, like a predator stalking its prey. "Our Mohawk here knew another you in his universe. She died. Very tragic. He's been crying about it for... how long has it been now? Eighteen months, two weeks, and four days?" The precise count was designed to wound, and it found its mark perfectly.

"Shut the fuck up," Mohawk snarled, half-rising from his position beside the bed. His fists clenched so tightly that fresh blood welled between his knuckles, dripping unnoticed to the rough wooden floor.

Y/N's eyes widened, her gaze fixing on Mohawk with new understanding. The pain of her physical injuries momentarily forgotten in the face of this revelation. "Is that true?" Her voice had softened slightly, the first hint of something other than fear or defiance entering her tone.

Mohawk looked away, unable to meet her eyes, the vulnerability in his expression a stark contrast to his aggressive posture. The usually arrogant set of his shoulders slumped, his mohawk seeming to droop along with his spirits. "It's complicated." The words were barely audible, forced through a throat tight with suppressed emotion.

"Oh, it's not complicated at all," Sinister continued, reveling in the discomfort he was causing. He circled behind Mohawk like a predator stalking wounded prey, his movements fluid and unnatural—too smooth to be human because he wasn't, he was a god in his eyes. The black portions of his suit seemed to absorb what little light touched them, creating shifting shadows that danced across his form. "She died in his arms. Blood everywhere. Very messy." His eyes gleamed with malicious delight, pupils dilating slightly at the memory of violence. "He's been a mess ever since. And now he thinks you're his second chance."

He leaned closer to Y/N, the temperature around him dropping several degrees as he moved. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, sweet as honey yet laced with poison. "He's not the only one with a history, though. We've all got our little... attachments."

The air in the cabin seemed to thicken with tension, dust motes frozen in the thin beams of sunlight breaking through the damaged walls. Y/N's labored breathing was painfully audible in the silence that followed.

"Enough," Omni commanded, steel beneath his reasonable tone. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, the only outward sign of the emotion roiling beneath his controlled exterior. His eyes flickered briefly to Y/N's form—noting how she struggled to stay upright, the way her arms trembled with the effort of supporting her weight, the shallow rise and fall of her chest as she tried to breathe through obvious pain. His fingers twitched at his sides, the urge to go to her, to support her battered body, to examine her injuries with his own hands nearly overwhelming his carefully maintained composure.

Y/N's gaze shifted to him, newly curious despite the pain etched into her features. Each movement sent fresh waves of agony through her battered form, yet her eyes remained sharp, analytical. "What does he mean?" Blood had dried in her hairline, and bruises in various stages of development created a map of violence across her visible skin. When she shifted, a barely suppressed whimper escaped her lips.

Omni maintained his stoic expression, but something flickered behind his eyes—a shadow of memory, grief carefully controlled and compartmentalized. His posture remained rigid, hands clasped behind his back so tightly his knuckles whitened. "It's irrelevant to our current situation." The words were clipped, precise, but lacked his usual authoritative conviction.

"Oh, I don't think it's irrelevant at all," Sinister crooned, moving like liquid shadow to circle behind Omni. His grin stretched wider than should have been physically possible, teeth gleaming unnaturally sharp in the dim light. "Tell her about your Y/N, Omni. The one who wasted away while you watched, helpless." His voice took on a sing-song quality, the cadence wrong, inhuman. "All your power, all your control, and you couldn't save her from something as simple as cancer. How your father watched you break, decided you were too weak, too emotional." His tongue flicked out, tasting the pain his words caused. "How you proved him wrong by ripping him apart."

Omni's jaw tightened further, a muscle jumping at his temple—the only visible sign of the rage building inside him. His red and gray suit seemed to darken with his mood, the shadows in the cabin deepening around him. "I said enough." The temperature in the cabin dropped several degrees with those three words.

But Y/N was looking at him differently now, seeing past the calm authority to something vulnerable beneath. Each breath clearly caused her pain, yet she leaned forward slightly, wincing as the movement pulled at her injured ribs. "You lost someone too," she said softly, not a question but a realization. Blood had crusted at the corner of her mouth, her lips cracked and dry.

"We all did," Viltrumite said unexpectedly, drawing everyone's attention. He stood perfectly still, his white uniform catching the morning light, making him appear almost luminous against the rustic backdrop of the cabin. His imperial bearing seemed at odds with the weathered walls around him, like a marble statue placed in a garden shed. "In different ways." His voice carried the weight of centuries, of losses cataloged and filed away but never truly forgotten.

Sinister's grin was practically predatory now, delighting in pulling back the curtain on each of their carefully guarded pasts. He bounced on the balls of his feet, the manic energy within him impossible to contain. "Oh yes, tell her your story, old man. About how daddy dearest killed your precious human pet when you tried to bring her into the empire." His voice dripped with false sympathy, each word carefully chosen to cause maximum damage.

Viltrumite's face remained impassive, but his eyes—those were different now, burning with a cold fury that made the temperature in the cabin seem to drop further. The frost in his gaze could have frozen oceans. "She wasn't a pet," he said, each word precise, controlled, yet containing the force of avalanches. "She was mine. And my father took her from me because she was human. Weak. Unworthy of the empire." His gaze fixed on Y/N with uncomfortable intensity, drinking in her features with possessive hunger. "But you're different. You have Viltrumite blood, however diluted. You're stronger. You could survive."

Y/N stared at him, a chill running down her spine at the implication in his words. She tried to push herself further upright but collapsed back with a pained gasp, her body simply too damaged to obey her commands. Sweat beaded on her forehead from the effort, her skin ashen beneath the bruises and dirt. "Survive what?" The question emerged as little more than a whisper, her throat raw from the collar's damage.

"The empire, of course," Viltrumite answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. His posture shifted almost imperceptibly, leaning toward her like a planet drawn to a sun. "Where you belong. At my side." The possessiveness in his tone was absolute, brooking no argument or alternative.

"That's not happening," Mohawk growled, shoving himself between Y/N and Viltrumite. His mohawk seemed to bristle with his rising anger, like the hackles of a threatened animal. He bared his teeth in a feral snarl, blood still dripping from his split lip, giving him a savage appearance. "She's not going anywhere with you." Despite his aggressive stance, when he glanced back at Y/N, his expression softened momentarily, eyes lingering on her injuries with poorly disguised concern.

"She's not going anywhere with any of you," a new voice interrupted, and all heads turned toward the broken wall.

Phantom Mark stood there, his translucent suit catching the light in eerie, otherworldly patterns that seemed to bend reality around him. Unlike the others, his expression was solemn, almost sad, as he surveyed the scene before him. His eyes lingered on Y/N's battered form, something like regret flickering across his features before it was swiftly buried.

"The others are coming back," he announced, his voice echoing slightly as though coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. "Emperor and No-Mask have finished their fun in the city." His lip curled slightly at the word 'fun,' a brief flash of disapproval breaking through his ghostly demeanor. "Prisoner is on his way too."

Sinister clapped his hands together with childish glee, the sound unnaturally sharp in the tense atmosphere. His entire body vibrated with excitement, the black portions of his suit rippling in response. "Oh, the gang's all here! This should be interesting." He rubbed his hands together, the motion too quick, too eager—a child anticipating a particularly enjoyable game.

Y/N's face had gone pale, her eyes fixed on Phantom, the little color that remained draining from her cheeks. Her breathing quickened, pulling painfully at her damaged ribs, each inhalation a struggle. "How many cities did you destroy?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, yet it cut through the cabin like a blade.

Phantom had the grace to look away, unable to meet her accusatory gaze. The translucent portions of his suit seemed to dim, absorbing rather than reflecting the morning light that tried to touch it. "Enough." The single word carried a weight of unspoken justifications and buried guilt.

"Enough?" she repeated, her voice rising with incredulity despite the pain it clearly caused her. Her hands clenched in the rough blanket beneath her, knuckles whitening with the force of her grip. "People are dead because of you—all of you—and that's all you can say? 'Enough'?" Each word seemed to cost her, pain flashing across her features, yet her eyes blazed with righteous fury.

"Collateral damage," Viltrumite dismissed with a small wave of his hand, the gesture imperious, accustomed to wiping away concerns beneath his notice. His white uniform seemed to glow brighter in the shaft of sunlight that fell across him, creating an almost holy aura that contrasted sharply with the callousness of his words. "Inconsequential in the larger scheme."

"Inconsequential?" Y/N's voice cracked, rage and grief warring in her expression. She pushed herself upright despite the obvious agony it caused her, one arm wrapped protectively around her ribs, the other braced against the headboard for support. Blood had begun to seep through her shirt where wounds had reopened with her movement. "They were people! With families, with lives, with—"

"With an expiration date," Sinister cut in, his voice suddenly cold, all playfulness gone. His eyes darkened, pupils expanding until they nearly swallowed the irises. "All humans die, darling. Today, tomorrow, sixty years from now—what difference does it make? We just... accelerated the inevitable." He licked his lips slowly, savoring her reaction like a fine wine.

The casual cruelty of his statement hung in the air like poison, and something shifted in Y/N's expression—fear giving way to a different emotion entirely. Determination. Resolve. She straightened as much as her battered body would allow, a fresh trickle of blood making its way down her temple from a reopened wound.

"You're all monsters," she said again, but this time there was no fear in her voice, only certainty. The morning light caught in her eyes, igniting them with inner fire despite her physical weakness. "Every single one of you."

Mohawk winced, the words hitting him harder than any physical blow could. His shoulders hunched inward, his usual aggressive posture crumpling like paper. "Y/N, it's not—we're not all—" His voice cracked, unusual vulnerability breaking through his abrasive exterior. For a moment, the dangerous predator vanished, replaced by someone broken, desperate for understanding.

"Save it," she cut him off coldly, though her gaze lingered on him a moment longer than the others. "I don't care what version of you lost what version of me. I am not her. I will never be her. And I will never, ever help any of you after what you've done." Each declaration was punctuated by a labored breath, her body trembling with the effort of remaining upright, yet her resolve never wavered.

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the distant sounds of forest life continuing on, oblivious to the drama unfolding within the cabin's walls. Y/N's ragged breathing seemed unnaturally loud in the stillness, each painful inhalation a reminder of her mortality among these godlike beings.

Then Sinister started to laugh—a low, dangerous sound that built steadily, filling the small space with malevolent mirth. The sound was wrong, inhuman, echoing in impossible ways. "Oh, you think you have a choice," he said when his laughter finally subsided, wiping an imaginary tear from his eye. "That's adorable." The word dripped with condescension and dark promise.

He moved toward her with preternatural speed, faster than the others could react. The black portions of his suit seemed to extend and flow as he moved, like living shadows eager for the kill. His hand shot out, grabbing her chin in a grip that was just shy of crushing, forcing her to look directly into his face. The contrast of his black glove against her skin made her appear even more fragile, more human.

"Let me tell you about my Y/N," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper that somehow carried to every corner of the room. His face was inches from hers, his breath caressing her skin like a poisonous fog. "She was human too. Fragile. Breakable. But she was mine, and I cherished her in my own way. Played with her. Sometimes too rough." His grin widened, showing too many teeth, sharp and gleaming in the dim light. "But she loved it. Or learned to. Until a hero decided to 'rescue' her from me."

His grip tightened slightly, and Y/N couldn't suppress a small sound of pain. Fresh bruises began forming under his fingers, blooming like dark flowers on her skin. "Know what happened then? This 'hero' killed her right in front of me. Said she was 'tainted' by her association with me. Too far gone to save. Put his hand right through her chest." Sinister mimicked the motion with his free hand, making a brutal tearing gesture that displaced the air with an audible whoosh. "That was the day I learned what I really was. What I was capable of." The black parts of his suit seemed to writhe with the memory, responding to his emotions like a living extension of his being.

"Let. Her. Go." Mohawk's voice was deadly quiet, his entire body coiled like a spring ready to release. The blue and black of his suit seemed to darken with his rage, the bruises on his face standing out in stark relief against his pale skin. His hands had formed into fists so tight that fresh blood welled between his knuckles, dripping unnoticed to the rough wooden floor.

Sinister ignored him, his eyes never leaving Y/N's. The pupils had expanded unnaturally beneath his black lenses, almost hypnotic in their intensity. "You think you know what monsters are? You haven't seen anything yet, darling. But you will. And you will help us, whether you want to or not. Because the alternative..." His voice trailed off, the threat clear in his gleaming eyes, his thumb brushing almost tenderly across her cheekbone, leaving a smear of blood in its wake.

"That's enough," Omni said, his voice carrying the weight of command. He took a step forward, red and gray suit catching the light differently now, seeming to absorb it rather than reflect it. The temperature around him dropped perceptibly, frost forming on the wooden floor where he stood. "Release her, Sinister. Now." Each word fell like a hammer blow, precise and devastating.

For a moment, it seemed Sinister might refuse. The black portions of his suit rippled with anticipation, reaching toward Y/N like hungry tentacles. Then, with deliberate slowness, he uncurled his fingers from Y/N's chin, leaving angry red marks that would soon bloom into bruises. His fingertips lingered a moment too long, trailing down her jaw with possessive intimacy.

"As you wish," he said with exaggerated courtesy, stepping back with a theatrical bow. "For now." The promise of later hung in the air between them, dark and inevitable.

Y/N's hand went to her chin, rubbing the sore spots where his fingers had dug in. Her eyes blazed with a mixture of fear and defiance as she looked around at the gathered Marks. Despite her obvious pain—the way her breath caught when she moved too quickly, the subtle tremor in her limbs from exhaustion and trauma—her spine remained straight, her gaze unwavering.

"I will never help you," she repeated, each word deliberate and clear despite her raw throat. Blood had begun to seep through the fabric at her side, her injuries reopening with each movement. "Not willingly."

"Then we'll have to persuade you," came another voice from the doorway, this one hard and imperious, cutting through the tension like a blade.

Emperor Mark stood there, resplendent in his yellow and blue-gray uniform, the very picture of regal authority. Sunlight caught on the golden accents of his suit, creating a corona around his imposing figure. His stance was wide, commanding, a ruler accustomed to immediate obedience. Behind him loomed No-Mask, his unmarked face a stark contrast to his blood-spattered uniform, eyes cold and distant, as if still seeing the destruction he'd left behind.

"Persuasion takes many forms," Emperor continued, stepping into the already crowded cabin with easy confidence. His boots left imprints in the wooden floor, such was the weight of his presence. His eyes settled on Y/N with the calculated interest of a collector assessing a rare acquisition. "Not all of them unpleasant."

"Some of them very pleasant indeed," Sinister added with a lascivious wink that made Y/N's skin crawl visibly. His tongue flicked out, unnaturally long, wetting his lips in a deliberately provocative gesture.

Mohawk growled low in his throat, positioning himself more firmly between Y/N and the newcomers. His mohawk stood in rigid spikes, as if electrified by his anger. Blood still dripped from his various wounds, but he seemed entirely unaware of his injuries, every sense focused on protecting the woman behind him. "Back off, Emperor. She's been through enough." His voice was rough gravel, yet beneath the hostility lay something almost tender when referring to Y/N.

Emperor looked down at him with thinly veiled contempt, one eyebrow arched in aristocratic disdain. The golden highlights of his uniform caught the light as he shifted, casting imperial patterns across the cabin's weathered walls. "Your attachment is clouding your judgment, Mohawk. This isn't about her comfort. It's about what we need." He spoke with the absolute certainty of one who had never been denied, each syllable weighted with unquestioned authority.

"And what we need," Omni interjected smoothly, stepping forward with calculated precision, "is her cooperation. Which we won't get through intimidation or coercion." The reasonable tone couldn't entirely mask the steel beneath his words. His eyes flickered to Y/N again, noting how the color had drained from her face, how each breath seemed to cost her. Something in his rigid posture softened minutely. "We can give you time. To adjust. To understand the situation. But make no mistake—one way or another, we will access that collar."

Y/N looked around at the seven Marks now crowding the small cabin, each wearing the same face but with wildly different expressions—from Sinister's malevolent glee to Mohawk's desperate protectiveness, from Emperor's cold calculation to Phantom's resigned sadness. The morning light caught different aspects of each of them—glinting off Emperor's golden accents, absorbed by the shadows of Sinister's suit, highlighting the blood still wet on No-Mask's uniform.

For the first time since waking, genuine fear flickered across her features, breaking through her defiant facade. One Mark she might have had a chance against. Two, possibly, if she was clever. But seven, with an eighth somewhere nearby? The odds were impossible. A tremor ran through her battered body, visible to all with their enhanced vision, a painful reminder of her humanity among these godlike beings.

"One day," she finally said, her voice quiet but firm despite the pain evident in every syllable. She swallowed hard, wincing as the motion aggravated her damaged throat, the burns from the collar angry and raw against her skin. "Give me one day to... process this. Then we'll talk about the collar."

The Marks exchanged glances, a silent communication passing between them—calculation, consideration, desire—all focused on the battered woman before them.

"One day," Omni agreed, speaking for the group, his voice carrying the weight of a contract signed in blood. "Starting now."

Y/N nodded slowly, her movements careful, measured against the pain that clearly radiated through every fiber of her being. Her mind was visibly racing behind those defiant eyes, looking for angles, for weaknesses, for any possible way out of the impossible situation she found herself in. Despite her condition, there was a sharpness to her gaze that spoke of intelligence, of calculation beneath the pain.

"I'd like some privacy," she said, her voice stronger now, drawing on reserves of will that impressed even Viltrumite, whose eyes narrowed slightly with newfound appreciation. "And food, if you have any." Her hand pressed against her side where blood had begun to seep through her clothing, her face paling further with the movement.

"I'll get it," Mohawk volunteered instantly, eager for any excuse to be useful to her. His usual swagger was gone, replaced by an almost puppyish eagerness that would have been comical under other circumstances. He turned toward what passed for a kitchen area, moving with barely contained energy, casting frequent glances back at Y/N as if afraid she might disappear if he looked away too long.

"And I'll ensure she has privacy," Viltrumite stated in a tone that brooked no argument, positioning himself near the broken wall like a sentinel. His white uniform caught the sunlight streaming through the gaps, creating an almost ethereal glow around his imposing figure. His eyes never left Y/N, drinking in her features with possessive intensity. "No one approaches without my permission."

The others began to file out, each casting lingering glances at Y/N as they went—some calculating, some hungry, some almost sorrowful. Emperor's cape rustled as he turned, the sound of expensive fabric incongruous in the rustic cabin. No-Mask followed silently, his bloodstained hands flexing at his sides, eyes distant as if already contemplating further destruction. Phantom drifted toward the door, his translucent form seeming to merge with the morning light before solidifying again.

Only Sinister paused in the doorway, turning back with that too-wide grin that stretched the boundaries of what a human face should be capable of. The black portions of his suit seemed to reach toward Y/N, living shadows hungry for her touch. "Sweet dreams, darling," he crooned, voice honeyed poison. "I'll be seeing you... very soon." His tongue flicked out one last time before he melted into the shadows outside, his laughter lingering in the air like a bad smell.

When they had all gone except for Viltrumite standing guard at the perimeter and Mohawk rummaging through the cabin's sparse supplies, Y/N finally allowed herself to slump back against the pillows, exhaustion and fear catching up with her in a rush. A soft whimper escaped her lips as the movement jarred her injuries, the sound quickly stifled as she bit down hard on her lower lip. Blood welled from where her teeth had broken the skin, adding to the collection of wounds that mapped the violence visited upon her body.

One day. She had one day to figure out how to escape seven—no, eight—versions of the most powerful being on Earth, each with their own agenda, each seeing her as something to be possessed. Each wearing the face of someone who had once been her ally, her friend...perhaps more. The cruel irony wasn't lost on her even through the haze of pain that clouded her thoughts.

As Mohawk approached with a tin of what looked like soup and a relatively clean spoon, his expression so nakedly hopeful it would have been pitiful under other circumstances, Y/N made herself meet his eyes. She saw past the cocky exterior, the crude jokes and aggressive posturing, to the raw wound beneath—a man who had lost everything and saw in her face a second chance he knew he didn't deserve.

"Thank you," she said quietly, accepting the food, making sure their fingers didn't touch in the exchange. The simple act of holding the tin sent fresh waves of pain through her damaged muscles, but she refused to show weakness, gripping it with white-knuckled determination.

"Y/N," he began, his voice rough with emotion, nothing like his usual brash tones. His mohawk seemed to droop slightly, reflecting his uncertainty. Blood had dried in dark rivulets down his face, but he made no move to wipe it away, all his attention focused on her. "I know you're not her. I know that. But—"

"Don't," she cut him off gently, a softness in her tone that hadn't been there before. Despite everything, there was something in his naked vulnerability that touched her. "Please. Not now." The unspoken 'maybe later' hung between them, a crumb of hope she wasn't sure she meant to offer.

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly, nodding jerkily. "Right. Yeah. You need space. I get it." He backed away, his movements awkward, uncertain, so different from the confident swagger he'd shown earlier. The blue and black of his suit seemed dimmer somehow, reflecting his dejected mood. "I'll just... I'll be outside if you need anything." The offer was sincere, his eyes lingering on her injuries with genuine concern before he turned away.

When he was gone, Y/N looked down at the tin of soup in her hands, the thin broth rippling with the tremors she could no longer control. Her gaze traveled around the cabin's interior—the rough-hewn walls, the broken furniture, the splinters and debris from the damaged door and wall—before settling on Viltrumite's back where he stood watch, his white uniform pristine against the forest backdrop, giving her the illusion of privacy while missing nothing.

One day. One chance.

She began to eat, methodically, mechanically, each swallow painful against her damaged throat, but necessary. Building her strength for whatever came next. The food was tasteless in her mouth, but she forced herself to continue, knowing she would need every ounce of energy she could muster.

Through the broken window, she could see slivers of the forest beyond, the sunlight dappling through ancient trees, birds flying free overhead, the promise of freedom so close and yet impossibly far away. The contrast between the peaceful wilderness and her desperate situation created a surreal dissonance that made her head swim.

Somewhere out there, seven Marks were waiting, planning, wanting. Patient predators circling their wounded prey. And she was trapped in the center of their web, a prize none of them were willing to relinquish.

One day to find a way out.

The sound of the forest continued undisturbed—birds calling, leaves rustling, life proceeding as it always had—indifferent to the cosmic drama unfolding within the cabin's broken walls. Y/N closed her eyes briefly, gathering her resolve like armor around her battered spirit.

The clock was ticking.

––––––––––––––––

☆ Next chapter is going to be instance, perhaps a first kiss ♡ ♡ ( ⸝⸝´꒳`⸝⸝)

☆ It's crazy, how writer's block hasn't hit me yet (ᵕ—ᴗ—)

♡ Pt.4 ♡

Pt.1 ٩(^ᗜ^ )و ´-ꕤ.ﾟ Pt.2 Pt.5

[incorrect-primarchs-quotes]

Ps. I'll never read another book about the Sisters after I finish this one.

[balljointeddragon]

I have a villain Jentry au (called the Burned AU) and in it she turns the Emperor’s Robes into a hoodie!

Before that she was wearing the tattered remains.

[ravenwriter16]

Star's Don't Shine They Burn, Info!

I wanted to post about each of the MAIN characters in my fic! SOOOOOOOOOOO, HERE WE GO!

Y/n:

YOU are THE main character of my fic. I won't get too deep into your past (Spoilers) but what you should know is that you are a Mage, you had a crappy childhood before being found by the three Automatrons, and a MAJOR incident caused you to finally run away from your Royal Life with Sun, Moon, and Eclipse.

You ran away, caught a one-way boat out of the capital, and hitchhiked a wagon. There you meet a 'Straight-to-the-point' Ogre, who lets you stay with him for a price.

There you learn all kinds of new skills, skills that don't require magic. For eight years you live a peaceful life, taking over the land while the Ogre-Ivan-went off to travel the world.

You also have a stutter that only comes out when you're very scared or uncertain of something.

Sun:

Sir Sun is your (ex) Dad. He's one of the three emperors that rule over the land.

He can wield Mana, just like his two husbands can. He mostly uses it as during combat, either as a defense or an offense.

Sun is the leader of the Celestial Guard, an order of Knights he founded when he was crowned emperor.

He LOVES to do arts & crafts with you. As well as teach you how to use a sword, how to size up an opponent, and how to use your wits during a battle. He also encouraged you to be adventurous and would often get you both in trouble

He was the one who lead out scouting missions himself to find you when you ran away. He's also the one who finally tracked you down after meeting with an informant

Some things he would say: "Out a bit more elbow grease into your swing, Bunny! There you go! Look at you! A born natural!" "You're doing great! Just DON"T LOOK DOWN!...AND DON"T TELL YOUR PAPA OR FATHER!!" "It'll all be okay in the end, sweetie...Someday you'll see..."

Moon:

Mage Moon is your (ex) Papa. He's also one of the three emperors.

His mana is more potent than Sun's and his knowledge of the Mystical is second to none.

Moon is the Head Mage of the Academy of Mana, where he also leads an elite group of mages called the Order of Lunara. All mages that serve in the order are trained by him personally.

He was the one who found you in the first place, sensing an unknown and unheard-of power in you (Which I will explain in later chapters). After a few more trips to your run down home, he decided to take you to the palace, were you met Eclipse and Sun.

Moon was also the one who taught you to read and write, as well as how to control your Mana and cast simple spells, such as creating a small flame, or making something levitate.

When you ran away, he locked himself in his study, trying all kinds of spells and runes to see if he could find you or any trace of your Mana from any complicated spells you might have used.

Some things he would say: "The pen is mightier than the sword...But a Mana infused Stone Golem trumps any pen you use." "Shh, it was only a nightmare, Starlight. I'm here and I'll never let any nightmare touch you again. I swear." "The pain is only temporary...Know that this hurts me more than it hurts you...It'll be okay...just a few more minutes..."

Eclipse:

Alright...This Automatron...is basically the one in charge of the WHOLE empire. He's the main emperor because he does ALL the Royal stuff. He doesn't have an order he teaches or guards he trains.

He just does all the paperwork and goes to meetings and such and such.

His Mana is WAY more potent than his husbands. And his knowledge on the dark arts is astounding. In his free time, he even does small experiments, jotting down results in one of his many journals.

He instantly fell in love with you when your first met. After that he immediately called you his heir and gave you everything and anything you could need and desire.

You would mostly spend your days with him, since Sun and Moon were busy with other people and Eclipse was bored with paperwork.

You both would have tea together, go shopping in the city market, settle down in the library and practice your reading. You would learn everything there is to know about being a princess and he even taught you how to dance and play instruments.

When you ran away, he went...well MAD. He searched for you high and low, paranoid that someone would know where you went, or was keeping you prisoner. He would imprison and torture anyone who he thought was keeping you from him.

Multiple times Sun and Moon had to calm him down when he took thing sway too far. Like attacking a visiting royal for no reason.

He was fuming by the fact that he couldn't go out there and search for you himself, but his husbands convinced him to stay and run the Empire.

Some things he would say: "One, two, three. One, two, three. Excellent work Starfire! At this rate you'll be the best dancer in the entire Empire! HaHa!" "I know, I know. I'm sorry I can't play with you right now, love. But I have to look over these reports...hm...Why don't you sit down at the piano over there and play me one of your songs?" "I. Regret. NOTHING! Everything I have done; I have done for YOU!" That's enough of my info dumping! Hope you've enjoyed!

[that-roman-arsonist]

Throws @pleasedonttouch-me at you

"ACK-" He almost instinctively squeezed the child too hard before calming himself. Not that he'd have cared, but- yeah. "What the fuck?"