OUR LOVE | Alt Vander X Reader

🃏👑🃏

You were married off to the king as a young noble woman. The arrangement was rather rushed in your opinion, not that anyone asked for it. The king only needed a show queen, a quiet but present symbol for the kingdom and you suited well enough for that.

He didn’t need a wife for pleasure, he had plenty mistresses for that and he seemed to be in no rush for a successor. You suspected it was because he had no intent to hand over power to anyone else anytime soon. Although, that's just what you assumed, others never blamed him for it. You were always the target of the hushed whispers and silent accusations of infertility, unruliness or even infidelity when it came to the subject of an heir.

The people's gossip aside, it was an easy marriage. You didn’t have to share a bed with a man you didn’t love and you didn’t have to raise his children. Many more deserving women would kill for such a life, which only made you feel worse about the utter discontent you felt. It was the loneliness, mostly. Such a privileged life and yet not a single companion in the world to share it with.

The king and his advisers only speak to you when they need you to make an appearance as queen. Their orders always dripping with condescension and near mockery. They’ve made you smile and wave for hours, waltz until your feet blister and recite a holy text’s worth of pompous poetry, but this most recent ploy was particularly concerning.

You sit on your throne next to your husband, hands in your lap, staring at the colourful figure in front of you. The bells on his ridiculous hat jingle as he bows his head so low they almost touch the marble floor. Quiet chuckles emit from the nobility crowding the massive ballroom and the unease in your stomach only builds.

When the jester picks his head back up, you can’t help fiddling even more with your dress, just like your husband's advisers have scolded you not to. The jester silently stares with his sheet white face, big red grin painted across his mouth. You want to shrink under the jesters stare, the blue diamonds painted over his eyes make his gaze feel piercing.

The king grins when he catches your nervous gaze.

“Do you like your surprise, my love? I thought you could use some cheering up lately. As did my advisers.”

He chuckles, looking over at the old men in the corner of the room. They smile back, amusing in a joke you're not a part of.

You just nod your head as politely as possible. You don’t know what's happening, but whatever they have planned can’t be good.

The jester skips up to where you and the king sit. He gives an exaggerated curtsy to the king, earning a laugh from him and the various nobility.

The bells jingle as he springs back up and steps closer to you. He stretches his hand out, you stare at it and then back to your husband.

“The fool wants a dance, my dear. Give him a dance.”

You try to hide the apprehension on your face and reach for the jesters white glove-covered hand. He doesn’t squeeze or pull you up like you expected, instead he holds it gently, waiting for your next move. You rise from your throne and cast one more glance at your husband, who only offers a self-satisfied grin in return. This whole time all they've wanted from you is a perfect queen and now they want you to dance with a fool?

The jester walks you to the middle of the room, encircled by leering nobility. He places your hand on his waist before dramatically correcting the mistake and placing it on his shoulder instead, looking bashfully to the audience who snicker at the joke. He takes your other hand in his and gives you a little nod before the musicians starts playing and he guides you into step.

Now obviously you know very well how to dance, you enjoyed it quite a bit when you were little although, now it’s just become another part of your queenly duties. Did any of that even matter now? Now that it’s clear the king and his peers see you as just as much of a joke as the man you’re waltzing with.

Your deep thoughts are broken when said man unexpectedly twirls you in a dizzying circle. You flail slightly in your surprise but you’re brought back into his arms just as quickly to continue your steps. You fully focus on him now and you wonder what his features look like under that gaudy clown makeup. Even in the bright chandelier lights of the ball room, you can’t make out the colour of his irises. Earlier, you thought they were hazel but now it seems they're an impossibly dark brown.

The dark pools look as if they could swallow all the colour from his face and your own. Actually, has he blinked even once during this dance, or at all for that matter?

You’re not sure if it was your mistake or the jester’s but you step on his foot and he suddenly pulls away from you. He clutches his foot and jumps up and down in theatrical pain. The room bursts into laughter, bellows and cackles. These elite men and women delight in the humiliating performance you’re both putting on for them. It takes everything in you not to cave right there in the middle of it.

While the jeering continues, you try your best to steel yourself, replacing the need to cry with spiteful compliance. If they want a dance, they can have a dance.

You curtsy at the jester, offering an apology and hold your hand out to him. He looks around and then points to himself. You can’t help but smile and nod your head.

He takes your hand and when the music starts back up again, you step in time to the beautiful melody. You try and put your full attention on the jester, not anyone else in the large room, which proves to be quite easy as he is by far the most interesting person present. You can just make out the small smile under the red painted grin, his relaxed eyebrows under the bright blue diamonds, the crook of his pointy nose.

While moving in sync, you become almost lost in trying to map out his face under the make-up. You look for imperfections in the face paint but can’t seem to find a single smudge or brush streak, in fact the paint looks impressively even, like it’s a second skin.

It truly does feel like its only you two and the music, for the first time in a long time you feel wanted by someone else.

But when the king grows bored he demands new entertainment.

He motions for the musicians to stop their music and you’re brought back to reality. The jester bows for the crowd, he gestures to you and you offer a little curtsy before being escorted back to your throne. Form there, you watch the rest of the strange performers routine. He juggles an impressive amount of miscellaneous items, he folds himself into ridiculous positions, walks on his hands and generally makes a fool of himself for the crowd.

You watch in delight, though your husband doesn't seem as interested as he was before your little dance.

You think about the jester all the way back to your courters that night. You think about him as you slip on your night dress and slide into bed, and you think of him as you stare up at the ceiling for possibly hours. There is too much on your mind, the fun of watching the jesters performance has subsided and thoughts of what this means for your reputation and position in the court remain constant. A sigh leaves you as you lift yourself up and open the doors to your balcony.

You lean on the balcony ledge and stare out at the starry night sky, not even the strange jester can distract from the humiliation ritual you were just a part of. He could have been in on it for all you know and you're just naive enough to think he was being kind to you during the whole thing.

A shuffling sound from behind you makes you turn your head and it takes you just a split second to register the very colourful jester standing in the corner of your balcony.

The screech you let out is smothered by your own hand. You clutch the edge of the balcony, staring at the slender man who puts his hands up, waving apologies while moving his chest as if laughing, nothing comes out of his mouth. You clutch your heart, breathing quite heavily as you stare at him bewildered. You look around trying to discern where he could have come from, and how you only now hear his bells jingle as he waves his hands, still apologising.

He steps closer and stands tall in front of you, he’s much more imposing than you remember him being. He holds up one finger and then mimics a waltz. His head bows low and he holds his hand out for you to take. He’s asking for another dance but is there really much of a choice at all? Has this also been planned? If you say no, will he just leave? Do you want him to leave? The dance you shared was the most delightful time you've had in so, so long

You stare at him for a good while, he stays with his hand outstretched, bent over at a near 90 degree angle, not straining even a little. The longer you wait, the more uncomfortable you feel in his unwavering presence.

Against your better judgement, you reach out and touch his gloved hand. He curls his fingers around yours and stands upright. You let him bring your hand to his shoulder, place his hand on your waist and step closer. This time is different from the last time. Now it really does feel like his attention is only on you, not with the other guests, not with the performance. It should be frightening, but you find no malice in his eyes, no ridicule in his demeanor.

As he steps into motion, you begin a slow waltz in the small space of your balcony. It's slower than in the ballroom, it's more intimate. While you dance with this complete stranger, your thoughts run rampant, you second guess your judgement again and again. Maybe the kindness you sense from him is a ruse. Maybe he is here on behalf of the king, setting up another degrading show. He could even be an assassin, come to rid you quietly in the middle of the night.

You would deserve such a fate for giving in so easily. You slowly spin in his arms and this time you don't hear the snide laughs of the nobility, just the sounds of the night. Both of you step in time and you let him guide you to the edge of your balcony. You hold your breath as he dips you over the ledge. Your eyes squeeze shut and you let out what could be your last breath ready for him to let go and let you fall.

But he doesn't let go, your grip on his shoulders never slips. You open your eyes, a bit blurry from wetness but you can make out his face, because it's right in front of you even though you're bent over the balcony far enough that your feet have left the ground. You stare back at his unrelenting gaze. In the dim light of the moon his eyes look even darker than before and something new swims in the deep black of his pupils, something sad.

They are lidded as they examine your face, your entire being. His hand on your back presses your chest further into his until you're sure he can feel your rapid heartbeat through your very flesh.

He lifts you upright again, turning you away from the ledge and out of harms way. You’re still chest to chest, he’s so close but you can’t feel him breathe. Your wide eyes stare up at him, trying to discern his expression. Your breaths are short and your grip on him hasn’t let up a bit.

He brings his hands up to your cheeks, the warm fabric of his gloves on your cold cheeks has you easing into them far too easily. His eyes examine every inch of your face while his thumbs stroke your cheeks, you can just barely see the frown on his lips behind the painted smile. He brings your face closer to his, slow and methodical, making it very clear what his next move is. You’re not sure if this was due to his own hesitation or to give you time to pull away, regardless you let him inch closer and closer until his lips grazed yours and you finally feel him breathe out one long breath.

The kiss is deep. Despite being slow and gentle, it still forces a struggled breath from you. You would’ve thought he tasted like paint but he doesn’t, he’s warm and inviting. It’s nice.

Your eyes close, surrendering all hesitation to the stranger in your arms. Fingers dig into the fabric of his puffy striped sleeves as your body melts further into his. You quickly learn to breathe through your nose, out of necessity and unwillingness to part from his affections.

You let him work your mouth open, slipping his tongue inside. The feeling is so foreign, you can’t help but whine. The backs of his fingers flutter over your throat and you shiver.

His tongue fills your mouth, sliding along yours and savouring your taste. The wet muscle reaches far into your mouth, farther than you thought normal but your experience is slim and you don’t have the awareness to fully question it. It’s overwhelming. Your knees tremble and he lowers you both to the cold stone floor. His tongue reaches into your throat, a feat you know is impossible.

You’re too lost to even think of the implications of this, as you gag and convulse around the thick muscle in your throat that no longer feels like a normal tongue. He reaches so far, your eyes roll back, your lower region warms uncomfortably and you forget how to breathe. You tap his shoulders quickly, a plea for air, and he retreats from your throat. He holds you as you cough and heave, wiping the spit from your chin.

You look at him with the an expression full of shock and fear and bewilderment and every other emotion shooting through your fuzzy mind. His expression is hard to discern but he seems both amused and sad.

He stands and brings you up on shaky legs. When he starts to back away, you panic and clutch his hands tighter. You don’t know what you were hoping for. That he would stay? That he would spend the night with you?

His face is full of what you hope is longing and not pity, you know what pity looks like. He holds you close in what you know is a goodbye embrace. He presses his forehead to yours and he places one last short kiss on your lips. Its playfull and very much not what you’d consider a proper good bye kiss. You search his gaze and you’re met with rather boyish mirth, lifting your spirits slightly. Maybe this isn't goodbye then?

He winks at you and takes your hand, spinning you around once, twice and three times before he lets go. When you rebalance yourself and look around the balcony, there is no sight of the jester. It's just the pitying sounds of the night and your only other witness, the moon. Like he was never there at all.

Jealous

Summary: Could you write an imagine where the reader and slash get into an argument about her getting “too close” to Nikki causing him to get jealous and aggressive towards Nikki

Requested: yes by anon

Warnings: jealousy, drinking

Y/N groaned, hearing Slash bringing up the same argument again. “I’m not into him, Saul. Nikki is just a friend,” she said.

“I get that’s how you see it, love. But he doesn’t,” Saul replied. He was obviously pissed and slightly jealous.

“Saul, don’t worry so much. He knows that we are just friends, and he knows that I’m most definitely with you,” Y/N said, walking up to him and wrapping her arms around his neck.

Saul sighed and wrapped his arms around her waist. “If he tries something one time, I’m kicking his ass,” he warned.

***

The party was already crowded by the time Slash and Y/N. She smiled and waved at Tommy and Mick. Then she felt Saul tense beside her. Y/N followed his line of sight and saw Nikki.

“Be nice, babe,” she said. “Trust me, okay?”

Saul sighed and nodded. “You wanna a drink?”

Y/N nodded. “Of course,” she said.

Slash walked off, but she knew that he would come back as fast as he could. He hated leaving her alone at parties like this, and in all honesty, she liked having him at her side. She hated when some random guy would try to hit on her and wouldn’t listen.

“Hey, stranger,” Nikki said, smiling at her.

“Hey yourself,” she replied. “How have you been?”

“Been having the time of my life. What about you?” he asked.

“Enjoying life with Saul,” she answered.

Nikki laughed. “So where did he go?”

“I got the two of us drinks,” Saul said. He handed a cup to Y/N and glared at Nikki.

“Do I not get one?” the bassist asked.

Saul shook his head and moved in closer to Y/N. She knew that her boyfriend was trying his best to be nice, but at the same time didn’t trust Nikki.

After awhile Saul and Y/N went to talk to Duff and Steven. Which she was thankful for. Saul didn’t get jealous around them.

She slipped away from him and went to the bathroom. When she got out, she bumped into Nikki again.

“So we run into each other again,” Nikki teased.

“The first time I didn’t even touch you,” Y/N pointed out.

Nikki looked around and noticed that Slash wasn’t around. “And your guard dog isn’t around.”

Y/N looked at him questioningly. She had never seen him like this where he seemed to be looking her over and looked like he was ready to do something that she didn’t want.

He leaned in, and she pushed him back. “Nikki, no,” she said.

“Oh, come on. Lighten up. I won’t tell your boy,” he slurred.

She knew that he was drunk, but she had never expected him to act like this. Y/N shoved him back. “Nikki, back off,” she said again.

Nikki tried grabbing her, but he didn’t have a good hold. Y/N easily shook off his hold and rushed back to Saul. He could tell from the look of her face that she was pissed.

“What happened?” Saul asked.

“You were right,” she admitted. She didn’t really want to get into it here, and she wanted to go home.

“What did he do?” her boyfriend asked.

“He tried to kiss me,” she answered.

Saul rushed past her and went straight for Nikki when he saw him. Y/N turned to see Slash land a punch on Nikki’s nose.

“What the hell?” Nikki shouted.

“You put your hands on Y/N,” Saul growled.

“Nothing happened,” Nikki yelled.

Slash looked as if he was ready to beat Nikki where he stood. Y/N ran up to the guitarist and grabbed his arm. “Come on! Let’s just go home,” she said, tugging him towards the door.

Saul glared at Nikki, but let himself be dragged out of the house. Once they were in the car, Saul looked at her. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

Y/N shook her head. “No, he was just an ass,” she answered.

Saul started the car and drove them to their home. The ride was pretty quiet for the most part with the occasional ‘are you okay?’ from Saul and her telling him that she was.

When he turned into their driveway, she asked, “You’re not going to give me an ‘I told you so’?”

“No, I’m not. I understand that you didn’t have feelings for him, but it was always him that I worried about. And I’m not going to be a dick because I was right,” he said just as he got out of the car.

She did as well and threw herself at him and hugged him tightly. “I love you,” she whispered.

“Love you too, babe,” he said as he picked her up and carried her to their bed.

The lack of vander x reader fics is so tragic omfg plz let me love on my dilfy bartender / chemtech altered mans

Jagiya?

(Wonwoo Imagines) A drabble, fluff!

Inspired by the video below and my alarm-Wonwoo's Jagiyaa, during a concert! This is so random, sorry I miss Wonwoo a lot. Thank you for all the love on my recent drabble! I hope you like this, Wonwoorideuls. Fighting! ⋆˚ 𝜗🐈‍⬛𝜚˚⋆

Wonwoo accidentally discloses your relationship during a game on set. Everyone is left in stunned silence before bursting into laughter and teasing him relentlessly. Embarrassed but taking it in pride, Wonwoo’s slip-up leads to some fun moments and a lot of ice cream.

“Park Bo Gum!” Hurriedly, Seungcheol answers.

The group erupts in celebration. This was not new to them– a game where you had to name the picture within three seconds after being presented by the host. What’s new is that more than half of the team are somehow getting worse at this no matter how many times they play. And for some reason, the box of free ice cream makes them act like it's a prize worth a million dollars.

Feeling pressured, Wonwoo’s heart beats rapidly. The tension in the air thickens and the members hold hands in anticipation. If they continue to get the last few right, it’s a win. There’s still a few more cards left to identify and he prays it won’t be enough to reach him. 

Dino got it barely on time. But he still got it, nonetheless. Seungkwan went next and as expected, he got it right. Mingyu stood tall beside him with arms crossed as he answered confidently. The group goes into chaos as the staff reveals that they’re left with the last card– Wonwoo’s card. 

The members circle around him. Jun and Minghao thank the heavens that it didn’t land on them. Dino laughs at this sight. 

Vernon pats Mingyu’s back congratulating him. Jeonghan soothes Wonwoo’s arm as Seungcheol massages his shoulders like he’s preparing for a fight. 

DK holds Wonwoo’s collar as he shakes him, “Hyung, jebal. My mouth is watering.” 

“Hyung, you got this.” Seungkwan emerges beside him. “Let’s get it!” Joshua adds.

“Yaa~ Wonwoo let’s gooo!” A tiger roars, hugging an annoyed Woozi. 

The staff motioned them to get ready. Getting dizzy because of the tension (and from DK’s shaking) he closes his eyes, taking in a deep breath. The group clings to Wonwoo, both of his arms being held by the members. He gulps and nods as the staff picks the million dollar picture. 

They take the card, showing it to the group of producers who are nodding and giggling for some reason. His manager peeks a glance and shakes his head. This sends him sweating. Is it someone he doesn’t know? An international artist? Are they going to lose because of him? 

He grits his jaw, nostrils flared, ready to give it his all. He’s going to try, he’ll get it. He just has to focus. His zeroes out, head empty, ears ringing, eyes glued on the card as it’s being passed on. It reaches to the host, it turns. And the card reveals— you? 

Meaning to say your name, he shouts the first thing that comes to mind. 

“JAGIYAAA!!!” 

Silence. Everyone stares at him in disbelief.

The host– who was about to start counting, closes his mouth, aghast. Like everyone in the room, they all stood rigid. Surprised? Confused? Amazed? Astonished? The air conditioning rings louder than their breaths.

But Wonwoo? He’s ecstatic. His arms break free from his members’ hold as he fists the air in victory. His smile is bright and wide as the picture stares back at him– it’s you at a recent award show. He knows, because he was there. He clapped and cheered for you when your name was announced, he shed a tear with you as you gave your speech, he gave you an “I told you so,” at the after party because he knows. He knows you, more than anyone in this room does. 

His hopeful expression falters as the silence stretches on, his mind catching up with the confusion in the room. Seungkwan was the first to speak, through gritted teeth he asked “Jagiya?”. 

Wonwoo’s eyes widened. Pabo! he thinks. “Y/L/N! Y/L/N! Y/L/N! ” He screams your name on repeat, hands clasped as he pleads for consideration. Technically, they haven’t done the count down and he did correct it within three (it was five) seconds. So they didn’t lose, right? 

A bewildered Mingyu pouts. “Hyung, how did I not know! I feel betrayed!” Wonwoo looks at him, head turning–  confused. He didn’t know you? Impossible! You did a challenge together! 

Vernon interrupts in amazement, “Jagiya? Wow, Michyeosseo.” 

Wonwoo’s face flushes bright red as the realization hits him. “Oh.” He hasn’t told them about you yet. Jagiya? He must be out of his mind! On camera too! He covers his face in embarrassment, face burning hotter the more he thinks about you. He he holds his breath, feeling all the butterflies weaken his knees, he dramatically pretends to pass out. 

His reaction sends the room erupting into claps, whistles, and laughter. The teasing is going to be relentless. But at least they know now. The hard part is over. He shuts his eyes, resigning to his fate. Still lying on the floor, he slowly uncovers his face, his cheeks still flushed bright red. 

He looks up at the camera, a sheepish smirk drawn on his face. "We still get the ice cream, right?” He winks. 

They absolutely lost it that day. 

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞´𝐬 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐢𝐬 𝐅𝐢𝐥𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐁𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐚 𝐋𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐢𝐨 𝐀𝐮𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞.

In the 1950s, the Wayne family arrives at their new home on the outskirts of Gotham City. As the family settles in, the children—Dick and Jason—seek adventure and cause trouble while their mother tries to keep the house standing for the visit of special guests, all while also trying to hide her magical abilities.

Can they get through the first day of their new life while the father of the family is away on business?

chapters: 1 (you are there) - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 - epilogue.

English is not my first language, please be patient. Update 1/25/2025: I did a review and correction of this chapter because I was starting to feel embarrassed, and it seems that you like this story because today I receive notifications of the publications. So I'm going to do a review of all the parts so that if you reread it, it will hurt your eyes less. Thank you very much for the love and I hope to improve with these corrections!!!

WORDS: 7243

𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓.

You looked at your youngest son, Jason, smiling at you from under one of the trees on the new property your family had just moved into. You smiled back at him, genuinely happy, and held out your arms to him. The little five-year-old ran to you immediately.

That tree—you had to get him away from that tree.

“Mom, this new house is huge,” the boy said happily as you rested him on your hip, without worrying about ruining the neat ironing of your beautiful dress.

“It is,” you began. “Your father and I learned our lesson about you and your brother's incompatibility with small yards after the Halloween fire incident,” you explained, and the audience laughed at the past antics of the Wayne children. Jason smiled innocently as he thought about the incident, even if he didn't remember it. He had been very young at the time—surely that was why. “So, your father made sure there was plenty of room for both of you to run around in this new house.” You turned on the spot, starting to walk toward the house.

The scene changed, and you both appeared walking in through the kitchen door immediately. You walked over to the island and sat Jason there. He immediately reached over to grab the glass cookie jar in the center of the surface, eager to eat one of Alfred's famous cookies.

“Don’t eat too many of those, young Master,” the butler said as he appeared from an unidentified door. You smiled at him as he came to stand next to you in front of little Jason. “Tonight, we have guests, and I’m preparing some of the family’s favorite dishes,” the man commented while confiscating the cookie jar, leaving only the one cookie the boy had managed to grab before his appearance for him to eat.

You frowned in confusion.

“Guests?” you asked, puzzled, as you didn’t remember planning anything. Alfred, on his way to hide the cookies, turned to look at you.

“The guests Mr. Wayne asked us to entertain in his absence, Mrs. Wayne. Do you remember, ma’am?” the butler questioned before leaving through the door that led to the living room, without waiting for an answer.

You stood in place, bringing your hand dramatically up to your face as if deep in thought. Jason decided to interrupt his eating to mimic your expression, prompting laughter and tender sighs from the audience. Seeing him, you laughed too and leaned closer to your child.

“Do you remember which guests Alfred is talking about, my boy?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.

“Nope,” Jason replied sweetly, shrugging his shoulders, eliciting even more tenderness from the audience. You couldn’t help but feel a sudden urge to hug your beautiful baby tightly while kissing his cheek, and your son just laughed happily at your actions.

Alfred walked back into the kitchen as you lowered the boy from the counter to stand on the floor next to you. The scene momentarily blinded the audience before they saw the little boy run out of the kitchen with his cookie in hand, brushing past the butler and causing him to smile.

“I guess we have to prepare for those guests then,” you said, resting your hands on your hips and sighing dramatically. “Do you already know what you will cook for our guests, Alf?” you asked, intending to help.

“Don’t eat too many of those, young Master,” the butler said as he appeared from an unidentified door. You smiled at him as he came to stand next to you in front of little Jason. “Tonight, we have guests, and I’m preparing some of the family’s favorite dishes,” the man commented while confiscating the cookie jar, leaving only the one cookie the boy had managed to grab before his arrival for him to eat.

You frowned in confusion.

“Guests?” you asked, puzzled, as you didn’t remember planning anything. Alfred, on his way to hide the cookies, turned to look at you.

“The guests Mr. Wayne asked us to entertain in his absence, Mrs. Wayne. Do you remember, ma’am?” the butler questioned before leaving through the door that led to the living room, without waiting for an answer.

You stood in place, bringing your hand dramatically up to your face as if deep in thought. Jason decided to interrupt his eating to mimic your expression, prompting laughter and tender sighs from the audience. Seeing him, you laughed too and leaned closer to your child.

“Do you remember which guests Alfred is talking about, my boy?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.

“Nope,” Jason replied sweetly, shrugging his shoulders, eliciting even more tenderness from the audience. You couldn’t help but feel a sudden urge to hug your beautiful baby tightly while kissing his cheek, and your son just laughed happily at your actions.

Alfred walked back into the kitchen as you lowered the boy from the counter to stand on the floor next to you. The scene momentarily blinded the audience before they saw the little boy run out of the kitchen with his cookie in hand, brushing past the butler and causing him to smile.

“I guess we have to prepare for those guests then,” you said, resting your hands on your hips and sighing dramatically. “Do you already know what you will cook for our guests, Alf?” you asked, intending to help.

“Don’t worry about a thing, Mrs. Wayne,” the butler commented, walking over to you and standing behind you to begin pushing you towards the door where Jason had disappeared with his cookie. “I’ll take care of everything, and nothing will go wrong tonight. You just relax and spend some time with young master Jason.” When he reached the door, Alfred stopped pushing, expecting you to make it the rest of the way out of the kitchen alone, but you turned around and insisted.

“You don’t want any magical help; it will be easier this way. Besides, I already have my apron on,” you said, smiling and pointing at your outfit while making a gesture to emphasize your powers at the same time.

“Goodbye, Mrs. Wayne,” Alfred said as he pushed you through the kitchen door.

You walked out with a push, but as you crossed the threshold, you didn’t stumble; instead, you walked calmly into an unmarked hallway and entered the living room. You looked back, confused by the strange change, but all doubt was erased from your mind when you saw your little one sitting in front of the television in one of the armchairs. You sighed loudly.

“That man has always been very territorial about his kitchen,” you commented, and the audience laughed. As you walked toward the armchair, Jason looked at you when he heard you approaching. “Jason Peter Wayne,” you exclaimed without any aggression, more amused by the chocolatey mess on your son's face than angry. He looked at you with puppy eyes in response. “My little boy and his precious chocolate cookies,” you said accusingly. With a dramatic gesture of both hands, Jason's face was clean again, the crumbs on his lap and the armchair disappeared, all accompanied by a sound of bells to represent magic.

“My mother and her magical magic,” the child said mischievously, prompting the audience to laugh again as you shook your head at his behavior, not stopping to look at him lovingly. You had missed him, which was strange because you didn't remember being separated from him much since he had come to you.

“Jason, honey,” you began, realizing that something was missing from the scene. “Do you have any idea where your brother went?” you asked, suddenly worried about the fate of your eldest son.

“I saw him looking for his comics in his new room a while ago,” Jason answered, and at that instant, a knock was heard, followed by a childish cry. Alfred appeared down the hall, attracted by the noise, while you quickly marched towards the threshold on the other side of the room, leaving Jason with the butler behind.

You entered a sort of entrance hall, featuring the main door of the house, some decorative furniture, and a coat rack with four coats perfectly hung—one for each member of the family, the largest being Bruce’s. Bruce was on a business trip. On the other side of the threshold were stairs leading to the second floor, where you found your eldest son, his comic book abandoned at the foot of the last step, and him curled up with a bleeding knee a little higher up.

“Dikie, my dear,” you quickly approached him, crouching down in front of him while you examined his wound. “What happened?” you asked while sitting next to him to hug him against your side. Seeing that his crying did not stop with your presence, he did not answer immediately and kept sobbing. “Alfred!” you called, not too loudly because it was not necessary, and it worked. Immediately, Alfred crossed the threshold through which you had just come. “Bring the first aid kit,” you told him, and he nodded before disappearing again.

While all this was happening, Dick's mind was racing a thousand miles an hour. He didn’t understand the world around him, its size, and its lack of colors. Why had he been running up the stairs in the first place? He couldn't remember, and that scared him. Contradictory ideas of what had happened crossed his mind until he finally saw the comic lying at the foot of the stairs, and it occurred to him.

“I-I found my—my comic and…” he began to say between sobs, but he was unable to finish piecing together the events of the day. Realizing this, you decided to finish the sentence for him while you caressed his hair affectionately.

“And so much excitement in one day made you decide to run down the stairs?” you asked, and the boy pulled away from you to nod as he wiped his tears with the sleeve of his extremely expensive wool sweater.

“My knee hurts,” he commented with a soft voice, looking where his hand was, which was where he assumed there must be a wound. As if summoned by his words, Alfred appeared with a small medicine briefcase.

“Here you are, Mrs. Wayne,” he said as he handed you the object, which you were sure was red but wasn't.

"Let's see what we have here," you said, and as you opened it, you found just what you needed: a bandage with drawings of birds. "Perfect," you said, smiling as you left the now-empty suitcase to proceed to put the bandage on the wound. Dick didn’t see any blood or a wound at all; his mother wouldn’t let him get hurt. Still, he went along with the story and looked at his mother.

You were beautiful. He had always thought you were the prettiest mother in the world, along with… another person. His father couldn’t agree more, and if he saw you now, he would probably drool, which he and Jason made fun of him for. Jason, his little brother.

What had happened to Jason?

As if Dick's thought were an alarm, the little boy with curly hair and a cheerful smile entered through the same doorway Alfred had come through, looking at his brother with a worried expression. A sudden wave of relief washed over Dick because Jason was there, safe and sound, walking quickly toward him when he saw that his older brother was distraught. But it was strange to see him like that, so young, that for a moment he wondered if it was really Jason. But looking into his eyes, it was unmistakable that this five-year-old boy was his younger brother. There was no doubt.

"Are you feeling better, Dikie?" you asked affectionately when you noticed how your older son’s body relaxed when his younger brother appeared in the room. You mentally chastised yourself for not having brought him earlier; surely Dick had been worried that his brother was okay. You caressed his back as you looked at him carefully.

"I..." Dick was silent for a moment. He looked at you and then at his little brother, and then he realized something. "I'm fine. Everything is fine, Mom," he finally said, looking at you, feeling completely comfortable being there and happier than he had been in a long time.

You smiled at your son when you realized that the three of you were finally together, with Alfred watching from the doorway with a mixture of emotions that he didn’t let you see.

Dinner was underway; Alfred, as always, was on time for the arrival of the guests, while you were in Jason's room, helping him finish putting on his elegant sweater for the occasion. Dick came through the door already fully dressed. The eight-year-old boy didn’t need your help getting dressed, but no doubt you had helped him choose his clothes—that’s how you always did.

“Mom,” Dick called while in his brother's room, somewhat confused by the situation but not letting that feeling of relief and heady calm go. He liked that feeling.

“Yes, honey?” you turned around, causing the new dress you had put on for the occasion to flourish in the air with elegance. As soon as you laid eyes on your eldest son, you had to contain a small “aww” at how cute your little man looked. “Look at you, my little bird.” You approached him, bending down to adjust his jacket so he could hide the suspenders, leaving only a little of the shirt visible. “One day you are going to be a heartbreaker,” you commented, wrinkling your nose with tenderness.

“Mom,” Dick grumbled sheepishly, looking down as his cheeks turned pink, though no one could see the color yet.

“Is Dick going to be a jar breaker?” Jason asked from where he was sitting on the bed, causing the audience to laugh.

"No, Jaybird," Dick began, turning away from his mother and walking over to his brother's bed to sit next to him. "Heartbreaker, as in hearts," he explained patiently as Jason watched him intently, hanging on every word his older brother said. It reminded Dick of when he used to look at him while they both... they used to...

"That means," you sat across from Jason, watching as your son left his place inside his mind to return to the moment, "that your brother will have a lot of girlfriends and boyfriends one day," you explained to him while you tucked a rebellious strand that had fallen on the forehead of your youngest son back in its place.

"Is that good?" he asked, confused. "Because Alfred always gets mad when we break his jars." The innocent tone caused the audience, you, and Dick to laugh. As they did, Dick remembered why he had gone to find his mom in the first place.

“Mother?” he asked. You stopped laughing and gave him that look you always give when you want to say: Tell me anything. You can tell me anything and ask any question without fear. “What's so important today?” he asked curiously.

“Oh!” you exclaimed as you put your hands on your lap, thinking about what to say because the truth is you weren't very sure what tonight's dinner was about. “Well, it's a very important dinner for your father,” you commented with confidence.

“Why is this dinner important to Dad?” Jason asked, now concentrating on the reason for the conversation because he wanted to know too. He puzzled you with the question as well, because you weren't too sure either.

“Well, your father invited some very important people to dinner,” you stated as confidently as you could. If you showed that you didn't know what was going on, your children would panic, and you wanted them to feel safe. They were safe as long as they were there with you.

“Who are the guests?” Jason asked, immediately followed by his older brother.

“And why are they so important?” Dick spoke. Jason nodded at his brother's question, showing his approval.

“Well…” you weren't sure what to say.

“Is it for a birthday?” Jay asked.

“No, it's not anyone's birthday,” you clarified, more to yourself than to the children, trying to fit the pieces of the puzzle before explaining to your children the importance of the occasion.

“Is it an anniversary?” Dick asked now.

“No, it's not that either,” you said, putting your hand to your chin while you thought. The audience laughed.

“A holiday?” the elder asked again.

“Is it because of the ‘adult business’?” Jason asked, disappointed. He hated the adult business meetings they had when Bruce was home, and immediately a light went on in his head.

“Yes,” you said, happily soothing, looking back at the children. “It's certainly a business meeting, so you must behave yourselves.” You bent down and finished arranging your youngest son's hair. “Okay?” You looked at them seriously; your children had a habit of getting into trouble when these meetings happened, mainly because they were bored.

“Yes, Mom,” they both said in chorus, which brought a smile to your face. 

“Okay,” you finished the conversation about dinner. “Dick, can you help your brother put on his shoes while I go prepare the table for our guests?” you asked, and the boy silently nodded in response. “Perfect, I'll see you when you're ready,” you said as you left the room.

Dick and Jason stood there in silence for a moment. Dick wasn't sure what to do, first because he didn't know where you kept Jason's shoes, and second because he felt lost without you there; you were the main story of the show, so he wasn't sure what was next. Jason was the one who would be in charge of guiding him quickly.

“Dick,” called the younger brother.

“Yes, Jason?” asked Dick, somewhat confused by the mischievous gleam in his little brother's eyes.

“I saw Alfred go with the cookie jar back to the kitchen to hide it,” he began, as a smile spread across his face. Dick smiled back as he nodded at the silent implication of that phrase. He now knew what they must do.

In the dining room, a room with a large window facing the patio and a table with eight chairs, you used your magic to make the plates fly to the table, followed by the utensils and the wine glasses. You were preparing only five places at the table because Alfred had insisted on not being part of the dinner tonight so that he could attend to the important guests in the best possible way, and you were not one to argue against the butler's wishes.

You had barely convinced him to let you set the table for dinner. He was very adamant that you should spend time with your kids for some reason; he probably just wanted to rest from the stressful move. Yes, it was probably just that.

DING DONG.

“The guests are here,” you said to yourself, making sure to place the last flowers in the vase on the head table. They were white roses, and then you smoothed down the front of your dress before walking into the room.

You were nervous because you still didn't know who these guests were and what they wanted, but you were confident that if Bruce had sent them, it would be fine. So, you smiled as you entered the entrance hall to receive the couple. It was a plump, white-haired couple in their fifties, but they seemed to be in good shape, and particularly the woman looked like she had a lot of energy; her print dress complemented her image. The man seemed serious, like all businessmen; he didn't even smile when you greeted him and invited them to sit in the living room while dinner finished preparing.

“It's a pleasure to have you here, Mr. and Mrs…” you paused in your sentence when you realized that you didn't know the names of your guests.

“Mr. Hart and I are very happy to be the first guests invited to your new home, Mrs. Wayne,” Mrs. Hart replied as everyone sat on the couch.

“Where is Mr. Wayne?” Mr. Hart asked seriously. “You can't have a business dinner if the businessman isn't in the house,” he complained, waving his arms around to show the room. You laughed nervously at his insistence; he wasn't the first person that day to ask where Bruce was and make you uncomfortable for some reason.

“Well, my beloved husband had a last-minute business trip,” you started explaining. “But he left me and our children in charge to receive you for dinner,” you said, smiling and trying not to show your lack of certainty about the totality of the situation.

“Oh, the Wayne kids!” Mrs. Hart exclaimed dreamily. “I'm so excited to meet you!” She took your hands and squeezed them comfortingly.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Alfred had gone to the dining room to set up the table with the appetizers, leaving the place unattended where two small pairs of feet entered without making much noise with a precise aim: to cause trouble.

“I adore children, even though Mr. Hart and I never had our own,” the woman explained wistfully, looking at her husband, who instead of sharing his story was looking around with a frown. But she paid no attention to him and continued talking to you.

In the kitchen, Dick was helping his younger brother up onto the counter next to the stove, where a pot of hot soup was ready to be served. Once Jason was firmly on his feet, he quickly took it upon himself to climb up as well to stand next to him, and they began opening the cabinets for cookies.

“Tell me: What are their names? And how old are they?” Mrs. Hart asked, excited about the topic of conversation.

“My oldest son is Richard, but everyone calls him Dick,” you started to explain.

“Children can be cruel,” Mr. Hart commented candidly, and the audience laughed. The joke took you by surprise, but you decided to ignore it and continue.

“He's eight years old; he'll be nine in December,” you continued. “And Jason, he'll be six in August,” you finished with a smile, thinking about how your youngest son would be another year older.

Dick opened one of the cabinets on the stove, stood on tiptoe as he maneuvered the cabinet door open, and peered inside for the cookie jar, but he began to lose his balance just as Alfred set the appetizers down on the table and started on his way to the living room to announce that dinner was ready.

“They sound adorable; I can't wait to meet them!” Mrs. Hart enthused.

"They are adorable, and they are very good kids too," you said with a bright smile.

BAAM.

Dick ended up losing his balance while trying to close the cupboard door again, and the pot of soup crashed to the floor, staining the entire kitchen with its creamy texture, including your two children, who were now covered in food, ruining their clothes and staining their faces.

“Mrs. Wayne,” Alfred called, successfully hiding his concern, which you couldn't do very well because, at the sound, your eyes widened at the multiple scenarios running through your head about what could have caused the noise.

“Yes, Alfred?” you answered with a small voice.

“What was that?” Mr. Hart asked irritably.

“I think it's time to guide our guests to the table and go find the young masters,” he commented calmly, to which you quickly jumped out of your chair.

“YES!” you yelled. “Great idea, Alfred.” You turned to the guest couple, who looked more than confused. “Mr. and Mrs. Hart, follow Alfred into the dining room and enjoy the appetizers while I go find the kids, who I'm sure are somewhere in the house being on their best behavior,” you said, and the audience laughed.

“Everything is alright?” Mrs. Hart asked as you left the room.

“Yes, yes, everything is in order; nothing to worry about,” you answered a little too quickly before running out of the room.

Jason and Dick looked at each other, knowing that nothing good could come of this. But when they tried to get down, the younger one slipped on the soup that had stained the counter under his feet. Dick rushed to try to catch him, but he also slipped on the ground. As both children fell, all their weight rested on the refrigerator, which, in turn, tipped sideways to hit a piece of furniture that fell forward and pushed another piece of furniture full of fine china that fell sideways, causing the door to lock and letting all the plates and glasses crash to the floor, creating even more noise.

CRASH.

You leaned your whole body against the door as you reached it, only to find that it wouldn't open in the slightest; something was blocking it.

“Boys?” you called through the door. “Boys, are you there?” you asked.

“Here we are, Mom, and we're fine,” said Dick from his place still on the counter. They couldn't get down now; the floor was not only slippery but also covered in sharp glass. He wouldn't risk Jason getting hurt.

“We tried Alfred's soup,” Jason said. “It's delicious.” The audience laughed, but you were anything but amused by the situation.

“Oh dear,” you sighed, visualizing your children covered in soup at a less-than-opportune moment. “Why can't I open the door?” You tried to push, but whatever was blocking your way was too heavy for you.

“A large piece of furniture fell in front of the door, and the floor is full of glass. We can't get close,” Dick explained regretfully. They didn't want to cause such a mess; they just wanted the cookies, and they hadn't even found them.

“What happened?” Alfred asked, coming to your side.

“A piece of furniture is blocking the door, the soup is on the floor, and the crockery has now turned into very expensive confetti,” you quickly explained, turning to look at him.

“Okay, Mrs. Wayne, it's time to use your magic and solve this problem,” he said.

“But you don't like magic being used in your kitchen,” you replied, confused.

“Considering that the crockery has been smashed, the soup is used as a rug, and the young masters are still trapped in there, if we don't open the door right now, there probably won't be any kitchen to take care of tomorrow, Mrs. Wayne,” he explained quickly, and that made perfect sense to you.

“Good point,” you said. The audience laughed as you got into position to use your magic, but when you moved your hands, nothing happened. You tried again, and still nothing happened. “It doesn't work,” you repeated the movement in a desperate attempt, but again nothing happened. “What's going on!?” you asked desperately.

“I told you to rest today, Mrs. Wayne; it's probably the stress,” Alfred said quickly, consoling you.

“Oh, this is not good,” you said.

“Ms. Wayne?” Mrs. Hart yelled from the dining room.

“Just a second,” you replied with a fake cheerful tone before looking back at the butler. “What are we going to do?” you asked.

“Don't worry; I'll look for the keys to the door that leads to the patio while you distract the guests,” Alfred said and walked in the opposite direction. You went to follow him, but you realized that you had to go the other way, so you turned to walk to the dining room. The audience laughed.

In the living room, you sat at the table with the guests, starting to eat the appetizers. They tried to pretend that nothing was wrong, but Mr. Hart was suspicious, and it was clear by the way he looked at you. His wife was more than happy to ignore it. 

“And the children?” Mrs. Hart asked as she bit into one of her meatloaf pies.

“Oh, they're finishing up their toys before they eat,” you explained as you finished pouring some wine into your glass.

“But you should eat first,” said Mrs. Hart sweetly.

“Nonsense, my dear,” interrupted Mr. Hart. “Two children with a father not present for business; these two need a steady hand, or they will become good for nothing. It's fair: if they don't pick up their toys, they don't eat.” He stuffed a whole canapé into his mouth roughly.

“I wouldn't say they don't eat,” you defended. “But if you have to order before eating because they definitely won't do it later, they always get sleepy.” You finished explaining and drank from your glass of wine. “Also, most of the time, they are very well-behaved children,” you added.

“Most of the time?” questioned Mr. Hart suddenly.

Alfred entered the room quietly. He passed behind you, giving you a meaningful look: you had to keep distracting the Harts because he still hadn't found the key.

“Well, they are children; you know how they are,” you commented, laughing, but the serious face of Mr. Hart told you that the man did not enjoy jokes much, so you continued, “All children have their moments of curiosity.” Alfred walked out of the room back into the hallway. “And that curiosity can get to—” BAM! CRASH! The butler had to use force to pry open a particularly jammed drawer. “Accidents; something always ends up breaking.” You let out a nervous laugh.

“Ms. Wayne,” Alfred called as he stood in the doorway.

“Yes, Alfred?” you yelled, unable to stop looking at Mr. Hart, who was watching you suspiciously.

“The young masters want you to confirm that their toys are tidy and that they are free to sit down to dinner,” he said neutrally, but you knew right away what he meant.

“Of course, you have to see those toys,” you joked as you got up from the table.

“Make sure it's neatly arranged in alphabetical order,” demanded Mr. Hart, and you couldn't help but give him a look for that.

“Don't talk nonsense,” his wife told him. “Go find them,” he told you happily. “I can't wait to meet those little angels,” he encouraged you.

“I'll do that,” you answered with the same enthusiasm and walked down the hall with Alfred until you reached the kitchen door.

“The keys to the patio door are nowhere to be found,” he began to explain, “and I'm afraid the cabinet is too stuck in front of the door to try to push it.”

“Oh dear, oh dear,” you started to babble.

“Mrs. Wayne, you need to calm down,” Alfred requested.

“The children are locked in the kitchen, along with the food, and our guests are waiting in the dining room,” you pointed out. “I think it's a good time for a little panic, Alfred.”

“Panic is not going to get us out of this situation,” Alfred pointed out, which caught your attention, and you looked at him, but the man ignored you. “Getting the children out requires us to be focused,” he clarified, and you decided to ignore his mistake; it wasn't that serious.

“Maybe one of the windows,” you suggested hopefully.

“No, they were all closed,” he said.

“Mrs. Wayne!!” you heard Mrs. Hart as she got up from her chair and walked toward you in a suitably slow manner.

“Oh no,” you groaned in anguish. “We need an entrance, an entrance, an entrance to the kitchen.” As if they were connected, you and Alfred looked at each other as the solution came to your mind.

“The unidentified door!!” you both yelled and started running.

As you rounded the corner at the end of the hall, you suddenly found yourselves walking through the unmarked door into the kitchen, which Alfred had appeared through that morning, just like that. You still didn't know what the point of the door was, but you were thankful for it because Mrs. Hart was coming to the door.

“Ms. Wayne,” called the woman, dangerously close to the door. You ran to the opposite side of the covered door and approached your children. “Where are they?” She was almost in front of the door, so you made a quick movement with your hands: the soup disappeared from the floor and returned to its place in the pot, the children's clothes were cleaned, as were their faces, and both furniture and glass returned to their places in the expensive crockery that Bruce had inherited from his parents. Mrs. Hart came through the door at that moment to find you carrying your youngest son on your hip, Dick sitting innocently on the island, and Alfred stirring the soup. “Here you are,” she exclaimed.

“Here we are,” you said, smiling. You lowered Jason from your hip and grabbed his hand. “Alfred,” the man looked at you, “it's time to serve the main course to our guests.” 

“Right away, Mrs. Wayne,” Alfred answered calmly and you shared a knowing look before he answered.

At the dining room table, the end of the table was left empty because it was Bruce's place, while you, Dick, and Jason sat on one side, in that order, with the invited couple seated across from you, Mr. Hart directly opposite you.

“Well,” Mrs. Hart said as she put her napkin on her lap, while Alfred poured juice for the children. “Where do you come from? How long have you and Mr. Wayne been married? And do you plan to have more children?” she asked, beginning to taste the soup, hitting you with her questions closely one after the other.

“Oh,” you laughed, “Bruce and I have been together for so long it feels like we've always been this way.” You paused, “And we come from…” you were at a loss. “We come from…” you didn't know.

“We come from another city,” said Dick. “From…” he was cut off, bewildered, but he quickly looked at you for help, surely you knew. “What was the name of the city, Mom?” he asked you, curious.

“The city, of course,” you said, trying to start your sentence again. “We come from…” Again, you had nothing; that made no sense.

“AND?” asked Mr. Hart, frustrated. You looked at him and tried to smile to appear normal, but you quickly lost it, and he noticed.

“Let them think, dear. They are putting together their story,” Mrs. Hart defended, smiling sweetly as Alfred poured him more wine. At that moment, you looked at him, but he didn't look at you; he was suddenly serious, with a lost look as he poured his glass, and he seemed tense.

“Our story, yes, of course,” you continued, again trying to get back on track. “We come from, from a city, from…” You failed again.

“Where from?” asked Mr. Hart, flustered.

“Arthur, leave the poor woman alone,” Mrs. Hart scolded him, eating quickly, her tone sweet, but in her posture, there was something else; she was not calm or happy as she wanted to seem.

“Why?” her husband defended himself. “It's a perfectly normal and simple question: Where do they come from?” The table fell silent; for a few seconds, no one moved or made a sound. “Damn it. Where does it come from?” He slammed the table roughly, making the plates jump. Dick looked at him; he could hear the anger in his voice and even fear, but he didn't understand why. “What do you want? What do you want—” His words were cut off, as was his breath. You watched him intently as he brought his hands to his throat; he was choking.

“Oh, Arthur, stop it,” his wife said naturally, her tone not losing the cheerful and casual air it had until now, but Arthur Hart kept choking, and nobody made a move, not even you. Only Jason kept eating his soup. Your eldest son looked at the guest, confused. Dick felt that he should do something, but he also felt he shouldn't at the same time. “Stop it,” Mrs. Hart repeated. “Stop it, stop it, stop it.” She stopped looking at her husband when he fell to the ground, very close to the feet of Alfred, who looked at the situation without leaving his place, with the wine jug in hand. You looked at him, and he looked at you this time; he seemed worried, even anguished and fearful. “Stop it,” Mrs. Hart looked at you this time; she was talking to you. “Stop it,” she repeated.

“Mom,” Dick called worriedly when he saw that the guest's pleas were directed at you now. He grabbed your hand on the table to try to get your attention, but he kept looking between Mrs. Hart and the drowning man on the floor.

“Mrs. Wayne,” this time it was Alfred who called you. “Mrs. Wayne” was a silent request.

“Please, stop it,” Mrs. Hart continued. A buzzing invaded your ears; suddenly, two unknown voices filled your ears. What they were talking about was inescapable, but they were close because their minds were connected.

“Ms. Wayne,” Alfred called you with more urgency.

“Mama,” Dick called, shaking your hand at the same time, but the voices had your full attention. You wanted to know who they were and what they were up to.

“Mommy.” Suddenly, the voices were forgotten. Dick and Mrs. Hart fell silent. You looked at your youngest son, who was looking at you, confused by the situation, and you immediately reacted.

“Alfred, help him,” you said seriously, the butler quickly putting down the wine pitcher and proceeding to help the man on the ground, quickly getting him to spit out the piece of meat that had been stuck in his airway. Mr. Hart gasped for air as he started to try to get up quickly. In a hurry, Alfred helped him to his feet.

“Careful, Mr.” he said as they both finished standing in their places.

Mr. Hart finished standing up and ran his hands over his jacket, lost for a second and not knowing what he was doing, but quickly found the watch on his wrist and looked at it.

“Look at the time,” he said matter-of-factly. “We'd better head home.” He pointed and smiled, suddenly becoming more likable than he had been throughout dinner.

“You're right, dear,” Mrs. Hart agreed in her well-pitched, sing-song tone. “It was a pleasure meeting you all,” she commented as you and your children stood up from your seats. She approached you friendly, and you took a few steps to meet her halfway. “Your children are adorable, Mrs. Wayne, and your house is charming,” she stated before giving you an impromptu hug, which you returned.

“Tell Mr. Wayne I can't wait to do business with him,” Mr. Hart said, smiling as you separated from his wife and walked over to shake his hand. “And you two behave, young men,” he motioned to your sons as they both stood beside you. You ran your hand through your youngest son's hair to make sure he was there, and Dick leaned against your side with his head resting on your hip. “Your mother is a unique woman, and there is nothing she wouldn't do for you. Appreciate her,” he told them honestly, which brought a smile to your face. You looked down to meet Dick's unsure eyes and patted his back quickly to reassure him.

“Yes, Mr. Hart,” Jason said as his older brother decided to speak.

“We'll take care of her, always,” Dick added.

“I'll walk you out,” Alfred said, smiling, happy that everything had turned out well.

You and your children went to the living room, ready to watch some television before going to sleep.

“Well, that was an adventure, without a doubt,” you commented while sitting in the middle of the couch.

“It was to be expected when your family is like ours,” Dick jokes, smiling at you conspiratorially as he sat next to you, leaning his head on your shoulder.

“Next time, Alfred should serve ice cream for dinner,” Jason pointed out. “Everyone loves ice cream,” he explained when you looked at him, prompting you and your oldest son to laugh along with the audience. Jason settled with his head in your lap, and you put your hand in his hair to caress it, as he liked so much, while Dick wrapped his arms around your waist. You put your arm around his shoulders to hug him closer to you.

“After that disaster, I need a drink,” Alfred commented, entering the room and sitting in one of the individual armchairs. “Although it could be compensated with a raise,” he joked, and they all laughed together again.

“What can I say?” You looked at Jason, seeing how his eyes were slowly closing in sleep. “We're a bit of a peculiar family,” you stated.

“Just a bit?” Dick teased again. You kissed his head as the lights dimmed, and the credits began to roll, the show ending with the image of your beautiful family sitting in the living room.

Seeing that image, Bruce couldn't help but notice that it was the happiest he had seen you in months…

𝔍𝔞𝔠𝔨 𝔬𝔣 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔰

Masterlist

Contains spoilers of season 2!!

Paring: Chishiya x blind!reader

Warnings: death, blood

Word count: 1161

Chishiya placed a hand on your back when you arrived to the game. He said that he only wanted to make sure you were following him since you never knew what may happen. Especially after you had to put on a collar.

You lost your ability to see as a child, but you were not helpless. You can navigate by making little noises like humming, and predict walls, stairs, distances, and much more. You could typically go around without assistance, but when there were a lot of people at a game or at the beach, you could get disoriented. You met Chishiya in a game and even saved his life thanks to your incredible hearing abilities and he hasn't left your side since.

"Do you hear this?", you inquired after coming to a halt.

You most likely arrived in the room where the game started. At the very least, Chishiya came to a stop.  A strange noise was heard a few minutes later. Was it… skin slapping? Chishiya chuckled at your expression as you realized what it was.

More and more people entered the room, and with each one, you came closer to Chishiya. According to their steps, there are at least 21 people in here.

The rules were then explained, and your heart almost stopped beating. You couldn't help Chishiya. How was he going to survive? You couldn't tell him what his symbol was.

"Calm down," Chishiya said as he noticed you becoming anxious.

A girl approached you and invited you to join her group. Chishiya poked your arm, signaling that he was right and accepted her offer.

After a few rounds, nearly everyone was dead. Even Chishiyas' new friend died in the last round. He was a kind person, perhaps too kind for this world.

"Chishiya, I'm sorry.", you mumbled.

You sat down in the storeroom and drank a soda. A guy left just moments ago and he didn't want to tell Chishiya his symbol.

"It's not your fault.", he groaned as he rubbed his temple.

"You know something right? You need to know something. You always do."

"Not at the moment."

Chishiya stood up and walked away a few steps. You heard some rustling and a few moments later you felt something in your hand.

"What is this?" you questioned, attempting to guess the thing.

"My favorite snack in here," he grumbled.

Meanwhile, another person entered the room. It was the lady. The sound of her shoes was familiar to you.

"Would you mind telling me my symbol?"

Chishiya stood up to ask her, but all you could hear was rustling from the same direction Chishiya had been minutes before. Said man continued trying to convince her, but she turned around and headed straight toward you.

"Hey, could you please give me this?" she asked, undoubtedly pointing to the pack of cookies in your hand.

"They can't see what you're pointing at." Chishiya remarked instead.

"I'm sorry I didn't realize." The noises her clothes made and her silence meant she bowed, what made you chuckle.

"Just take it.", you said, perhaps a little harshly.

Did Chishiya knew that she was coming? Whatever his reasons were, the woman took the snacks and walked away quickly.

"She didn't even say thank you.", you muttered as Chishiya sat down for the third time.

"Maybe, but now I have a chance to win."

"What do you mean?", you asked confused, but still a bit happy.

"Sometimes it's annoying that you can't see, otherwise you would have noticed it too. I'll give you a hint: these cookies have four different flavors."

Four different flavors? What is the importance of this? After some thinking, you understood what he was talking about.

"She communicates with this other guy who was here earlier!  I assumed they just ate a lot because they came here every round. So the bag cookies you handed me were the last of its kind?"

"Not exactly, I hid the rest, but it still worked. Matsushita, the guy who she cooperates with took the same one as her, even so she had hearts."

"So he is the jack of hearts!"

"Yes. So, based on Kotoko's response when I mentioned having clubs and the fact that Matsushita most likely lied. I must have diamonds or spades."

"At least you have a fifty-five chance now. Couldn't you just ask someone else?"

"That's not a good idea. The time is nearly over, and I'm not sure if they'll tell me the truth."

You both returned upstairs, but were interrupted by none other than the criminal himself.

"Hey you!" You stopped, but to your surprise Chishiya didn't.

"Who do you think is the jack of hearts?"

He caught you off guard, but you just brushed it off.

"Perhaps it's me."

"Than you would have a stupid strategy. Be honest."

"You're not dumb. Why don't you figure it out yourself? Must be easy with a partner like yours."

"Well then. This guy you're walking around with has a diamond. I hope you survive, the fun only starts now, would be a shame if you miss it."

🂡🂡🂡

You were eventually permitted to go after fourteen hours. Banda told Chishiya his symbol for the last round, and you thanked him excessively. He just laughed at you, but you didn't care.

"Hey, Y/n?", Chishiya asked when you walked away from the arena.

"Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, listen, I'm not a man of great words, but I want you to know how much you mean to me. That's why I don't want you to play in the next game, alright?"

"I don't want you to risk your life alone, Chishiya."

"I understand, and I also understand that the king of spades is dangerous, which is why you will wait near the arena. Nobody is playing games to extend their visa anymore. They are well aware that the end is near and that playing games is the only way to avoid the king of spades."

"Are you trying to say that my visa doesn't matter anymore, because we will get home soon?"

"I will make sure of it."

"Chishiya, you've changed. To be honest, when I first met you, I hated you."

"I don't blame you. Back then, I was a jerk."

"Yes you were.", you mumbled before leaning closer to him.

You kissed his cheek lightly, and Chishiya was relieved that you couldn't see him blush.

"I might have hated you before, but I can tolerate you now."

"Looks like more than tolerating to me.", he joked, throwing his arm over your shoulder. "You're lucky, I like you. When this is all over, maybe we should go on a date."

When you started walking, you smiled like a child. Perhaps you should, and perhaps he was right. Maybe it'll all be over soon.

ʜᴀɴɢɪɴɢ ʙʏ ᴀ ᴛʜʀᴇᴀᴅ | emperor geta

pairing: emperor geta x fem!reader

summary: the fates spin the thread of destiny, and mortals have no choice but to follow its path. you have other plans.

➺‘the fates, who give men at their birth both evil and good to have, and they pursue the transgressions of men and gods… until they punish the sinner with a sore penalty’ - theogony, hesiod ➺‘whatever happens to you has been waiting to happen since the beginning of time’ - marcus aurelius

A/N: i watched gladiator ii, devoured all the geta fics i could find (ty writers for feeding me <3) and i’m still ravenous. the man is gnawing at me from my insides so i had no choice but to get typing. haven’t written for like a yr so bear with me. if this flops it never happened xx

warnings: mention of miscarriage (not reader's), period-typical misogyny, morally ambiguous reader bc she’s fighting for her life out here. she’s just a girl fr :( YOU try being a girlie in ancient rome :/ enjoy !!

w/c: 5.9k

latin translations: fatum - fate, carissima - dear, domina - my lady

As the moon ascends in wake of the sun’s descent, the gilded walls of the imperial palace glint softly in the moonlight. Glorious tapestries line these walls, each one telling the tale of hallowed heroes, of terrible tyrants and of revered rulers. The history of the Roman Empire.

Their patterns, depicting stories of both rise and ruin, are woven by none other than the three Fates. One Fate spins the thread, and an heir is born. Another Fate weaves it, and a battle is won. The last Fate cuts, and an emperor meets his end.

As three pairs of hands work nimbly in the heavens, another tapestry begets itself in the mortal realm, where our story takes place.

From a tender age, you had been taught to believe in fate.

Fatum.

You had first learnt the word as a little one.

You’d been a curious creature, like most children are. Sheltered from the terrors of the world, your appetite for life was insatiable. You’d wake up with a hunger for new knowledge about the world around you, and go to bed still hungry for more, no matter what had transpired during the day. Thus, you found it impossible to go to sleep of your own accord - you relied on your mother’s bedtime stories to satisfy your appetite, and lull you into slumber.

Perched by your bedside with a gentle hand stroking your hair, she regaled you with the tale of Rome’s beginnings. A tale of abandonment, wolf-mothers and fratricide. Enough thrill to tire you out, she hoped. To her chagrin, she looked down to find widened eyes, without a trace of sleep in them, staring up at her expectantly. Instead, your eyes shone bright with the excitement of unanswered questions.

She sighed fondly before prompting you to talk. “Yes, carissima?”

And so the floodgates opened. You fired her with questions with all the sternness of a Roman general, and she listened intently with all the patience of a loving mother.

Why did the king try to kill the babies? Why didn’t the wolf eat the babies?

And finally, taking great care to be gentle, you placed a tiny hand on her rounded belly and asked the most burning question. Why did Romulus kill his brother? Your innocent mind struggled to comprehend it. You hadn’t even met your little sibling yet, and you already couldn’t fathom the idea of bringing harm to him. Or her, you thought, but your father had insisted that all refer to the babe as the male heir he so desperately desired it to be.

“Fatum,” was the simple answer she supplied. “Without the king’s cruelty, without the wolf’s mercy, without Remus’ death, our great city would never have been built.”

Eyes shining with knowledge yet untold, her gaze held yours. “Whatever happens to you, has been waiting to happen since the beginning of time,” she quoted, a tone of finality in her voice.

As well-loved children do, you’d lapped up your mother’s answer as readily as the twin babes lapped the wolf’s milk.

You had first witnessed fatum some years later, at the age of twelve.

On the brink of adolescence, much about you had changed compared to the little girl having bedtime stories told to her. Much except one. Age hadn’t quelled your curiosity - if anything, it had grown.

You’d exhausted all the resources available to a girl of your standing. You’d read enough philosophical texts to debate with Aristotle himself, asked questions faster than your tutors could find answers and yet, you knew there was much more that the world had to offer. So, you decided to take matters into your own hands.

With age had also come a newfound deviance. Observant as you were, you’d learned that there was much to be gained with certain types of information - if you knew how to use it to your advantage.

As such, you’d taken to eavesdropping on your father’s meetings with his fellow senators from behind a pillar. For weeks on end, they had spoken of a play becoming popular amongst patricians and plebeians alike. Oedipus.

At the centre of their discussion was a ploy to ban the play from being performed. Abhorrent, they had called it. A threat to their authority, if the people are led to believe that even kings are subject to a thing as fickle as fate. At that statement, your eyes twinkled with mischief and a devious smile found its way to your face - you were determined to see this for yourself.

So, on the fateful night you caught your older cousin in the arms of a man bearing no resemblance to her betrothed, you knew you’d struck gold.

Desperate to protect her reputation and far too embarrassed to berate you for sleuthing around when you should have been asleep, she’d hastily agreed to the terms of your silence. She would sneak you into the city’s amphitheatre to watch the next production of Oedipus, if you swore to secrecy.

And so your plan commenced. Hidden under the large folds of her toga, you observed the story unfolding before you. The mighty king of Thebes brought to his knees by the tragic fate he’d tried to escape, to no avail.

A real spectacle, the performance elicited emotions from you that were both old and new. In a short two hours you’d been perplexed, horrified, scandalised. You’d learned quickly why you had to be sneaked in - fate wasn’t the only mature theme you were educated on that night.

But you only came to understand fatum when it took the person dearest to you, two summers ago.

Pregnant again, the fifth time that you could remember, your mother had taken ill. Perilously ill. After years of unsuccessful attempts to produce an heir - one daughter, two miscarriages and two stillbirths - she had breathed her last. In her womb? The son your father demanded of her. The son he had longed for. Prayed to the gods for. What else could bring forth such a tragic end, if not the hands of the Fates?

Now a grown woman, the beliefs your mother had impressed upon you would soon be tested. Left with no living sons to continue his legacy and no living wife to bring forth such living sons, your father’s lofty political aspirations could only be fulfilled through his daughter. You.

Your father wasted no time in advancing his plans.

After a long day spent praying at the temple of Pluto, you had been ready to wind down and relax. A good distance away from the centre of the city and situated atop a number of hills, a trip there takes up the whole day. You had set out at dawn, and as the sun set over the Tiber river to bring forth dusk, your shadow darkened the entrance of your family villa.

Exhausted both emotionally and physically, your body went through the motions of preparing yourself for supper, but your mind remained absent - occupied with thoughts of what could have been and what will never be.

After your bath you called for your maid and allowed her to dress you, head still in the clouds. It was only when you caught a glimpse of yourself in the bronze mirror atop your vanity that you noticed something was amiss.

Your eyes squinted as you inspected the image reflected on the polished surface.

“Why have you dressed me in these garments? I wish to wear my usual attire.”

You wore a tunic, the draped garment secured by an ornate brooch resembling an owl, with eyes made of precious gems. Nothing out of the ordinary.

What was out of the ordinary, was the saffron yellow hue of the tunic — since your mother’s passing you had been in mourning and thus only wore dark colours. A fact well-known by your maid, who dressed you day and night.

The hands fastening the brooch falter as she gathers a response.

“My apologies, Domina.” She stepped back, head bowed in deference. “I assumed you would revert to your previous wardrobe, seeing as yesterday marked the end of…” She trailed off meekly, allowing you to fill in the blanks.

The previous day had marked a year since your mother’s passing, and thus the end of the customary mourning period. As such, it would be socially acceptable for you to appear happy and content again, reflected in the abandonment of deep plums and drab greys for sunny yellows and bold blues. You supposed it was not odd for her to assume you desire to don brighter colours.

But upon closer inspection, your suspicion rose again. Detailed with beautiful patterns and made of the smoothest damask money could buy, the tunic was much too elaborate for a simple family dinner in the villa. The last time you wore it was to a relative’s wedding, where your father made a point of telling anyone who would listen just how much it had cost to import the material from China.

You poised yourself to question her further, but the words died on the tip of your tongue when you saw the pleading look she gave you.

“Please, Domina.”

She offered you no further explanation, but the fear in her eyes was explanation enough. She was not doing this of her own accord, but under instruction. And if you knew your father well, under strict instruction.

Whatever plans he had for you, you knew you would have little to no choice in the matter.

Wordlessly, you acquiesced and allowed her to continue. You did not protest when she brushed, braided and pinned your hair into an elaborate updo. You were compliant when she lined your eyes with kohl and blotted your lips with mulberry juice.

Primped and primed like a prized show horse, you dismissed your maid, sat by the window and awaited your fate.

Not long passed before the sound of a male timbre filled the room.

“It appears your outfit is missing something.”

You turned to the direction of the voice to see your father standing in the doorway. Instinctively, you stood to your feet - less as a show of respect and more because you were used to being on guard in his presence.

In his hands he held a translucent, gauzy material, sheer in nature and vibrant in colour, that was all too familiar to you.

Your mother’s favourite veil.

Usually fixed firmly atop her head during special occasions - festivals, birthdays, weddings and the like - you could recognise it from a mile away. Growing up, you had associated this veil with womanhood itself. You would traipse around the corridors of the villa with it wrapped around your head haphazardly, the excess fabric trailing behind you as you ran as fast as your little legs could carry you.

What a foreign sight it was to see it in the hands of your father. And what a foreign sight it was to see him in your chambers.

Following your mother’s passing, the two of you had not conversed beyond what was formally required of you, your already fragile relationship fracturing completely. Yet here he was, extending a peace offering. An olive branch.

Pleased as you were to receive it, you were not foolish enough to believe this to be a genuinely affectionate gesture. A politician through and through, your father was no stranger to symbolic gestures, and he had made no attempts to mend your relationship prior to this moment. This sudden generosity, paired with your extravagant dressing, could only mean one thing.

He wanted something from you.

Now, you had two options. Comply with his request, or comply with his request begrudgingly. You chose the latter, of course. Even if obedience was your only option, you weren’t going to make this easy for him.

You casted him a quick look of derision. “If you wish to barter for my forgiveness with a piece of cloth, I am afraid your efforts have been wasted.”

Unphased, he stepped further into the room.  “Now, now, peace, dear daughter. Let us be civil.” The faux humility in his tone was almost comical.

“Perhaps you feel…wronged by me for holding your mother to a certain standard. But, you must understand that I was simply fulfilling my duties, by encouraging her to fulfil her own. I have particular responsibilities to this family. As do you, now.”

You levelled him with an icy glare, wise enough not to express your discontent verbally, but too headstrong not to express it somehow.

“And even if I have, in some unfathomable way, wronged you; to err is human, to forgive, divine.” 

After knowing him for as long as you did, you knew this was the closest thing to an apology you would get. You also knew your father was a talented orator - it’s how he gained a large enough political following to join the Senate, after all. And so you prepared yourself to be subjected to one of his moving speeches.

“It is common knowledge that women are the weaker sex,” What a great way to start, you snarked to yourself. “Yet, I have always seen a unique strength in you. Not physical strength, of course, but a mental fortitude. Since you were a young girl you have been willful, stubborn,” he took a step closer to you with each word, purple-lined toga brushing the floor as he advanced. 

As he said the last word, he gave you a knowing look. “Nosy.”

You failed to hide your shock. “Oh yes, I saw you slinking around behind the pillars.” He waved a hand dismissively. “It matters not, now. In fact, whatever dregs of information you picked up from eavesdropping on my discussions may soon prove useful.”

His face was a picture of smugness, with an eyebrow cocked and the corners of his mouth upturned as if he knew something you didn’t. With just a few sentences he had complimented you (even if it was backhanded), revealed that he knew your secret, and teased you with a nugget of information. The perfect combination to make you anticipate his next words.

Silence filled the room as he kept you in suspense, mind whirring as you mulled over his cryptic words. 

One hand held your mother’s veil in front of him, while the other caressed its folds delicately. His eyes had a faraway look in them that suggested his mind had travelled to another time.

“Your mother was a strong woman. Not strong enough in the end, regrettably, but strong nonthele-”

“Don’t.” You interjected. “You will not sully her memory with your caustic words.”

His lips spread into a diplomatic smile, but the twitch of his eye betrayed the irritation he felt. Belligerent as he was, he ignored your outburst and continued. 

“Unlike her, you have the makings of a lady of great influence. Much like me, you have the mind for politics. That potential lies latent within you.”

With a gentleness you wished was also reflected in his words, he draped the veil over your head. “I advise you not to waste it, dear daughter, and suffer the fate of lesser women.”

You scoffed at his words, readjusting the veil so it rested perfectly atop your head and shoulders. “And how do you suggest I fulfil this…potential? The Senate is not exactly welcoming of women.”

Well-pleased that your interest had been piqued, he finally reveals his true intentions.

“Accompany me to the imperial banquet tonight. We will celebrate the successful conquest of Britannia.”

“I do not care for banquets, nor do I spare a thought for conquests.”

“You may not care for military conquests, but this banquet itself is a conquest of the political sort. In my experience, much more is won with words, than with swords. And tonight’s event presents an opportunity for much gain.”

Again with the cryptic words.

“Allow me to present you to the Emperors. Your face is comely enough to garner their attention, and for some reason unbeknownst to me, some men find opinionated girls like you to be charming.” 

Is he insinuating what you think he is?, you thought incredulously. Surely not.

“The Senate may not be the place for women, but the Senate is not the only facilitator of politics. Why not practice your politics from Palatine Hill?”

There was no mistaking it. He intended to make an Empress of you. Equally as curious as you were sceptical, you decided to test his logic.

“Beauty is fleeting. Charm wanes with time. How would I maintain their favour?”

“That, dear daughter, is up to you. I am certain you will find a way, formidable as you are.”

While it pained you to admit it, he was right. You and your father were more alike than different, what with your scheming and blackmailing. Besides, you were formidable. You were cunning. You were capable.

There may be greater things in store for you yet.

And those greater things began with this banquet.

Upon arrival, you were met with the most magnificent sight you had ever seen. Sat proudly upon Palatine Hill, the palace looked like the image your mind conjured when picturing Olympus. After ascending the intimidating number of steps that led to the entrance, you truly felt like you’d ascended to the land of the gods. Wherever you looked there was amazing artwork that instilled equal parts awe and fear in you. 

Look up, and there were grand arches to behold. Look to the side, and the spectacular frescoes offered a feast for the eyes. Look down, and there were beautifully designed floor mosaics you almost felt bad for stepping on.

As you passed through into the atrium, it was much the same. Ostentatiously decorated, it boasted gilded walls and glorious tapestries, each feature a testament to the Emperors’ opulence, and Rome’s riches.

But it was impossible to focus fully on the artwork with the room heaving as it was. Eyes darting from one person to another with every passing second,  you were captivated by the spectacle the hoard of partygoers presented. Something seemed to be happening in every square foot of the room, each guest having their fill of whatever their vice of choice was for the night. Wine was in abundance, giving way to loose lips, and scantily-clad whores prowled about in the shadows, giving way to loose purse strings.

You had been to your fair share of lavish affairs, but this was a whole new world of revelry.

Between the loud percussion of the musicians’ instruments, the aroma of the heavily seasoned foods and the leering gazes of overexcited men, you began to feel overstimulated. You stuck close to your father as he led you into the heart of the throng, finding comfort in the familiar when surrounded by the foreign. Better the devil you know.

Oblivious to your discomfort, he reprimands you under his breath. “Stop clinging to me like a child, lest our venture fail before it has even begun.”

You’d been so taken by your surroundings that you hadn’t registered where your father was leading you to. Now you stood in front of the two men at the centre of this affair, who were seated majestically upon a golden threaded couch. You prayed you didn’t look like the bewildered little girl you certainly felt like. 

With a grand, sweeping gesture of his hand, your father bowed. 

“Imperators, what an honour it is to partake in these…wondrous celebrations with your Majesties.”

“Senator,” one of them said, voice smooth like honey but with an edge that demanded caution. His face bore a smile, but his tone was calm and measured. “What a pleasure it is to see you.” The twitch of his eyebrow suggested otherwise. “In a more agreeable mood, might I add.” The man beside him sniggers.

More agreeable? Whatever could that mean? For the second time in one night you found yourself deciphering cryptic words. Father must have angered the Emperors, somehow. 

“And you’ve brought…” He trailed off, looking at your father expectantly.

“Yes, Emperor Geta, Emperor Caracalla,” with a single clap and an officious clearing of his throat he stepped to the side, no longer obscuring their vision of you. “May I present my daughter…”

You managed to regain your composure, exhibiting a grace only a lady of the upper echelons of society could possess when you sunk into a deep curtsy. Lifting your gaze, you were met with the hair-raising sensation of being observed. Not just observed – scrutinised.  

A pair of eyes, deep brown like rich soil, trailed over your form. The man that addressed your father with contempt - Geta. His brows furrowed as he took the sight of you in. Lined with kohl much like yours, his eyes were smouldering in their examination.

Another pair, red-rimmed and cloudy with the haze of inebriation, were the perfect contrast. The man that sniggered - Caracalla. With irises of a cold blue hue, they would have been intimidating if they belonged to a face other than his, what with his rosy rounded cheeks and seemingly perpetual impish grin. 

Despite their differences, the relation between the men was clear as day. Flaming locks of hair and the gold laurels that circled their heads confirmed their identities. These were the infamous twin tyrants.

But it wasn’t just the weight of their eyes that you felt. Lounging around the couch in various positions and in varying states of undress, was an entourage of courtesans. You did your best to avert your gaze, as theirs bore into you. 

And what a pleasant sight you were. Adorned with ornate jewellery and clad in the finest of silks, you were easily one of the best dressed at the banquet. Before a word had been uttered, your appearance relayed a message – you were a lady of fine stature, more than accustomed to luxury and thus, would be well-suited to palace life.

Well-suited to be Empress.

Not taking any chances, your father decided not to leave anything up for interpretation.

He began listing your virtues as if reading from a handbook - 100 Things to Look For in a Roman Wife. He spoke of your piety, your beauty, your fertility. With every trait of yours that was mentioned, you grew increasingly more irate and keeping the docile smile on your face became increasingly more difficult. 

“...and lest I forget, she is most gifted with the lyre-”

“How quaint.” Caracalla interrupted, a peal of childish laughter bubbling from his lips. “He presents his daughter’s hand as if he is lobbying for a law to be passed!”

Geta scoffed, “Or a conquest to be forfeited.”

At this, Caracalla doubled over in laughter, the overfilled cup of wine in his hand threatening to spill over the rim with every jostle of his frame. Clearly there’s a joke you’re missing here.

There’s a wicked glint in Geta’s eyes that tells you this joke has guile. 

“Three sennights have lapsed since you last stood before us, spewing nonsense about abandoning our pursuit of Britannica.” The vitriol that coated his voice strung a discordant note in the mellifluous tune of his brother’s continuous laughter. “Yet here you stand in your Emperors’ palace,” he gestured at the ongoing frivolities. “Drinking and making merry with spoils from the very war you so vehemently opposed.” 

Ah. It finally clicked. From what you had picked up from your father and his associates’ discussions, you knew that this conquest had long since been under contention among the Senators. The campaign was taking longer than anticipated, and required more reinforcements than expected. The Roman force was fatigued. At home, the starving plebeians of Rome were one famine away from revolting, and without the full support of the army, politicians relied on empty promises to appease their constituents and maintain order. Yet, the Emperors were adamant on expanding Rome’s borders.

For whatever reason, at the last Senate meeting three weeks ago your father had been the unfortunate soul to suggest that the troops should draw back. And now he stood before them at the celebration of the successful conquest, presenting you as a bargaining chip to secure his pardon. Opposing the Emperors was costly, and he decided you were going to pay that price on his behalf.

Geta leaned his head on his hands as he asked, “Tell me, Senator, what makes you think you will triumph this time?”

You watched your father’s reaction with bitter disbelief. For the first time in your life, your silver-tongued father, the man that had landed you this fate, floundered for words.

Fine. If this was the hand dealt to you, so be it. But you were going to do this your way.

“Your Majesties,” At the sound of your sweet voice, Geta’s gaze affixed itself to your face. Instantly, he was beguiled. “If I may…” 

With the slow incline of his head, you were permitted to speak. 

“I know little of war,” you feigned ignorance. “But I do know that defying the odds to bring glory to Rome is no small feat.” Preening at your praise, Geta leaned forward in his seat, a silent encouragement for you to continue. “Rome and her citizens are fortunate to be led by you, Imperators, and I am grateful to be in the presence of such wise rulers.”

His mouth spread into a self-satisfied smirk. “I bask in your praises, my lady. It pleases me to see that someone in your family has a semblance of loyalty to the powers above them” A pointed look was shot at your father. “You see, all those that oppose their Emperors,” His venomous gaze roved over the group of Senators shifting uneasily as they watched this ordeal. “Will soon learn that there is only one way for a man to wield power.” He held up his index finger for emphasis and paused for suspense. “War.”

With all the self-assurance of a man that has never truly been challenged, he stalked towards you.

“What other power can bring a man to his knees and cause him to surrender?”

“I can think of nothing greater than war!” Caracalla piped up from behind him.

“Yes, brother.” Geta held his cup of wine up in agreement. “By no other means can a man wield such power. I am sure my lady agrees?” He offered his right hand, each finger as bejewelled as the next.

The ultimatum he presented you with was clear. Kiss the ring, let all be forgiven and allow this encounter to end pleasantly. Refuse the ring, and…well, don’t refuse the ring.

But compliance was predictable, and would only get you so far. Your beauty and charm had ignited a spark of interest in him, but that wasn’t enough. You needed that spark to burst into a flame.

With swan-like grace you knelt before him and take his hand, smiling inwardly when his eyes followed your descent with rapture. You didn’t miss his quick intake of breath when you halted your movements to look up and meet his eye, lips an inch away from the stunning signet ring.

“Upon second thought,” You tilted your head as if considering his words. “There exists another power great enough to make a man kneel in surrender.” At your bold words, the hand you held tightened around your fingers until he had a firm grip of your hand. “A power so great, even Emperors are not immune.”

Gasps of shock came from the onlookers sober enough to process what they had heard.

“Impertinence!” Caracalla’s cry of protest tore you from the captivity of his brother’s gaze. 

“Forgive my daughter, she oversteps her bounds.” Your father spat the words out and fixed you with a look of warning, a late and unappreciated attempt to de-escalate the night’s proceedings.

With a wave of Geta’s hand, his words were dismissed. For the sake of keeping your resolve, you pretended not to see the Praetorians return their drawn swords to their scabbards.

You returned to the intense stare of brown eyes narrowed in… intrigue? Suspicion? You weren’t sure, but you had his attention. 

“And what power would that be?”

Your gentle smile had him entranced. “The strike of a drum, the strum of a lyre’s strings. Music, my Imperator, holds much power.”

See, while your father was busy waxing lyrical about you, you had been studying Geta closely. As he listened to others speak, his fingers unconsciously tapped the thigh of the courtesan perched on the arm of the couch. But they were not tapping any old rhythm – they tapped to the beat of the percussion in the background. The ring your lips had puckered up to kiss was not embossed with an imprint of Ares, the god of war, but Apollo, god of music. Geta the Emperor championed conflict and violence, but Geta the man held music dear.

Rich eyes twinkled as his laugh rang in your ears. “Ah, yes. Your father mentioned your skill with the lyre. He failed to mention your humour.” He didn’t believe you.

“I assure you, Imperator, my lyre-playing is unparalleled.” You indulged him with a coy smile.

“You believe you would best our most talented musician? That your playing would put your Emperors’ finest to shame?” He challenged your claim.

“Given the chance, I would outplay each of the Nine Muses,” you asserted boldly. You rose to his challenge.

His eyes gleamed with ardour as he regarded your statement with a raised brow. “I await the day I hear you play with baited breath, my lady.”

“It would be my pleasure, my liege.”

Not risking any more excitement, you curtsied and took your father’s arm as he guided you towards the outskirts of the atrium, and away from watching eyes. He wasted no time expressing his displeasure.

“Have you lost your senses, girl? Has some strange plague come over your mind?!” He released an exasperated sigh. “You should have held that tongue of yours.”

 “Oh, and left you there, stammering like a bumbling fool? Father,” you uttered the paternal term without an ounce of familial affection. “You entrusted this ploy into my hands, so leave it there.”

Anger flashed across his face like a clap of thunder. Before he could berate you for your indolence, however, a piercing shriek stole the moment.

You pushed through the crowd to see the commotion, weaving past bodies stilled with shock at whatever it is they were witnessing. When you got to the centre, you were met with a most harrowing display of fraternal discord.

Geta lay sprawled out on the marble floor, the corded muscle of his limbs tensing as he strained to hold back the man towering over him, wielding a dagger above his head. Caracalla. 

At first glance one may have supposed this fray was borne of anger, but with the spittle flying out of gritted teeth that gnashed and snarled like those of some inhuman beast, the incoherent stream of words and the crazed look in his eyes, it was clear that he did not have full agency of his person.

The rumours were true. He was having one of his infamous episodes.

Your eyes darted from Praetorian to Praetorian, waiting for one of them, any of them to take action. Their hands rested on the hilt of their swords, hesitation rooting them to their spots. To raise a hand against Caracalla would be treason, punishable by death. To ignore the distress of Geta would be treason, also punishable by death. They were at an impasse.

The chatter of mingling guests and the ambience of the musicians’ instruments had long since stopped, leaving the grunts of the brothers to take their place. All watched on in stunned silence, revelers turned horrified spectators.

Their scrambling continued. Geta managed to hook a leg around Caracalla’s ankle, toppling him over to join him on the cold marble. Wine cups clanged as they were knocked to the ground, collateral. The cacophony of sound nearly masked the sound of Geta’s desperate plea.

“Break the spell! Break the spell!”

Moved by an impetus you couldn’t explain, you barreled further through the crowd until you reached the musicians’ corner. You grabbed the lyre from the hands of the bard (who was too focused on the ongoing tumult to protest), and started strumming the tune of a nursery rhyme favoured by Roman children both rich and poor. 

Dulcet tones and sweet symphonies echoed through the chamber as you sang of Rome’s rolling hills, of fair maidens awaiting the return of brave soldiers, of the Tiber River’s ebb and flow. Those around you listened intently, enraptured. They stepped aside, clearing a path for you towards the quarreling brothers. You walked forward as you sang, and as you reached the last verse you stood a few feet away from where they squirmed, limbs akimbo. 

From your position you saw the exact moment the muscles in Caracalla’s face relaxed, and his body went limp. He released a weak whimper better-suited to an injured animal than the tyrannical emperor he was rumoured to be. Eyes fixed on you over his brother’s shoulder, he dropped the dagger as if compelled. Tears began to run down his face as he wailed, balling himself up into a foetal position. When they noticed his change in disposition, his entourage took the chance to spirit him away from the room. 

The final note of your song rang out. A beat passed as everyone came to, as if they too were held captive in a trance. Then, a slow, steady clap from one became a roaring applause, your fellow guests lauding your performance as if it had been planned. 

Chest heaving from exertion, Geta used a three-legged (formerly four-legged) stool to pull himself from the floor and adjusted his toga. At the raise of his hand, the clapping stopped. Flopping back to sit on the couch, he gestured for you to come forward. His expression was inscrutable. 

Before you could scrape together an apology, or some sort of explanation, you were utterly disarmed by the grin that spread across his face. 

“My lady,” He huffed between words, still catching his breath. “I stand corrected. It appears your flair with the lyre is equally as bewitching as your looks.”  

Your cheeks heated up at his confession of attraction towards you. “It pleases me that you think of me so, my Emperor.”

“Mmm.” He hummed, dark eyes taking their time to appraise you. “The power to bring a man to his knees can be very dangerous, you know. I believe it would be in the best interest of Rome and her citizens if such power was… managed by the capable hands of their Emperor.”

The chill of deja vu ran down your spine when he extended his hand in your direction. A second invitation to kiss the ring. Most people only get one.

“Wouldn’t you agree?”

As your lips made contact with the cold metal of Apollo’s face and you sealed your fate, you closed your eyes and said a silent prayer. When you opened them again, you found eyes the colour of rich soil searching yours. 

He turned the hand that gripped his and pressed a surprisingly sweet kiss to the back of it. His kisses travelled up your arm, growing more and more fervent, the plush of his lips leaving warmth on every spot they pressed against. He used his hold on you to pull you towards him until you were close enough to smell the heady scent of patchouli mixed with the subtle musk of perspiration, and count the freckles on his speckled cheeks, peeking through the layer of makeup. 

His palm ran up and down your arm repeatedly, inching further up each time.

“You will make a home for yourself here, in these palace walls.” Brown eyes gazed into yours, full of a veneration you couldn’t fathom. “And you shall be my little Muse.” 

As if the troubles of your life thus far had not been a sufficient allotment of suffering, the Fates had now tasked you with weathering the twin tempers of the Emperors Geta and Caracalla. And surviving. Gods help you.

A/N: thank you ever so much for reading ! i'm working on part two so let me know if you want me to post it when it's done <3

likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated x

© onyxstyx tumblr 2025

Die With a Smile

Charles Leclerc x death!Reader

Summary: desperation is a dangerous thing — six seasons without a World Drivers’ Championship has left Charles willing to do anything for glory … even pay the ultimate price (or in which Charles Leclerc sacrifices everything for Ferrari and, thanks to you, learns that death is nothing like he expected)

Warnings: major character death

Charles Leclerc has always been one for precision. Calculated. Calm. But now? Now there’s nothing left. Precision has eroded into a recklessness that terrifies and excites him in equal measure. The pursuit of glory is the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.

Melbourne is hot, the air thick and sticky with anticipation. He stands in the paddock, helmet in hand, eyes tracing over the sea of faces. Reporters, mechanics, engineers — all of them moving with purpose. The season begins here, but he can’t shake this feeling that something else is starting too.

He frowns, scanning the crowd again. Something — or someone — has caught his attention.

You stand there, leaning against a barrier, watching him. Quiet, still. You don’t belong in this chaos, yet somehow, you fit. It's not like the usual glances from fans or the admiring stares from strangers. No, this is different. He doesn’t know why, but the sight of you pulls him in, like a thread slowly unraveling.

His grip tightens around the helmet. “Who’s that?” He mutters under his breath, half to himself, half to anyone nearby.

Pierre, standing a few feet away, catches the tail end of his question and follows his gaze. “Who?”

“There.” Charles nods subtly toward you. You’re still there, eyes locked on him. Unblinking. He swallows hard.

Pierre shrugs, oblivious. “No clue. Probably a fan or something. You good?”

Charles doesn’t answer. You’re not a fan. You’re something else. His heart thuds in his chest, a slow, deliberate beat, like a countdown. He can almost hear it. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

“I’m fine,” he says, but the words feel empty. He’s not fine. He feels like he’s balancing on the edge of something dangerous, and you’re the reason why.

Suddenly, the world around him — the voices, the clamor of the paddock — fades, and it’s just you and him. You, watching him with a calmness that unnerves him. And him, standing there, frozen, unable to look away.

“I’ll see you after the race,” Pierre says, giving him a pat on the shoulder before disappearing into the crowd. Charles doesn’t even register his friend’s departure.

He doesn’t move, his body rooted to the spot as if some unseen force has pinned him in place. It’s stupid. Ridiculous. Why can’t he look away?

There’s a flicker in your eyes — something fleeting, something dark. His pulse quickens. He knows that look. He’s seen it before, in mirrors, in the faces of men with nothing left to lose.

But you … you wear it differently. Effortlessly.

Charles takes a step toward you. His boots hit the asphalt with a dull thud, and suddenly, he’s walking, moving through the crowd without really seeing anyone. His focus narrows, sharp and deadly. He can feel it, the pull, the way his every step is dragging him closer to something he can’t explain.

And then he’s standing in front of you.

You don’t smile. You don’t say anything. You just watch him, your expression unreadable, like you’re waiting for something.

His throat is dry. “Who are you?”

For a moment, silence stretches between you, thick and unyielding. And then you tilt your head, ever so slightly, as if considering the question.

“Does it matter?” Your voice is soft, almost too soft, but it cuts through the noise around them like a blade.

He blinks, thrown off balance. He expected — he doesn’t know what he expected. Something more. Something less. But not this.

“Yeah,” he says, swallowing hard, “I think it does.”

You shift your weight, crossing your arms over your chest, but your eyes never leave his. “And why is that?”

He hesitates. Why does it matter? He’s not sure. All he knows is that standing here, with you in front of him, he feels something heavy pressing down on him. Like time is slipping through his fingers, like he’s running out of chances, running out of-

“You’re in my head,” he says, more to himself than to you, his voice barely above a whisper. “Why are you in my head?”

You don’t answer right away, but your gaze sharpens, something dangerous lurking beneath the surface. “Maybe because you’ve been looking for me.”

His breath catches. “What?”

“You don’t realize it yet, but you’ve been waiting for this. For me.”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. He feels like the ground beneath him is shifting, like everything he thought he knew about himself is crumbling.

“You’re wrong,” he says, but his voice lacks conviction. “I’m not waiting for anything.”

You raise an eyebrow, and for the first time, a ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of your lips. It’s not a kind smile. It’s knowing. Cold.

“Aren’t you?”

He doesn’t answer. Can’t. The world around them feels suddenly smaller, the air thicker, like it’s closing in on him.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

That sound again. It’s louder now, reverberating in his skull.

“You’re scared,” you say, and it’s not a question.

“I’m not scared.”

“You should be.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but no words come out. Because you’re right. He is scared. But not of you. He’s scared of what you represent. Of the way his pulse pounds in his ears, the way his chest feels tight with something he doesn’t understand.

And you know it. You see right through him.

“This season,” you say, your voice low, “it’s your last, isn’t it?”

He stiffens. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t expect to come out of this alive.”

He laughs, but it’s bitter, hollow. “I don’t have a choice. I either win, or …”

“Or you die.”

His breath hitches. The way you say it, so matter-of-fact, so final — it shakes him. Because it’s true. He’s been feeling it for months, this gnawing sense that if he doesn’t win the championship, there’s nothing left for him. He’ll push until he breaks. And he doesn’t care anymore.

But how do you know that? How could you possibly know?

“You don’t get to decide that,” he snaps, more harshly than he intends.

You don’t flinch. “You’re right. I don’t.”

The implication hangs between you, unspoken but loud. There’s something inevitable about this. Something neither of you can control.

He takes a step back, suddenly needing space, air — anything to break the tension building between you. But even as he moves, he can still feel the weight of your gaze on him, can still hear the ticking in his head, louder and louder, counting down to something he can’t escape.

“You’re wrong,” he says again, though this time, it’s more for himself than for you. “I’ll win. I’ll be fine.”

You don’t argue. You just watch him, that cold, knowing smile still playing at the edges of your lips.

“We’ll see,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

And just like that, you turn and walk away, disappearing into the crowd as quickly as you appeared, leaving him standing there, heart racing, mind spinning.

He should be focusing on the race. On the championship. On everything he’s spent his entire life chasing.

But all he can think about is you. And the way his time feels like it’s running out.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

***

The roar of the engine fills his ears, drowning out everything else. The speed is intoxicating, the way the car moves beneath him, barely hanging on to the asphalt, the tires biting into the corners with every turn. He’s pushing harder than he should — he knows it, and he doesn’t care.

Spa is unforgiving today. The clouds hang low, threatening rain, and the track is slick, treacherous. Charles feels the tension in his body, every muscle taut, every nerve on edge. There’s no margin for error here. He’s on the edge, teetering, dancing with disaster. But that’s where he’s been living for months now — on the edge.

He downshifts hard coming out of Blanchimont, the rear of the car twitching beneath him. His heart pounds against his ribcage. He’s faster than he needs to be — faster than is safe. But he can’t let up. The rest of the field is closing in, and the gap between him and the car ahead is shrinking. Just a little more, just-

Then, suddenly, the car snaps.

A violent jolt sends him skidding off the track, the rear tires giving way, and for a brief, horrifying second, he loses control. The world tilts, and all he sees is the blur of gravel and barriers rushing toward him. Instinct takes over. His hands are a blur on the steering wheel as he fights to regain control. The tires scream against the ground, the car skidding sideways, throwing him against the seat belts with bone-rattling force.

“Come on, come on,” he mutters through gritted teeth, his heart pounding in his throat. He’s losing it, the car sliding further into the runoff area, the barrier looming closer.

But then — somehow — he recovers. The car snaps back into line, and he breathes out a shaky breath, his knuckles white from gripping the wheel. He’s back on the track, the car steady beneath him, but his heart is still racing, adrenaline coursing through his veins.

“Charles, are you okay?” His engineer’s voice crackles through the radio, tense and urgent.

“Yeah,” he breathes, his voice shaky. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

But he’s not fine. His hands are trembling, his vision is still blurred with the image of the gravel, the barrier — the almost crash. For a split second, he saw it. Saw what could have happened. What should have happened if his reflexes hadn’t kicked in.

He pulls the car to a slow halt, off the track now, coming to rest just inside the gravel trap. The engine hums, a low, steady sound that does nothing to calm him.

He sits there, breathing heavily, his head resting against the seat, eyes closed. He’s been reckless before, but this? This was different. He came so close to-

And then he feels it.

A presence.

His eyes snap open, and there you are. Standing just beyond the fence, not more than twenty feet from where his car rests. You’re watching him, the same way you did in Melbourne, your gaze locked on him with that unnerving calm that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

For a moment, he wonders if he’s imagining it. The adrenaline is still pumping, his mind is spinning, and maybe — just maybe — you’re a hallucination. But no. You’re real. You’re standing there, just beyond the track, watching him.

His breath catches in his throat.

“Charles, talk to us. Do you need assistance?” His engineer’s voice comes through the radio again, but he can’t respond. He’s frozen, staring at you through the shattered remnants of the race.

“Charles?” The voice repeats, more urgent now.

But he can’t tear his eyes away from you.

You tilt your head slightly, as if you’re considering something, as if you’re weighing his fate in your hands. And then, without a word, you take a step closer to the fence, your eyes never leaving his.

“Not yet,” you say, your voice somehow carrying through the din, through the chaos of the race and the pounding of his heart. It’s soft, almost a whisper, but he hears it as clearly as if you’re standing right next to him. “But soon.”

His blood runs cold.

He knows what you mean. He knows, deep down, that this is a warning. He can feel it, the weight of it pressing down on him, like the ticking of a clock in the back of his mind, counting down to something inevitable.

He swallows hard, trying to regain some semblance of control, but the words stick in his throat. “Who — who are you?” He manages to choke out, his voice barely above a whisper.

You don’t answer. You never answer. Instead, you just watch him, your expression unreadable, like you already know how this ends.

The world around him feels distant now, like everything is moving in slow motion. The sound of the engines, the cheers of the crowd — it all fades into the background, leaving just you and him, locked in this strange, silent moment.

“Charles, we need you to respond,” the engineer’s voice cuts in again, breaking the spell for just a second.

He fumbles for the radio, his hand shaking as he presses the button. “I’m — I’m fine,” he says, his voice strained. “Give me a minute.”

There’s a pause on the other end, but they don’t push him further. Not yet.

He exhales slowly, trying to steady himself, trying to make sense of what’s happening. He’s been reckless, yes. But this? This feels like more than just a close call. This feels like a warning. Like you’re here to remind him of something he’s been trying to ignore.

“Why are you here?” He asks, his voice barely audible over the hum of the car.

You don’t move. Don’t speak. But your eyes — they tell him everything. You’re here because of him. Because of the choices he’s making, the risks he’s taking. You’re here because he’s running out of time.

“You said … in Melbourne …” His voice trails off as he struggles to find the words. He remembers what you said. That he’s been looking for you, even if he didn’t realize it. That his time was running out.

And now, here you are. Again. Watching him.

“I don’t need you,” he says suddenly, his voice rising with a mixture of anger and fear. “I’m not done yet.”

Your expression doesn’t change. You don’t flinch. It’s as if you’ve heard these words a thousand times before.

“I will win,” he says, more to himself than to you. “I’m going to win.”

You take a step closer to the fence, your gaze unwavering. “We’ll see.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and final. He can’t tell if it’s a promise or a threat. Maybe it’s both.

He clenches his fists around the steering wheel, the leather cool against his skin. He wants to shout at you, to demand answers, to make you go away. But deep down, he knows you’re not the kind of thing you can just wish away. You’re something else. Something bigger. Something he doesn’t understand.

And yet, you’re here. Watching. Waiting.

“I don’t have a choice,” he mutters, his voice breaking. “I have to win.”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. The truth is already hanging between you.

Tick. Tock.

He can hear it again. That ticking. It’s louder now, more insistent, like the hands of a clock speeding up, racing toward some unseen finish line.

Charles shakes his head, as if trying to clear the sound from his mind. But it’s no use. The ticking is there, buried deep in his skull, a reminder that time is slipping away.

“I can still do this,” he whispers, almost desperately. “I can still win.”

Your gaze softens, just for a moment, and he wonders if you feel sorry for him. If you pity him.

“Maybe,” you say, and it’s the closest thing to compassion he’s heard from you. “But at what cost?”

He opens his mouth to respond, but the words die in his throat. Because he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what it will cost him. He doesn’t want to know.

You take one last, lingering look at him, your eyes scanning his face as if memorizing every detail, and then you turn, your figure disappearing into the haze of the track, swallowed up by the world beyond the fence.

He sits there, still trembling, still shaken. His fingers slowly unclench from the steering wheel, and he lets out a long, ragged breath.

“Charles?” His engineer’s voice again, but softer this time. “Are you okay? We’re ready to bring you back in.”

He doesn’t respond right away. His mind is still reeling, still stuck in that moment when you stood there, just beyond the fence, watching him. Judging him.

“I’m coming in,” he finally says, his voice hoarse.

The car hums back to life as he nudges it forward, back onto the track. But his hands are still shaking. His pulse is still racing.

And in the back of his mind, the ticking continues.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

***

The rain is relentless in Suzuka. Sheets of water hammer down on the track, turning every corner into a hazard, every straight into a test of nerve. The spray from the tires rises like smoke, blurring the lines between the asphalt and the dark sky.

Charles can barely see more than a few meters in front of him, but he doesn’t let up. His foot is heavy on the throttle, fingers gripping the wheel like a lifeline. He’s teetering on the edge of control, dancing that fine line between dangerous and deadly.

Every lap feels like a gamble. He’s driving blind, trusting the car to hold steady, trusting himself not to make a mistake. But the mistakes are creeping in. He can feel it. The tires are slipping, the rear end twitching beneath him as he pushes harder, faster. The rain pounds against his helmet, and the world outside the cockpit is a chaotic blur of water and noise.

“Charles, we need you to back off,” his engineer’s voice crackles through the radio, thick with concern. “Conditions are getting worse.”

He doesn’t respond. His eyes are fixed on the road ahead, every muscle in his body tense, every instinct screaming at him to keep pushing. He knows the risks. He knows what’s at stake. But slowing down isn’t an option. Not for him.

“Charles, can you hear me?” The voice comes again, more insistent this time.

He blinks, his vision briefly clearing through the rain. And then he sees it.

A figure. Just beyond the barriers, standing at the edge of the track, half-obscured by the downpour. At first, it’s just a blur of motion, but as he hurtles closer, the figure sharpens into focus.

His breath catches in his throat. It can’t be.

Jules.

It’s impossible, but there he is — Jules Bianchi, standing on the side of the track, just where the runoff ends and the grass begins, his face calm, serene. Just like Charles remembers him. His heart leaps into his throat, a wave of emotion crashing over him, threatening to overwhelm him.

“Jules?” He whispers, his voice barely audible over the roar of the engine.

He blinks, just for a second. But when his eyes open again, Jules is gone. And in his place, there’s you.

Charles’ chest tightens, his hands shaking on the wheel as the car skids slightly on the wet track. You’re standing where Jules was, your gaze locked on him, calm and unyielding. The rain pours down around you, but you don’t move. You don’t blink. You just watch him, lap after lap.

“What the hell …” His voice cracks, his heart pounding harder than it should.

He can’t take his eyes off you, not even as the car barrels down the straight. The rain is coming down harder now, a relentless torrent that threatens to drown him in its fury. His mind spins, struggling to make sense of what he’s seeing. First Jules, now you — both of you standing there, on the edge of the track like ghosts from different parts of his life, haunting him.

Lap after lap, you’re there. Always in the same spot, just beyond the barrier, watching him. He blinks through the rain, but you never leave.

“Charles, please, respond,” his engineer’s voice cuts through the haze, sharp with worry. “You need to slow down. The rain’s too heavy. We’re going to box.”

“I’m fine,” Charles snaps, his voice strained. “I’m staying out.”

He can hear the hesitation in the silence that follows. They don’t want to argue with him — not now, not when he’s like this. But he knows they’re watching, knows they can see the telemetry, knows they can see that he’s pushing the car beyond its limits.

He doesn’t care. He has to keep going. He has to — for Jules.

But why are you here? Why now? Why after Jules?

His hands shake on the wheel as he takes another corner too fast, the rear tires sliding out before he regains control. His heart is racing, his mind a mess of emotions, and still — you’re there. You’re always there.

Charles grits his teeth, his jaw clenched so tight it hurts. “What do you want from me?” He mutters under his breath, his voice trembling. He knows you can’t hear him, not through the roar of the engine and the crash of rain, but it doesn’t matter. You’re in his head now. You’ve been in his head since Melbourne.

And now, Jules too?

It’s almost too much. The memories of his godfather crash over him, a flood of grief and guilt he’s been pushing down for years. Jules’ voice, his smile, the way he believed in Charles even when Charles didn’t believe in himself.

But Jules is gone. Has been for a long time.

So why did he see him?

“Charles, box, box,” the radio crackles, cutting through his thoughts again.

“I said no!” He snaps, his voice sharper than he intended. His breath is coming fast, too fast, his chest tight with something he can’t name.

He takes the next corner harder than he should, the car sliding dangerously close to the wall. His knuckles are white against the steering wheel, his body tense, rigid. His mind is racing — too fast, too chaotic. The rain pounds harder against the car, and visibility is almost zero now, the track a slick, treacherous river beneath him.

And then, as he speeds past the spot where you stand, something shifts.

He swears he hears your voice. Soft, almost a whisper, but unmistakable. “Charles.”

It’s like ice down his spine. His heart skips a beat, his grip faltering for just a second.

He jerks the wheel, the car sliding as he corrects it, narrowly avoiding the barrier. His pulse is racing, his breathing erratic. He glances toward where you’re standing, but you don’t move. Don’t say anything else. Just watch. Always watching.

“Damn it,” he mutters, his heart pounding so loud he can barely hear anything else. “Damn it!”

The ticking is back. That familiar, maddening sound in the back of his mind. It’s been there for months now, growing louder, more insistent with every race, every lap. And now it’s deafening, drowning out everything else, a reminder of the time slipping through his fingers.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

“You’re running out of time.”

Your voice echoes in his head, soft and calm, but laced with something darker. Something inevitable.

“I know!” He shouts, his voice hoarse, desperate. He knows he’s running out of time. He’s known it for months. Every race, every moment, feels like it’s pulling him closer to the edge, closer to you.

But he won’t stop. He can’t stop.

Jules wouldn’t want him to.

The thought of Jules — of his godfather, watching him, believing in him — gives him a surge of strength. He clenches his jaw, his eyes narrowing as he pushes the car harder, faster, through the rain-soaked chaos.

“I’ll win,” he mutters, his voice fierce. “I’ll win for him.”

The car slides again, the tires struggling for grip, but he doesn’t care. He pushes harder, faster. The track is a blur beneath him, the rain blinding, but all he can think about is Jules. About you. About the ticking clock in his head.

And still, you’re there. Lap after lap, you watch him. Unblinking. Unwavering.

“You don’t have to do this,” your voice whispers in his mind, soft but relentless.

“I do,” he growls, his teeth gritted against the storm. “I have to.”

There’s a flash of lightning overhead, illuminating the track for a brief moment, and in that instant, he sees you clearer than ever. Your eyes meet his, and for a split second, everything falls away. The rain, the track, the car — it all disappears, leaving just the two of you, suspended in time.

“You can’t outrun this,” you say, and there’s something almost sad in your voice. “You know that.”

He shakes his head, his hands gripping the wheel so tight his knuckles are white. “I can try.”

You don’t argue. You never do. You just watch him, like you always do, waiting. Waiting for him to understand.

He takes the final corner, the car sliding dangerously close to the wall, and as he crosses the line, the checkered flag waving in the rain, he feels it.

The ticking stops.

And for the first time in months, there’s silence.

But it’s not a relief.

It’s a warning.

Because he knows — deep down — that this isn’t over.

Not yet.

You’re still watching. And he’s still running.

But he can’t run forever.

***

The lights of Abu Dhabi shimmer under the night sky, illuminating the track like a stage set for the final act. The crowd is a sea of red, Ferrari flags waving in anticipation, in hope. This is it. The final race. The decider.

Charles sits in his cockpit, the engine vibrating beneath him, the roar of the crowd a distant hum behind his helmet. He’s been here before — so close — but this time, it’s different. This time, he feels it. The championship is within his grasp. The ticking in his head has been growing louder all season, but tonight, it’s almost deafening.

Lap after lap, corner after corner, he’s been inching closer to victory. Every second matters, every move counts. His heart pounds in sync with the car, the pressure of the moment squeezing at his chest, but he doesn’t let it crack him. Not now. He can’t. Not when everything he’s fought for is just beyond the finish line.

“Stay focused, Charles,” the voice of his engineer comes through the radio, calm but urgent.

“I’m focused,” Charles mutters, his voice tight with determination. His eyes flicker to the rearview mirrors — no one behind him. He’s clear.

The laps tick down, and with each one, the championship feels closer, heavier. The car is holding together, despite the heat, despite the pressure he’s putting on it. Ferrari has given him everything, and now he’s about to repay that faith. The Tifosi will finally have what they’ve been waiting for.

The last corner comes too quickly, but his hands are steady on the wheel. He navigates the turn, his body leaning into it as if willing the car to stay glued to the track. And then he’s there — the straight before the finish line, the end of the race.

“Go, go, go!” His engineer’s voice rises, the excitement breaking through. “You’ve got it, Charles!”

The chequered flag waves ahead, and in a breathless moment, it’s over.

Charles crosses the line. World Champion.

For a second, he’s still. Then the realization crashes into him like a tidal wave. He’s done it. He’s won. The championship is his.

The radio crackles again, his engineer’s voice cutting through the noise. “Charles — Champion of the World! You’ve done it! We’ve done it!”

A shaky laugh escapes Charles’ lips. “We did it. We actually did it,” he breathes, disbelief and euphoria blending together.

He can hear the team screaming over the radio, their joy contagious. “Grazie, Charles! Grazie! You’re the World Champion!”

He laughs again, more freely this time, his body shaking with adrenaline. “For Ferrari. For the Tifosi.”

His eyes well up as he glances at the sea of red in the stands. It’s everything he ever wanted. Glory. History. His name etched forever in the annals of the sport. He lifts a hand, a small wave toward the crowd, though they can’t see him from inside the cockpit.

“I can’t believe it,” he mutters, almost to himself. “I actually did it.”

His heart is racing, but it’s not the same as before. This time, it’s relief. It’s joy. It’s everything he’s sacrificed for, everything he’s given to this dream.

He presses the brake pedal gently, ready to slow down for the cool-down lap, to take it all in, but-

Nothing happens.

A frown creases his brow. He presses again, harder this time.

Still nothing.

Panic flickers at the edge of his mind. “No … No, no, no …”

He pushes the brake pedal to the floor, but the car doesn’t respond. It doesn’t slow. The speedometer remains steady — too fast, too uncontrolled.

“Brakes aren’t working,” he says into the radio, trying to keep his voice calm, but his heart is pounding again, this time for a different reason. Something’s wrong. Very wrong.

“What? What do you mean?” His engineer’s voice is sharp, laced with fear.

“The brakes!” Charles snaps, his breath quickening. “They’re not working. I can’t slow down.”

He can feel the car resisting him, the engine still pushing forward, the barriers coming closer. The panic is rising now, clawing at his throat, tightening around his chest. He tries to steer, to find some way to slow the car, but there’s nothing. The barriers are closing in, the speed too high, too dangerous.

“Charles, try the emergency system-”

“I already have!” His voice cracks, desperation breaking through. The car is screaming beneath him, the speed a deadly weapon now, not a tool of victory.

And then he sees you.

You’re standing right by the barrier, just ahead, as if you’ve been waiting for him all along.

His heart stops for a second, time freezing around him. You’re so still, so calm, watching him. Watching him as the car barrels toward you, toward the barrier, toward the inevitable.

“No …” Charles breathes, his voice barely a whisper. His hands are shaking on the wheel now, his vision blurring from the speed, from the fear. He can see the crash coming, can feel it in his bones.

But you don’t move. You just watch.

His chest tightens, and the ticking is back, louder than ever. It’s all he can hear now, that maddening, relentless ticking.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

You don’t have to say anything. He knows. He’s always known. He’s been running toward this moment, toward you, since the beginning.

“Charles, try to-” His engineer’s voice cuts in again, but it’s too late.

The car slams into the barrier with a deafening crash, metal crunching, glass shattering. The world explodes around him, spinning, breaking apart. Pain flares through his body, white-hot and sharp, and then everything goes dark.

He’s still. Silent. The only sound is the faint crackling of the radio, his engineer’s voice distant, broken by static. “Charles? Charles, can you hear me? Charles?”

But Charles can’t move. He can barely think. The pain is numbing now, his body heavy, unresponsive. His vision is blurry, the world around him fading in and out of focus.

And then, through the haze, he sees you again. You’re walking toward him, slowly, steadily, through the wreckage of the car. The world is quiet now, eerily still, as if time itself has stopped.

Charles’ breath is shallow, his heart struggling to keep up. He can feel it — the end. It’s here. It’s always been here, waiting for him.

You come closer, your footsteps silent, your face calm, almost peaceful. You stop just beside the cockpit, your eyes meeting his.

“Is this it?” Charles whispers, his voice barely audible, his chest tight with the effort of speaking. His vision is fading fast, the darkness closing in. But you’re the only thing he can see clearly.

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. He knows.

You kneel beside him, your hand reaching out, and for the first time, you touch him. Your fingers brush against his skin, cold and soft, and in that moment, everything stops.

The ticking in his head goes silent.

The world fades.

And Charles Leclerc, World Champion, breathes his last breath.

He’s gone.

But his name — his glory — will live on forever. He gave everything. Sacrificed everything.

For Ferrari. For the Tifosi. For the dream.

And now, he is part of that legacy, forever written in the stars.

He won.

He died for glory.

***

The streets of Maranello are overflowing with grief.

Charles stands next to you, or at least what’s left of him does. His soul, untethered from the wreckage, feels weightless, though the weight of the moment is crushing. He can’t feel the ground beneath him anymore, can’t feel the warmth of the sun or the bite of the wind. All he can feel is the suffocating sorrow of the crowd, pressing in from every direction.

And the crowd. Dio mio, the crowd. Thousands — no, hundreds of thousands — of Tifosi flood the streets, a sea of red and black, their flags raised high, but there is no joy in their colors today. No triumphant cheers. Just the sound of sobs, muffled by hands pressed to faces, by the raw weight of a collective heartbreak that can’t be put into words.

The Ferrari factory looms behind them, draped in mourning banners, the Prancing Horse emblem hanging in black, somber and silent. The air is thick with the scent of incense, flowers — and death.

It’s impossible to look at them, and yet Charles can’t tear his eyes away. Grown men, hardened by life, stand with tears streaming down their faces. Fathers and sons alike, clutching each other as if holding on will somehow stem the flood of loss that grips them.

Charles looks at you, his breath — if he had any left — shuddering in his chest. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

You’re silent, standing beside him, your presence both a comfort and a reminder. This is what it means to be gone. To be remembered, but no longer part of the world.

“Do they …” He trails off, his voice thick with disbelief. “Do they miss me this much?”

You glance at him, your eyes calm but unreadable. “What did you expect?” Your voice is soft, but there’s an edge of inevitability to it, as if the scene before him was always written in the stars, just like his fate.

“I don’t know,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. Or at least, he tries to. The motion feels more like a memory than a reality. “I thought … I thought they’d move on.”

You tilt your head, the faintest hint of a smile ghosting across your lips. “They won’t. Not from this. Not from you.”

His eyes flicker back to the crowd, his chest tight. There’s no end to them. They fill the streets, every inch of space, like blood rushing through the veins of this small Italian town. He sees children on their fathers’ shoulders, wearing tiny Ferrari caps. Women clutching scarves, their eyes red from crying. He’s never seen this kind of devotion, not like this. Not for him.

He spots an elderly man near the front, his face weathered and lined, but the tears falling down his cheeks are fresh. He’s holding a photo of Charles — young, smiling, a memory of a better time. A time when the world still held onto hope.

Charles feels his throat tighten, his eyes burning despite the fact that he can’t cry anymore. “Why …” He swallows hard, his voice cracking. “Why are they all here? Why does it hurt them this much?”

You turn to face him fully, your expression steady, knowing. “Because you were theirs. Il Predestinato. The one they believed in. You gave them hope, and you gave them your life. They will never forget that.”

The title rings in his ears. Il Predestinato. The Chosen One. It always sounded so heavy, a burden he could never quite shake. And now, he wonders if it was ever truly his to bear.

A sudden commotion pulls his attention back to the crowd. The sea of red parts for a moment as a car rolls slowly through. Charles recognizes it immediately — a Ferrari, sleek and dark, the hearse that will carry his body through the streets of Maranello. It’s draped in the Italian flag, and atop it sits his helmet, the red and white standing stark against the backdrop of mourning.

The Tifosi bow their heads, some reaching out as if trying to touch the car, as if touching it will bring them closer to him. The car stops in front of the factory, and Charles watches, numb, as his casket is pulled out, carried by men he’s known for years. Faces he recognizes, but that seem distant now, like shadows from another life.

“They’re broken,” Charles whispers, his voice trembling. “I didn’t mean for this.”

You don’t respond immediately, just watching the procession with the same stillness you always carry. Finally, you speak, your voice low and quiet. “Sacrifice always leaves something behind. Even if it’s pain.”

Charles inhales sharply, though the air doesn’t fill his lungs the way it used to. He’s not sure how to process what he’s seeing, what he’s feeling. There’s a weight in his chest, heavy and suffocating. It’s not like the fear he felt in those final moments before the crash, but something deeper. Something that feels permanent.

The casket reaches the steps of the Ferrari factory, where the company’s executives, drivers, and engineers are gathered. They stand in silence, heads bowed, their faces etched with sorrow. Charles feels a pang of guilt, sharper than he expected.

“Was it worth it?” His voice is barely a whisper, almost lost in the overwhelming noise of the crowd.

You turn to him, your expression unreadable. “That’s not for me to decide.”

He clenches his fists, frustration bubbling to the surface. “But I gave everything! I died for this!” He gestures toward the casket, the crowd, the broken faces of his friends and family. “I sacrificed everything for Ferrari. For the Tifosi.”

You meet his gaze, unwavering. “And now, you have to decide if that sacrifice was worth it.”

Charles looks away, his heart — or whatever’s left of it — aching. He doesn’t know the answer. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

As the casket is carried up the steps, a priest steps forward. Charles recognizes him immediately. The Pope. The sight would almost be surreal if it weren’t for the gravity of the moment. The leader of the Catholic Church, come to bless his body, to give him the final rites. It’s more than Charles ever expected, more than he ever thought possible.

The Pope raises his hand, his voice carrying over the crowd in solemn Latin, offering a prayer for Charles’ soul. The crowd is silent now, the only sound the soft rustle of flags in the wind and the distant sobs of those too broken to hold back their grief.

Charles watches, his chest tight with emotion he can’t quite name. “Will they remember me?” His voice is small, almost childlike in its vulnerability.

You don’t hesitate. “They will never forget you. The Tifosi will name their children after you. They will pray for you, mourn for you, even as they themselves fade. Your name will live on, even when their names turn to dust.”

He blinks, trying to process your words. It’s everything he ever wanted, everything he worked for. To be remembered. To be loved. To be immortal in the eyes of those who mattered most to him.

“But will it be enough?” He asks, his voice barely a whisper. “Will it ever be enough?”

You turn to him, your gaze softening just slightly. “That’s something only you can answer.”

Charles looks back at the crowd, at the faces of the people who loved him, who believed in him, who now grieve for him. He doesn’t know the answer yet. Maybe he never will. But for now, all he can do is watch as the people of Italy — his people — mourn the loss of their hero, their champion, their Il Predestinato.

And perhaps, in their grief, in their endless love for him, he will find the answer he’s looking for.

As the Pope finishes his prayer, the crowd begins to chant.

“Forza, Charles! Forza Ferrari!“

The sound rises, a wave of devotion and heartbreak that crashes over the streets of Maranello. Charles listens, his heart aching with a mixture of pride and sorrow.

He is gone. But his name, his legacy, will live on forever.

And maybe — just maybe — that’s enough.

***

The afterlife is nothing like Charles imagined.

For one, it isn’t dark. There are no flames licking at the sky, no eerie fog swirling at his feet. There’s no light at the end of the tunnel either. Instead, there’s an odd stillness, like time has stopped moving but everything else remains in place. It’s hard to describe, really — neither peaceful nor unsettling, just … different.

He’s not sure how long he’s been here. Time doesn’t seem to exist in the way it used to. Days blend into one another, or maybe there are no days at all. Just moments strung together in an endless loop.

The one constant in this strange new reality is you.

You’re always close by, never too far, but never imposing. It’s a strange sort of companionship, one that Charles hadn’t expected to find in death. He watches you sometimes, your presence steady, your movements fluid and quiet. You’re not like anyone he’s ever met. And it’s no wonder — how could you be? You’re death.

But there’s something else about you, something he can’t quite put into words. You’re not cold or distant, despite the weight of your title. There’s a kind of sadness that clings to you, something that pulls him in even when he tries to resist it.

He’s sitting beside you now, his back against an old stone wall, looking out into the expanse of … wherever this place is. It’s quiet, as always, the only sound the faint rustling of something distant. Neither of you speak, but the silence between you is comfortable, not awkward.

After a while, Charles breaks it.

“Do you ever get lonely?”

Your head tilts slightly, as if the question surprises you. You don’t answer right away, and for a moment, Charles thinks you won’t. But then you shift, your eyes focused on some point in the distance, and your voice, when it comes, is soft.

“I suppose I do.”

It’s not what he expected you to say. He always thought of you as solitary, but not necessarily lonely. You were death, after all. You weren’t meant to have attachments, were you?

“How could you?” He asks, genuinely curious. “You’re … you. Death doesn’t get lonely.”

You let out a soft sigh, one that’s more resigned than sad. “Death doesn’t exactly allow for much companionship.” You glance at him, your eyes steady. “Most souls don’t stick around for very long. They move on. They’re not meant to linger.”

Charles absorbs your words, turning them over in his mind. It’s true — he’s the only one here, the only soul who hasn’t moved on. But the idea that you might be lonely, after all this time, unsettles him in a way he can’t explain.

“Do you know why I haven’t moved on?” He asks, his voice quiet.

You shake your head, your expression soft but unreadable. “No. I don’t understand it.”

He leans back against the wall, his mind racing. Why hasn’t he moved on? There’s no reason to stay, no unfinished business, no regrets strong enough to tether him to this place. And yet … he’s still here. With you.

You shift slightly beside him, your gaze drifting out into the distance again. “I’ve never had anyone stay this long,” you say, almost to yourself. “Most souls are eager to move on. They want peace, or closure, or something more.”

Charles frowns, looking over at you. “And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Do you want them to stay?”

You pause, considering the question. “No,” you say eventually. “That’s not how it works. They’re not meant to stay. Neither am I.”

“But you get lonely.”

Your lips press together, and for a moment, Charles thinks he might have pushed too far. But then you nod, just once. “Yes.”

There’s something in your voice, something quiet and raw, that tugs at something deep inside him. He doesn’t understand why, but it matters to him. Your loneliness matters to him.

“Is that why you’re still here?” You ask, turning the question back on him. “Because of me?”

He opens his mouth to respond, but no words come. He’s not sure. Maybe it is. Or maybe there’s something else at play, something neither of you understands.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “But I don’t think I’m ready to leave.”

You look at him then, really look at him, and there’s a softness in your gaze that catches him off guard. He realizes in that moment how much time you’ve spent alone. You, the embodiment of death, the one who has seen everything end but never experienced the simplicity of someone choosing to stay.

He leans forward, his voice quieter now. “Have you ever-”

He hesitates, the question hanging in the air between you.

“What?” You prompt, your voice gentle.

“Have you ever … I don’t know. Experienced anything like this?” He gestures between the two of you. “With anyone else?”

You shake your head, almost sadly. “No. Death doesn’t leave room for that.”

Charles watches you for a moment, his mind spinning with the weight of it all. It seems so unfair, that you should be condemned to an eternity of loneliness, of watching others move on while you remain.

“Everyone deserves at least one thing,” he says softly, almost to himself.

You tilt your head, confused. “What do you mean?”

He swallows hard, his gaze locking onto yours. “Everyone deserves to experience their first kiss.”

Your breath catches ever so slightly, your eyes widening just a fraction. “Charles …”

“I’m serious,” he says, his voice soft but steady. “You should have that. You deserve it.”

You don’t respond, but your eyes search his, and for the first time since he met you, he sees something flicker there. Uncertainty. Vulnerability.

He leans in slowly, giving you time to pull away if you want to. But you don’t. You stay still, watching him, waiting.

And then, gently, Charles presses his lips to yours.

The kiss is soft, barely more than a whisper of a touch, but it’s enough. Enough to make the world tilt on its axis for a moment, enough to make the weight of everything around you both fall away.

You don’t pull back immediately. Neither does he. For a few seconds, it’s just the two of you, suspended in the stillness of the afterlife, sharing something fragile and beautiful.

When he finally does pull away, your eyes are still closed, your lips parted ever so slightly. Charles watches you, his heart — or whatever it is that beats in his chest now — pounding in a way that feels almost human again.

You open your eyes slowly, blinking as if coming out of a dream.

“I-” You falter, your voice soft and uncertain. “Why did you …”

He smiles gently, brushing a thumb across your cheek. “Because I wanted to. And because you deserve it.”

You don’t say anything for a long moment, just looking at him as if trying to make sense of what just happened. But there’s a warmth in your gaze now, something that wasn’t there before. Something new.

“I don’t understand you, Charles,” you admit softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He laughs quietly, leaning his forehead against yours. “I don’t understand myself, either.”

You stay like that for a while, in the stillness of the afterlife, the weight of the world no longer pressing down on either of you. There’s no rush, no need for answers right now.

For the first time, in a long time, neither of you feels alone.

***

Time is strange in the afterlife.

Charles doesn’t know how long he’s been here — whether it’s days, months, or even years. There’s no ticking clock, no sun moving across the sky. It’s just … still. He’s gotten used to the quiet, to your presence nearby, and to the sense that nothing is rushing forward like it used to.

But something shifts one day. You’re sitting beside him, as usual, but there’s a new energy in the air, something that tugs at the quietness and pulls at the stillness. You turn to him, your eyes meeting his with a softness that he can’t quite place.

“I have something to show you,” you say, your voice quiet but clear.

He blinks, confused. “What do you mean?”

You don’t explain. Instead, you stand, offering him your hand. He hesitates for a second, but then he takes it. There’s always been an unspoken trust between you — something that keeps him tethered to you, even in death.

The world shifts around him, the stillness breaking apart. For a moment, everything spins, the ground slipping from beneath his feet as if he’s falling — but it’s not unpleasant. It’s more like drifting. And then, as suddenly as it starts, it stops.

Charles finds himself standing in a hospital room.

His breath catches, his mind scrambling to make sense of where he is. The sterile smell of disinfectant clings to the air, and the beeping of machines fills the silence. He looks around, trying to orient himself, but nothing feels real.

“Where-”

You don’t answer his question directly. Instead, you nod toward the center of the room. “Look.”

Charles follows your gaze, and his heart — if he still had one — stumbles in his chest. His older brother, Lorenzo, stands by the bed, his face soft with emotion. He’s holding someone’s hand. Charlotte, his wife, is lying in the hospital bed, her expression tired but glowing. But it’s the small bundle she holds against her chest that steals Charles’ breath.

A baby.

It takes him a moment to fully process what he’s seeing. Lorenzo’s wife. His brother. And a baby.

Charles steps closer, his movements slow, almost cautious, as if he’s afraid the scene will shatter if he gets too close. He watches as Lorenzo reaches down to stroke the baby’s tiny head, his face filled with a tenderness that Charles hasn’t seen in years.

“Lorenzo?” Charles whispers, though he knows his brother can’t hear him. His eyes are fixed on the child in Charlotte’s arms, a strange sense of awe and disbelief washing over him.

You step beside him, your voice soft as you speak. “I wanted you to meet Charles Tolotta-Leclerc.”

He freezes.

“What?” His voice barely makes it past his lips, and he turns to look at you, his eyes wide, searching your face for any hint of a joke. But you’re serious.

You nod toward the baby again. “They named him after you.”

Charles stares at the tiny bundle, his mind struggling to catch up with what you’ve just said. They named the baby after him? His head spins, a strange mix of emotions swirling through him — shock, disbelief, and something that feels dangerously close to pride.

Before he can fully process it, Lorenzo’s voice cuts through the quiet.

“I miss him,” Lorenzo says softly, his voice thick with emotion. “I wish he could be here. I wish he could’ve met him.”

Charlotte smiles up at him, though there’s a sadness in her eyes. “He would’ve loved him,” she says, her voice gentle. “He’ll be watching over him, I’m sure of it.”

Lorenzo’s expression tightens, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard. “I hope so,” he murmurs. “I hope he’s watching over us. Over Charlie.”

Charles stands frozen, his entire body — or soul, or whatever he is — going still. The weight of Lorenzo’s words crashes into him like a tidal wave, leaving him breathless. He watches as his brother’s eyes fill with unshed tears, and it breaks something inside him.

“I wanted him to be here,” Lorenzo says, his voice cracking. “I wanted him to be part of this, to see my son …”

Charles can’t take it anymore. He feels the pressure building inside of him, the ache in his chest growing unbearable. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes — not physical tears, but the kind that burn and sting nonetheless.

You’re beside him before he even realizes it, your presence calm and steady. You don’t say anything, but you don’t need to. He can feel your understanding, your quiet reassurance.

“I’m here,” he whispers, his voice trembling. “I’m watching.”

But no one can hear him.

Lorenzo’s voice cracks again as he continues. “I named him Charles because … I want him to be like you. I want him to grow up knowing who you were. What you stood for. And maybe … maybe he’ll feel like you’re with him, even if you can’t be.”

Charles presses a hand to his mouth, trying to stifle the sob that threatens to escape. The emotions are too much — grief, pride, love, all tangled together in a way that feels like it’s tearing him apart.

He looks at the baby again, the tiny life cradled in Charlotte’s arms, and something breaks open inside him. He didn’t know it was possible to feel so much after death. He thought everything would fade away, that he wouldn’t have to feel the weight of the world anymore.

But watching his brother, watching this moment … it’s almost unbearable.

You step closer, your hand resting gently on his shoulder. “It’s okay to feel it,” you say softly. “It’s okay to cry.”

Charles lets out a shaky breath, his body trembling with the force of his emotions. “I-I didn’t think it would be this hard,” he admits, his voice barely audible. “I thought … I thought I was ready to move on.”

Your hand stays steady on his shoulder, grounding him. “You gave everything for glory,” you say gently. “For Ferrari. For the Tifosi. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy to let go.”

Charles shakes his head, tears streaming down his face as he watches his brother, his nephew. “I don’t know if I can,” he chokes out. “I don’t know how to say goodbye.”

You don’t rush him. You let him stand there, watching, crying. He can feel your quiet strength beside him, your understanding. You’ve seen it all before, but for him, it’s new, raw, overwhelming.

Lorenzo leans down, pressing a kiss to his newborn son’s head. “He’s going to know all about you,” Lorenzo murmurs. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Charles can’t stop the sob that escapes him this time. He crumples forward, his hands covering his face as the grief finally spills over, uncontrollable. He feels like he’s breaking apart, like everything he’s held inside for so long is crashing down around him.

And then, you’re there. You wrap your arms around him, pulling him close, letting him cry into your shoulder. You don’t say anything, but your presence is enough. It’s steady, grounding, and for the first time since he’s been here, Charles feels like he isn’t alone in his grief.

He cries for a long time, the emotions pouring out of him in waves. He cries for the life he left behind, for the family he didn’t get to see again, for the child named after him who will never know him. And through it all, you stay with him, holding him, comforting him.

When the sobs finally subside, Charles pulls back slightly, wiping at his eyes. He feels raw, drained, but there’s a sense of release, too — like something heavy has been lifted from his chest.

“He’s going to be okay,” you say softly, your voice gentle. “Lorenzo will take care of him. He’ll grow up knowing who you were, what you meant.”

Charles nods, his throat too tight to speak. He looks back at the hospital bed, at Lorenzo and Charlotte, and for the first time, there’s a flicker of something like peace in his chest.

“Thank you,” he whispers, his voice hoarse.

You smile softly, brushing a tear from his cheek. “You don’t have to thank me.”

But he does. Because in this moment, he knows he couldn’t have faced this alone. Not without you.

Charles watches his brother one last time, his heart heavy but full. And though he knows he can never return to the life he once had, there’s a strange sense of comfort in knowing that a part of him still exists in the world — in the form of the tiny child cradled in Charlotte’s arms.

“I’ll watch over him,” Charles says softly, his voice steady now. “I promise.”

***

The air between you is different today. Charles can feel it before you even say a word. It's in the way your eyes linger on him a little longer, the way your silence stretches. You’ve been together for what feels like an eternity, yet time is meaningless here.

He looks at you, waiting for the explanation, the gentle unspooling of whatever truth you’re about to offer him.

Finally, you speak. “I think you’re ready.”

Charles frowns. “Ready for what?”

“To move on.”

The words hang in the air, heavier than he expected. His chest tightens, and he shakes his head, the instinctual reaction coming out almost before you finish speaking.

“I don’t want to move on.” His voice is sharp, edged with panic. He doesn’t fully understand what “moving on” means, but he knows it sounds final. It sounds like goodbye, and he’s not ready for that. Not now. Not after everything. Not after you.

You watch him quietly, a small smile pulling at the corners of your lips. “Charles, you’ve already moved on in so many ways. This-” you gesture between the two of you, “-this isn’t goodbye.”

He stares at you, his mind racing. “Then what is it? You’re telling me I have to leave, but I can’t — I can’t leave you.”

You laugh softly, the sound rich with irony. “I’m death, Charles. You’re dead. Why would you have to leave me?”

The realization hits him, and his protest falters. His hands fall to his sides as he processes what you’re saying. You’re death, and he’s already passed beyond life. There’s no need to fear separation, because you are intertwined with whatever comes next.

“So, I’m not really going anywhere?” He asks, cautiously hopeful.

“Not in the way you think,” you assure him, your voice softening. “But this place — it isn’t where you belong anymore. There’s something else waiting for you.”

Charles exhales slowly, relief and uncertainty swirling in his chest. “Something else?”

You step closer, your hand reaching out to brush against his arm. “You’ve done everything you needed to do here. You’ve won. You’ve found peace with your family. Now … it’s time.”

He looks into your eyes, searching for something — reassurance, maybe. He’s been with you through all of this, and yet, the idea of leaving this limbo, this stillness, feels daunting.

You tilt your head slightly. “Trust me.”

He wants to. He does. But there’s a tightness in his throat, a reluctance that refuses to fade. “What if I don’t want to go?” He murmurs, almost to himself.

You give him a knowing look. “Charles, you’re not going anywhere that I can’t follow.”

Something in him eases at your words. He nods, but there’s still a lingering hesitation. His life — his death — has been defined by choices. Choices to race, to sacrifice, to push past every limit. Now, there’s nothing left to fight, no championship to chase. This is the last choice he’ll have to make, and the finality of it shakes him.

“Okay,” he says, his voice quieter than he expects.

You smile, your fingers wrapping around his hand. “Come with me.”

The stillness of limbo shatters. The world around them changes, the coldness and vast emptiness giving way to something warm and vibrant. Colors he hasn’t seen in years flood his vision — deep blues, rich greens, and the golden light of a sun he hasn’t felt in what seems like forever.

Charles blinks, trying to make sense of where he is. There’s no pain, no exhaustion, just … peace. He stands there for a moment, taking it in, but then, something — someone — catches his eye.

He freezes, his heart — or whatever’s left of it — stopping in his chest.

Jules.

Jules is standing just a few feet away, watching him with that same familiar smile. The smile Charles grew up with, the one that got him through the hardest days.

His breath catches, and before he can stop himself, he runs.

It’s instinctive, like muscle memory, like he’s a kid again chasing after his godfather. His feet carry him faster than he thought possible, and when he reaches Jules, he throws himself into his arms without hesitation.

The warmth of the embrace floods through him, and Charles buries his face in Jules’ shoulder, a sob catching in his throat. He clings to him like he’s afraid to let go, the weight of everything — of life, of death, of everything in between — finally crashing down on him.

“I missed you,” Charles chokes out, his voice thick with emotion.

Jules laughs softly, holding him tight. “I missed you too, mon caneton.”

It’s overwhelming, this feeling of reunion. The tears fall freely now, and Charles can’t stop them, doesn’t want to stop them. He’s never cried like this before, not even when he won, not even when he died. But now, in the arms of someone who meant so much to him, it feels like everything is breaking free.

He pulls back, wiping at his face, but before he can say anything else, another voice breaks through the haze.

“Charles.”

Charles turns, his breath catching again as his eyes land on his father. He’s standing there, just a few feet away, watching his son with eyes full of pride.

“Papa …” The word slips from his lips, almost a whisper.

And then he’s running again, straight into his father’s arms. He feels like a child, all over again, seeking comfort and love and everything he’s missed. Hervé holds him, strong and steady, and for the first time in years, Charles feels like he’s truly home.

“I’m so proud of you,” Hervé murmurs, his voice full of emotion. “You did everything you said you would.”

Charles pulls back, his hands gripping his father’s shoulders as he looks at him, tears still streaming down his face. “I did it, Papa. I won.”

“I know,” Hervé says softly, his eyes shining. “I always knew you would.”

Charles nods, his throat too tight to speak. The pride in his father’s eyes is everything he’s ever wanted, everything he’s ever worked for.

But then, he turns.

You’re still standing there, watching quietly from a distance. Charles’ heart twists at the sight of you, at the thought of everything you’ve been through together. You’ve guided him, stayed with him, and now … now he understands.

“Thank you,” he whispers, his voice thick with gratitude.

He steps forward, closing the distance between you, and when he reaches you, he doesn’t hesitate. He cups your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing against your skin as he leans in.

His lips meet yours, soft and gentle, and in that moment, everything else fades away. There’s no race, no championship, no death. Just the two of you, together, in this place beyond life and time.

When he pulls back, his eyes meet yours, and he knows.

You smile at him, your eyes soft. “Glory was worth it, wasn’t it?”

Charles nods, his throat tight. “Yeah,” he whispers. “It was worth it.”

And somewhere, in the distance, the ticking starts again.

For someone else.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

He knows what he has to do. The weight of it settles into his chest like a stone, cold and heavy, suffocating the brief warmth of your kiss. His hands tremble as they slip away from your face, his fingers lingering for just a second longer, as if he can’t quite let go.

But he has to.

His breath shudders, a ragged thing that cuts through the silence. His lips part, but no words come out. There’s nothing left to say. You see the understanding in his eyes — he knows the truth now, the path that’s been laid out in front of him since the moment he died.

He belongs with them.

With Jules. With his father.

Not with you.

He turns, slowly, his back to you now. And just like that, the warmth is gone. It’s like the sun has disappeared from the sky, leaving nothing but the cold, endless void.

You want to stop him, call out his name, reach for him, something, anything, but the words die in your throat. He doesn’t belong to you. He never did.

“Charles …” you whisper, though you know he can’t hear you anymore. He’s already too far away. Already slipping through your fingers like sand.

He walks toward them — Jules and Hervé — his pace steady, purposeful. The space between you grows wider with every step, a chasm opening up that you can never hope to cross.

Jules smiles at him, that same familiar smile, the one that Charles would have given anything to see again. And his father … God, the pride in Hervé’s eyes is almost too much to bear. It’s everything Charles ever wanted. Everything he fought for, died for.

But you …

You stand there, watching.

Helpless. Silent. Alone.

Charles doesn’t look back. Not once.

You knew he wouldn’t.

You knew this moment was coming from the second you saw him in Melbourne, when his time started ticking. You were never meant to keep him. You were just a part of his story — a brief chapter in the long, winding tale of his life and death.

And now, that chapter is closing.

The void stretches before them, a vast expanse of nothingness, and as Charles reaches the edge, Jules and Hervé step forward to greet him. They wrap their arms around him, pulling him into their embrace, and for a moment — just a moment — Charles is home.

He glances over his shoulder, but not at you. His eyes skim past you, unseeing.

“Thank you,” he whispers, but the words aren’t for you. They’re for the life he left behind. The glory. The fame. The endless pursuit of something more.

And then he steps into the void.

You feel it before you see it — the pull, the way the world shifts as he crosses the threshold. It’s like a part of the universe is being torn away, a piece of the puzzle you’ve held together for so long is finally gone. And you’re left behind, standing on the edge, watching as they fade into the distance.

The ticking stops.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you’re alone.

It’s funny, in a way. You’ve spent eons like this — watching souls come and go, guiding them from one world to the next. But with Charles, it was different. He stayed. He stayed longer than anyone else, long enough for you to feel something you weren’t supposed to feel.

Loneliness. Loss.

You told him you couldn’t be left behind, that death doesn’t experience separation, but that was a lie, wasn’t it?

Because now, as you stand there in the cold, empty void, watching the space where Charles once stood, you feel it — truly feel it — for the first time.

Heartbreak.

It’s a strange, hollow thing, the way it grips your chest, squeezes your lungs until you can’t breathe. You’ve seen it a thousand times, watched as humans crumbled under the weight of it, but this is different. This is personal.

This is yours.

He’s gone. He made his choice. And even though you knew it would end this way, it doesn’t make it any easier.

You take a step back, your feet moving of their own accord, retreating from the edge of the void. There’s no point in staying here. There’s nothing left to hold on to.

Charles is gone.

You close your eyes, trying to push down the ache in your chest, but it won’t go away. It lingers, sharp and raw, reminding you of what could have been, of the brief moments you shared that weren’t supposed to matter but now feel like everything.

For a second — just a second — you wish things had been different. That you could have kept him. That maybe, just maybe, you could have been something more than death. Something more than a shadow in the background of his life.

But that’s not who you are.

You open your eyes, the void still stretching out before you, endless and unforgiving.

Somewhere, far in the distance, the ticking starts for someone else. Another life, another death, another story to watch unfold.

But none of them will be Charles.

You’ll carry him with you, even if he never looks back. Even if he forgets your face. You’ll remember the way he smiled at you in the moments between life and death. You’ll remember the way his voice cracked when he thanked you.

And you’ll remember the way he kissed you, soft and brief, like a goodbye he couldn’t quite say.

You’ll remember it all.

And that, perhaps, is the cruelest part.

not for sale 💳 mingyu x reader. (2)

celebrity!mingyu and small business owner!reader. check out 🛒 not for sale's masterlist.

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Enraptured {I}

Emperor Geta x Innocent Acacius!Reader request: no gif credits: @freckledjoes divider credits: @arcielee Summary: Geta becomes enraptured with Acacius' innocent daughter Y/n. A dangerous obsession begins to take over. Warnings: 18+, MDNI, sexual thoughts, seduction, obsessive nature, possesive!geta, mentions of oral sex (f receving), dry humping, feelings?, sweet talking, manipulation, geta does have a heart (if you squint), jealous!geta Word Count: 4.7k Disclaimer: I don't own Gladiator II or its characters, nor do I claim them as my own Comments, likes and reblogs are always adored and appreciated xx this fic is inspired by: Florence and the Machine - Howl

If you'd like to, you can also listen to the ambient music that I listened to, which helped me write the story. Preferably in the order I've listed the music, it helps create a more atmospheric reading mood <3 palace gardens (day) palace gardens (night)

oof, i wrote this over the span of three nights at 4am, hope you all enjoy it <3 part II coming soon

Geta took the throne following his father's death, alongside his ill-fated brother, Caracalla. Both twins ruled with a ruthless desire for control—a desire for true power. But instead of focusing solely on politics and war, his mind found itself increasingly occupied by the image of a girl he'd only seen fleetingly. Her name was Y/n, the daughter of General Marcus Acacius, a man whose loyalty to the empire was as unwavering as his reputation was formidable. He had seen her at the victory parade beside her father on their chariot when the General returned from his recent victory conquest in Numidia. It may have only been a brief glimpse, but it had been enough. Y/n was a striking beauty in a bold and ever-changing Roman society. However, she possessed a softer charm, a quiet grace that drew Geta in like a moth to a flame. She was an oasis in the desert of scheming courtiers and ruthless assassins to seek refuge, and Geta fell toward her with such intensity bordering on desperation. Dying of a quenching thirst he had never known until he had laid eyes upon her. Geta, though, was prone to fits of tyrannical rage, yet, beneath the surface, a flicker of softness occasionally surfaced, a vulnerability he fiercely guarded. It was only ever reserved for his brother to ease his own fits due to his illness. No one else had that privilege. However, the constant weight of bearing the whole of Rome on his shoulders and monitoring Caracalla at times grew too much for him to handle. 

That is how he found himself in the palace gardens one day, where he found her. The object of his hidden affections, the reason for his thoughts to drown out the senate's boring words. The very woman who created his obsession to take over his entire being. Geta approached her from behind, listening to her hum a gentle tune. The ever-so-soft breeze blew her strands of hair as her fingers brushed the flowers delicately. A butterfly flittered above, and she held out her finger for the flying insect to land Y/n smiled. “Hello, my friend. What a marvellous day for an adventure.” A light giggle emitted from her plump lips. Geta’s eyes glittered with adoration and masked the lingering hunger inside him before making his presence known.

“It’s not often I find myself in the company of an ethereal goddess like yourself, my lady.” His voice startled her; the sudden sharp movement in her body made the butterfly leave her finger. Her doe eyes found Geta with a frightened stare. Geta immediately realised his mistake, rushing toward her with a hand raised to show he meant no harm. “My sincere apologies, my lady. Do not be afraid.” He smiled. Y/n softly gathered her skirt as she moved away from him slightly. “Emperor Geta.” She bowed her head in respect, loose strands of her hair falling beside her face; the immediate response of obedience made Geta’s heart swell. Tilting her chin to face him, his fingers lingered on her skin longer than he intended. Y/n’s lashes fluttered as she smiled timidly, and a light blush appeared on her cheeks.

Geta removed his fingers, and a soft hum filled his chest. “So…tell me, are the gods displeased?” He smirked, and the glint in his chocolate eyes made her release a light-hearted laugh. “I couldn’t know what you mean; I’ve never met them, Emperor.” She answered with a light tease. Geta’s smirk widened as he leaned forward to whisper. “I believe they would be jealous that you’d rather spend your time here than with them.” Y/n, too, leans forward slightly; her gaze also flickers downwards briefly before meeting Geta’s gaze again. “Why are we whispering Emperor?” She asked. Geta chuckled, looking over his shoulder and then up to the sky. “I may be a vessel for the gods, but that does not mean they would take it lightly; their most beautiful goddess is occupying her time with me.” The tip of his nose caressed hers gently; the sudden close contact made Y/n retract, and her breathing grew heavy. Geta smiled, his fingers tracing her palm before his thumb traced over her pulse in her wrist. “You needn’t be so nervous around me. But perhaps you're a nymph; I’ve read how timid they can be.” He murmured. The compliment made her blush even more. “Your father speaks of you often; my brother and I have asked him to bring you to our festivities; he always seems to have an excuse not to bring you.” He told her with a light pout appearing on his face. 

Y/n took in a small, sharp inhale. “I apologise, Emperor. It’s not my father’s doing entirely; I’m inexperienced with court life. Also, Lucilla and I spend most of the days together. Reading and walking.” She explained to Geta; his head tilted, and the corner of his lips tugged into a grin. “Ah, yes, Lucilla. Between her and your father, they’ve kept you in a gilded cage. Such innocence must be preserved, I understand. But little nymph…” His voice trailed off, and his bronze irises stared into hers. His gaze heated and filled with an intense fire. The sight made Y/n’s breathing falter slightly; the deep crimson eyeshadow around Geta’s eyes made his stare more penetrating. He leaned in a little more, their lips almost touching as if he were teasing her with the promise of a kiss. “Do you not wish for more? To see more? 𝐅𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞?” He breathed heavily, his fingers caressing her jaw and moving up to her cheek. “I-I do not know what to say…” Y/n’s words fell short, and the combination of Geta’s touch, words, and closeness overwhelmed her. “Emperor Geta.” Y/n moved away and stood quickly, brushing her hands over her dress. “You must forgive me, I-” She began, her breathing growing uneven as she stepped away. “My father, if he were to find out about this exchange…it’s improper. Whispers will be said about us.” Geta’s brows furrowed, his eyes narrowed, and his jaw clenched as he stood. “Should anyone feel the need to whisper anything about their Emperor and the General’s daughter improperly, Caracalla has always expressed an interest in servants participating in our games.” He gave a broad smile Y/n still kept her distance as she heard her name being called in the distance by a guard. “Lady Acacius, your father has requested we bring you home. The evening will be upon us soon.” Y/n smiled at her guard, turning to face Geta curtising gracefully. Geta observed her through hooded eyes, flickering down to her body as she stood to her full height, her gaze still on the ground. Geta released a light chuckle before once again tilting her chin up. “Oh sweet nymph, your innocence is most…𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠.” 

⋆。˚☽˚。⋆⋆。˚☽˚。⋆⋆。˚☽˚。⋆

Geta rested his hands on his marble terrace, hearing the loud chatter of his brother entering his private chambers. “Brother! The games begin today, and I am ready to command blood to be spilt!” Caracalla clapped. Geta entered his chambers, a soft smile upon his face at his twin brother. Nodding, he sipped his wine and pointed to Caracalla with a maddening grin. “The gods, they seem quite unmerciful. I can feel it.” They both laughed, and the manic look in their eyes matched the others. All the gladiators would have to pray that today could be their last.

While in the palace, lively chatter and excitement filled the halls and chambers alike, and the joy of the gladiator games took place to honour General Marcus Acacius. Not the same could be said in the home of the Acacius’ home. Marcus fiddled with the ring on his finger as Lucilla adjusted his cloak with a warm smile on her facial features. Marcus’s soulful eyes softened at his wife, finally feeling at peace and being back in her warmth. “Y/n and I have missed you dearly, Y/n more so. As much as I worry and long for your return and safety, your daughter fears the most out of us both. She lost her mother; she does not want to lose you.” Lucilla’s soft-spoken voice made Marcus’ heart clench at the memory of losing Y/n’s mother. “If something were to ever happen to me, she has you. She adores you Lucilla.” Marcus smiled; his brown eyes shined with love. Lucilla’s smile widened her fingers, delicately resting the Acacius brooch on her husband’s cloak. Her eyes looked over Marcus’ shoulder, and her face brightened once again. “Y/n, dear, you look beautiful.” Y/n nervously fiddled with the dress, made from the finest silks and gold embroidery—a gift from Geta. “I’ve never seen that dress before. Is it new?” Marcus asked Y/n nodded as she spun in a circle. “A gift from Emperor Geta. Isn’t it wonderful? Lavender is my favourite colour. Today, he even gifted me my favourite poems by Virgil. He told me it brings him joy to see me happy. However, I do not know how he found out about these things. Perhaps he heard from you, father.” She giggled softly as she ran out of the lavender dress flowing behind her. Y/n’s innocence filled Marcus with dread; his sweet daughter was unaware of Emperor Geta and his true intentions. Marcus felt helpless. To move against an Emperor, especially one as mad and a tyrant as Geta and Caracalla, then Marcus would surely pay with his life. “Lucilla. We must move forward with our plans with the Senate. Y/n is now involved; whatever web Geta has weaved her in, I can not- I will not let him entrap her.” He let out a shaky breath. 

The night festivities Geta loved as much as the games, the loud laughter of the senate filling their body with endless wine and food. The music played as concubines, slaves, and whores danced for entertainment. Geta observed carefully with a heavy glare as Caracalla spoke with Y/n, the two laughing at one of Caracalla’s playful remarks about one of their servants. Geta’s hand gripped his throne, trying to hold his composure. Seeing Y/n in her new lavender dress, which he had gifted her, made her body look even more heavenly and beautiful, even if it were even possible. His eyes constantly raked over her figure, imagining tearing the fabric from her body. Adjusting himself in his throne, he felt his cock harden at the thought of having his way with Y/n. He could see her underneath him, moaning and writhing in pleasure. His gaze darkened further as Dondus jumped up and down on Caracalla’s shoulder, his tiny blue linen dress bouncing in tow. “And this is?” Y/n gestured to Dondus with a bright smile. Caracalla held out his arm for Dondus to approach Y/n, and the capuchin happily rubbed his head on Y/n’s open palm. “This is Dondus, my closest friend and trusted ally.” He expressed with a giggle.

“Aww, he’s so sweet. Does he always embrace strangers so quickly?” Caracalla shook his head. “It seems you may be his new favourite. For that, you may never be able to leave the palace now.” Before laughing, Y/n laughed too as Dondus hopped onto her lap, spinning in circles and clapping his hands. “He’s putting on a show for me. Aren’t you charming?” Y/n cooed. Caracalla turned to Geta with a snide grin. “He dislikes Geta; he’s always peeing on him. Be careful; brother Dondus may do so if you get too close to Y/n now.” Y/n fluttered her lashes over to Geta, smiling at his brother’s comment. Her breath hitched in her throat, seeing Geta’s hungry stare upon her.

“Oh, I’m sure Dondus will understand. The three of you can share me. There’s plenty of love to go around.” She nuzzled her nose against his. The capuchin chittered, climbing up so Y/n could hold him in her hands. Geta smiled, licking his lips as he narrowed his eyes before sipping his wine. After he sat his goblet down, he leant over. “Dondus would think twice about committing such an act toward me, brother. He knows the boundaries. But as our dear Y/n said, I’m sure we can share her. Though it’s fair to say, she’ll become more fond of my company.” He flickered his gaze to Y/n, a wicked grin on his face, standing from his throne.

“Would you like to retreat somewhere quieter, my little nymph?” He bowed with his hand stretched out. Y/n looked up with a nod of her head and stretched out her arm for Dondus to climb back to Caracalla. Slipping her hand into his waiting palm. Geta helped her stand as she bowed to Caracalla. “It was lovely speaking with you, Caracalla. I’m sure we are going to be great friends.” Y/n kissed Caracalla’s ring. The younger twin grinned happily and nodded enthusiastically. “And it was my pleasure becoming acquainted with you, Dondus.” The monkey jumped up and down, spinning in a circle again before posing with his hands in the air. Y/n clapped softly. “Bravo, my dear friend.” She giggled as Geta pulled her to his body with a possessive grip, his jealousy becoming apparent.

If you could only see the beast you've made of me. I held it in but now it seems you've set it running free.

Caracalla smirked knowingly whilst giggling to himself, kicking his feet while doing so. Seeing his brother jealous was the icing on the cake for the evening. Something Caracalla always liked most was making his brother envious; Geta glared at his twin fire burning in his eyes. “Not. A. Word.” He pointed to his brother, removing himself and Y/n from the festivities; Caracalla's distant laughter made Geta’s jealousy burn brighter. The crackling of fire and cicadas filled the night. Geta led Y/n to his private garden near his chambers; the distant sound of a lyre playing created a serene, calming atmosphere. Y/n looked at the blanket of stars glittering in the sky.

“The stars are especially bright tonight. My father and I have always loved observing them and seeing the constellations. The stories of the gods. Do you agree-” Y/n turned to face Geta, whose eyes were only fixed on her. Geta raised his hand to her face, tracing his knuckle along her cheek and ran his fingers through her hair, twirling some loose strands. “If it’s possible, you're even more beautiful in the evening, little nymph. Lavender is your colour; 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐲.” Heat spread across her cheeks at his compliment. “You flatter me, Emperor.” She replied, eyes cast down, and her nervousness began to show.

Geta laughed lightly; his fingers touched her chin, tilting her face to look at him. “You may call me Geta when we are alone, my dear.” Geta murmured Y/n’s heart began to race. Both were leaning into one another, their noses brushing, the building infatuation between them growing more apparent with each passing moment. Being this close to a man, let alone an Emperor, made her feel dizzy. “Geta…” Her voice was weak as Geta rubbed his cheek along hers, breathing in the sweet scent of her jasmine bath oils. “I-is this allowed?” She blinked, looking around to see if anyone could be watching. “Mmm, it’s quite alright.” His voice was sultry thick with lust, sending goosebumps all over her body. Geta wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her tightly. His lips found her pulse point, his nose brushing along the side of her throat. Y/n let out a soft moan, her eyes fluttering closed at the sensation. Geta grinned, sweeping his hand up her thigh and moving aside the dress at its slit, exposing her leg. 

The coolness of his rings soothed her heated skin, and Y/n’s body involuntarily moved closer to Geta. The dull ache between her legs made her whine lowly, the unknown sensations in her body making her mind hazy with confusion. “Can you keep a secret?” Geta’s voice was low and intimate, his breath fanning her cheek, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. The tip traced the edge of her lips. A little whimper emitted from her parted lips. “What kind of secret?” Feeling weightless in his embrace, Geta pulled her leg over his waist, and Y/n held onto his shoulder for support. “The very kind that could change your life. I have desires, Y/n—dark ones.” Y/n swallowed, and a tremulous breath escaped her brows furrowed slightly in confusion. “Desires?” She whispered, the word heavy with a sense of curiosity. 

Screaming in the dark, I howl when we're apart. Drag my teeth across your chest to taste your beating heart.

Geta’s eyes darkened, and the heat in his stare made her feel like an animal caught in a cage. “Would you like me to show you?” His fingers trail over her exposed collarbone slowly toward her chest. He smirked at her little gasp, leaning in to graze his lips along hers, their breathing heavy with anticipation. “If I were to slip my fingers between your legs…” He whispered, moving his hand further up her thigh, dangerously close to where she ached for him the most. “I believe I would know all I need too.” Y/n blinked the moon reflecting in her eyes, making her even more sinless to him. “And what would that be?” She asked him, desperation filling her voice. The young Emperor laughed, biting his lip, his Adam’s apple bopping heavily. “That your body wants me as much as mine wants yours.” Y/n’s lips parted, and a choked moan tumbled out as she adjusted herself to sit on his lap fully. Feeling brave, Y/n licked her lips and pressed her lips to Geta’s; it was all the consent Geta needed; a deep growl rumbled in his chest, and the sweet, innocent kiss soon turned heated. A clash of teeth and tongues melting into one another. A startled moan fell from her lips, allowing Geta to slide his tongue into her mouth. Gathering his robes into balls in her palms, Y/n rolled her hips experimentally, feeling his hard cock press against her aching core. Peppering kisses along her jaw toward her neck, Geta placed his hands on her hips in a deathly hold; the possessive grip made Y/n gasp, clutching onto Geta’s shoulders. “𝐆𝐞𝐭𝐚…” Y/n tried to speak, her voice failing her as Geta breathed heavily, his lips finding hers, silencing her with another hunger-filled kiss. “𝐘/𝐧…” He groaned between pants as she melted into him, the warmth of his body igniting a desire she never knew existed but now setting them alight. Yet with every kiss, every heated touch, the intoxicating thrill of the forbidden. She let herself be swept away, lost in the depths of his chocolate eyes, the rough yet tender touch of his hands upon her body, the promise of something more. Whatever spell he had put her under, Y/n surrendered willingly. Geta’s eyes shined at the uncorrupt girl above him; her angelic sounds made him grow harder. Her flushed cheeks and porcelain-like skin glowed under the moon’s brightness. “You are making it troublesome for me to withhold myself from ravaging you, 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐧𝐲𝐦𝐩𝐡.” His tongue darted out to slide along Y/n’s bottom lip, their pants of breath filling one another’s mouths. “You speak so boldly, my Emperor.” Geta smiled, running his fingers through her hair and tugging the strands gently yet firmly. “Boldness is necessary in my position. Those who seek power must be. But with you, I find myself wanting to be more than bold. To be impulsive. Reckless. To… 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐞.” He murmured, resting his head on hers, pushing her dress further up her leg to her hips. “Consume?” She whispered, intoxicated by the alluring promise in his words. 

Draping her wrists over his shoulders, rolling her hips faster, the idle yearning inside creeping to the surface at a rapid pace. She knew it could be wrong, forbidden to be involved with a man that is not her husband. Let alone an Emperor. But for so long, she had been sheltered away from the society of Rome, where concubines roamed the streets and delighted in orgies—the violent games filled with spilling of gladiator’s blood—the dangers of being lured into a web of deceit and power-hungry ego-filled men. Y/n understood why her father and Lucilla kept her away from it all, but to keep her away from all of that, they kept her away from Geta. Someone who, the moment she met, she felt an instant pull and attraction. How could you possibly stay away from him now?

“Is that a threat or a promise?” Y/n pulled him closer, her fingers slowly working through his ginger locks. The gold laurel shone from the moon’s beam as she removed it from his head. Geta watched her movements, and a wolfish grin spread across his lips. “A promise, of course, my sweet Y/n. Though perhaps to others it can be seen as a threat.” He replied, his intense and unwavering. No matter how often they shared a gaze, each one grew more fervent than the last. “Consuming something can be dangerous.”

Y/n spoke with a shaky breath, her nerves growing unsteady. Silence fell between them as Geta thrust his hips upwards Y/n cried out, the jolt of pleasure rippling through her.

Kissing the column of her throat, Geta moaned lowly, arms looped around her back, pressing their chests together. He could feel the wetness of her arousal seeping through her undergarments and into his robes. “Will you allow me?” He guided her hips to move harder Y/n moaned, clutching onto his robes, her legs shaking at the contact of her body moving against his. “I can give you everything you’ve ever dreamed of. Whatever your heart desires, it’s yours. Allow me to have you, all of you. And in return, you will have all of me.” Geta released a broken moan Y/n shivered, nodding wordlessly; she threw her head back as Geta’s eyes gleamed darkly; his hands tugged and pulled at her dress, sourcing any part of skin he could grab. Grunting through his bared teeth, Geta rolled them over, pining her beneath him as he rutted his hips between her parted legs. Y/n arched her back, leaving Geta to assault her with rough kisses and teasing love bites littering her skin—marking her as his.

My fingers claw your skin, try to tear my way in. You are the moon that breaks the night for which I have to howl.

“That’s it, sweet girl. So pretty spread out under me; how would the gods feel to see their precious nymph being seduced by the Emperor? Helplessly watching as she succumbs to his dark charms.” He panted their moans, filling the air, the rustling over the clothes rubbing against each other, Y/n’s whimpers ringing through Geta’s ears and leaning into the whisper in her ear, pressing his body firmly to hers. “I can only imagine how you would look sprawled on my bed, my head between your legs as I feasted on your cunt.” He groaned, his eyes falling closed, imagining the scene in his mind Y/n gripped his hair harder at his words. “Or perhaps you would prefer first I take you with my cock, claim your virtue for myself. Steal you away from your father, bind you to me. Lavish you with jewels, the finest dresses fit for an Empress. We can lay in bed to our heart's content, making love until the early hours of dawn to the late hours of the evening.” He rested a hand on the globe of her ass, wrapping a leg around his waist. “Your heart will be safe with me. I will protect you with my life. Without you, I am nothing.” His voice was laced with temptation and desperation. “This feels…I want it. I want you.” She confessed, eyes wide with wonder and blown with lust. A shattered moan broke free her body, shaking waves of countless pleasure spread through as she came undone. Geta groaned, he too, reaching his release; their bodies grew still. “Good.” He said, a sinister grin spreading across his face. 

⋆。˚☽˚。⋆⋆。˚☽˚。⋆⋆。˚☽˚。⋆

The following morning, Y/n awoke in an unfamiliar bed as she rolled onto her side, her hand falling on a warm chest. The soft breathing of another reached her ears. Raising her head slowly, she saw Geta sound asleep, his features gentle and warm. The early morning sun peeked through the curtains, casting a relaxing glow. His eyes blinked open, sensing he was being watched; he stretched his arm out, fingers running over her cheek. “Mmm, this is a sight I could get used to.” He grinned Y/n blushed, running her fingers through her hair before tracing patterns on his chest. “Did you mean anything you spoke of last night? I do not know much of such emotions and how men and women show affection to one another. But I’ve never felt these feelings until I met you in the gardens that day. Tell me, am I risking my heart being broken by you, Geta?” She murmured, fear and uncertainty swirling in her eyes.

Geta sat up, resting on his elbow; he frowned, his thumb pulling her lip gently before swiping down her chin. Y/n caught his wrist; her nervous breathing caught his attention. He narrowed his eyes, tugging her forward. Y/n gasped as he held her hips firmly, pressing her to his body. The corner of his lips curled into a slight smirk, capturing her lips in a breath-stealing possessive kiss Y/n’s inhibitions melted away, feeling Geta cradle her cheek with his hand. After a few moments, Geta pulled away. Y/n chased his lips, and a dreamy sigh was emitting from her. “Does that answer your question, my love?” He purred as Y/n was about to answer, but they were interrupted when Caracalla burst into Geta’s chambers. “Brother! What is taking-” He shouted before pausing in the middle of the room, a wide grin forming.“Oh, have I interrupted your and Lady Y/n’s morning delights?” Geta glared at his twin, shielding Y/n protectively under his bedsheets. “Caracalla, leave now; give us some privacy!” He shouted Y/n tucked her face in Geta’s chest, embarrassment flooding over her as Caracalla snickered, clapping his hands. “Do not be embarrassed in front of me, Lady Y/n. I am…well acquainted with a woman’s figure.” He licked his bottom lip, and a teasing laugh fell from the twin Emperor’s lips.

Geta’s jaw clenched, his grip growing unbearably tight on Y/n’s body. Wincing slightly at the pain, she wriggled in his grasp. “𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐚. 𝐋𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞. 𝐍𝐨𝐰.” His voice fell dark and threatening. Caracalla giggled, then sighed dramatically as he left the chambers. Geta’s grip loosened, much to Y/n’s relief. “Would you like to join me as my guest for today’s games? It’s about the naval wars, quite exciting.” He smiled Y/n hesitantly and nodded whilst taking a breath. “I must apologise in advance, Geta. I do not stomach blood and violence well.” Geta nuzzled his nose against her cheek. “That’s quite alright; you will not dishonour me if you turn away. It’s more of a plea to keep you by my side.” With a playful glint in his chocolate eyes, Y/n giggled, her fingers fiddling with Geta’s robes, his eyes cast down to observe her quietly. “I truly make you nervous, don’t I?” Y/n’s lashes fluttered so she could meet his eyes, a beautiful smile spreading across her lips. “Perhaps. Is that common to feel that way when you…” She trailed off, and a shuddered breath tumbled out. Geta raised his brows, silently beckoning her to continue. “Express your feelings for one another?” She whispered, blushing at her own words. Geta laughed. Y/n tilted her head as she slapped his chest, playfully laughter also escaping her. “Yes, it is. But do not worry; in time, your nerves will leave you. The more time we spend together, the more comfortable we will become around each other. It’s only natural.” Geta slapped her thigh, a mischievous smirk playing on his lips. “Now we must dress; a glorious day awaits us; we do not want to keep the gods waiting.”

tags : @chloe-skywalker @everandforeveryours @bel0ved-heretic @doodle-with-rhy @happysparklingshadows @hutx45oovujj @ro-sa-le-en @ladynoonwraith @jakesullyswhore @sociopathic-winchester @flowerdarkx @joyfulyouthlover @i-padfootblack-things @ajourneyforjoy @sst0txx @simsiddy @multific @eddiesxangel @lovebugism @slaytheusurper <3