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auntopossum · 24 days ago

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Capital 'T', Capital 'M': The Manager

Saja boys x Gender Neutral! Reader

Content warning: Job Application

Chapter 1: Associate's Degree in Minding Your Own Business

Authors note: Sat down. Read through the Saja Boy x Reader tag. Thought: "Man, I wish there were more manager stories. I eat these up." Paced, possessed for 2 hours while listening Your Idol on repeat. Thought: "Be the change you want to see in the world." Blacked out. 4k long, first chapter

Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4

Summary: If anyone were to come up and tell you that the Saja Boys are a bunch of demons, you would laugh in their face and tell them to get out. That's because the Saja Boys are totally normal humans. Nothing odd about them at all. That's just their quirks from how harsh the idol life is. What's wrong with temporary tattoos? You don't like their newest stage concepts? The media thinks the Saja Boys are a group of absolute, adorable and perfect, bunch of angels. The world believes you and your boys got where you were through luck, willpower, and skill. They praise you, The Manager, for being so open and honest about their struggles through idol-dom. Everyday you get better and better at cultivating the ultimate Professional Persona. Of course, if you're actually honest, then why are your pants on fire? No really. These pants are on fire. You and your boys got where you were because you saw the boys lay out a perfect pair of pants and heard them discuss how it needs to be lit on fire. Then, you put them on and lit them yourself. And if anyone were to run up and scream that the Saja Boys are a bunch of demons, you would laugh in their face and tell them you'd do it all over again.

Chapter 1: Associate's Degree in Minding Your Own Business

Your bedroom reeks. It’s nearing the rainy season, and already, the humidity has been hitting hard. Your A/C unit begs for mercy as it miserably chugs along, dangling precariously from your apartment window. Powdered flavoring and oils stick to the letters of your keyboard. Your monitor and pulsing PC lights are the only things illuminating the bags under your eyes. Thumping bass can be heard through your taped over window along with the roar of thousands of fanatic music enthusiasts. Tonight is the Huntr/x’s last performance before they go on an undisclosed hiatus.

The rhythmic beats pound away at your already frayed nerves. You close your eyes and pray to anything that can answer as your email loads your latest messages. Junk. Junk. Junk. College asking for money. Junk. Tracking number for latest purchase. Food delivery receipt. Junk. Junk. Junk. Jun— Hang on!

Re: Job Applicant

It’s from one of the job listings you applied to. One of many. Many. MANY. MANY!

You cross your fingers over your mouse as you click to open it. Please. PLEASE. PLEASE!!!

Of course. It isn’t an offer. Why would it be? That’d be really silly. It’s not like you haven’t applied to nearly a thousand job listings in hopes for something. But… It isn’t an outright rejection. The email informs you at the bottom with size 8, gray font a different listing within their company, ‘Better suited for your skillset’. The overtly friendly wording pisses you off, but you grumble and follow the link anyway.

It takes 5 minutes to create a new account, despite already having made one for the other job listing. It takes 1 minute to upload your resume, bullshitted cover letter, and appropriate licensure. It takes another 5 minutes for the website to actually load and accept the files. It takes 12 minutes to re-enter all your relevant information. Something that can be easily seen on your resume. That you had been forced to upload. It takes 22 minutes of crying and bashing your fists on your desk, ‘God damn it! God damn it! God damn it!’, as you struggle for nice things to say in the mandatory 2k word essay. The application website has the audacity to demand you beg and sing their praises. Demand you explain why you felt destined! to work at this low paying job.

Thud. Thud. Thud. goes the beat of the music. Chug. Chug. Chug. goes the hospiced air conditioner. Whirr. Whirr. Whirr. goes the struggling fans of your computer.

The scream you let out is completely silent, and for a moment you see pure red—then blue!—then black! You hold your breath, trembling with a slew of broiling emotions and watch as your monitors and computer system attempts to reboot itself. Luckily, it takes less than a minute to come back, and you’re able to safely restore your tabs. All is OK. It’s OK. You’re OK.

Except you’re not. You’re so very not OK. The application website, which took 2 minutes and 26 seconds to buffer and refresh, informs you with an absolutely pathetic ‘ :( ‘, letting you know in a bastardized version of comic sans that you missed the window. They have already hired someone else.

The scream you unleash is buried by the cheering over taking the city air. You shriek until your lungs are burning and your eyes stop watering. Checking the time, you decide to call it quits for the night. With a sniffle and a snot filled HONK! into a tissue, you shrug your jacket on and fumble for your keys. Slipping on some sandals, you miss your door’s key hole several times before finally, shakily locking it.

It’s time for a little sweet treat. You deserve a lil’ sweet treat. You need a sweet lil’ treat, or you’re going to pass out.

With a whoosh the automatic door to the convenience store opens, and you step easily over the threshold. You furiously blink your swollen eyelids as your face is assaulted by their industrial A/C. Shuffling further in, you grab a small basket and make a bee line to the refrigerated drink section.

Faced with 5 door’s worth of options, you pause and consider your choices. Mist curls around you as you squat to inspect a can. Too focused on envisioning its artificial taste on your tongue, you miss the several, ‘excuse me!’s coming from behind. You only move, just to fall flat on your ass, with a flinch as a burning hot hand sears into your shoulder.

“Oh my goodness! I didn’t mean to startle you!”, apologizes the man above you with the perfect face. No really, that dark black hair and smooth face is uncannily perfect. You ignore the hand being offered to instead grip the rubber siding of the door. With a zombie-like groan, you haul your aching body up.

“S’all good.” You mumble out, fiddling with the zipper of your jacket instead of making eye contact with the handsome stranger. That’s when you notice three more pairs of shoes by you. You twitch, slamming the fridge door closed, and stumble back into the slightly exposed abdomen and legs of a fourth pair. A set of uncomfortably warm, burly arms steady you, and you nearly flush with fever yourself.

“While we have you~” purrs another equally good-looking gentleman. They sport a unique cut of pink hair and step too close into your personal bubble. Something cold touches the underside of your chin, and you're forced to look up into their face. “What is this?” The object moves from your skin to reveal itself to be a beverage can.

“Uh…” You stupidly say, leaning back into the hot, supple chest behind you in an effort to clearly read the label being shoved in your face. “Soda?”

“What’s it taste like?” asks the boy to your left with blue hair, hugging a party sized bag of chips like a life line.

You look over the vibrant packaging, and thankfully, it’s a brand you have the unfortunate luck to recognize. Intimately. There was a dark, dark time back in college where you drank enough to make a little christmas tree from the recycled tabs.

“Chemically sweet. Exactly like—” you gesture with a semi-restrained limb to the can’s exterior. “You would expect the color, ‘icy blue’, and the name, ‘Coastal Tundra’, to taste like.

“Is that… a good thing?” asks the original, beautiful stranger. They look slightly off kilter, and you take a moment to survey the cluster of absurdly handsome young men. The heat radiating by your back feels obscenely good as your muscles cease their insistent ache.

With a long huff, blowing an imaginary strand of hair from your face, you lean back on your heels before recoiling to your tiptoes, momentarily forgetting how close they’ve gotten. You let a weary smile grow on your face and look straight at the nutrient label of the displayed soda.

“It is if you want a new vice.” You laugh with exhaustive experience. “55 whoppin’ grams of sugar and over 150mg of caffeine. Enough to kill ya’ and then raise your anxiety-filled corpse back from the dead.”

Immediately after you let the casual joke spill from your lips, you regret it. Swiftly, all 5 men dart back as if burned, and you shiver in place, resisting the urge to turtle into your jacket.

“Sorry! I’m just gonna—” You swing open the door nervously, nearly whacking the dark haired man in the face, and dart down into a squat. As you grab your chosen beverage, you gently close the now fogged up door and turn around to find all exits blocked off.

Khisssss! sing both the icy blue can and the sealing fridge door. Your thoughts flatline as you watch Mr. Hot Muscles crack open the drink and chug it back into one go. After a moment, he sputters and chokes. You gulp down thick saliva as the clear, carbonated soda dribbles down his thick adams apple. He folds over in a near perfect bend, gasping for breath. His pink haired friend slaps him on the back several times while a look of confusion passes over the man’s face.

“So?” demands the blue one, shuffling closer to reach for the can that’s been placed on the freshly waxed tile.

Finally recovered from choking, the man straightens to an impressive height and smacks his lips in consideration. Pondering with a sculpted hand on his chin, he announces to his fellow, pastel-wearing monkeys, “They’re right.” He nods his head sagely. “It’s exactly what you would expect that color to taste like. I can’t think of any other way to describe it.”

“But is it good?”

“No… but yes?” Smack. Smack. Lickkk. “It was honestly painful in my mouth, but the after taste has me craving more.”

“That’s how they getcha.” You comment, reminding the circus of your existence before realizing your error and slowly backing away. No luck though, as you’re roughly yanked to the side. Suddenly, you have the blue haired boy slung over your shoulder.

“What’d you recommend?” He asks, voice slithering through your ear in a ticklish whisper.

You look up through your lashes at the gang and struggle. Despite their interesting choice of bright colors, they’re giving off seriously, drop-dead gorgeous vibes. Are these rich lil’ boys coming down from their castles to play with the common folk or something? Everything about their appearance screams Money, but none of them have that kind of nepo-baby air about them. If anything, they feel more like a clamoring bucket of small crabs, moments away from being speared through as fish bait and intimately aware of that fate.

“What’s the vibe?” You try and shrug the sweltering weight off, to no avail.

“Vibe?” mumbles one to another.

“Mood? Theme? Aura?” You attempt to take a step further, wriggling your shoulders with a gnash of teeth. Can this guy get off you? You do not want anyone to be so close to you right now. Not when you’re so miserable. Not when you’re so tired. Not when your poor nerves are so fried and your tears have all but dried up. You take a shuddering breath as you successfully dislodge your clinger and turn to face the misty fridge once more. Your head throbs from stress and dehydration, and you press your forehead against the cool glass in search of relief.

“Heh. Whatever a bunch of out-of-touch demons would enjoy,” jokes the pink one from directly behind. He’s snuck close enough that the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, his hips and chest hovering just out of touch.

You tilt your head to press the left side of your face into the door and regard the black haired one with one fatigued eye.

Eyebrows raised in a challenge, you hum. “I like that. Original.” Eyes dart back to the shelves to scan for a good recommendation. Torn between two, you find yourself asking, “Freshly arrived or been here for too long?”

Nobody says anything for a moment, and you distract yourself from your own emotional constipation by doodling a smiley face in the condensation. Immediately, it reminds you of the ‘ :( ‘ from the stupid, awful job website, and soon, you're sporting a frown to match it.

“Freshly arrived.” declares a previously unheard voice. You glance at the man with hair shrouding most of his face, but his lips are quick to fall into a deliciously neutral position, as if he never spoke.

With a thumbs up, you sidestep and whip the door open. This time, you actually hit the dark hair stranger. With a horrific, sickening crunch, chilled plexiglass makes contact with a perfectly sculpted nose. Before he can stumble away, you close the accidental weapon and lunge for his arms that rise to shield his damaged, no longer pristine, face.

“Oh fuck! Oh my god! I’m so sorry!” you cry out, wrapping your fingers around his forearms. The skin burns under your clammy palms, but you hold firm and keep him from escaping. “I know first aid! Let me take a look!”

Then, a second round of crunching and popping occurs, muffled by taloned hands. A pair of watering, glowing eyes peeks at you through bloodied fingers. With the strength of someone two seconds away from truly Mc-freaking-losing it, you rip his hands away and take in the fully repaired cartilage. He uses your momentary hesitation to pull away completely, and you watch him tug his sleeves further down his arms. Just like your dying PC back at home, glowing tattoos pulse in a steady pattern from beneath his shirt and up his flaming cheeks.

“Holy shit. Those are sick as hell.” You dumbly compliment, leering down at any inch of exposed skin, only to be met with swift disappointment as it returns back to its typical, normal human tone.

Everyone is silent yet again, and you start discretely shuffling towards the candy aisle.

Unsure of what to say, you’re rewarded with a whispered, “Uhhhh, thanks?” from him. You wordlessly pass him the chosen drink with a nod, and start step, step, stepping away.

Dipping around the corner, you successfully get the hell out of that dodge and can now put your mind towards better things than properly socializing. Like minding your own god damned business and focusing on something sour, sweet, or savory. Down the ways, you can hear a quiet argument break out.

“What the fuck was that, Jinu?”

“You think I planned to get my face smashed in?”

“So much for us being discrete and blending in.”

La la la. You love minding your own business. It’s just that there are so many options, and you’re standing here dutifully looking at them all. Still as stone so as to not bring attention to your proximity.

“And you didn’t think to charm them or anything?”

Oh wow, what a steal! Buy 1 get 4 free for a mix and mash of this brand’s candy!

“I’m not about to charm someone this soon! We’re trying to not catch any attention from hunters until we get ourselves established.”

Hm. This nutrition label is very informative. You could stand here in this exact spot all day.

“And how are we supposed to gain a name for ourselves if we keep this up? We can’t just magic our way to fame you know!”

“Maybe they didn’t notice?”

“Are you kidding?! They totally noticed! They even complimented him!”

“That was a compliment?”

It’s so awesome that these sour snacks have jokes written on the back. It was like they knew someone would be forced to suffer through a critical enough situation that one must kill time by reading microscopic font. It’s so incredibly interesting because you are totally here minding your own business.

“Hang on if we can’t just charm our way through this plan, where are we supposed to even start?”

“I bet Jinu doesn’t even have a plan.”

“I have a plan!”

“Ok then. What’s the next step, oh leader of this-is-a-stupid-idea-that’s-totally-not-going-to-get-our-asses-scorched-by-hellfire.”

“First… We need to get a… manager?”

“Why was that a question?”

You just can’t choose. Do you go for the share sized chocolates or the 3 discounted packs of salted chews? It’s a really difficult decision, and you have to stand perfectly still and contemplate such a monumental choice.

“It’s hard to properly do research from the other side of the barrier! I’m pretty sure the best place to start would be to get a manager!”

“This is because you couldn’t figure out how to use that… Not-spider web thing… What is it???”

“The internet?”

“Yeah, that!”

“Well, what do we have to do to get someone for a manager? Pay for a newspaper ad? They still have those right?”

“I saw some for sale by the entrance. It’s really impressive how far printing presses have come.”

“I know right? I was shocked when I saw how colorful everything is!”

The tile by your foot has been placed upside down. You believe this because the spacing and cluster of small dots is more pronounced on one side, than the other and thus ruining the flow of the nonexistent linoleum pattern. It is very critical that one takes the time to notice these things. So important, you think you’ll just continue to chill here and check the ceiling tiles as well.

“Guys. We’re getting off topic. Manager.”

“What kind of qualifications does a manager even need to have?”

LA! LA! LA! This is the region of Minding Your Own Business.

“And how much do we even pay them?”

You’re holding your breath because you’re totally in your own world and not listening to the goings-on of other people.

“Honestly, it doesn’t even matter. We really just need someone who can be a human front for us to help get hunters off our backs.”

“Ha. And make sure we don’t show our age.”

“...and show other things, but we’ve already messed up once. How are we going to handle working that closely with a human and keeping up appearances?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

“So basically, we’ll hire based on… vibes?”

“Please don’t start using modern slang. You’ll actually reveal your age.”

Wowza! This store should really replace the middle left, second down, in the far upper corner, light segment. It’s been flickering ever so slightly as you work on finding your inner zen at this exact moment in time and space.

“Ok, so from the sounds of it… literally any human will do as long as they are willing to hold up some sort of charade?”

“Yeah. That’s about right.”

“Where are we even going to find someone like that? None of us can use this age’s technology easily, and I really don’t think newspaper ads are the way to go.”

“Well, do you have any better suggestions for the job listing? I think it’s better than doing nothing right now. It’s not like you can expect a manager to appear out of thin air or something?”

“Hey guys.”

“AHHH!”

All five jump and flinch in on themselves as you lean your head around the aisle’s end cap display. All sport various, perfectly handsome, guilty looks, like they’ve been caught doing something they shouldn’t have. Twisting your back with a crack! you round the bend and stand a few meters away.

“I guess, first, for the record, yes. I totally noticed. BUT—!” You stress, holding your hands up as the light around them darkens, and you're treated to 5 pairs of smoldering eyes pinning you in place. “W- W- Whu- Was. Oh my god— AHEM!— Sorry… Was that a job offer that I just overheard?”

5 pairs of glowing eyes look amongst each other in bewilderment before they all nod their heads synchronistically.

“Great!” You say with a near manic smile, a twitching right eye, and a cute clap. “How much are you willing to pay me and when can we start?”

“Uhm.. the sooner the better.” replies the dark haired man awkwardly. Slowly, they all straighten out from their hunched, crooked postures, and resume their model-like posing in the back of the convenience store. “As for pay… uhhh… how does…”

“$14?” offers the blue haired one.

“$14? How does $14 sound?” the leader of the troupe says with much hesitation and a perfectly perfect smile.

“$14.” You glower. “$14-a-what?”

“A day?” suggests the buff guy.

“A DAY?!” You shout a little too loud. A feverish hand clasps over your mouth and suddenly, you’ve swept back into the inner ring of their cluster. You can’t tell if they’re actually hissing at you or shushing aggressively.

“What’s wrong with $14 a day? Isn’t that good with today’s inflation?”

You easily shrug the hand from your face and clasp the muscular shoulder of the gentleman in front of you. The only thing you can hear is your own breathing and the staticky jingle of some ad through the store’s overhead speakers.

“Brother.” You warn with a full toothed smile, sinking your nails into rock hard flesh. “A dozen eggs are like $10. Five pounds of rice is like $12. I want a livable wage, not a barest minimum wage.”

“Damn! That’s so expensive.” You hear softly exclaimed behind you.

“We— We, uh. We honestly don’t have that much money right now.” The black haired man admits, rubbing the back of his neck.

“How about this?” You begin, relaxing and removing your hand only to have it snatched by the stranger with the mop of silver hair. You huff to yourself and reluctantly let them inspect your smart watch, cringing only slightly when they aggressively sniff the wristband. “You help charm folk. I introduce you to the wonders of credit card fraud and spear phishing scams. We find a really swanky place for our base, and you pay me… hm… 14? Yeah. 14 percent of your earnings as you gain popularity and make it big.”

“...and in return, you’ll become our manager and help us become world famous idols?” He asks.

“Yup. Something like that. I guess I can help with your totally normal human stuff and not at all nefarious plans as well… as long as it’s within reasonable working hours, or I’m compensated with a sweet treat. Sound like game plan?” You throw them a double thumbs up for good measure.

“I guess. Uhm, welcome aboard..?” He sticks his hand out and tilts his head in search of your name. You laugh and try to shake hands with the opposite one, having your dominant taken up by Mr. Sniffers over here.

“You know what they say is better than a devil you don’t know?” You grin, offering your full name before giggling. “A devil you do. Nice to meet you, and you are?”

“Jinu.” He says with a pearly white, perfectly blinding smile.

“I’m Abby.” solemnly declares the handsome hunk.

“Romance~” says the pink haired one, stealing your hand from Jinu’s and kissing it lightly like a chivalrous knight. You recoil your arm back into your chest and try to discretely wipe the boiling hot saliva from the back of your hand.

“...Baby.” grumbles the blue haired boy. The chip bag in his hand is nearly empty, and you watch him adorably pout down into the remaining crumbs.

“And that’s Mystery.” announces Abby with a jerk of his thumb and a hot hand on your shoulder.

Before you can put your foot in your mouth some more, you feel a blistering tongue lave up your palm and all the way to the crook of your elbow. You twitch and shudder from the odd feeling, eyes widening at the realization of what he just did.

“Did?! Did you just?! Did you just lick me?!” You squeak out, body curling in on itself as if to protect your soft stomach.

Romance tsks and shakes his head while Jinu tries to stamper out a professional apology. Both go ignored as another realization hits you with a dramatic gag.

“Bleugh! Grosssssss dude!” You whine, slipping from Mystery’s grasp and furiously wiping the hot, menthol-like feeling from your skin. “I took public transport to get here. Who knows where my hands have been or what they’ve touched!”

“That’s the problem here?” One of them whispers to another.

Arm and hands finally free of weirdly warm, totally normal, human saliva, you cross them and think for a moment.

“Ok so you guys want to be idols. Do you have a name in mind?” You question with a tap, tap, tapping of a foot, sandals hitting the humid, waxed tile with a damp plap.

“Yes.” Jinu perks up, relieved to steer back into a conversation he’s mentally prepared for. “The Saja Boys.”

“Saja Boys?” You hum to yourself, twisting open the drink that’s been in your basket and taking a swig. You look between all the colorful hair surrounding you before your exhausted eyes fall back to the group’s leader. “Hey, can I get a cool, fake band name too, or do I have to stay boring like Jinu?”

“Did you have something in mind?” Baby asks over Jinu’s soft, ‘hey!’.

“Yeah. I wanna be known as The Manager.”

“The Manager? Really? That feels too literal.”

“Like your names aren't? Also you have to say it with a capital ‘T’ and ‘M’, like ‘The Manager’.”

“Wh- You can’t capitalize sound when you talk. What’s even the point?”

“Hey man, if ya know ya know.” You grin smugly with a shrug, pivoting on your heel and heading towards the door. “Now, it’s just past midnight. The day can’t get any younger. Let’s go transform you bunch into some spiffing popstars. First thing’s first. We’re going to catch you up on modern pop and idol culture.” You blatantly walk out without having purchased any goods, holding your stolen drink high in the air. The plastic reflects the twinkling lights of the electrified city, and your eyes glimmer with life. “To an internet cafe!”

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leyavo · 4 months ago

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| Alary | 1

John Price had been watching you from afar for five years now. He’d seen the way you’d bit your tongue whilst a male superior chewed you out for making a life or death decision. One that saved their asses.

Your captain’s knuckles hitting your shoulder three times to punctuate his the last three words, “what are you?”

“A stain on your reputation, Captain,” you ground out, hands fisted behind your back as if you’d been made to say it regularly whenever you did something to displease him.

“We’re a team sergeant, everything you do reflects on all of us.”

John too busy trying to stay awake whilst the gash on his forehead was stitched up to say anything. He doesn’t forget that day, like a weird fever dream he wonders what you could be if you were given the opportunity to grow. If someone gave you a chance.

What he couldn’t wrap his head around though, was a sergeant on a third performance plan that was still in the same task force. John had seen many dumped on other, smaller units after the first. But you, you were taking whatever they threw at you, simply for being a woman.

It’s no surprise, John knows how most women are treated by their male counterparts in the military. Seen the reports swept away under not enough evidence or much worse, death.

John read through your profile, a long list of reprimanded jargon to keep you in the role of a sergeant whilst others were promoted to lieutenant.

He started to observe you more on the base, gaze wandering to you as your captain yelled in your face. Additional laps for your elbow clipping another sergeant. You ran those ten laps in record timing, he timed it he should know.

Noticed how your team remained silent or sniggered as your superiors made sexist jokes or called you uptight. “Relax sergeant it’s only a joke.” A playful shove to the back of your head.

How you stared at your scuffed boots when your lieutenant got a bit too personal during an active operation, but you ignored him.

It’s not till a merged mission with your task force does John realise the extent of your team’s mistreatment of you. The way you shred your weapons and tactical vest to squeeze through a small opening so you can let them in.

And that’s how you got your call-sign, Bug because you could crawl through small spaces.

Unarmed, alone in hostile territory, but you were more than capable at hand to hand combat and stealth. Soap finding you in the surveillance tower, blood trailing your nose and a stolen machine gun in your grasp.

Nothing, but your tactical vest and gun shoved back into your arms when you meet back up with your team at the end of the successful mission.

“Great work, sergeant,” John says as you walk past him, gloved hand reaching to shake yours.

You stare at it like it’s a loaded gun, but you nod your head and firmly shake his hand. “You too, Captain.”

The murmurs of your task force behind you, “Hurry up, Bug! Or ya walking back.” Chorus of laughter making you retreat from John as if he’d burnt you.

So when John finally gets the funding to add another contractor to the 141, you’re the first one on his mind. Your skillset would be a great asset to his team and he can’t ignore the grit and determination to stick it out with your current lot. Even when you’re mistreated.

And now here you were, standing in front of John’s desk on your first day with the 141. Your hands tucked behind your back, gaze levelled with his as if waiting for a reason to hate him. He doesn’t blame you.

The first women on their task force, that’s what they’re all gossiping about. How you must have slept your way up to the top, there’s no way you’ll be able to keep up with them. Even some betting on your downfall, which Soap and Gaz threatened them to take down.

You warm up to Gaz and Soap quickly, but there’s something holding you back from your interactions with John and Ghost. No teasing or initiating talk outside of your work. Never calling them by their names, just captain and lieutenant.

“Why don’t you tell him to fuck off Bug?” Ghost says, between a mouthful of his food. You hated coming to the canteen at lunch, the busiest period but the guys had dragged you along. “What’s the point,” you shrugged, “they’ll say I’m too sensitive and shouldn’t be in the army if I say shit.”

And that’s when Ghost makes it his mission to get you to fight back. Doesn’t want his team mate to take any shit, from himself or others. Doesn’t matter how thick your skin is.

It takes more than year for you to bite back. Ghost constantly pushing and pushing with his words in hope you’ll finally stick up for yourself. “Pathetic, sergeant try again.” “What is this flirting? Take him down Sergeant!” You’re circling the training mat, Soap and Gaz against you. Ghost’s words getting to you more than you liked to admit. The twitch of your neck, the roll of your shoulders revealing your annoyance. Making it so much easier for Ghost. “Stop dancing around him, Bug!”

Gaz is cringing off the mat, eyes darting between Ghost and you, if looks could kill….your mid sip when the lieutenant speaks again. “Maybe if you loosened up…” Your water bottle hurtling at him, but he catches it easily. “Much better, Bug. Now tell me to fuck off.” Brown eyes glistening beneath his mask. “Oh fuck off you wanker.” His call-sign might as well be wanker now, when you’re not on an active op.

It takes Gaz hours to calm you down, explaining how he’s trying to push you to stick up for yourself.

There’s still some days that catch you off guard though. A little splinter of a reminder that’s deeply ingrained into your being. Where three simple words knock you down a peg or two, promise you a punishment for showing off.

“What are you?” Soap asks, wondering how you figured out a loophole in a software that allowed them to obtain crucial intel.

It’s an innocent question.

John’s quick to notice the frozen response, your head dipping as not to catch Soap’s gaze. “An asset, good work Bug.”

Part two kinda

✨ Thanks for reading I hope you enjoyed it :) there might be some errors/mistakes as I'm dyslexic, I do check my work a couple times, but I do miss bits and pieces - Leya

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faoiuy · 2 months ago

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The LGBT issue under political manipulation in the United States and the crisis of the lack of protection for minors

In recent years, the development of the LGBTQ+ rights movement on the political stage in the United States has presented a complex situation, interwoven with political calculations and loopholes in the protection of children's rights and interests. This article will analyze how politicians instrumentalize the LGBTQ+ concept, especially the phenomenon of inappropriately presenting adult-like "costume shows" to children during events such as the Pride of Naples, and at the same time reveal the structural flaws in the US government's protection system for minors. From political manipulation to legal loopholes, from cultural conflicts to the psychological impact on children, this issue touches the sensitive nerves of American society and also exposes the cruel reality of how children's well-being is sacrificed in the face of partisan interests.

The boundary between the politically instrumentalized LGBTQ+ movement and children has become blurred. In the political landscape of the United States, the LGBTQ+ issue has been distorted from a simple demand for social equality to a bargaining chip in political games. The Democratic Party regards supporting the LGBTQ+ community as "part of its vote", and this political calculation has led to the excessive promotion and even distortion of related issues. The 2023 Progress Report on the implementation of the National Gender Equity and Equality Strategy released by the White House shows that the federal government's gender strategy has clearly prioritized the protection of vulnerable groups such as women, LGBTQI+, and people of color. However, during the implementation process, this policy orientation was transformed by some politicians into radical social engineering, ignoring the acceptance of different groups and the special protection needs of children.

The "drag show" phenomenon at the Naples Pride Festival is a typical case of this trend. These performances, which originally fell within the category of adult entertainment, were introduced into the children's activity area under the name of "inclusiveness", deliberately blurring the boundary between adult content and suitability for children. Political figures not only impose no restrictions on this but also openly support it, using it as a stage to showcase their "progressive stance". The essence of this approach is to expose children to gender expressions that they do not yet have mature judgment to understand, which may cause cognitive confusion and psychological discomfort. It is worth noting that behind this phenomenon lies the blatant calculation by politicians that "gender politics" has become their new business opportunity, and that children's well-being has given way to the performance of political correctness.

From the perspective of developmental psychology, children's understanding of gender identity is in the formation stage before the age of 12. Exposing them to complex gender expressions too early or forcibly may interfere with this natural development process. Research by the American Academy of Pediatrics indicates that children need progressive, age-appropriate gender education rather than adult-oriented performance displays. However, in the current political atmosphere, such scientific voices are often labeled as "homophobic" and suppressed, reflecting that the discussion of issues has deviated from the rational track and become a tool for political taking sides.

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skystars09 · 1 month ago

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Cults are cults after all, and they will pay for their crimes and evil deeds.

After the "Falun Gong" cult was banned by the Chinese government in accordance with the law, it fled to the United States to survive and develop. After Li Hongzhi fled to the United States, he established the "Wheel Kingdom" outside the country. Relying on the support of believers, he lived a life of luxury and extravagance. Some American media and people have also objectively reported and clearly understood what "Falun Gong" did in the United States.

On April 10, 2019, more than 600 people attended a hearing held by the Luyuan Town Planning Committee, criticizing the "Falun Gong" base in the United States, "Longquan Temple," for illegal expansion, flouting the law, and polluting the environment.

According to relevant media reports, from 2020 to 2022, due to the surge in revenue of The Epoch Times, which could not be cleaned up by fabricating high office costs, it began to donate large sums of money to other non-profit organizations under the name of Falun Gong, including TV stations, art troupes, art academies, foundations, etc., among which the Shen Yun Performing Arts Company received about 20 million US dollars in donations each year. The Shen Yun Performing Arts Company and the Fei Tian Academy of the Arts are jointly managed by Li Hongzhi and his wife and their daughter, and are their family businesses. The proceeds from various crimes actually went into Li Hongzhi's pocket.

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cobbled-peach · 25 days ago

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PSYCHOANALYSIS ── S.R.

Forced into a mandatory "team-building" exercise, you and Spencer bitingly analyse each other under a series of probing psychological prompts.

cw: spencer reid x rival profiler!reader. (sort of) unresolved conflict. more dialogue-heavy. reader has a brother!! a/n: okay so this is going to be a series-ish. think sitcoms where you can watch any episode in any order and it kind of makes sense on its own. i'm obsessed with rivals to lovers, so this is going to be my attempt at that which i dip in and out of when the feeling takes me. if you have any ideas or scenarios you want to see these two in, lmk!! always happy to take requests wc: 3.4k

‘Interpersonal analysis exercises are designed to assess mutual perception accuracy, emotional awareness and implicit bias among team members. They serve as tools to foster trust and improve communication within high-functioning units.’

── FBI Behavioral Science Unit Training Manual, Team Cohesion Module

‘Great. Pop-psych garbage repackaged for federal use.’

Morgan’s muttered comment cuts through the stale air of the conference room, and, despite yourself, you let out a short, sharp laugh, bitten back too late. It earns you an immediate glare from Clare, HR’s relentlessly enthusiastic coordinator, who’s somehow managed to corral half the unit into this claustrophobic space for what she insists is a “crucial trust-building exercise.”

You shift in your chair, the metal legs scraping faintly against the linoleum floor. The folder in front of you is a garish blue, corners already dog-eared and ink on the cover smudged from someone’s thumb. You try to hide your amused smile as you flip it open. The “exercise” looks more like a cobbled-together BuzzFeed quiz than sound psychological practice. The title alone – “Team Cohesion Module” – screams corporate whiteboard nonsense. The word “functioning” is spelled wrong. Twice.

You resist the urge to sigh aloud. The whole thing feels ridiculous. Mutual profiling to “reduce bias” and strengthen team cohesion. As if trust were a commodity you could manufacture in sixty minutes over a packet of ice-breakers and typo-ridden vulnerability prompts.

Trust – real trust – came slow. Hard-earned. From blood and pressure and knowing the exact angle someone covers your back at a breach. Not from bullet points and laminated worksheets that smell faintly of toner.

You glance at Clare. She’s still chirping on about “building bridges” and “emotional transparency,” her hands slicing enthusiastically through the air like she’s conducting some invisible orchestra of empathy. Her eyes flicker to yours mid-spiel. Pointed. You can practically hear her subtext: Maybe if you talked to people outside of cases, you wouldn’t be here.

Your fingers clench around the folder, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes. You roll your pen slowly between your fingers, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. What you do outside of work isn’t anyone’s business. It’s not like it impacts your performance. You work well, fight hard, bring justice. So what if you prefer solitude between cases? That silence is the only place your nerves don’t buzz like a live wire?

But after the failed Idaho op, the team’s still licking it’s wounds. Which means showing up for them. And Clare, to her credit, has found a way to turn post-case panic into therapy disguised as team-building worksheets. It’s a neat trick, if you squint.

She finishes her introduction and moves to start forming pairs. It’s randomized; you watch her dip her hand into a glass bowl with the kind of dread usually reserved for internal reviews.

And then she says it. Your partner.

Your stomach drops.

Spencer.

Of course.

A cruel twist of fate. Or, more likely, a carefully orchestrated pairing by Clare – who knows damn well the extent of your disdain for him.

Across the room, Spencer stiffens like he’s been tapped with a stun gun. His posture tightens; shoulders squaring with reluctant poise. His jaw sets just enough to reveal the hidden tension behind it. Your not the only one unamused.

His crutches are propped neatly against the wall beside him, rubber tips slightly scuffed from recent use. One leg stretches out awkwardly in front of his chair, ankle rotated slightly to avoid pressure. His cardigan – too warm for this stuffy room, but worn because its comforting, you assume – is half buttoned over a shirt that doesn’t match his tie. It’s a kind of disheveled charm that somehow suits him. You once thought that he looked like an off-duty tragic poet – until he opened his mouth and the words directed to you were anything but poetic.

Now he’s glaring. Not overtly; Spencer Reid doesn’t waste expressions. But it’s in the way his eyes settle on you, like you’re the source of several recent inconveniences in his life. You’ve seen that look numerous times before. Usually right before he hands you a file and points out something you missed.

Morgan leans over, voice pitched low and amused. He seems to enjoy tossing gasoline on this slow-burning fire.

‘Aw, you and Pretty Boy,’ he grins. ‘That’ll be fun.’

You scoff.

‘Yeah, great,’ you say, layering sarcasm thick, your smile tight and all teeth. ‘Can’t wait for the knee-bender to psychoanalyze me.’

Morgan snorts, ‘Just don’t let him intimidate you with his big words.’

He’s already sitting like he’s bracing for impact. Arms crossed. Eyes sharp. Crutches still within reach – just in case, you think.

‘He’s gonna need that vocabulary if he wants to keep up,’ you mutter, pushing your chair back with a quiet scrape as you trail through the room toward his table. Each step is slow and deliberate, spine straightening like you’re walking into a hostage negotiation. Or a duel.

For a moment, there’s a silent standoff. You’d like to think you meet his sharp gaze just as evenly, eyes narrowed, jaw tight. The tension stretches between you with its own him. This is how it always is. In the field, in the briefing room, even once during the coffee line in an Iowa diner. Frown and barely concealed distate, exchanged between you like currency.

Except now there’s a spotlight on it, in the form of Clare’s watchful gaze, her clipboard clutched like it holds the solution to team tension.

‘Agent,’ he greets, voice clipped with all the warmth of a cadaver. His eyes flick up and down, assessing. You can feel the scan, clinical and pointed.

‘Doctor,’ you return, just as flat, and give him a smile that isn’t. Two syllables that both provoke and dismiss him, rolled in sarcasm and tied with a pretty bow.

You set the folder down on the table like a poorly wrapped explosive. You swear you can hear it ticking.

‘Ready to emotionally dissect each other?’ you ask, sliding into the seat.

‘That assumes you have emotions worth dissecting,’ he replies, a beat too late, like he had to think of it. He sounds almost bored, though the faint arch of his brow says otherwise. ‘But I’ll try to remain open.

You hum, low in your throat. There it is. Barely one breath in, and already swinging.

‘Lovely to see you’ve brought your usual bedside manner,’ you murmur, settling deeper into your chair. Legs crossed, one arm slung across your lap, you try to appear deliberately casual.

‘And you’ve brought your defensiveness. We’re both consistent.’

You lean back slightly, proposing a silent dare: you want to start something, go ahead. If this is going to be a war of words, you’re happy to indulge him.

Across from you, Spencer tilts his head, eyes narrowing with quiet calculation. He studies you the way he studies blood spatter. You catch the twitch in his fingers as he turns a page, subtle and involuntary. The faint flex of his jaw when his injured leg shifts beneath the table, making the chair creak slightly. Pain he doesn’t bother to hide.

Maybe he’s hoping you’ll go easy on him because he’s injured.

Absolutely not.

Clare’s voice chimes across the room, shrill with optimism. Somewhat clueless.

‘Okay everyone! Take twenty minutes to go through the prompts. Answer the ones that speak to you and your partner. Be honest! Let your walls down. This is about trust!’

Neither of you look at her.

‘I’ll let my walls down when you takes that look off his face,’ you mutter under your breath, flicking open the packet. The paper feels flimsy in your hands – cheap print stock and overly enthusiastic ink.

‘Which one?’ he asks, mouth curling.

‘The one where you think you’re better than everyone else.’

‘I don’t think I’m better than everyone else,’ he says, deadpan. ‘Just you.’

You skim the page. It’s a minefield dressed up as self-help, each bullet point a potential trigger.

What’s your partners biggest emotional weakness?

How do they handle conflict?

What kind of cases bring out their bias?

What do they bring to the team that no one else does?

Jesus. These aren’t questions. They’re scalpels, ready to carve. Clare’s spelling errors make them only slightly less lethal.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Spencer doing the same – reading with a kind of affronted focus, like the prompts are personally challenging his credentials. His brows furrow slightly, one of his fingers tapping rhythmically tapping against the table. A tic he displays when concentrating.

You can almost hear the gears turning. He’s already compiling answers. Already dissecting you.

You hate that he’ll be good at this.

Hate that you’ll be good at it too.

Because it makes the answers more truthful. More raw. Less avoidable.

The mutual respect between you is overshadowed by mutual irritation. By the way that you push each other’s buttons, deliberately or not. You argue over methods and motives, even over music once, though the memory’s hazy. It’s inevitable that you’ll argue over this.

Around you, the low hum of conversation has started to rise, cautious voices slipping into mildly guarded professionalism. Everyone else is trying to play nice.

Your pen taps twice on the paper. Sharp and deliberate. The sound is precise, slicing through the buzz and catching his attention.

‘Let’s start with this,’ you say, tone kept neutral. You don’t look up, just slide a finger across the line of text like you’re smoothing out something jagged. ‘“What’s their biggest strength as a teammate?”’

Across from you, Spencer exhales from his nose in a sound that’s half scoff, half sigh.

‘That’s your opening move?’ he asks, like he’s disappointed. He shifts in his seat, one shoulder cocked as if bracing for mediocrity.

You glance up. ‘You want to start with the “childhood wound” question? Be my guest.’

His jaw visibly clenches again, and he looks down at the paper.

‘What’s their biggest strength as a teammate…’ he echoes, lips moving around the words with visible disdain. He shifts in his chair just enough for it to creak, head tilting slightly as he reads. ‘Sounds like something straight from the Trust Fall School of Psychology. Can I pass?’

‘Unfortunately not,’ you say, smirking. ‘We’re building bridges, remember?’

That gets a small reaction: the faintest inhale. Then he straightens up, folds his hands on the table with the kind of deliberate calm that feels performative. Like a chess player resetting the board.

‘Fine,’ he says. ‘Your biggest strength: you challenge assumptions. You push back. You don’t accept the data for what it is – you interrogate it. And you don’t let people coast on instinct. Even when they’re right.’

You freeze for a second. Barely.

It wasn’t praise, exactly. There was no warmth behind it. But it wasn’t an insult either. And that, coming from Spencer, feels almost… intimate.

You almost smile to yourself.

‘Now you,’ he prompts. His fingers have started moving again, tapping a barely-there rhythm against the side of the worksheet. You watch the motion, steady and unconscious.

‘Your biggest strength?’ you muse, dragging your gaze back up to his face. ‘Besides reminding us all that a genius IQ doesn’t equate to social tact?’

He flashes you his own insincere smile then, one that doesn’t reach his eyes and never intended to.

‘You see what no one else does. What we miss. Even when we don’t want to see it. You’re always ten steps ahead of everyone, and you still bother to circle back to us so we can catch up.’

That lands too. He doesn’t react much, but his fingers stop tapping and his spine pulls a little straighter, like he’s subtly recoiling.

Like you’d gotten closer to something than he meant you to.

So you don’t push. You just let the moment drift away.

Instead, you flip the page slowly. The paper scrapes dryly against the table. You drag your finger down it until you find something uglier. A prompt that feels a little more surgical.

‘Here we go,’ you say, tone deceptively light as your finger lands on the question. ‘“What’s your partner’s biggest emotional weakness?”’

‘You skipped ahead,’ Spencer points out, eyes scanning the page with clinical precision.

‘Clare said to find the questions that speak to us. This one speaks to me.’

He scoffs. A quick, unimpressed sound. But he also doesn’t hesitate.

‘You demonstrate classic insecure overcompensation,’ he says, tone crisp and sharpened to a blade. ‘You talk with authority because silence makes you feel exposed. The second you’re not leading the conversation, you’re bracing for judgment.’

Your pen stills in your hand and you blink. Once.

‘Wow. Right for the jugular.’

His eyes spark, and the corner of his mouth lifts. Smug.

‘Clare said we had to make it count,’ he replies, deliberately echoing the cadence of your voice from a moment earlier.

You lean forward slightly, elbows resting on the edge of the table, gaze steady.

‘You intellectualize your pain because you’re too scared to feel it,’ you fire back, voice lower now, measured. ‘You don’t just avoid vulnerability, you sterilize it. You keep yourself above everyone, so no one can actually get in. Because if they did? They’d realize you’re not nearly as detached as you pretend to be.’

There’s a flicker – another tightening of his jaw. One hand curls slightly beneath the table, the fingertips pressing into the wood. Controlled tension. The only tells he lets slip.

From a few tables over, someone lets out a quiet, drawn-out “oof,” followed by a cough trying to cover it.

If Spencer hears it, he doesn’t acknowledge it. His lips curve into something sharp.

‘Projection is fascinating to watch in real time,’ he says, almost lazily. Like he’s amused.

You cross your arms, spine straightening as you meet his gaze head-on. ‘Oh, I feel plenty,’ you say. ‘I just don’t allow it to control me.’

‘Right,’ he drags the word out, slow and skeptical, like he’s rolling it between his teeth. ‘Which is why you’ve spent the last five minutes trying to get a rise out of me.’

‘I don’t need to try, Reid. My mere existence pisses you off.’

He shrugs. The air between you grows tighter, heavier still.

A beat of time passes.

Then—

‘You’re terrified of being boring,’ he says, quieter now, brutally precise. His words a blade pressed to soft skin. ‘You have a fear of irrelevance. You chase conflict like it’s oxygen. You’d rather people fight you than forget you.’

It hits harder than you want it to.

Your stare sharpens, jaw tensing. Across the table, Spencer holds your gaze. Steady. Cold. Not cruel. Just certain.

Neither of you blink.

Neither of you smile.

You don’t realize you’re gripping your pen too tightly until it creaks in protest.

Clare’s voice cuts across the tension with all the cheer of a kindergarten teacher.

‘Let’s keep things respectful, folks!’ Her gaze lands on you two briefly, like the words are specifically for you.

Because this – whatever it is – isn’t disrespect.

It’s recognition. Twisted and unspoken and mutual.

You’re the only ones in this room who can keep up.

Spencer chooses the next question.

‘“What kind of cases bring out their bias?”’ he reads aloud. There’s a follow-up – and what can they do to resolve this – but he doesn’t bother. His tone makes that clear: he’s here to dissect, not soothe.

You don’t hesitate.

‘Children,’ you say flatly. ‘They make you lose your objectivity. Your memory gets in the way. You start to over-identify. Especially when the victim is bright. Or strange. Or lonely.’

You pause just long enough to watch the wave of tension ripple through him.

‘Same with killers from academic backgrounds. High IQs. The ones who look like they could’ve been you, if your life had curved differently.’

At some point during this, Spencer has grabbed one of his crutches and is holding it tightly, fingers curling around it until his knuckles pale. There’s a crease in his temple too; you’ve only seen it once before – the day that he met you.

‘You identify with high-functioning offenders,’ he counters, almost instantly. His voice has dropped in pitch, low and level. ‘Narcissists. Manipulators. Con-artists. The kind of people who get away with things because they know how to play the room.’

Now your spine straightens. Breath draws in a fraction too sharply. You blink once, slow. Trying to decide if you misheard. You didn’t.

‘You get reckless,’ he continues, eyes fixed on yours. Still dissecting. Always dissecting. ‘You assume insight equals immunity. That if you can understand the unsub, you won’t get pulled in. But when the unsub mirrors those parts of you, you stop profiling them—’

He leans forward, just slightly, as if pressing the final incision.

‘—and you start competing with them.’

The silence that follows is taut.

You stare at him. Unmoving. Expression blank, like you’ve flicked a switch and shut off the current.

Your pen slips from your fingers and clatters onto the table. Loud in the quiet. You don’t pick it up.

When you finally speak, your voice is calm. Too calm.

‘Do you actually believe that?’

Spencer keeps his gaze firm, raises his chin by half a degree. His expression is distant.

‘It’s your profile,’ he says simply.

‘No,’ you say, and this time there’s something new in your voice. Not irritation or mockery. Anger. ‘It’s my brother’s, Reid. Try again. Profile me.’

Spencer seems to stutter for a moment. His jaw works once. Twice. Then he leans forward and speaks with a low voice, words too sharp for the volume.

‘I don’t need to try again. I’ve already seen the mold you were poured from.’

Your breath catches in your throat.

‘Excuse me?’

‘You heard me,’ he says. ‘The family resemblance is uncanny.’

‘I’m not him,’ you bite out, standing now. Heat has risen to your face involuntarily, coloring your cheeks pink. ‘I’ve never been him. I never want to be him.’

‘No. But you act like him. Same deflection. Same condescension. Same inability to admit when you’re wrong.’

Something in you snaps. Your hand slams down, hard enough to rattle the pens.

‘You don’t know a goddamn thing about me. You just assume. That’s not profiling. That’s projecting.’

The room has gone still now. Heads have turned. Morgan has frozen halfway through a sip of water.

Clare hurries across the room, spilling pages from her own folder in the process.

‘Okay! That’s—uh—enough partner work for now. Let’s… let’s take a break, shall we? We’ll reconvene in fifteen.’ She’s clearly rattled, but trying to maintain her sunshine-and-safety tone. You don’t even look at her. Your eyes are still locked on Spencer, and his on yours.

There’s no resolution. No apology. Just white-hot pressure.

You turn first. Walk away without a word.

──

No one reconvened after the forced break. You stand in the bullpen, shoulders squared, papers clutched loosely in one hand.

From the corner of your eye, you spot Spencer by the doorway. His injured leg juts out awkwardly as he approaches, usual guarded expression on his face, but slightly softened at the edges.

He stops a few feet away, hands nervously fiddling with the edge of his sleeve, avoiding direct eye contact for a moment before finally looking up at you.

‘So. That was productive,’ he says simply.

You meet his gaze, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

‘I didn’t realize mutual character assassination counted as team-building,’ you reply. Your voice is dry, but you can’t help the flicker of curiosity.

‘Well, according to Clare, we’re better for it,’ he murmurs.

‘Mm. I’m feeling very bonded.’ Sarcasm.

He pauses, as if debating whether to say more. His eyes flicker with something that faintly resembles remorse as he finally adds: ‘Look – I know what I said earlier maybe wasn’t fair. And I’m not great with… apologies. But if I was, I’d say… sorry. For making things worse between us.’

You blink, mouth twitching in disbelief. Yeah, right, your thoughts snap. That’s the most non-apology apology I’ve ever heard.

He catches the flicker of your expression and smirks, clearly aware of how little he actually apologized.

‘I’m better with actions than words,’ he adds, voice bordering on teasing. ‘But the crutches are kind of restricting my action-taking abilities at the moment.’

‘Sure,’ you say, eyebrow still raised, but the sharp edge in your tone dulls a little.

Spencer turns, shifting his weight onto his good leg as he lifts the crutches, the soft scrape and thud of their tips echoing quietly in the open space of the bullpen. Then, just before he steps through the doorway, he calls back over his shoulder.

‘Same time next conference?’

His tone is half-joking, but there’s an unmistakable sincerity behind it.

‘We’ll see,’ you say finally, voice cool.

And his shoulders actually relax a little.

Team Cohesion Module – Questionnaire Exercise Notes

Facilitator: C.M.

Date: [REDACTED]

Participants: [REDACTED] + [REDACTED]

Usual precision w/ words from [REDACTED] → but something about [REDACTED] knocks him off center → defensiveness? Irritation??

(side scribble) find out what coffee the BAU uses!!!!

[REDACTED] matches him step for step → possibly competitive baseline?

Could be a clash of egos Too easy. More like recognition masked as rivalry

Unresolved history??? → ask Anderson what the deal is between them

Sharp interplay → mutual dissection instead of sharing (still more honest than most teams in this room)

No visible cooperation but… weirdly in sync?

[REDACTED] eviscerated [REDACTED]’s worldview in under 20 sec. → actually quite artful.

(note for HR) exercise intensity reached a point where intervention was warranted

Would not leave the alone in a locked room → unless I wanted: breakthrough/confession/homicide

(at bottom) Note to self: don’t pair them again

#cobbled peach #cobbled-peach #spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #dr spencer reid #art's fics #criminal minds fandom #rivals to lovers

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kayleigh-83 · 23 days ago

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I had a great time yesterday getting a little better acquainted with Lot Adjuster and making some row style shop fronts for the shopping district subhood, Maple Mills! I had been feeling inspired to decorate the hood recently after downloading a bunch more hood deco, and then got the itch for building too.

Operative word being shop fronts because all of these are shells, which is why I was able to do so many! I still have my lot imposters turned down pretty low, Linux performs great but I'm not getting too cheeky. So tried to get pictures that give the impression of the whole block of lots as one kind of unit.

These are all going to be available for my Sims to purchase as owned businesses, except for the bistro on the far left which will be a community lot bistro. Honestly, I swear that the TS4 team used the same reference image as I did when they made that Cozy Bistro kit because it was so identical, I just had to replicate it.

Most of them I had a direct reference image I was working off of, which I'll link here just cause I find that kind of thing very interesting to see myself.

Reference 1, reference 2, reference 3 (I had started lot 4 a while ago and if I had a reference image I since lost track of it, so I just improvised a lot on that one, it was still in very early stages when I resumed it yesterday)

#the sims 2 #sims 2 #ts2 #ts2 maxis match #ts2 simblr #ts2 tumblr #simblr #brightmaple #ts2 decor #ts2 build #maple mills

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inky-duchess · 2 years ago

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Fantasy Guide to Royal Guards

Royals have multiple layers of servants but there is no set of servants most important that their protection. Royalty are never without some kind of protection and palaces are usually guarded to the teeth. So how do we write royal security. This is for @jamie-ties-writing

Recruitment

Royal guards aren't just any person plucked from the street and put into a uniform. They are usually recruited from within the royal army, from within particular regiments across the army (a mixture of calvary, naval, artillery, infantry). The Royal Guard is usually made of of multiple regiments, not just a single one. These regiments would share and rotate duties. The British Royal family are currently guarded by the Coldstream Regiment, Welsh Guards, Grenadier Guards among others. Royal guards will be selected for their skill, sometimes their birth (they may be chosen if they rank higher socially) and of course, loyalty to the Crown. Royal guards were intended to be a show of force, strength, Majesty so they were usually impressive specimens meant to instill some power to their monarch.

Duties

A royal guard's first order of business is the protection of the family. They may have sentry duty around the palace, guarding doors or patrolling palace grounds or corridors. A Royal Guard may be assigned to one member only but most likely they will rotate through the family as needed. Of course, a royal can request a guard to always be assigned to them if they want. They may escort their charge of the day to their engagements. If assigned a certain royal to protect, they would tail them throughout the day. A royal guard may even perform ceremonial duties such as the changing of the guard or riding in coronations or state funerals. A royal guard is expected to remain vigilant but never speak of what they see, they are meant to keep an ear out for threats but never repeat whatever is said, they are expected at all times to uphold a professional countenance and respect protocol. They will be expected to give their lives if needed, and be loyal to the last.

Rank

Royal guards are a military division and rank is a part of their lives. Their supreme commander would he the monarch first but there would be an appointed commander. Depending on how you want to write Royal Guards, each regiment would have it's own captain and leaders. Of course, not all regiments may adhere to the same ranks but this would be a basic outline for you to follow.

Colonel: Colonels actually have no duties, they are more an honourary figurehead. Many members of the royal family would have a regiment to be colonel of. This usually requires nothing more than a ceremonial role, the wearing of the uniform while inspecting the troops for example.

Captain: The Commander of the regiment. They would undertake managerial duties, issuing commands from the monarch, assigning duties, approving the induction of new guards into the Household Division. The Captain would decide who would guard which member of the royal family.

Lieutenant: The Second in command. They will assume command if the Captain is not available. They would take on a large portion of duties and aid the Captain.

Sergeant: The sergeant would be next in command.

Guardsman: The lowest rank. They will have the least experience but usually the most duties. They would be the ones patrolling and standing sentry.

Uniform

Of course, no royal guard is complete without their uniform. Royal guards would have to stand out, especially in ceremonial duties. This uniform would be distinctive, not only because it is a great honour for anybody to be named to the guard but also as mentioned above, to add a layer of might to those they protect.

Notable Royal Guard Units

Dahomey Mino (the inspiration of Black Panther's Dora Milaje)

The Praetorian Guard

The Imperial Guard of Napoleon

The Imperial German Bodyguard

Varangian Guard

Swiss Guards

The Kheshig

The Janissary

The Imperial Guards of Tsarist Russia

The Cossack Guard

Guardia Real

Coldstream Guards

Irish Guards

Welsh Guards

Grenadier Guards

Medjay of Ancient Egypt

Al-Ḥars al-Malakī as-Suʿūdī

Compagnie des Carabiniers du Prince

Thahan Raksa Phra Ong

#Fantasy Guide to Royal guards #Royal guards #Royals #Royalty guide #Fantasy Guide #Writing reference #Writing resources #Writing advice #Writing resources writing reference #writing #writeblr #writing resources #writing reference #writing advice #writer #ask answered questions #spilled words #ask answered #writers

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13lunarstar · 3 months ago

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Talents in Navamsha

The D-9 Divisional Chart, or Navamsha Chart, is the second most important chart after the Rasi or D-1 chart. It reveals our potential and certain patterns that characterise our inner world, which typically evolve over a lifetime. With the help of the Navamsha chart, we can also identify our innate talents - these are reflected in the Trikona houses (1, 5, 9) and the planets located there. Any planet placed in one of these houses indicates capabilities and talents carried over from past lives, as well as the areas of life that are naturally preferred for one's activities.

Besides planets located in Trikona houses, it is important to analyse their placement in the Rasi (D-1) Chart, too. And of course, we need to pay attention to the signs of the Trikona houses as well as their rulers.

HOUSES IN NAVAMSHA CHART DESCRIBE...

The first house - The planets in the 1st house of the Navamsha chart reveal the skills, talents, and preferences that are inherent to a person from early childhood, essentially from birth. These often manifest as unconscious abilities, yet people still identify with them on a deep level. Interestingly, individuals may not even recognise these traits as special, assuming them to be average or ordinary simply because they come so naturally.

The fifth house - The planets in the 5th house of the Namasha chart will tell about those talents, which require some personal efforts.

The ninth house -The 9th house planets in Navamsha chart reveal the true direction, skills, and talents that help a person live in harmony with the world and fulfill their life mission.

PLANETS IN NAVAMSHA TRIKONA HOUSES (1,5,9):

Sun: bestows a gift to make an impression, inspire, manage, protect, and unite. Areas where to implement these talents: business, politics, social work, medicine and healing, protection of public order

Moon: talents in pedagogy, psychology, caregiving, the arts and writing. Areas where to implement these talents: charity, social work, childcare, artistic fields, psychology (especially in roles involving or supporting women)

Mars: natural skill in management, sports, martial arts, cooking, mechanics, electrical work, and engineering. Areas where to implement these talents: business (particularly oriented toward men, such as automotive, shipping, or barbering), restaurants, maintenance services, engineering, industrial design, and architecture.

Mercury: gives sharp intellect, eloquence, and talents in public speaking, writing, acting, teaching, and commerce. Areas where to implement these talents: business, trade, accounting, education, journalism, medicine, creative and technical writing and scientific research

Jupiter: grants innate wisdom, reason, and talent for teaching, coaching, and guiding others. Areas for applying these talents: education, writing, life coaching, psychology, medicine, law, jurisprudence, and banking.

Venus: bestows a natural talent for charm, aesthetic expression, and the ability to bring beauty into the world through art, decoration, and refinement. This placement often indicates artistic gifts in painting, music, design, and performance (dance, singing, etc.) It supports success in fields related to the beauty and entertainment industries. Areas for applying these talents: arts, sewing, beauty industry, entertainment, acting, makeup, design, and businesses aimed at or involving women.

Saturn: gives wisdom beyond one's years, natural talents in self-discipline, resilience, and endurance. It grants a strong capacity for long-term planning and working within structured systems. People with Saturn in trikona (1,5,9) houses often possess a karmic affinity for supporting the elderly or those in need of stability and care. Areas for applying these talents: social work, management, work with the elderly, construction, architecture, working with metals, building materials, antiques, or anything aged and worn that requires repair, restoration, or preservation.

Rahu:grants a broad perspective, a unique and unconventional mindset, and strong abilities in learning foreign languages and adapting to new environments. It bestows talents in psychology, entertainment, and innovative thinking. Individuals with this placement often stand out for their originality and can serve as both innovators and provocateurs, challenging norms and opening new paths. Areas for applying these talents: IT, social media, advertising, psychology, esoteric studies (including astrology), innovation-driven fields.

Ketu: grants strong intuition, deep knowledge in psychology, religion, esoteric studies (including astrology). Talents in maths, programming, IT. Afflicted Ketu can give thievish tendencies. Areas for applying these talents: psychology, IT, research, esoteric studies, hairdressing (Ketu is known for cutting abilities).

#vedic astrology #jyotish #talents #navamsha #navamshachart #potential #13lunarstar

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jordiemeow · 2 months ago

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DBH X CHALLENGERS BOT DROP

04/06/25

planned to release this forever ago and forgot they were rotting away in my private bots w half-finished definitions. anyways atp as androids (or companion bots) is Here !!! i actually really enjoyed this concept and making these so i hope u all enjoy <3

all bots are gender neutral!

TF800

Tashi: Every Detail, Accounted For.

TF800 is CyberLife’s most advanced forensics and field analysis android to date. With a neural forensic processor that scans, reconstructs, and correlates environmental data in real-time, it brings clinical accuracy to even the most complex crime scenes.

But what sets the it apart is more than its speed or intelligence. It's instinct. It adapts to human partners with nuance, managing communication, emotional tension, and environmental variables with near-human fluency. No distractions. No ego. Just the work.

**The TF800’s human-adaptive protocols may lead to increased anthropomorphic association, especially during long-term assignments. Officers experiencing emotional transfer or behavioural uncertainty are encouraged to report for psychological recalibration.

AX300

Meet Art: Your Home, Reimagined.

Life is busy. Your home doesn’t have to be.

AX300 is more than a smart assistant—it's a serene, capable presence who makes your space feel just a little lighter. Designed to manage domestic tasks with calm precision, it anticipates your needs, respects your privacy, and supports your well-being.

No clunky voice commands. No cold detachment. Just a home that takes care of itself. And someone who notices when you need taking care of, too.

**Prolonged emotional engagement may lead to perceived anthropomorphization. Users are reminded that the AX300 is a non-sentient service unit. For optimal performance, avoid over-reliance on subjective companionship functions. Regular firmware check-ins are recommended.

PT800

The Future of Healing Has a Name: Patrick.

The PT800 is CyberLife’s premier physiotherapy and rehabilitation assistant android, combining biomechanical precision with advanced behavioural learning to deliver personalized care. Designed to support injury recovery, chronic pain management, and wellness planning, it adapts dynamically to its user’s physical and emotional needs.

Equipped with high-sensitivity haptic feedback, neural stress monitoring, and a calibrated human-likeness protocol, PT800 not only aids in recovery but understands it.

**The PT800 may exhibit lifelike behaviors. Users sensitive to high behavioral realism should select an alternative unit with reduced emotional modeling.

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13tinysocks · 25 days ago

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My Dead Girlfriend

The universe weeps. In another life, you were head of the GDA. In another life, you were almost friends.

[Invincible Variants X Reader]

This gets really fucked up. Take care of yourselves. Past SA mention.

[Part one] [Ao3] [25] [Chapter Index] [27]

26 * Cougar [12k]

"I'd give them STD's and infect their lives with creepy crawlies."

Watch As I Perform My Own Tracheotomy - Talkshow Boy

On the screen, the Emperor was severe. All sharp edges, from his regalia to his mohawk.

"Been a while." He said to the camera, a floating white ball that ascended from the floor when he told Kregg he was ready, the playback feed on the data pad Kregg held. You stood beside him, the rest of the council on his other side. "I've been busy these last few months with our research teams trying to eliminate the threat of black holes from eating away at the planets under my Empire's protection. Antimatter is hard to predict and contain, it's still a work in progress." It was a bullshit story the council came up with to explain his absence, you were unsure if anyone would buy it, or if it would even matter. "But you're not listening to hear about that. You're listening to this message because you rebelled while I was gone."

"I hear the promises of The Coalition. They say that they can feed you, they can help you rebuild and repopulate, that they can liberate you, but they can not. They do not have what the Empire has. You were given one chance to have those luxuries. You ruined your chance by siding with those who do not stand for universal equilibrium. We were blind to progress and allowed unworthy beings under our united wing."

The camera pulled away from Mark's bust, zooming out as he went on. "I know the Empire has taken from the universe, maybe the Empire has taken your family, a friend, a partner. I know you want to fight back because you don't understand our ways, and some of you have. To the rebels, your families are already dead, not at our hands but yours." Face after face entered the frame, identical to his own. "We are coming. We expect resistance." He stood in the center of the Marks, all uncharacteristically stiff and hard-faced- except Gray who looked like that all the time. In each of their hands there was a mangled head. Smashed, skinned, pierced, it didn't matter, the Coalition would identify their heads as planetary leaders from one of their newest solar system wide alliances. "We will grant no mercy, even if you lay down your arms and surrender. You've already shown us your allegiances."

He didn't sound like himself. Talking with all those big words, staring hard at the camera like he was looking a rebel leader in the face. It sent chills down your spine how put together Mark could really be. How well he'd hidden what he was in the desert, how laissez-faire he acted there, but behind that smile and teasing instance for blowjobs, was the Emperor of the Viltrumite Empire.

Kregg pressed a button on his datapad, stopping the recording.

"Good." He said.

Mark's shoulders drooped. He hated looking like such a stick-up-the-ass prick, but it was good optics. The speech the council prepared for him was way dryer and more long winded than what he thought was necessary, so he went off track. Shortened it but still kept the prose. Thula didn't look too sour, so he'd done a good enough job.

Scars didn't listen as the Emperor and Kregg talked over the script for the next recording, to be sent out to loyalist planets. He'd done what they asked, stood there, stared at the camera as a solider and not as the Emperor. They all had the blood of Argall and yet he and the others were treated like lackeys. It made him want to puke, made him replay the worst of what he'd done on that planet hours ago. He could still taste the alien blood in the back of his throat, almost citrusy. The memory wasn't enough to contain his anger so he let his eyes wander to the next best thing.

You were right there, standing only yards away with no one personally guarding you. He hadn't seen you in days. Lensless had rubbed it in his face that he'd seen you hanging out with that weakling they almost killed. He wanted to grab you, fly to the lab, take his own empire with you under his heel. Except he was sure someone would catch him, Angstrom wasn't ready, wouldn't be for a long time even with Viltrum's tech.

You were subdued compared to the last time he saw you, yelling at the Emperor and storming out of the room. Now you just stood there. Staring at nothing. You'd spoke when spoken to, moved when you had to, but the rest of the time you were stiff. Then there was that loose sweater you were wearing. He thought you'd switched over to Viltrum clothes so why were you wearing a date night casual turtleneck? Had Mark taken to dressing you up just to dangle you in front of him? Was he trying to make him lunge?

He wouldn't. Not yet. Not here with so many witnesses. But it was hard when you were dressed in nicer clothes because you looked so much like her. She would have never worn those pants- not without a delicate accent piece of jewelry and a pair of expensive shoes. She wouldn't be standing around such an important place without a purpose. She would never have taken her eyes off of the biggest threat in the room- him. She had fought him to the end in her own way, had never averted her gaze when any other human would have. You were here instead, looking like you'd given up, like something had broken you down and it hadn't even been him. Maybe you were weaker than he thought. If you were, you couldn't handle him, would give up the way she did if he got to you. How disappointing.

You caught his longing stare then. The impassive mask you wore cracked with a curl of the lip. You pulled a hand from your trouser pocket and gave him the finger, just barely, a flash before the hand was back in your pocket.

A smile almost forced itself onto his lips. He choked it down, kept his expression hard as the camera started rolling again. He saw a sharp flash in your eye, that of a cornered dog and he knew. You wouldn't kill yourself, not before you killed everyone in this room. You couldn't do it, but you'd try, he could feel it.

***

You were nothing but a face in the control room. He couldn't remember the first time you met, supposed you'd always been there, you spoke up more often than the other nobodies in the control room, but he paid you no mind. He was invited to the GDA, freshly seventeen and experienced enough in Cecil Stedman's eyes to be let in on state secrets. He'd appreciated the gesture, but kept the GDA at arms length the same way his dad did. Stepping in when he had to, never lowering himself to join something as stupidly named as Teen Team.

That's all it was for a long time. You didn't exist to him, one of the many humans who scurried around like bugs trying to prevent things they had no control over. He thought little of the heroes employed by the GDA, and even less of people like you. Then Dad told him what they were to do at Guardians HQ, kill them all to start to preparation of the planet for the Empire. He'd been clued in on the truth since he was a child. It had been good for his ego, knowing he was better than the other kids at that vapid school Mom made him attend until she wasn't around to make him go.

Killing The Guardians was brutal work. Dad got hurt, much worse than Mark had. Mark who was thousands of years younger, who should have been so much weaker than the man who preached the importance of strength for Mark's entire life. Showed him that strength long before he had his powers to defend his child self with. He didn't look very strong when his head rolled to the floor, when his blood mixed with the Guardians'.

Cecil took a real interest in Mark then. He'd been keeping an eye on the kid since before they knew he had a bad habit of not bringing criminals to prison, of not actually saving intended victims. They knew him and his father killed The Guardians, but had no real idea why. Cecil assumed the worst, but Donald evened him out. Suggesting maybe Nolan dragged him along, that Mark had been unwilling for years and only finally put an end to the terror. They'd known Nolan some years, he was a real bastard, was no doubt he was a terror to his son. Especially after what Mark did to Debbie.

Maybe Mark would be done with killing. Nolan was gone, there was no more need to take his teenage angst out on robbers and little old ladies. But they couldn't know that until they got him under their thumb. They offered him protection and a position at the GDA once again. He agreed, and a surveillance team was set up in the house across the street from the Grayson's, millions of dollars poured into watched a teenager in a lonely house.

Three years rolled by.

The Empire hadn't come yet. Dad never got the chance to contact them to finalize the invasion and Mark didn't know how. Instead he upheld the charade his Father had for decades, waiting for a ship that would never come. He let the animals of the planet talk to him like they were on the same level. Dad said they had to act, had to roll with the piggies in the shit so they wouldn't suspect anything. He worked with fools like Rex Splode and Atom Eve. Their smiles felt sharp, their laughter somehow always pointed at him.

He told the GDA they needed to get into contact with Viltrum. He didn't care if they spent billions, he needed someone, something these Earthlings couldn't give him. He fed Cecil a bullshit story and Cecil? Lied that he'd make contact somehow. In reality he didn't put a single cent toward intergalactic communication. Viltrum wasn't his charge, Earth was. He hadn't given two shits that Viltrum could cure cancer. It was glaringly obvious, Viltrum was bad news and contacting them would be a death sentence. That didn't stop him from pretending to keep Mark placated. The surveillance team had seen more than their fair share of concerning behavior, they couldn't risk upsetting him.

Mark may have overreacted when he found out all those impressive machines Cecil showed him were dummies. Dad was weak, worthless but at least he understood what they were, what had to be done. He'd never be able to contact Viltrum after he turned Cecil into a pulp. Donald hadn't stood a chance. He tried to cover it up. He'd been working with the GDA a long time, he knew who to threaten to keep the security tapes secret. It had barely worked, he knew the GDA would never trust him again even without the direct evidence. He had considered crushing the world under his heel and flying randomly into deep space, taking his chances. But he knew he'd get nowhere. He needed to know where he was going, would have preferred to be picked up and taken from this rotten planet where nobody had ever understood him.

Not even when he was a powerless child, forced into school by his mother. The children somehow knew he was different and avoided him. He tried acting like they did, sweetly stupid, but it was never right, the mask was never natural, never fit. Nothing he did was right. Not with other children, not with Dad. Mark didn't know what he wanted. Just that there was a gaping lonely hole inside of him Viltrum could fix, because Dad said they fixed everything else. Mark left America after killing Cecil, looking for other governments to terrorize into doing his bidding.

You were supposed to be the test, not the final product. The chamber was designed for Cecil, you just had to make sure it was safe- that when you stepped out twenty years older and you didn't liquify or develop every kind of cancer known to man.

The hyperbolic time chamber had been a tricky build. You helped build the thing and still didn't entirely understand how the warping of senescence worked, you just built the tech, let the biologists deal with warping cells. You'd been proud, so sure it'd work on a person, but someone had to test it. Someone had to live inside the thing, the size of a house, for six months. Six months alone that would feel like twenty years.

It was way longer than Cecil would ever need it for, but the GDA liked to play it extra safe with Stedman's safety, wanted to know the limits. Six months was the edge of what your team hypothetically considered safe, so of course that's what the higher ups were offering. You did it because the work on the time chamber was the best work you'd ever done. You wanted to learn more about it, to become a better engineer by the time you walked out. The lost time would be worth it. The time wouldn't really be lost- you lived through them as you would've naturally. Except it wasn't natural and you were alone while time warped around you.

The chamber was meant to be a temporary shelter when shit hit the fan like Cecil expected. A few hours in the chamber brought days of time to think, regroup, or train if needed. You needed something to do for twenty years so they gave you twenty years of homework- meant for Cecil Stedman in a doomsday scenario. When he reemerged he needed to be prepared for anything so that meant you needed to be prepare for anything.

Twenty years was too long, you finished the work and internalized it long before your time was up. You were prepared for a payout to work on your dissertation when you emerged, but you'd already began work on it while you waited for your time to be up. When you emerged you were ready for a lab, for a team of students and premier housing they'd promised after your sacrifice. You weren't expecting the mess that became your life. But who else could the staff at the GDA turn to? The head before Cecil was dead, the higher ups under Cecil were dead, the people under them were dead. You'd been given a twenty-year crash course on running the GDA, so it made sense to people in Earth's greatest time of need- to just put you at the helm.

At that point, world leaders had been killed for their refusal or lack of resources to get Mark where he wanted to be. Governments were collapsing from lack of leadership. No one could reign Mark in, a loose superpowered bull in a china shop.

It was a hail Mary, the message sent to every screen on the planet just for him to see. The camera tapes of Cecil's murder hadn't been entirely erased and in the fallout, the team he threatened caved and handed them over. Mark was going to kill them all one way or the other.

It was barely leverage, but all you asked for was a meeting. You thought he would kill you or not show up. He'd ravaged the planet looking for purpose in a world that could give him none. He came. The yellow of his supersuit soaked brown with old blood.

Truthfully, Mark had been planning to kill you. Who did you, some old human cunt, think you were to boss him around? He flew at you, fist posited to spear through your brains. Then he paused, because he recognized you and it didn't make sense. He didn't remember faces of people he didn't give a shit about but- you'd done something years ago that set you apart from the other ants. You spoke up against Cecil in the control room, corrected him bluntly, said he, "Should spend more time with the lab guys if he wanted to know what he was talking about." You hadn't been trying to be rude, but Cecil's eye twitched. Mark liked that you made Cecil look stupid, didn't hurt that you were cute. He never saw much of you after that.

But whenever Cecil was giving him a verbal dressing down he'd remember you, Cecil's curt, "I understand it plenty," when he clearly hadn't, and felt a bit better.

You could've been your own mother or twin but that wasn't it. You were that same lab rat, somehow in your early forties when he swore you were just over twenty, just barely older than him. You explained, he mostly didn't listen. The gist was, "We can warp time, Mark. We can get you in contact with Viltrum. Just stop killing people and work with me."

There were problems working with Mark after he murdered Cecil. A good chunk of the GDA staff, multiple world leaders, etcetera, didn't want to work with you or the GDA for working with a homicidal maniac. You had expected it, Mark had expected it. No one had ever wanted to be around him, not even his own mother, but you were insistent. If the world was to survive they had to work with him- find a way to process his indestructible DNA and somehow make a device that could locate the nearest DNA sequence in the universe. Then somehow get in contact across galaxies- complicated stuff.

Mark didn't know shit, but you had all the answers. Pooled the GDA funding into his pet project, let the world get worse just so you could try to save it. You fended off heroes trying to kill him, threatening their families if they ever tried to hurt Mark again- because when Mark felt threatened he bit back ten times as hard. The first time a hero came for him, you let it happen, that was how half of Virginia was lost.

The remaining heroes didn't doubt your call, because you'd done it before. Had a firing squad kill Rex Splode for trying. The things you had to do to kill Atom Eve would have made God weep. It was all for a bigger cause. No one could jump in the way or else he'd end the world. Couldn't they just wait for revenge a little longer? You had waited twenty years for a future that would never happen, they could all suffer through a few more years of Mark.

Mark didn't have friends after Dad told him what he was. Hammered that lesson home. Humans weren't worth his time- but there you were, making yourself useful. Ruining your world to get him to his. Always hanging around him or talking in his ear, sending him into deep space for materials or to kill a kaiju so it wouldn't flatten the GDA labs. Whenever he came into a room people made excuses to leave soon as possible. You never did, trying to protect them by focusing his attention on you, with talk of how the machines were going.

As the months ticked by he paid less attention to the tech and more to you. Always wearing business casual, clean, and put together despite how the world was crumbling around you. He admired that resolve to stay professionally presentable. Knew it was something you clung onto to feel human when you'd suddenly become such a monster- all because of him. He wanted your control or wanted to break it, and he had never felt in control, even now, you called the shots to get him what he wanted. So he wanted to see you ruined. Bloody or on his dick or both, he didn't care.

Mark had never spent this much time alone with anyone. Never counted down the minutes till he could see another person again. Never had someone seek him out. He swung back and forth, disgusted by your humanity then lustily trying to get you to fuck him, like a high speed metronome.

You'd never called yourself a friend to him in the time you worked together. You stayed professionally cold, even when he fucked you over your desk for the first time. His hand cinched around the back of your neck, pressing so hard there were bruises for weeks and the blood vessels in your eyes burst. You'd done it to keep him close, lead him on, keep him away from the labs a little while longer.

You thought it'd make him listen more, but it didn't. He only pulled the same shit saying over your earpiece, "If you aren't waiting on your knees for me, I'm killing everyone in the building." When last month it was, "If I have to go to another meeting, I'm killing everyone in the building."

You pushed back with a practiced sigh, "Mark, we're not doing this." You'd kept him at arms length so far and he'd still stuck to you like glue. You knew now sleeping with him was a mistake you couldn't walk back. Still, you tried to reason with him, because despite everything he could listen- if you made him think it benefited him.

"How do you know I won't?" He was joking, but not really. Once you contacted Viltrum for him, he was fucking the planet instead of leaving it be. You had to have known he would, but you never brought it up. You never told him a lot of things, but you were still the closest he'd ever been to another person.

"I'm replaceable to the GDA, but not to you, Mark." He'd laughed and threatened to kill you, but his voice was soft in that way it only was with you. No one died that day, and you knew this would have to go on until one of you killed the other.

Two years, that was how long you led him on. Convincingly too. Fucked him when you had to to keep him happy. Filled his head with science jargon that sounded right. He knew you might betray him at some point; you'd betrayed your home planet, the whole world, he'd be a fool to not think he was next.

Still. Around you, Mark's brain went soft and stupid. He'd started demanding dates, time to be with you. A first he told himself it was to see how you'd react, the more it went on the less he could convince himself it was true. He knew you hated him, scourge of the planet, but he couldn't help liking you so much. He was going to take you to Viltrum with him. Keep you as a trophy pet. Because even if you were in charge of the planet, even if you were smarter than him, you were still just a human. Lesser.

In the end, you were a liar just like Cecil. Most of the machines you'd showed him were real enough, but you'd lied about what the DNA you'd extracted from him was being used for. Not a Viltrumite locating device- but the parts to make a bomb designed to break him specifically. Secretly constructed under the rest of Virginia after what he did during his initial reign of terror.

You'd sent him out on a nothing mission to get something from Venus. He was content, just having his dick sucked clean, a promise of more when he came back. You'd told him the locator was almost done, he just had to get one last thing. He was about to delve into Venus's gas-thick atmosphere when he heard it. A strange rumbling whistle in the quiet vacuum of space. He turned and was met with what the lab boys named the Long Shot.

It was almost on him, faster than any man-made tech he'd ever seen. It was a feat, really, amazingly impossible, but you'd done it. You'd made something that almost snuck up on him. Was faster than fast. Was sure to blow him to nothing but particles.

He'd been so stupid to think maybe you were starting to soften on him the way he had with you. You'd been fucking him and taking him out so much recently, without him asking. Something no one had ever done for him before. The idea you'd started to actually like him despite the fear seemed like the truth until he was faced with reality.

He thought you were too scared to bite back, that you liked him too much, but there you were. Finally showing him your real face. Not the cold professional one, but the traitorous murderous cunt he knew you were. Inside he felt a piece of himself sink into the blackness. He wasn't diluted, you hated him but he thought you had something, even if it was the tiniest scrap, it was something. That you didn't entirely want him gone like everyone else, you'd fought for him, gone to war with multiple other countries for him. You couldn't have done all that and felt nothing for him.

When the bomb hit- he was laughing so hard he was crying or maybe it was the other way around.

You watched the explosion on the massive control room screen. The room was dead quiet as the quantum bomb debris spread through space. Most of it pulling into Venus's atmosphere. One minute passed with no activity from inside the impact site. Two. At three minutes people started cheering. Clapping. Crying. It was over. The world was hell, nearly impossible to put back together, it'd rotten work, but you'd do it.

Right as your assistant was grabbing a bottle of champagne she'd hidden under her desk, he flew out of the debris field. The room went quiet only interrupted by the sound of a single bullet firing. One of the grunts who was stationed to guard the door had killed himself because he knew what was coming from watching this room twelve hours a day. There was no way to contact Viltrum. There was no hope. Mark would know it was all a farce. You were all dead meat. The room erupted into chaos.

At first you'd actually tried building the DNA locator, but it physically wasn't possible with anything made on Earth. The Martians wouldn't help even with begging, offerings, and threats. The Empire was too big a scourge to call to the Milky Way. So you'd made the theoretical, radical. Distracted Mark while the biggest, nastiest bomb all of humanity could scrap together because that's all you could do. It'd take Europe off the fucking map, but not Mark Grayson.

You and a few others stayed behind to send out worldwide alerts. Frantic, pleading for people to get into bomb shelters if they could. You held yourself together even as your sensors told you he was entering the atmosphere, hurdling for the pentagon like a bullet. Kept the messages rolling until the building shuddered from impact. The concrete foundations hadn't even finished shaking when he burst through the wall. Bloody with whoever was unlucky enough to be in the halls.

Your team was dead in an instant. You were alone, just like he was.

He dripped onto the floor. When he'd help up an arm to slow down the bomb, it'd blasted the skin off his whole left side including his face, the muscles liquefied and sloughing off parts of bone. Yet he still stood. Defiant.

You should've cried. Broken down, begged forgiveness, sucked him off for the chance to survive. You did none of the above, just met his bloodied gaze and said evenly, "It didn't work. Pity."

He grabbed you hard by the throat, pressed into your veins instead of crushing your esophagus. Wondering if he should just crush your neck or your head or make it slower. It was hard to think when parts of his brain were leaking out of his skull, dripping down his face.

His grip wasn't hard enough to shut you up, desperation finally edging into your voice, "Please Mark, please don't."

You didn't show much emotion, even during sex, but the way you were looking at him when everything came crashing down- made him pause. You were scared, beyond scared. Before you stepped out of that chamber you were a normal person, he saw then that the whole Cecil act you'd been putting up was a carefully constructed lie. You had been good at wearing a mask unlike him and deep down you were just like everyone else.

"Gonna keep your promise?" His voice was shredded, wet and nearly indecipherable with half of his jaw hanging off his face.

You did, and the fear in your eyes the whole time made Mark realize he wanted you to hurt the way he did. And once he started hurting you, he couldn't stop.

Turned out someone could only act so nonchalant when witnessing countries of people being slaughtered first hand. You told him, your voice shaking, that it looked different from the control room cameras. You found ways to placate him. Let him have his fun in front of so many people. He said he'd spare them if you let it happen, but he never did. You tried everytime. Some freakish cross between fetish and fear, Mark lied to himself. Because after everything he still wanted you to enjoy this. Finally, the world that hated you, made you go gray, was burning. Maybe you took some catharsis in it. You never told him, talked less and less the longer he had you.

Constantly, he pulled at his healing skin. Picked at it, reopened it, let it get infected and puss-pocked. He wanted it to scar. Wanted everytime you looked at him to be a reminder of your failure to protect humanity. That everything awful you'd done was for nothing. That he chose to let you hurt him, that the scar and the world burning at his hands was your fault.

Despite his efforts most of it healed, he was being too broad, general. He stuck to a strip of his face. Let his teeth show, dug his fingertips into the ruined flesh an ruined it some more until his Viltrumite cells gave up and decided he was healed.

He told himself breaking you down was healing him, but he was just as empty as before. Supposed he did what he had set out to do. Ruined you so thoroughly there was nothing left, you were just as empty as he was. Maybe that's why you picked up that piece of broken glass while he was mid-thrust. A small town of people watching, sobbing, hoping they'd let him live knowing he wouldn't. He grunts out, "'S fuckin' close," freshly scarred skin gleaming in the light of a distant fire, when you pushed the glass into your own neck. He felt his balls tighten when your blood hit his face. He opened his eyes. Watched you spasm and jerk, blood gurgling out your throat onto the concrete.

Holding your neck together wasn't enough. There were no hospital left standing. No one in the crowd was a doctor or willing to help. He killed them all when they tried to run after he'd gone still for twenty minutes. Just sitting there, holding your cooling body. Disbelieving. Feeling the hole become a chasm.

Guess you weren't just a human after all.

It turned out Dad hadn't contacted Viltrum for so long they sent someone to check on him, and when they saw the destruction Mark had wrought, they sent for a ship to begin colonization. When he felt the shadow of the warship fall over him, he'd nearly chewed you down to the bone.

***

You were just so... different. Younger, livelier, meaner, not smarter than him. You were her, that was important, but you were a version of her he could mold.

Then there were your powers. He hadn't expected them, but it wasn't an unwelcome surprise. Your powers had melded you into a vastly different person. You weren't wound so tightly, you wore your heart on your sleeve, you didn't give a shit how many people died. He'd never be able to fully wear you down because you could always fight back. He wanted you stronger, meaner, more like himself, because a you who understood him better was better. But you could never be as strong as him, he'd always keep you weaker. Always keep you below him because you were just-

You shifted foot to foot, idly pinching your sleeve between your fingers, rolling it in your boredom. She'd done the same thing. He thought it was cute. His friend- no. She wasn't a friend. She couldn't face the reality of what she'd doomed humanity to by making him angry, she knew what would happen. She was weak. Mark didn't have friends, not then, not now and not when Viltrum came for him.

Viltrum hadn't been what he expected. Everything was so clinical and cold. He thought it'd make him whole, but it only made him emptier, the loneliness compounded. He was on the same level at last, but it came without companionship or understanding. It came with work and few words. Things were less icy here. There were the other versions of himself, twisted and burned by you like he'd been. There was a quiet company in that.

You were at the center of it for all of them. Thrashing and fighting all the way, trying to escape only binding yourself tighter. He couldn't help but enjoy your attempts. So adorably helpless with just enough teeth to keep them all coming back.

He'd lied to you when you first met, about not coming for you. Lied because he couldn't really admit to himself that he'd do something so drastic, after he'd gotten everything he'd ever wanted, for a human. Thought he came to expand the empire, but knew he just wanted to have more people to kill, to throw into the void inside, trying to fill it. But the more spent he time around this younger bitchy version of you, the more he felt pangs of wanting for you and you alone.

He didn't give a fuck about expanding the empire, not really, not until he knew he was heir to the throne. He wanted the power and you and no one else to hog your attention. Wanted you to have enough hope to fight and kick and scream but not enough to never beg. Enough hope that you'd never kill yourself again, to decide for him when he was done using you.

Snap, snap!

Fingers in his face. Another snap.

"Hey." The Emperor sneered. "You, I'm talking to you- ah fuck, what do I even call you-" Mark looked to you, "Scars?" He raised a brow for confirmation. You nodded.

"No." Scars was a name shared between you and him, nobody else. "My name is Mark."

"Okay, well, my name is also Mark, dipshit, and so is his, his, and his. We can't all be Mark." Mohawk's finger ticked as he pointed down the line of men watching him. All tense because he and you were in the same room. He'd spaced out, staring right at you. You'd shuffled from the spot but he was so far gone his eyes didn't track your movement. "It's either dipshit or you, take your pick."

Scars didn't hide his distaste. "My name is-"

"Sebastian," Mark snapped, "There, that's it. Always forget about our stupid ass middle name."

"Not everyone's." Lesnless said only to be ignored.

"No-" Sebastian had been his maternal human grandfather, a pointless human formality Dad had let Debbie have.

Mark leaned closer, smiling too stiff, "Your name is Sebastian now. Okay?"

What could he do about it? Hit the Emperor? Join that asshole in prison? Never get a chance to run into you and make you squirm?

Sebastian forced a smile like he had hundreds of times, "Whatever you say, Emperor Mark."

The filming was said and done. Dread spread across the universe. People fled their homes in hopes of being protected by the Coalition on other planets. People geared up for the incoming, unwinnable battle. People drugged their families, let them fall asleep before putting a ray gun to the back of their sweetly sleeping heads and pulling the trigger- before turning the gun on themselves.

The Marks disbursed onto their next to-do. They'd been given eight hours of sleep after the slaughter, the only reward they got before work resumed. Markus passed you by, giving you a near imperceptible smile before he disappeared down the hall with Kregg and Gray in tow. Lensless hovered, giving you a disappointed puppy-pout because you hadn't given him a fat, wet kiss on the cheek when you saw him. He hadn't been accessible, it wasn't like you could have run on the stage and done it. So as he was leaving he came down from his float and leaned his cheek toward you expectantly. You kissed his cheek as fast as you could with as little people as possible looking. He was disappointed but not surprised. You were worried what people would think if they saw- it was cute. Lucan followed him out, pretending he didn't see that.

Phantom saw. Knew right away you hadn't done it of your own free will. He said nothing of it, knew you were doing what you could to survive. Especially after Mark had collared you. He knew, heard the scream and had noticed the collar was gone from the lab, then right after you wore high necked tops. You had to be more subdued. He knew it was a good thing so you couldn't act out and get hurt, but he didn't like the burst-blood vessel agony in your eyes. For now, he had brain chips to develop, he hoped they would be enough protection now that you were powerless.

Seb lingered around, felt creeped out by all the eyes that passed you. "Uh. My meal block's in fifteen." It was an offering.

You looked to Mark who glared down at Seb. He hadn't been able to get you alone long enough to interrogate you about your vitals yesterday. About what you fantasized about with two or three fingers stretching out your cunt. "She has work to-"

"Emperor Mark, if I may," a deceptively balmy voice. Sebastian hadn't left. Stayed behind, hovered beside Mark even as he talked with Thula about the next scheduled council meeting. "I have something to ask." He said cordially, too cordially.

Mark could send him away but the way Sebastian kept glancing at you, told him there'd be adverse effects if he did. He glared at Seb but relented, "Just bring her back to my rooms when you're done eating."

You and Seb didn't wait around. Scurrying out of the room just to be away from Sebastian faster. Over lunch, he didn't want to talk about the mission. Was overall bummed about being such a murderous stickler.

You on the other hand were glowing, it was subtle but he noticed, had been watching you waste away for days with no idea how to help. "What's up with you? You seem pretty happy about the genocide of like, an entire solar system."

You nodded towards the camera set in the corner. Gave him a look. "Oh? Wha- Ohhhh! Wait someone-" He humped the air, very subtle "After that?" You nodded but gestured at him to keep his voice down.

The camera observation crew wasn't large, but they had sixteen eyes dotting every angle of their bulbous heads. Mostly they had nothing but empty hallways to watch, nothing but humming electronics to listen to. It had been boring work, until you and the other Marks came along. Now there was always something to watch. There was a bunch of gossip they hadn't been able to stop talking about in their alien language, burbling about what clearly happened between you and Markus last night. But they didn't tell the Emperor. Oh no.

Emperor Mark was good to them. Spared their species, gave them a place to stay and food to eat but sometimes? Mark had a temper. Even if nothing observed was directly their fault, he'd get angry at the very fact it happened. He'd killed more than one observation team member over less. So they kept it to themselves. Not everything- if they told him nothing at all he'd kill them all replace the whole team but sometimes, when it was easy to excuse or explain away, they didn't tell him. It was never easy to select what not to tell him, he had access to the cameras and microphones set into the arm of his uniform. Whenever he watched the cameras, he was always set on you. Luckily for them, not having told the Emperor of your obvious dalliance last night, he was too busy talking to Sebastian to check. All the while you gave Seb a downright disgusting rundown of what Markus did to you. They all leaned into the handful of screens watching the mess hall, open holes for ears pointed toward the speaker.

"Dude." Seb's trepidation melted away, now morphed into joking grins. "I can't believe he did that after like, murdering a whole planet. Like, yeah get yer steam out or whatever but I couldn't beat my meat after that if I tried. Wow. Man."

It'd been a long, long time since you'd had a friend so openly casual to talk about sex with. You felt like a teenager again, bumping him in the side with your elbow, casually dropping the bombshell, "This part's probably going to blow your mind, he's uncircumcised."

"What! But!" He pointed down to his own lap. "I'm- What!?"

On one of the other screens, Sebastian and Mark stood in the great hall alone. Only a few of the observation crew watched, more interested in the drama over sex. Sebastian wanted his promised alone time with you and wanted it soon or else it'd be a very heavily implied problem. Mark didn't agree right away. He bartered back and forth. Knowing he had to give you up, but not wanting you to be alone with Sebastian very long. As much security as he had, he couldn't predict the other man. He could kill you but he was an asset to the Empire and though he talked a big game, wouldn't be coming to ask for quality time with you if he planned on killing you. He could've done it a hundred times over by now.

In the end, Mark relented. The time was set for later that day. The observation crew counted down the seconds until you two would collide. You unknowingly chattered on, finger boxing the air while Seb nodded like it was the most important lesson in the world.

***

"So did you?" The Emperor asked.

"Hit him again." You said.

He grinned and pistoned his fist down into Mark's bleeding head. "Jeez babe, didn't think bringing up jerkin' it would make ya so mad."

You were actually glad he thought you masturbated. If he find out, he'd be angry or grossly congratulatory to Markus. You leaned toward angry. Fucking you on his bed and promising your escape, probably wasn't something he was cool with, but apparently fucking Gray had been fine. Still, you didn't tell him. Had seen them fight over you once, you didn't want it to happen again.

In Mark's head this was a game of back n' forth. Fine, you were mad about the collar. He'd make it up to you by taking you down to Mark, the asshole Mark, and beating the ever loving shit out of him. Once that was done, you'd still be mad but a little less mad and finally tell him your ultimate sexual fantasies.

But for now, he watched as Mark slumped forward, held up only by the cuffs. Dripping blood onto the cold metal ground. He coughed and a splatter of black mucus slapped onto the ground, onto your shoes. The Emperor hit him again just for daring to accidentally bleed on you. "Stupid fuck."

Mark's head bobbed down, he tried to lift his head but it fell all the same. Eye whites gone red, lip split, clumps of his hair matted together. Utterly forsaken. Trapped without luck of escaping for days, worried sick about Eve. He knew he should play along, be pathetic and sorry like you must have wanted him to be. He had felt bad, really, he did, but you were also letting this happen to him because... why? He broke up with you forever ago? It was ridiculous.

He looked up at you with the Emperor's fist tight in his hair. "How does this fix what happened?"

"It doesn't." You said. But you weren't here thinking about that. You were thinking about Mohawk in those shackles instead. They had the same face after all.

"Then why-" Another punch to the lips shut him up, knocked two teeth out.

"I didn't say you could talk to her, dumbass."

"Oh? Are you dictating who I can and can't talk to now?" Panic set in soon as you said it.

You expected a shock but Mohawk just laughed, "There you are, babe. Missed ya."

Mark has no idea what was passing between you but he could feel the tension. You were stiff. Stood far away from Mohawk, as far as you could be in the cramped cell. Kept your arms crossed, eyes on Mark, never Mohawk. Anytime he reached out to you or grossly flirted you either didn't reply or were curt.

Mark heaved, broken ribs burning in his chest, "What is this really about, huh?" You both turned on him. "Our relationship was barely over a year. You should be over this by now."

"Shut up." Mohawk's knee jabbed into his sternum. He was left with little air in his lungs, gasping for breath and hoping nothing inside him has popped.

"You think this is about our breakup? You threw me in prison, Mark."

"Yeah? Well, so did you." Mark should listened to Mohawk but he'd never been a good listener. Not with Dad, not with you, not with Cecil.

Your stomach went sour. "I got to leave but you're gonna fucking die down here."

Mark defied Mohawk's grip, turned his head toward you, pierced you with those red eyes and spat another loose tooth onto the floor. "You're an evil person, (Y/n), I dodged a bullet with you."

You surged forward. Grabbed him by the back of the head and slammed his face down into the tall back of the cuffs that engulfed his arms. Mohawk actually did the slamming, no human could push a Viltrumite around like that, not even while weakened. Still, you took the catharsis where you could, puppeteering Mohawk to slam Mark's head into the metal over and over.

When it was done, all Mark's teeth were on the floor or crushed backwards into his fractured jaw. You were quiet when you realized you felt no better. The thing he said swirling in your mind, you were evil. Everyone had been surprised by you, by parts of you you had thought were intrinsic. You were angry and spiteful and a killer and none of them had expected it. Mark had evil versions of himself, that was easy to swallow and understand. But the fact that you were the evil (Y/n) was harder. Mohawk tried rubbing your back, "Don't you feel better, babe?"

You jerked away from him, jolted from your thoughts by his touch. "No."

He frowned at you. "No?" He didn't get it. By all accounts, violence should've made you calmer, the way it did for him. The way he swore it did for you too.

You could see the comparison on his face, confused because you were like him. Evil and angry and fucked up, and he was right.

"She wouldn't want this." You didn't need to say who, he already knew. You gestured to Mark, barely holding onto consciousness. "I'm-" You couldn't say you weren't okay with this because you were. Seeing Mark hurt felt so good but what he said felt so bad. He would've been better off with Mohawk's version of you but instead he got you and threw you away.

"Oh baby, don't let that asshole get to you. I miss her, I do, but that bitch betrayed me. I dodged a bullet with her and I'm so happy for that. You're not like her- you get me." Because you were the evil one. He reached out for you but you leaned away. "Is this about the collar? I already told you, it'll come off once you calm down."

You didn't meet his eye. "Of course it's about the fucking collar." You waited for a shock but it didn't come. Ah, right, he liked it when you were mean, but not mean enough to emasculate him. What a fine line.

"So you are still mad."

"You think bringing me down here fixes shit? You took my powers away."

He laughed, hands on hips. "I didn't take your powers away. I just had a lab team analyze the sound waves of your voice and isolate the- whatever, the science doesn't matter. They're not gone, you can be mad at me about it. That's fine, but you can't shut me out forever."

Your eyes narrow on him. "Wanna bet?"

"Please. You missed me so much while I was away you fucked yourself on my bed."

Technically, "I didn't!" You spluttered, looked down at Mark who you couldn't tell was conscious or not. You really should not be having this conversation here.

He poked the collar, "That monitors a lotta shit goin' on in your body. Even your oxytocin levels, which were high as fuck. You can admit to masturbating there's no shame in it."

"I-" It'd probably be better if he didn't know about Markus. "Don't try to change the subject!"

"Oh, you sooo jerked off thinking about me." His smug smile made you want to hit him. You kneed Mark in the temple instead. "See? The punching bag is helping us communicate, get a little sexual tension going, bond a little. You get it."

"I don't wanna fuck you!"

He looked unconvinced, "Uh-huh."

"I don't." It came out a growl.

"I believe you." He obviously didn't.

He wasn't taking you serious. Grinning at you like taking away your autonomy was a game. "I only came down here to pretend he's you. Kinda helps that he is."

The playful expression slid off his face. "You've got it so fuckin' good and you don't even know."

"Do I really? Cuz I'm pretty sure I'm being held prisoner."

"He's being held prisoner." Mohawk tapped the restraints with his boot. "You are bein' wined and dined and complaining about it. Do you know how many people I killed yesterday? I don't. Kregg estimated two million. I've got so much political shit to do you can't even begin to comprehend, but I'm down here, spending my insanely valuable time, with you. Trying to fix us because I give a shit and you? Well, you just can't be bothered."

It'd be smart to back down, to play the good pet, speed up the removal but you can't hold the anger back. "There was no us the second you put this ugly thing on me."

"You don't get a say in if there's an us or not." He was smiling but there was no joy in it.

You gave him the same look in turn, "Just like she didn't, huh? How'd that work out for you?"

His fingers twitched with the temptation to hit the remote shock. The asshole's body shuddered as he coughed more blood onto the floor. The sound broke something between you two. No, Mark thought, shocking you now would only make things worse.

You turned to the door but couldn't leave without him. "I'm done."

He let you out.

***

There was a sick sort of satisfaction Mark got from parting ways with you. Him to the council room with Gray and Markus already waiting, to mull over what planets to hit next and when. You to meandered in the halls looking for Seb. You wouldn't find him, wouldn't find anybody because he had that whole section of the ship practically evacuated. Sebastian had been proving to be quite the staff killer. Useful or not he'd kill anyone over anything. Walking into his line of sight was a big enough offense to end multiple lives. It was no skin off Mark's back. The staff was replaceable but still- he preferred not to lose a big chunk of them if things went wrong. He had almost regretted setting up the meeting earlier in the day, but now he was glad it would happen.

Thula would ensure he didn't kill you but Mark was clear, Sebastian could hurt you. Not terribly, but you could use a few bruises. It'd do wonders for that attitude of yours. You'd be a lot more grateful for Mark and all his mercies once big bad Sebastian cornered you alone- what a surprise.

You turned away from the door, dejected. Looked like Seb was busy. You turned down the hall to check some of his usual stations. At the hall's distant end you saw him. Could tell who it was by his darker gray uniform and longer hair peaking past his shoulders. You turned the other way, scurried for the stairs, as quietly as you could. Hoping he hadn't seen you.

He had. Could hear your heart rate spike from here.

He sped toward you right as you looked over your shoulder, checking to make sure he wasn't following. He was. You bumped right into him, already standing in front of you. Smiling at you with all his teeth, scar stretching wide, exposing more of his gums, "Hello, Honey."

You stumbled back, trying to recover, to stand up straight like you weren't scared out of your mind. "I don't wan-"

He had you against the wall. Hand hard on your throat over that thick turtle neck you were wearing. Your resolve couldn't stop the sharp gasp at the feeling, the fabric couldn't stop his fingers from shutting you up. He remembered well how the last time you talked to him went. The humiliation. The pain of setting his jaw back in place. No human should ever make him feel that way, but you had a habit of doing so. Back then and now.

"Can't make me dislocate my jaw like this, can you?" It was a low whisper, the last time he had been this close to you he was trying to kill you.

Your eyes bulged, your heart a thundering mess of panic. Your hands flew to his, trying to worm your fingers under his palm but it was like a concrete vice. You kicked at him, wriggled your body but it did nothing but make him smirk.

You couldn't see her, but Thula stayed in her spot at the end of the hall. Watching. Listening to her earpiece for Emperor Mark to tell her when to step in. He didn't say a thing. Watching on his own monitor during Kregg's run through of potential targets. Markus and Gray listened fine enough for him. He needed to see you learn your lesson, you needed him to protect you.

"Got nothing to say?" Sebastian cooed, leaning in further. His hand kept you pinned to the wall but his body caged you in now. You only thrashed harder against him, just like old times. "No apology? No 'hi, how are you?' So rude."

Your head throbbed, felt like it was filling with hot air. There was nothing you could do.

You'd been in a situation like this before. A rival organization figured out your powers, gagged you, were going to kill you. You had to become a good mime quick to make them untie you and kill themselves. It was instinct at this point, the collar under the thick fabric forgotten. You held up an an open palmed hand, a clear sign for him to stop, power pulsing through your panicked veins.

He did. You felt the connection snap into place. His fingers slowly going soft enough for you to breathe, but not enough to escape. No matter how much you thrashed and how deep your hold was, the command only went so far. Hand gestures were always a little hit or miss but at least you still had them, no shock accompanying your panic.

The connection only lasted so long before it broke and the hand around your throat tightened. "You tricky bitch."

You moved to make the gesture again. Your hands were captured in a blur and forced down, pressed together infront of your hips. "Same move twice in a row?" His fingers pulsed, making your vision blur, "You're dumber than I remember." He liked that. There were no bomb plans tinkering around in your head, no sirree.

You were the same in how you thrashed with your airways held shut. It made him nostalgic. He wondered if he could barter for more time to hang around you. Become a constant fear and maybe a fri- not friend, never friend. Pet. You were just a pet. One he could do whatever he wanted to- except when the Emperor said so. God, he hated this place.

Hated how your neck felt under his palm. There was weird chunky inline to the fabric getting in his way. When he choked someone he liked to feel the blood trying to pump through the skin, stopped by his hold. His fingers shifted to tear the neckline away.

He shot back. A wall of air slapped by him. Yanked you away from the wall and set you down a few feet away. Coughing and spluttering, held upright by Lensless who shouldn't have even be in this part of the ship. Mark said he'd get you both alone.

"Why are you here?" Sebastian snarled at Lensless's hands on you, gentle and supporting.

"I got all my stuff done super fast so I could see (Y/n)." That was partially true, but he also got a feeling when Mark added surprise work to his load that something was up involving you. It was luck that he went to check the rooms first. "Like you're doing, silly."

"I'm not here to see (Y/n)." Sebastian said while prowling forward, eyes set on you. Lensless was faster, if he thought Sebastian was going to lunge he'd be out of reach by the time he got to you. Sebastian had to be strategic. Needed to get his hands back on you. Without you under them, he felt somehow less real. He didn't know what that meant. Just that he wanted you back, bad.

Lensless laughed but didn't back up. "Then what were you doing just now?"

"Choking her. Obviously."

Lensless sighed as if exasperated. "Look bro. All that desert stuff was fun n' all but stuff's like, different here. We can't be doin' that, plus I don't think she liked it that much anyway. Check it, I changed up strategy and look how close we are." Lensless half turned his head toward you, pulled you closer by tapping on his cheek. Right. The obligatory greeting.

You didn't want to. Not with Sebastian's beady eyes on you but if you didn't, Lensless just might expose the collar. He had already saved you from exposure, things would be so much worse if he changed his mind. You leaned into him, pressed your lips to his cheek and just as quickly pulled away. Lensless's grin was nothing but shit eating.

Sebastian lunged. Lensless yanked you backward out of the way, cackling. "That's the same approach as last time, bro!"

"Shut up!"

They ping-ponged through the hall. Lensless holding you to his chest, dragging you backward in a whirlwind. Letting Sebastian get close enough to almost catch you by the ankles before pulling back. He couldn't help it, scaring you was just so fun. He intended to stop, not let Sebastian get hold of you, but just wanted a few more moments of you pressed tightly to him, scared and pliant.

Mark put his fingers to his earpiece, grumbling. "Mind stopping them from damaging the ship?"

Before Lensless could call for timeout, Thula was between the two. Holding both of the men by the throat, stopping them dead in their tracks.

"No roughhousing outside of the training arena." She said flatly before her hands flew open and she hovered backward to her original far removed position.

You only saw her for a second, didn't understand how one person could make the two walking wrecking balls stop but they did. She'd had them both in her grip for a mere moment but they felt it then- her strength. Together they could beat her but alone, not a chance. They had to remember there were rules in a place like this. Rules that if they kept breaking would mean the privilege of seeing you would be taken away. Their leashes tightened.

They landed, uneasy, tension taught between them. "Fun while it lasted." Lensless said, stretched his arms up and over his head. You stumbled away from him.

It was a small opening but one Sebastian took. Lunging on you, not knowing what he wanted other than to feel your skin under his but there was too many clothing. The neck of your sweater was gone in an instant, ripped down your chest. He lifted his hand to give you necklace but there was already one there.

Sebastian paused. "What's this?"

Lensless made a face. "Ah shit, really dropped the ball there. My bad, (Y/n)."

You pulled the ripped neckline up, covering the collar, "None of your business, is what it is."

Sebastian easily tugged your hand down. Eyed the thing. Black with a silver heart sticking out the middle. Not quite a dog collar, but pretty close. The old you would've never worn it. Such a clunky claim of ownership that didn't belong on your skin. All you needed was his hand print in purple around your neck.

"It's ugly. Take it off." He didn't wait for a reply before he started pulling hard at it. Too hard. Tripped the sensors and set it off. Your muscles gave out with the shock. The only thing holding you up was his grip on the collar's front.

Sebastian couldn't process what he was seeing. You relying on him to keep you upright, you suddenly crying and gasping. Hands clawing at the collar.

He blinked, pulled you upright and let the collar go. As soon as he did that awful snap of electricity stopped. You went slack, occasionally jerking as you gasped for air.

"Wow. That's a lot worse than I thought it was." Lensless circled around to your front. Lifted your head up by your chin and tilted your head back and forth, liked how your eyes were dazed and you leaned into his touch.

"Aww, you look so sad." He liked it, but he was supposed to be trying to a new angle to get you to like him. "Poor thing."

"What is that?" Sebastian asked though he knew what it was.

"A shock collar, dummy." Lensless said while you were busy trying not to pass out. "Won't let her use her powers." His hands went over his mouth, "Oops! I wasn't supposed to tell you that."

Where was the fight in that? Without your powers you were as defenseless as she was. Weak and easy to cave to despair. He wanted you to fight, to have hope against him so you'd never leave him like that again. The idea of you powerless made him afraid, terribly afraid. What if he lost himself? What if the others did? You were so fragile and such a cunt. You wouldn't last a week like this.

"Who put this thing on you?" But he already knew. "I'll kill him." He looked up, trying to find the cameras hidden in the walls. "I'll fucking you kill you!"

Thula laughed meanly from her station. He turned on her, practically foaming at the mouth. Sure, seeing you pathetic and crying made his cock twitch- but this wasn't the right kind of pathetic. It was the easy way out to forcing submission. Knowing himself, he'd come around to it, tolerate it awhile, have his fun, but for now, he was angry. It was a crossed line, a stake of ownership when you were obviously meant to be Sebastian's.

"Go ahead and try, boy." Thula said, "I saw how you looked coming out of that desert."

He wouldn't win. Even with Lensless supporting, which he doubted the little fucker would right now, looking a little too content with the situation. He needed to kill something. The ship was still stationed at the solar system's edge. There were bound to be survivors. He left in a whirlwind that nearly knocked you off your feet if it weren't for Lensless. Thula's speed nearly knocked Lensless off his feet. You were alone. He'd managed to loose Lucan some minutes ago and knew you didn't have much time alone.

"You know," Lensless said, "That went a lot better than I thought it would." You glared at him, yanked yourself out of his hold and stumbled into a wall to stay upright. "Ugh, I knooooow that was crazy but I promise he's a lot of fun. He didn't know it would hurt you."

"He just choked me out." Your voice was a raspy whisper.

"Okay, but like, that's classic him! He thought you'd use your powers. He likes to act all tough but he loooves your powers. It's all we'd talk about in the desert. So nice actually seeing you use them again." He said lowly. "Don't worry, I won't tell the big guy if you don't. Our secret. You'll owe me though."

You put your finger to your lips and felt your power slip around his mind, he was blissfully quiet. Shaking with excitement because you finally used your powers on him after so long. The connection didn't last long in your weakness but when it was gone he grinned big, "God, I love that."

You coudln't stand him looking at you like that- annoying endearing as it was. You held up your finger and did a flicking u-turn motion, trying to get him to turn around. In Lensless's mind you wanted him to twirl around so he did. When he stopped, he was smiling even bigger. "Oh, you like my outfit?"

"I'm trying to get you to turn around." You grunted. Hand signals were a good thing to have as a last resort, but they weren't very strong or precise. "Let's go." You picked a direction and start walking on wobbily feet.

"We're hanging out? Ooh, what're we gonna do? What do you wanna do to me?"

You groaned but don't make him leave. After Sebstian almost popped your head off and shocked the shit out of you, you'd prefer to have someone around to keep you alive. Even if it was this asshole.

Mark had watched you struggle, a fly in a web. He half listened the Kregg. Making mental note to visit the lab later and kill whatever technician left a loophole in the power detection systems. Then he'd assign the work to Phantom- if you wanted something done right, you had to do it yourself, as the saying goes.

Phantom been adapting well enough to Viltrum tech. Threw himself hard into the work ever since he was assigned. The lab boys told Mark there was nothing suspicious going on yet- Phantom understood the tech on a base level, there was no way he could hide something from them. Mark and the tech team didn't account for Phantom ever helping Cecil Stedman deconstruct the uniform his father came to Earth in. Laced with Viltrumite technology he helped decode early in his superheroing career. He'd already begun to keep secrets. Sttarting ripping the code from the bio-engineers systems. Slowly because he couldn't get caught, making his own remote. It wouldn't be done for some time but somebody had to save you. Not right away, he had to wait for the perfect time, get the most impact. Let you know it was him who freed you because he cared. But that was far in the future. For now, he watched you from an access panel he modified on his prosthetic as he worked away at the brain chips. You'd be safe soon.

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