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ltash · 28 days ago

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"Wicked" Pt-3

SimonGhostRileyxf!"Rose"reader

From her highschool bully to her wicked bodyguard, from Simon to Ghost.

Palm Jumeirah, Dubai - Midnight.

The lights inside the mansion flickered, once-just a glitch, a flutter of voltage-but Rose's pulse skipped all the same. It always did now. The walls felt too close. The air, too quiet. No house this beautiful should feel like a cage, but hers did. Behind its manicured gardens and imported marble, the mansion wasn't a home. It was a gilded prison.

Massimo had made sure of that.

She hadn't been allowed to leave in weeks. Her phone was replaced. Her laptop filtered. The staff now wore polite smiles that never met their eyes. Rose had grown used to surveillance: the cameras hidden in chandeliers, the microphones embedded in vent grilles, the locks that clicked shut when they weren't supposed to.

But she still had one ghost left in the machine.

She padded barefoot into the darkened study, the only room she was never searched in. Inside the antique desk drawer was a tiny circuit board connected to a hidden port-one she'd built herself back when she still had freedom. It looked like a piece of the HVAC system, but under the hood was a different story.

She was about to use her only remaining ally: an old AI security system she had personally installed before her staff were replaced. It's disguised under the house's climate control and lighting apps-Massimo's men never even noticed it.

Late at night, she writes a command.

A hidden SOS, encrypted and buried under code.

She can't name herself, can't give details.

Just:

Her fingers trembled as she typed into the dim screen.

>High-value civilian. Palm Jumeirah. Hostile containment. Request immediate covert extraction.

She uploads it to an old abandoned GitHub repo registered under a pseudonym she once shared with a boy who used to sit at the back of her chemistry class.

Simon Riley.

The message was anonymous. There was no name, no coordinates. Just metadata buried in lines of an old GitHub repository registered under a long-forgotten pseudonym.

A joke. A nickname from school. One she had once shared with a boy who never smiled.

She didn't even know if he was still alive.

She hit send.

And hoped the wind still remembered her name.

Location: Undisclosed SAS Safehouse, Northern England

Simon was SAS now. Special Forces.

Callsign: Ghost.

The alert came through on a cold Thursday night.

He monitors that GitHub repo out of habit. It's nothing but sentiment, a scar he keeps reopening.

He hasn't checked it in years.

Until he does.

Simon Riley sat in the quiet glow of his monitor, the rain painting war patterns against the window behind him. He barely touched the internet. Except for this.

He hadn't checked the repo in years. It was a dead habit, something he did every few months. Nostalgia with no reward.

Until he saw it.

> Last push: 2 hours ago.

Encrypted within the code wasn't just a distress call.

It was her.

Rose.

He didn't breathe for nearly a full minute.

Ghost stood slowly, fingers curling into fists as a cold burn lit up in his chest. He hadn't heard her name since he'd buried it. Since the night he left without a goodbye.

His blood runs cold.

Encrypted in the code is a name he hasn't heard in half a decade:

"Rose."

He goes to his superiors.

The request is unofficial. Shadow ops.

But the words hostile containment and high-value civilian raise flags.

It gets buried under a private bodyguard detail ordered by a powerful British defense ally with silent interest in Massimo's dealings.

No name. No address. Just Palm Jumeirah, high-value civilian, hostile containment.

Enough for an unofficial op.

And the name that gets assigned?

Lieutenant Simon Riley.

His name was the first one on the assignment.

48 Hours Later a black SUV rolled past the iron gates like it belonged there.

Rose stood in her hallway, arms wrapped around herself, watching from behind the curtains.

One man stepped out. Alone.

Massimo's guards stood straighter.

Tall. Broad. Black tactical gear that looked too sharp for Dubai's heat. A skull mask covering his face, balaclava beneath it. His eyes were cold, unreadable. Like winter.

He didn't speak as he passed the guards. Just handed a sealed letter.

Authorization for close protection detail.

One of Massimo's men, it said.

Rose didn't buy it. But she didn't argue.

She stood at the top of the stairs as he entered, heart hammering.

He looked up at her.

And she, she froze.

There was something about him.

Something terrifying and familiar.

"Who are you?" she whispered.

He stopped just a few steps from her, the skull mask gleaming under the crystal chandelier.

"Ghost," he said. Just that.

The name tasted like ash.

Her voice trembled. "You're one of Massimo's men?"

"Something like that," he answered. Low. Controlled. British accent like frostbite.

She swallowed. The fear in her blood was real. She'd seen hitmen. Thugs. Brutes.

But this one was different.

An Alpha among the wolves.

Massive, silent, lethal.

The black cargo pants hugged his powerful thighs like a sculptor's sketch in motion. Every inch of him said: do not cross.

She stepped back as he approached. He didn't follow.

"You don't have to be afraid of me," Ghost said quietly, almost too softly for a man like him.

But she was.

Terrified.

Because deep inside her, something screamed that she knew him.

And that scared her more than anything else.

The mansion was quiet. Too quiet. Not the peace of luxury, but the silence of surveillance, the kind of silence that watches you breathe.

Ghost stood by the edge of the marble balcony, framed by the dim amber of Dubai’s dying sun. The call had come. The assignment given. No backup, no fanfare, just a flight, a briefing, a skull mask, and a destination: Palm Jumeirah.

He hadn’t expected it to be real. The message hidden in the GitHub code had been too poetic to believe. Too her.

But it was real.

Rose was here.

And she was in trouble.

48 Hours Earlier, She had stared at the blinking cursor for what felt like hours.

> "High-value civilian. Palm Jumeirah. Hostile containment. Request immediate covert extraction."

No names. No cry for help. No traceable language.

Just enough to mean something, to the right person.

Rose encrypted the text in base-64, nested it into an update in an abandoned GitHub repository linked to a fake climate control API, something she and Simon had once joked about building back in school. Back when he was still just Simon. Before he disappeared like mist.

She hit commit.

And prayed.

Now...

The skull mask stepped through the threshold like a shadow that had grown legs. Black tactical gear. Gloves. Thick black cargo pants that stretched over thighs built like war machines. Combat boots that echoed like the ticking of an ending.

The guards nodded, not questioning his clearance. Massimo trusted him now. The cover had been placed well.

She was in the living room. Pale as bone, curled up in a silk robe on the ivory settee.

She looked up, and froze.

The skull.

The mask.

The height.

The weight of him was a presence.

“Who are you?” she asked, voice small, breaking.

He stood still.

"Name's Ghost," he said finally, voice deep and northern, cracked like winter pavement. "Massimo brought me in for security. I’m here to watch you."

Her brows creased, fear threading through the delicate angles of her face. “I don’t need another one of his men watching me.”

He tilted his head, slowly.

“No offense, but I’m not one of his men.”

Her throat worked. She stood, slowly. The robe fell just enough to show a bruise. Faint. But there.

His jaw ticked under the mask.

“I don’t trust anyone,” she whispered.

“Good,” he said. “That means you’re not stupid.”

A beat passed. The chandelier hummed above them.

She turned away, but not before he saw the tremble in her hands.

He had to earn her trust. Carefully. Quietly. Not with the truth, because the truth was dangerous. To both of them.

Not yet.

So he watched. And waited. And followed. Like a loyal shadow.

Simon Riley was gone.

There was only Ghost now.

And she didn’t know him.

Not yet.

But soon, she would.

The sun bled orange into the Gulf, casting golden ripples across the water as the massive white yacht sliced through the marina like a predator in silk. Palm Jumeirah, glittering like a crown in the ocean, had seen its fair share of luxury, but even here, the arrival of Don Massimo Toricelli turned heads.

Ghost watched from the top floor of the mansion through a sliver in the blackout curtain. He recognized the yacht, custom-built, three decks, helipad, and a private lounge with imported marble flooring. He’d studied it in the brief.

His yacht, a gleaming, multi-million dollar Leviathan, rocked gently in the turquoise water, tethered just off the private dock of her Palm Jumeirah estate. It gleamed like his ego, always visible, always looming.

Massimo was coming.

And that meant trouble.

The Italian stepped off the yacht with the confidence of a man who owned the world and everything in it. Black suit sharp enough to cut, sunglasses shielding eyes that never missed a detail.

The black Maserati had barely stopped outside the mansion before Massimo Toricelli stepped out, flanked by his two most loyal bodyguards. He wore his usual armour of a designer three-piece suit, sunglasses despite the low golden sun, and that chilling smirk that made Rose’s stomach turn. The man smelled of cologne and control.

He carried a box in his hand. Velvet black. The kind of box that didn’t contain anything simple.

Rose was summoned to the lobby. Always summoned, never invited.

Inside the mansion, Rose was being prepped. She didn’t want to go downstairs, Ghost could see it in her face. Her robe was replaced by a floor-length designer dress, her makeup immaculate. A doll on display.

She descended the marble staircase slowly, her every step echoing in the grand, hollow luxury of the mansion she couldn't escape. The lobby was vast, double height ceilings, Italian chandeliers, crystal vases she didn’t pick, all curated to reflect a life she no longer had control over.

He stood in the corner of the marble lobby, arms crossed, skull mask reflecting the light from the chandelier above. Every nerve in his body burned.

Then the door opened.

Massimo entered like a storm in human skin.

Massimo sat in one of the velvet armchairs like he owned the place. Because he did. Or at least, he owned the cage around her.

"Bellissima," he purred, his voice smooth and poisonous. “Dubai suits you.”

Rose managed a smile, tight, hollow. “Massimo.”

Ghost stood in the corner, near the mirrored console table. He was motionless, silent, a black sentinel in full tactical gear. Skull mask on. Hands behind his back. The perfect blend of menace and restraint.

Massimo glanced at him once, indifferent. "You can leave us."

Ghost didn’t move.

Rose lifted her chin. "He stays."

Massimo gave a faint chuckle and gestured dismissively. "As you wish, tesoro."

He reached into a bag one of his men handed him and pulled out a velvet box.

"Cartier," he said simply, like it was an apology. "For your good behavior."

She took it with stiff fingers, murmured a thank you that made her mouth taste like ash. The necklace inside was encrusted with diamonds. Cold. Lifeless. Like a chain pretending to be a gift.

Ghost’s hands curled into fists in the shadow of his sleeves.

Massimo’s eyes flicked toward him.

“And you must be the new shadow. What do they call you? Phantom? Skull?”

Ghost didn’t move.

“Ghost.”

Massimo chuckled. “Fitting. Let’s hope you’re as loyal as the last one.”

Rose shifted, her discomfort palpable. Ghost could feel it in her silence.

Massimo turned his attention back to her. “I’ve missed you. We’ll have dinner this weekend. I’ll have the chef flown in from Florence. You’ll wear the necklace.”

He leaned in closer, voice a whisper of threat and lust. “Say yes.”

She didn’t answer. Just nodded.

Massimo leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You look tired. Are they feeding you well? Are you sleeping?"

Rose said nothing.

He smiled wider. "Still so stubborn. That’s what I like about you. We’ll talk again soon."

Massimo straightened, pleased with himself.

“Until then, cara mia.”

And then he stood. Kissed the air beside her cheek.

Left as quickly as he arrived.

He left the box in her hands and turned, his coat swaying as he walked out. The doors shut behind him.

Only then did Rose exhale.

Ghost stayed still. Watching. Planning. Rage crawling up his spine like wildfire.

He couldn’t move. Not yet.

He hadn’t called Task Force 141.

Because this wasn’t the moment.

But it was coming.

And when it did, Massimo wouldn’t walk away.

The moment the double doors shut and his footsteps faded, she turned and ascended the stairs quickly, almost running.

Ghost followed, his boots quiet behind her.

She reached her bedroom, the velvet box still clutched in her hand like it had burned her.

Once inside, she hurled it across the room. The lid snapped open. The necklace hit the floor with a sharp, cold clatter, scattering light across the marble.

She sat down beside it. On the floor. In her silk gown. Head bowed, fists clenched, tears pooling in her eyes like they had nowhere else to go.

Ghost stood by the door. Watching. Silent.

She didn’t notice when he stepped closer.

Until he knelt down beside her.

"You don't have to do what he says," he said softly.

She looked up, startled.

He reached forward, hesitantly, almost reverently, and wiped the tear trailing down her cheek with a gloved thumb.

Her breath hitched.

And then...

He extended his hand.

Palm up.

The same way she had, years ago, trembling in a glittering gymnasium, her heart in her throat as she offered her hand to a boy who never took it.

"You don't have to deal with this alone," he said gently.

Her eyes widened.

She stared at the hand. At the shape of it. The calloused palm. The curve of his fingers. So familiar.

Her voice was barely a whisper. "Simon...?"

He didn’t say anything at first.

Just nodded.

The silence cracked around them like thunder.

Her lips parted, her chest rising with a thousand emotions she couldn’t name.

He slowly removed the mask.

And there he was.

Simon Riley.

Older. Harder. Scarred. But still him.

His eyes locked onto hers.

"I came back for you, Rose."

And this time, when she took his hand, he didn’t let go.

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robin-evry · 9 months ago

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what if!!! hear me out 🙏🙏 yuu was a robot/miku inspired…IT SUCKS but like…miku kinda..yuu mikyuu…😓😓

Sure no worries, no judgement from me, ask and you shall receive

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐈𝐅 𝐘𝐔𝐔 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐎𝐓 🤖👾🎤

A robot is a machine—especially one programmable by a computer—capable of carrying out a complex series of actions automatically. A robot can be guided by an external control device, or the control may be embedded within. But they can act independently if their creators allow it.

( English is not my first language )

Day 3 : robot!yuu

In a world full of technology and robots. Robot!yuu was the number one idol during that time and was in the number one group of the century ; vocaloid, imagine during the middle of a performance one of their solo concerts, a black carriage arrived and they suddenly shut down.

They turned on when it was an orientation ceremony. Since robot!yuu isn't technically an organic being, they would be put between the ignihyde dorm or ramshackle.

After Crowley gave them a cellphone or asked idia if he could do maintenance to connect them to social media of twisted wonderland, by doing this they started to upload their albums towards the internet and it blew up, people are loving it, it's getting headlines about a new genre of music, and the music getting about stream by millions around the world, Robot!yuu created a genre of music. A revaluation towards the music Industry.

This managed robot!yuu to get rich overnight and allowed them to buy more expensive and to fix the ramshackle dorm more to get more expensive technology for their maintenance, Robot!yuu was planning on giving half of the money to Crowley as a thanks but he only received 1/4 half of the money.

Even tho robot! yuu is an idol, their master builds them with an offensive and defensive system, they have extremely tough metal that is hard to find as well an offensive mode, they have a lot on their arsenal attacks, energy beams, rocket launchers, shield mode, and more.

They are also able to connect to any device and hack it without any issue, they manage to hack ignihyde technology without an issue. And they are waterproof

Robot!yuu also can digest and drink things without an issue, they have a special component on their stomach to make sure they can digest things normally.

During VDC they dominated the competition. Lasers, mist appears and light sticks wave around for their presence. They change outfits depending on the song, it was literally a Miku concert.

Congratulations neige Leblanc is now one of their fans, when going down the stage, he literally ran towards you and started asking a billion of questions with stars amongst their eyes

Vil was a little sour but also amazed about robot!yuu performance, he would ask them for choreography and music ideas from them as well as fashion opinions. He originally wanted robot!yuu to transfer into ignihyde but they refused due to ignihyde has the complete equipment for them or ramshackle.

Pomifiore dorm started to take notes and tried robot!yuu fashion styles. Idia is also a supporter of them and basically a super fan, robot!yuu would come to ignihyde to help him with games or help him maintain ortho, Robot!yuu is basically a sister towards Idia and Ortho.

sorry if it's short, this is by far I could come up anon

#twisted wonderland #not canon #twst headcanons #twst scenario #disney twst #twisted wonderland yuu au #twst mc #twst wonderland #twst x reader #twst yuu au #kinda miku!yuu

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felassan · 1 year ago

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New today on DA:TV from Game Informer, 'Breaking Down Dragon Age: The Veilguard’s Classes And Factions':

"Breaking Down Dragon Age: The Veilguard’s Classes And Factions by Wesley LeBlanc on Jun 25, 2024 at 02:00 PM "As part of the character creation process for Dragon Age: The Veilguard, players will have to select both a class for their player-controlled Rook and a faction. After customizing much of your Rook's body, including things like a Qunari's horn type and material, for example, with the hundreds of options available in Veilguard, it will be time to pick said class. [embedded link to DA:TV reveal trailer] There are three classes to choose from: Rogue, Mage, and Warrior. As the names suggest, each features a unique combat system and plays differently as a result. Though you’ll be performing things like light and heavy attacks using the same buttons, what those attacks do varies based on your class. For example, a sword-and-shield Warrior can hip-fire or aim their shield to throw it like Captain America, whereas a Mage can use that same button to throw out magical ranged attacks – read more about the combat of Veilguard in Game Informer's exclusive feature here. Plus, as you spec out these classes and unlock their individual specializations, the differences will only grow even more stark. - The Rogue has access to three specializations. The Duelist is the fastest of the three, with two blades for rapid strikes; the Saboteur uses tricks and traps; and the Veil Ranger is purely range, sniping enemies from afar with a bow. - The Mage can utilize necromancy with the Death Caller specialization; Evokers wield fire, ice, and lightning; and the Spellblade uses magic-infused melee attacks. - The Warrior can become a Reaper, which uses night blades to steal life and risk death to gain unnatural abilities; a Slayer, a simple but strong two-handed weapons expert; or the Champion, a tactical defense fighter. While these specializations don't matter upfront – you class into them via the skill trees you progress through the game – it's nice to see the potential of each class before you choose it."

"For the penultimate step of the character creator, at least during the demo BioWare shows me, players select a faction. The Grey Wardens return, joined by other returning favorites and new additions like the Antivan Crows, the Mourn Watch, the Shadow Dragons, the pirate-themed Lords of Fortune, which is what I chose in my demo for the current Game Informer cover story, and the Veil Jumpers. Each faction has unique casual wear, which is worn in specific cutscenes when the character isn't donning armor, and three unique traits. The Lords of Fortune, for example, gain additional reputation with this particular faction, have increased damage versus mercenaries, and perform takedowns on enemies with slightly less effort. Veilguard game director Corinne Busche says this faction selection, which ties into your character's backstory, determines who your Rook was before, how they met Varric, why they travel with Varric instead of their faction, and more. "The message of The Veilguard is you're not saving the world on your own – you need your companions, but you also need these factions, these other groups in the world," creative director John Epler tells me. "You help them, they help you now.""

"He says BioWare wanted to avoid the trope of needing to gather 200 random resources or objects before helping you save the world. Instead, the team aimed to create factions that want to help you but have realistic challenges and problems in front of them so that narratively, it makes sense why you help them in return for their help when the time comes. "Gameplay-wise – each of our classes has a specialization, and each of them is tied to a faction," Epler continues. "But beyond that, each faction has a [companion] as well as [people we're calling agents, ancillarily] who exist as the faces of these factions. We didn't want to just say, 'Here's the Grey Wardens, go deal with them.' We wanted characters within that faction who are sympathetic, who you can see and become the face of the faction, so that even if there are moments where the faction as a whole may be on the outs with you, these characters are still with you; they've still got your back." [old version of this paragraph] If you find yourself unhappy with your lineage or your class, you can change them using the Mirror of Transformation, found in the main Veilguard hub, The Lighthouse. You can also change your Rook's visual appearance there, too." [new version of this paragraph] If you want to make changes to your character's physical appearance, you can do that with the Mirror of Transformation, found in the main Veilguard hub, The Lighthouse. However, class, lineage, and identity are locked in and cannot be changed after you select them in the game's character creator. [Editor's Note: This article previously stated players can change their physical appearance, class, lineage, and identity using the Mirror of Transformation. That is incorrect as class, lineage, and identity are locked after you first select those. The article has been updated to reflect that, and Game Informer apologizes for any confusion this mistake may have caused.] For more about the game, including exclusive details, interviews, video features, and more, click the Dragon Age: The Veilguard hub button below."

[source]

#dragon age: the veilguard #dragon age the veilguard spoilers #dragon age: dreadwolf #dragon age 4 #the dread wolf rises #da4 #dragon age #bioware #video games #longpost #long post

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luxlightly · 3 months ago

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Fragile

A fanfic of @personostient's OC Dr.Arachne in their recent comic

I said I desperately wanted to read more about him and they said "then write it yourself, scrub" (more or less) so here's this. I have now a multiple chapter story in my head for this but at least here's a very small (as of yet unnamed) Arachne trying to understand complex ideas like sympathy and compassion when he's only big enough to fit 2 brain cells in him and one is fully occupied with having OCD.

---

In retrospect, gnawing on the already weak supports of a load bearing cross beam was a bad idea vis-a-vis the structural integrity of the floor above but, in its defense, its grasp of architecture was somewhat lacking.

Also, it had only done so to get at the termites within, who'd already done some pretty extensive damage to the whole area.

Really, it had been inevitable.

Only a matter of time before someone or something fell straight through to the dark and dusty basement.

Into the spider’s web.

Well, straight through its web, tearing up hours of work and crushing a very delicious looking moth that the spider had been saving for later and sending the spider frantically scrambling away, dodging bits of debris.

It wasn't exactly a spider, but it wasn't exactly not a spider, either. Something closer to “the elements of spiders that instill fear”. All fangs, legs, eyes, and jittery movement.

Not that it was instilling much fear at this size, though the exact nature of the size was nebulous at best. Somewhere between a rat, a golf ball, and a human heart, the shifting mass of jet black limbs and glowing red eyes would lose in a fight with the average house cat or particularly determined mouse.

So a dead, fully grown human, delivered to its metaphorical doorstep, was a fortuitous turn of events, indeed.

It could put so much of that mass to use, finally having enough to form some more complex systems, maybe even to venture out beyond the basement!

The spider scurried out from its hiding place in the dark, excited but still cautious, and onto the chest of the human. The smell of blood was thick in the air.

The spider had been trying to determine the best way of beginning to consume such a feast when some of its eyes made unexpected contact with another pair.

The human blinked and the spider froze.

Oh fuck. That rising and falling of the chest was breathing! That thing vertebrates did when they were alive!

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

For a long moment, the two just stared at each other.

Then, the human raised a hand, reaching towards it, and the spider braced to be crushed. It squeezed all its eyes closed, but the pain didn't come.

The hand instead ran two fingers softly over its body in a gentle, repetitive motion.

“Hey…little buddy…” the human wheezed. “It's okay…I'm not--” the human paused to cough, specks of blood dotting his lips. “--not gonna hurt you. ‘M a doctor…Do…’do no harm’...”

The human’s eyes were glassy and its breathing seemed labored.

The spider didn't know a whole lot about human anatomy, but it was pretty sure they needed their blood to stay almost entirely inside of them or it was detrimental to their health. The amount that surrounded the human and was currently leaking from a gash across his side was probably more than was supposed to be outside of him at any given time.

The various pieces of wood and glass embedded in his flesh were probably also probably bad.

The spider stayed frozen in terror, tiny body trembling as the hand that was nearly as big as it was continued to run along its carapace.

“Shhh…” the human hushed, though the spider had made no sound. “ ‘s okay. Okay to be scared. I'm…heh…I'm a little scared myself…”

The spider’s venom was laughably weak at this size, barely enough to put a human under for a few minutes, but that would likely be all it took for his injuries to finish him off.

It would be easy enough to strike out and bite him as he continued his odd pattern of stroking his hand across its body but, strangely…the spider found it didn't really want the motions to stop.

It felt…nice.

Centimeter by centimeter, the spider's body relaxed, leaning into the touch, eventually pressing back into the human’s fingers.

The human let out a wet sounding chuckle.

“You’re a weird little thing, huh? I think…I think I may have lost a bit too much blood…”

His hand went still, settling against his chest and his eyes closed. His breathing continued, but it was growing weaker by the moment.

Well, that problem solved itself, it seemed. Now the only problem the spider faced was again trying to find a way to best consume a creature so much larger than itself.

Perhaps…perhaps it should wait until he was dead before trying to eat him. After all, he had not killed it, though it was easily within his power. Perhaps it was only fair that it not kill him, in return.

Though, technically it was sort of its fault for gnawing through the support beams, which would mean it had killed him. No more so than the termites had, though, certainly!

Fine. It would eat him then finish eating the termites as recompense and all would be good and balanced and correct.

The spider let out a frustrated chittering noise, pacing tiny circles around the human’s chest.

It was not all good and balanced and correct! It was bad and wobbly and wrong like rotten, termite eaten wood and it felt Bad! But why?

The human was full of holes now, too. The spider had gnawed holes in the wood. Maybe it could close these holes in the human and it would not be Bad anymore. Yes, then it would be balanced. Then this feeling of Wrong would settle.

And…maybe the human would continue his gentle repetitive touches again.

The spider crawled up to the human's face, where a small gash weeped blood. Trying to get the blood to go back inside seemed like it was likely a lost cause. Liquids hated going where they were supposed to and the spider hated it about them. The human would just have to find new blood on his own, once his stopped leaking.

Long appendages tipped with spinnerets extended up from the spider's mass, stretching fine silken stands between them.

Pressing against the human's skin, it tethered a strand above and below the very end of cut, then crossed the limbs, pulling the stands taut before anchoring the strands to the skin again, a fraction of a centimeter down the length of the cut, forming a tiny ‘x’.

It repeated the motion. The silk’s adhesive held strong. It repeated the motion. Then repeated it again.

And again and again and again.

Bit by bit, the skin pulled together over the wound in a surprisingly satisfying way and the spider’s limbs became a blur of movement, crossing over each other a dozen times a second.

The repetitive nature of the movement scratched some itch in it's mind oh so nicely. All balanced and mirrored and equal and Good.

It was almost disappointed when the wound was fully closed, the seam of tiny, gossamer stitches nearly invisible, as if the wound had never been.

Luckily, there were many more holes left to close.

It moved to another on his collar, stitching it up in only a few seconds, then pulled a shard of glass from his shoulder and sealed the wound there just as quickly.

Before the spider could move on to the next wound, the thrumming in the human’s chest, his heart’s pulsing movement, stuttered. It's rhythm grew ever weaker.

The spider didn't know all that much about how creatures of flesh and blood worked, but it knew that, when that pulse stopped, they did too, and that they needed blood to keep it going.

The gash across the human's side was leaking a lot of blood. It had to be closed soon or the human would almost certainly die.

The spider moved to the wound and started the same pattern of criss-crossed silk that it had closed the other's with. It got an inch or so down the length of the gash when the silk's glue gave way, the wound splitting back open.

The spider chittered, pensively.

The wound was too big and the blood flow from it too strong for the silk to stick to the skin tightly enough. It needed something more substantial.

Holding up a leg, it stretched the tip out to a nearly hair-thin strand.

It could spare just enough of its own body to hold the wound closed enough for the silk to seal it. It wouldn't take much.

But…sealing a wound held together by a piece of itself would mean sealing a piece of its body in the human's. What effect might that have on such a creature?

After all, its body didn't have to exist in one single piece. So what was really the difference between making a part of its body a part of the human's and making the human's body a part of its own?

But, without action, the human would die either way.

…

Surely, such a tiny piece of itself would do no harm…

The spider used another limb to pull the thin, jet black strand taut. Using the sharp tip of the strand, it pierced the flesh on one side of the wound, then the other, weaving itself back and forth through the human's skin, pulling the torn edges back together.

Once the gap was closed, the spider sealed it with silk, the same as the others.

Good and Balanced and Correct.

#other's ocs #my writing #I love this little guy #he's 50% legs 50% eyes and somehow another 100% neurosis #Dr.Arachne

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bylerlipglances · 6 months ago

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FIREBALL

this could be the sound of Will shooting fireballs. The same OST plays 'She'll Kill You'

Will doesn't look too thrilled to use the fireballs but he can rise to the occasion when the time demands it. Till then, he'll stick to his wisdom. (possibly due to its adverse reaction, eg: nuclear bombs are potent but come with terrible side effects, irreversible damages). HE USES THEM WISELY. Foreshadowing his restrain.

*FIRE CAUTION*

Note: These might be little far-fetched. This is my failed attempt to understand why dialogues emphasised on color of fireball? i could be way off. i am following Marvel's interpretation since X-Men and Superman have been mentioned by the party.

GREEN LANTERN AND color of his ring theory

Green lantern powers(embedded in his rings) and parallel with will byers. 'Will' POWER is his actual power. Will is at the centre of his power.

Energy Projection: It can emit powerful blasts of energy, create force fields, and provide energy-based attacks for offense and defense. (electromagnetic field & fireballs?)

Data Analysis and Scanning: it can scan for information, detect energy signatures, and provide tactical analysis.(Nina project, IP?)

Teleportation: Some rings have the ability to teleport the wearer across vast distances. (true sight, now memories?)

Environmental Adaptation: It creates a life-support system for the wearer, allowing them to survive in extreme conditions, including the vacuum of space. (upside down?)

Time Travel the ring has been used to manipulate time. Wormholes and Spatial Warps: The power ring grants its wearer access to wormholes in space, enabling the ring wielder to rapidly cut time and distance needed for transport. The Guardians established at least one known wormhole to Oa, which once required the use of a power ring to enter. (Gates)

Weaknesses

Willpower Dependence: The ring’s strength is directly tied to the user’s willpower and emotional focus. If the user doubts themselves or loses concentration, the ring's effectiveness diminishes.

Limited Charge: The ring has a finite charge and must be recharged regularly using a power battery, which connects to the Central Power Battery on Oa. If it runs out of energy, the user becomes powerless. (Dustin's remark "Dead battery". eleven being drained)

speaking of charger, Mike is shown to be directly or indirectly associated with POWER SWITCH & SOCKETS ( source of energy? a charger ? a battery? for will?)

Vulnerability to Fear (Parallax Influence) : Lanterns' weakness to the 'COLOR YELLOW' came from the Fear entity trapped within the Green Lantern Corps' central power battery.

Mental or Emotional Instability: Strong negative emotions (fear, doubt, or anger) can interfere with a Green Lantern's ability to wield their ring effectively.

Mental Instability Protocol: Drug use, neural interference, vertigo or other forms of mental incapacitation can render the wearer unable to use their ring, rendered useless.

“I don’t know who’s been raising you, but I’m gonna get you some new crayons because it looks like he’s shooting cabbages.”

Is Will a Most Powerful 'Failed experiment'? like Madelyne Pryor?

Another green x-men, who is, possibly the most powerful, Goblin Queen (Clone of Jean) , X-Men Goblin Queen, Madelyne Pryor, X-Men's Most Dangerous, anti-hero. She unlocked her latent psychic powers. In addition to those, Madelyne also had the ability to perform sorcery, which she used to summon goblins and demons.

Madelyne eventually learns that she's a clone of Jean created by Mister Sinister. Sinister originally discarded her as a failed experiment, until the Phoenix itself gave Madelyne sentience.

Madelyne's powers are incredible hence the suggestion. might i add, a close parallel to will's alleged powers.

i am a more of a 'will byers is superman' kinda guy. but my personal favourite being will byers 'a divine deity/god' @greenfiend 's theory.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

connecting green lantern with Kryptonite: Green latern's ring can project beams of force powered by the will of the user. The ring can be used to 'produce kryptonite' and kryptonite radiation.

in context of SUPERMAN

Superman is a regular Kryptonian man, He gets his powers from our yellow sun, green kryptonite cancels that.

Uranium fluoresces green under U.V. light (Atomic Bomb theory correlation)

Green Kryptonite : It was a radioactive element composed of pieces of the exploded planet Krypton. Surviving natives of Krypton, Superman is weakened by exposure to Green Kryptonite. Prolonged exposure could result in fatal radiation poisoning.

Red kryptonite :Superman has suffered the following effects upon exposure to various pieces of Red Kryptonite: Transformed into a dragon, Rendered temporarily blind to anything colored green, Loss of power, Gained telepathy, Generated an evil doppelganger , Mental transference, Personality alteration

vecna mind lair is red toned

BLUE-K : most interesting one is Blue-K (Upside down is blue toned)

Blue Kryptonite can reverse the effects of Red Kryptonite and can work wonders on afflicted Kryptonians. Perhaps Will created upside down to save himself & hawkins? (Superman is credited for manufacturing Blue-K, to save fellow Kryptonian see the kryptonite handbook) Effects on Bizarro(Man of steel's doppelganger and a supervillain) Blue Kryptonite weakens Bizarro (does Upside Down weakeans Vecna, hence he needs tentacles to recharge?) in a similar way to how Green Kryptonite weakens Superman. It can also sedate Bizarro, allowing him to be apprehended. Blue Kryptonite can also have a calming effect on Bizarro, removing his rage toward Superman. Blue-k was created by reversing the ionic charge of green kryptonite.

#mike is will's charger #x men and will byers #will byers is superman #will the wise #will byers has powers #fireball him #will byers #BLG

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under0-0s · 9 days ago

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MK 87 : CASE STUDY TYPE-TWO BLUEPRINT GENERATION.

Rough Material Work:

Finalized Version, Improved detail and Printing:

FINAL REPORT ON ANALYSIS OF PROOFED DESIGN

IRON MAN MK 87 SUIT — TECH REPORT

STARK INDUSTRIES INTERNAL REPORT

MODEL: Iron Man Armor MK 87

Filed by: @squiglesquid , R&D Division, Stark Tower.

Authorized by: A. Stark

Date: 18.06.2025

Design Summary:

The MK 87 is a next-gen Iron Man suit optimized for high-risk, high-radiation environments and deep-space or underwater missions. It combines durable defense systems with sleek Stark aesthetics — including a distinctive starburst arc reactor at the center chestplate.

Key Features & Upgrades:

Radiation Shielding:

Reinforced layers designed to withstand gamma bursts and solar radiation.

Respiratory Unit:

Recycled O₂ mask with internal filtration tubes; compact oxygen tank built into the spine plate.

Propulsion System:

Highly boosted thrusters embedded in "big-ass boots” and palms for rapid flight and maneuverability.

Star Pattern Design:

Arc reactor redesigned for stability and symmetry — also acts as a beacon for tracking in low-visibility zones.

Armor Composition:

Titanium-vibranium weave; impact-resistant, heat-dispersive, and light enough for agile combat.

Deployment:

Modular design for rapid assembly and compatibility with satellite upgrades.

Basic Stats:

Power Output: 600% above MK 85

Flight Ceiling: Orbital capable

Weight: 220 lbs

Combat Time: 72 hrs on full charge

Armor Integrity: Class X (military grade)

TAGGING ALL INTERNS AND PEOPLE THAT NEED TO GET WORKING ON THIS RESPECTIVE TO THEIR DIVISION: @sunny-the-intern @squiglesquid @oh-to-be-a-murderer @cursed-with-knowledge @of-spite-and-hatred @woodsparker-family @radioactiveintern @blackandgoldspiderwoman @lillian-the-intern @shortlikerdj @gamma-archivist @serenastark-official @project-traveler @that-fucker-elijah @playgirlgenius

Note: Test pilots report "really tanky but stylish as hell."

#tony stark #marvel #mcu #avengers #marvel cinematic universe #marvel movies #roleplay #roleplay blog #marvel comics #iron man

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imagine-darksiders · 1 year ago

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A fun bit of human worldbuilding for the Darksiders lore. I love the idea of humans technically being considered prey animals by a number of other species in the Darksiders universe. It’s mentioned and shown explicitly that demons and other species will kill and eat humans, so I love the idea of humanity embracing the fight or flight prey instincts that have been pushed to the very backs of our consciousness for thousands of years.

Like imagine you’re a human off world with the horsemen, embarking on a very low-stakes adventure. There’s not a hint of danger on the wind so everyone’s guards are lowered (as much as a horseman can drop their guard) when all of a sudden you get the strangest feeling in the pit of your stomach, and you feel the hair rise along the back of your neck.

You’re able to drop to the ground a microsecond before an enemy attacks from above, who’s claws were an inch away from goring you, and is quickly dispatched by one of the four.

Humanity basically has a primitive early warning system embedded into their dna, which other species aren’t privy too, because they’ve never had to evolve such defensive tactics to survive. It’s not much, but it gives us just enough of a leg up to attempt to compete in the new, dangerous world we’ve re-awoken to.

Sorry for the dump, I just love the idea of long buried human instincts coming in clutch to aid us in a scary demon-infested world. And I love imagining it actually giving us an advantage over other species, who typically underestimate humans.

OohoohoaoOOHO

I need to think of ways to incorporate your idea into my fics >:]

You had no idea you could actually sense danger until you were in it, you duck literally milliseconds before a sword swings over your head and you're like, 'WOAH...! WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!'

Death: That was a sword-

You: NO, I mean WHAT DID I just do!?

#darksiders #darksiders 2

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anarchblr · 8 months ago

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"We do not depict anarchy as some idealized paradise indefinitely postponed precisely because it is too beautiful.

Men are too flawed, too used to competing with and hating one another, too brutalized by suffering, too corrupted by authority for a rearrangement of society to be likely to turn them all, overnight, into ideally good and intelligent beings. But no matter the measure of the impact we can expect that rearrangement to produce, the system needs changing and, in order to change it, we must bring about the essential preconditions that allow for such change.

Our reckoning is that anarchy is feasible in the near future, because we think that the requisite conditions for it to exist are already embedded in the social instincts of men today; so much so that, one way or another, they keep society afloat in spite of the disruptive, anti-social operations of government and property. And we reckon the remedy and bulwark against the noxious tendencies of some and against the dangers posed by the conflicts of interests and inclinations, is not government, whatever its hue, but freedom; being made up of men, any government cannot help but tilt the scales in favor of the interests and tastes of those who are in government. Freedom is the great reconciler of human interests, as long as it is rooted in equality of conditions.

Whist we want to see anarchy made a reality, we are not waiting for crime or the possibility of crime to be banished from the face of society; but we want no police because we do not believe they have the ability to prevent crime or clear up after it, whereas the police themselves are the source of a thousand woes and a standing menace to freedom. Social defense must be taken care of by the whole of society; if arms must be taken up in order to defend ourselves, we want to see everyone armed rather than a number of us constituted as some praetorian guard. We remember only too well the fable of the horse that submitted to the bridle and let itself be mounted by man to hunt the stag . . ."

-"A Few Words to Bring the Controversy to an End [by Saverino Merlino]", L'Agitazione (Ancona) 1, no. 6, (April 18, 1897)

#quotes #dictatorship #police #authority #the state #anarchy #communism

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ttulipwritezz · 1 year ago

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King Of My Heart (Body And Soul)~ R. Lupin.

Chapter 1 - Stranger that I know.

Ootp! Remus Lupin x Sirius's sister!Reader

Synopsis: When James and lily died, and your brother was sent to Azkaban, Remus was the only person you have left. Until he left too. What happens when he returns after the events of Sirius's escape, only to find out you have a son? A son that's his.

WC: 817 words

Warnings: lots of italics, probably grammatical mistakes, kiss(es), might be ooc idk, child (?), fem reader, italics are flashbacks ( idk), love (ew), [ look at series masterlist for all content warnings]

A/n: bear with me on this one, it's rather short but it's to jumpstart the series so i can write the rest of the parts. If you like this, please reblog and comment! <3

Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist, Navigation

"When did you say they were arriving again?"

Your voice echoes through the walls of the kitchen at 12 Grimmauld place. you wipe down the kitchen counters as another smaller, more meek voice replies.

"Mum we talked about this" That's your son. Regulus.

After the event of your brother passing, you wanted to honour his name. Such a beautiful name it was. No matter how cruel the people to name him were.

"I know ,I just worry, what if they get lost? maybe they couldn't find the place? what if they got caught- " Your rambling was interrupted by your son once again.

"MUM! nothing is going to happen. Besides, he's your brother. And he has lived here before. You know him." Regulus reasoned, and frankly his reasoning was logical. you were just...paranoid.

You did however, leave out the fact that what truly made you nervous was Remus.

"Well i haven't for the past 14 years, Regulus." you replied, snappy, referring to sirius. Your impatience was nearly rivaling that of your son.

"when is it arrivingggg?" a voice full of exasperation nearly whines as the screeching sound of trolly wheels comes to a halt.

An eleven year old regulus rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet as he (claimed to) patiently wait for hogwarts express to make it's way into the platform.

A thirty three year old you bent down to brush away his untamed curls, sighing as you did so.

"It will arrive soon enough, dove. Calm down."

Your voice tried to reason but little regulus's patience was waning. You had never seen a kid be so excited at the thought of going off to boarding school. But you suppose watching his older brother Harry would have embedded him with some form of excitement for the school.

You would be lying if you said you weren’t just as excited. It was your son’s first day at school. Big boy wizarding school.You were excited to see your boy go to the place you first knew as home, meet your former professors, roam the halls that you did, and make friends.

You did not, however, expect his first friend to be Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius Malfoy and your dearest cousin. In a way the two were cousins, they just didn’t know it yet.

That summer, when regulus came back from Hogwarts, he had a plethora of stories to tell you. His rant began with his new friends, Draco, Blaise, Pansy and Theo, and ended with his defense against the dark arts professor, Remus Lupin.

Needless to say all colour drained from your face at the mention of him. Remus Lupin…how do you even begin to describe remus lupin?

Remus is pretty.

He is pretty like the sunrise in winter, when the sky is faded out and it's warm. Thats what you think as you sit on the roof of potter manor. Chatting, with hands occupied by, what you think is, beer in plastic cups. You felt giddy, perhaps it was the alcohol in your system. Or the gentle brush of his hand on your clothed thigh. You felt…in love. Somewhere along the way your innocent schoolgirl crush had become something more. You hoped it had been so for him as well.

“Dove…”

His velvety voice catches your attention. You turn your head to him, only to see him still facing the sun. You’re sure he’s seen your movement though, as he takes it as his que to continue.

Nothing. Nothing could brace you for the words that were to follow.

“I fancy you.” Your eyes widen.He continues.

“I have for some time now… I think you fancy me too? Not to- I- uhm–”

“I do.” you find yourself speaking.

That was your first of many kisses to come.

Just then, the sound of the doorbell catches your attention.

“That must be them” your son says, in a rather ‘i told you so’ tone.

You rush to wipe your hands on the kitchen towel and head for the door.

Taking a deep breath to brace yourself for what’s probably Remus Lupin on the other side of the door, you pull it open with a creak.

Your eyes immediately find his.

And for a moment, you're fourteen again. Staring at the brown haired bloke across kings cross station, as he laughs with your brother. Mesmerized by his eyes, his nose, his lips, his scars. You knew that face all too well.

You blink and you're back at the doorway. Staring at those brown eyes, those eyes you knew...all too well.

"Remus.."

"Hi, love"

Taglist (open): @twilightlover2007 @idli-dosa

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fierysakura · 3 months ago

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FPAU - Meet Enaya Varados! An incredibly strong healer and Padawan to Obi-wan Kenobi. Grew up with Ahsoka, Daesha, and Izhala as an inseparable group of best friends.

As a healer, Enaya was never meant to be a General’s padawan, but new Senate laws demanded any Jedi over 12 to be sent out lest the Order be shut down entirely. To try and give the youngest more time, the Jedi asked if the oldest younglings about to be chosen for other disciplines might be willing to go on the field. They accepted. Enaya, now 15, was one of them.

Luckily she and Obi-wan knew each other and had always shared a bond. He made arrangements, checked with the men, and took her on with a promise to give as much time as he could to focus on her healing.

Personality: A total sweetheart. Soft spoken and shy except in the medbay where she reveals the backbone that gets everyone from stubborn generals to senators to do what she needs them to.

Combat: Favours a defensive fighting style because of her medical background that focuses on protecting patients. Outside of healing, Enaya’s connection to the Force is a fair bit weaker than the average Jedi, so she relies more on outwitting and manoeuvring around her opponents. This gives her an edge in situations where she’s cut off from the Force, or they can’t use it to avoid exposing themselves.

Zefar IV: Enaya is from a planet called Zefar IV, part of a system unknown to the rest of the Galaxy, but full of Light and Dark Force nexuses constantly battling against each other. It’s left its people and land with some strange magics and skills embedded in their bones. For Enaya, this manifests as an incredibly strong Healing of a kind the Jedi have rarely seen. Especially strange because of the generally weaker Force connection.

As always, feel free to ask anything about her or this AU!

(Sidenote: In this AU the clone wars last about 7 years and end with Palps’ defeat. This is Enaya about 5/6 years into it.)

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aspen78 · 1 month ago

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Chapter 6: How it all Byrnes

<<prev chp>>

Government buildings rarely whispered, but this one? The Pentagon? This floor of the Pentagon?

It stopped whispering long ago. It held its breath.

Sound didn’t just fade here--it was put on mute.

This was the kind of silence you didn’t break with a cough. The kind you didn’t fill with footsteps unless you knew where you were going.

Everything was all steel walls and buried secrets. No windows. No clocks. Time moved differently here--like it could be redacted just like anything else.

Air down here buzzed with something more than fluorescent lighting--something buried beneath miles of earth and silence. Most people didn’t know this wing existed. Most who did pretended it didn’t.

And, for what goes on down here. It was probably for the best.

(Y/n)--Vireo, whatever you want to call her, all of her--had a bad habit of showing up in these sort of places. Places she technically wasn't cleared for.

Another set of mechanized doors swished open for the girl as she dropped the “borrowed” key card and the silicone swatch of an authorized fingerprint back into the pocket of her blazer. Even through leathered loafers, her steps plodded through the maze of halls inaudibly.

She moved through the system like a courier. Quick. Unimportant. Boring. Belonging.

Security cameras tracked her, but what were they going to do with footage of a person who so very much looked like another agent?

Black blazer? Check.

Pressed button up? You know it.

Glasses? Exactly the kind you’d never notice.

Badge? Got it… stolen, but still got it.

Finger ready to be scanned? The wonders of 3D printing are truly amazing.

People didn’t question confidence in this place. They questioned mistakes. Glitches. Broken lines of protocol. They looked for the hacker in the hoodie, the grunt with the sweaty hands. No one looked twice at an unmemorable face.

(Y/n) passed another checkpoint like it was just a suggestion. She didn’t smirk. But she wanted to.

Cecil was going to be pissed.

But she was already pissed.

Her taking their defense system for a joyride was the start of making things even.

A few turns later, and she was standing in front of a vault-grade door marked with no nameplate.

It slid open before she could even attempt to rewire it.

“Come in, Byrnes.”

She sighed. “You’re no fun anymore.”

Cecil’s office was less of a room and more of a cold war command center dressed like a broom closet. Low lights. One-way mirrors. A single screen flickering static-blue across his desk. And the man himself, standing behind it like he hadn’t moved in hours.

(Y/n) stepped in, slow, deliberate. She didn’t take off the glasses. Didn’t drop the mask--not the real one.

He gestured to the chair across from him. “Have a seat.”

She remained standing.

Cecil didn’t push it. He didn’t need to.

“You’re not subtle,” he said, adjusting a file on his desk that wasn’t really a file. Just a thin stack of hollow pages, light-reactive and probably encrypted six different ways.

“I was,” she said flatly. “You’re just not normal.”

“You broke in through seven layers of biometric security and knocked one of my guys out.”

(Y/n) folded her arms. “You say that like it’s impressive.”

“It is,” Cecil admitted. “Still doesn’t mean I like it.”

She shrugged before reaching into her pocket. “You’re still alive after your late-night talk.”

Her eyes narrowed to hone in on the faint bruising around his neck. “I take it that it went well.”

He just rubbed his jaw with a sigh like he hadn’t slept. “Define well.”

“You’re breathing.”

“Barely.” He glanced up from the terminal embedded in his desk. “Nolan doesn’t like being questioned. And he's on edge right now.”

Her fingers grazed a small flash drive, letting her thumb run across the smooth surface of it. Thinking. Debating.

To her credit, this was quite a decision to make. It was essentially synonymous to hovering over the button that would nuke the world.

She rolled the flash drive between her fingers once, then twice more, like it might decide for her.

Then she set it down on the edge of his desk. Soft. Final.

It made no sound. But the weight was there.

He looked at it, eyes glaring. He didn’t reach for it yet.

“And what’s on this that I haven’t already seen?”

“Proof,” she murmured, cautious of how loud she spoke this into existence.

Cecil slowly picked up the drive, turning it between his fingers. “Of what?”

(Y/n) met his gaze, somewhat amused, but mostly annoyed. “How long are we going to play 20 questions, Stedman?”

Cecil didn’t answer right away.

He stared at her, like he was searching for the catch hidden in the words she hadn’t said yet. Then he looked at the drive again, almost like it might burn a hole through his hand.

Finally, he sighed and slotted it into the reader embedded in his desk.

The lights dimmed slightly as the screen lit up--not a clean data stream, but a patchwork of spliced footage, metadata, satellite timestamps, and audio pulled from black box files that were never supposed to exist.

And there he was.

Nolan Grayson. Omni-Man.

Not just standing. Not just moving.

Killing.

The Guardians.

No interference. No defense. No unknown third party.

There was only him. And them. And red.

The footage wasn’t long. It didn’t need to be. You didn’t need ten minutes of betrayal to know it happened. You only needed one frame.

As the room came back to a still quiet, both of them sighed.

“Why bring it to me now?”

She shrugged, but it wasn’t casual. “Because I’ve been called a lot of things, but not suicidal.”

Cecil allowed himself a bitter smirk. “Yet you broke into my base to hand me the trigger we’d have to use on the most powerful man on Earth.”

His eyes lingered on the screen for a long time, even after it darkened again. His fingertips tapped the desk--once, twice--then went still.

“I already had Darkblood sniffing around,” he said after a long beat. “He’s been circling the edges of this. Hasn’t found this yet, though. But he’s still… pushing too close.”

(Y/n) watched his face scrunch up in annoyed frustration. “You don’t like him?”

“I don’t trust him,” Cecil corrected. “But that doesn’t mean he’s wrong.”

“He isn’t,” she confirmed, her eyebrow raised. “It’s plugged into your computer now. It’s not a theory anymore, Stedman. It’s not ‘he’s off.’ It’s not ‘he’s hiding something.’ It’s him. In that room. I can ID the timestamp, the body language. I watched him crack Red Rush’s skull on repeat just to be sure I wasn’t projecting.”

It was a long second of just eye contact. Scrutinizing. Uncomfortable. Eye contact.

“You realize what happens if we move too soon, right? No backup plan. No replacement. No safety net. If we spook him-”

“We all die.” She said it like she was stating a grocery item. “I know.”

“And if we wait too long-”

“We still all die.”

Cecil nodded grimly. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

“I don’t think glad is the right word,” (Y/n) scoffed at that. “And I didn’t bring this to you for you to give me orders on what to do and what not to do.”

“What are you doing in preparation for this.”

Her mouth pressed thin when he didn’t have a response. “You’re waiting for the perfect checkmate while Omni-Man is already moving pawns,” she said, voice dropping lower. “You think he’ll slip. That you’ll come up with a plan so airtight, you can tip the king with a smile on your face.”

“In an ideal world, that would be the plan. But I think we both know ideal is so far from reality now.” She leaned closer across the desk--not threatening, but unwavering. “Stop waiting for ideal. Or you’re gonna be the director who let the world burn while he waited for it.”

“I know,” he finally said, quiet. Not reluctant. Just weighed. “I know.”

He sat back in his chair like it aged him. The static-blue monitor dimmed. The flash drive still blinked at the base of the desk like a tiny red eye.

She could see it behind his tired eyes. The rotations of a dozen emergency scenarios. The unspoken calculations about damage, fallout, and what--if anything--could stop Omni-Man.

(Y/n) watched him. Not like an ally. Not like an enemy. Like someone who refused to be either.

“Whatever you’re thinking? It won’t be enough,” she sighed. Deeply. “There isn’t going to be one perfect play. We’re going to need play after play. Hit after hit.”

“We can’t be stupid enough to delusionize a win. We’re here to buy time.” Running a tense hand through her hair, she tugged on the very ends of it like they could anchor her, stressed. Distraught. Scared. “For him.”

Cecil watched her for a moment, then looked past her. Maybe at the wall. Maybe through it. Then, he closed his eyes. “You saw the file.”

“I saw the file.”

He tried justifying himself, “Mark is the only one who stands a chance-”

“I know, Stedman,” (y/n) cut in.

Her voice didn’t spike. It dropped. Soft. Dangerous. Like she was tired of repeating herself but still doing it anyway--because no one else would.

“I know what he is. I know what he could become. I know what he might have to become.”

For the first time since she stepped down here, she let go of her facade.

The edge in her voice dulled, not from weakness but from wear. The glint in her eyes faded, no longer pretending she was only a third party. The rigidity of her posture loosened under the weight of sentiment. A quiet kind of resignation.

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

The moment didn’t last. It never did.

(Y/n) ran a hand down her face, reeling in whatever was left unsaid, before her spine reset into something colder--straighter. She gave one last glance to the blinking drive.

“You’re the director,” she muttered, already prepping to leave. “Direct.”

His mouth twitched, barely. An unrestrained movement breaking through. “Watch it.”

Her brow arched, just slightly. “Or what? You’ll assign me more teenagers to babysit?”

Cecil gave her a dry, unenthused look. “You’re exhausting.”

“So are you. What’s new?” She rolled her eyes with a small smirk.

She finally took a step back, her stance loosening by degrees. “I’m thinking with you. But y’know, you get paid for this.”

His eyes bored into her, and he deadpanned--yet again, “Exhausting.”

Her smirk grew enough. And, the door behind her hissed open again for her to turn to leave.

“But Byrnes?” his voice hooked in the air, catching her right before she stepped out of the frame.

She paused.

“If something happens to you before we act--”

“Don’t pretend you’ll avenge me,” she cut in, calm but cold. “You’re not that sentimental.”

Cecil didn’t deny it. Just tapped the desk once more. “Fine. Then try not to die. I’m short on people who actually get it.”

(Y/n) gave no reply. Only a faint lilt of a chuckle as she disappeared into the corridor.

Still the same steel-and-silence tomb they’d always been, but she now felt heavier walking through them this time. Like the walls had swallowed her voice whole. Like the decision she’d just made had soaked into the soles of her shoes.

She passed another security junction, nodded at a guard who didn’t look twice, and slipped into a nondescript elevator bound for the upper floors.

She adjusted the blazer again. Straightened her cuffs. She didn’t need to, but it helped. Rituals did. Something to focus on besides the knowledge she’d just handed the end of the world to a man with a scar and a death wish.

The Pentagon aboveground was louder--barely--but even this high up, the silence dragged behind her like a shadow.

The elevator doors dinged open.

She stepped out into a sterile hallway--bright, bland, somewhere between reception and regulation. Not her style. Too clean. Too conscious of itself.

And then she turned a corner--and collided with someone.

Hard enough that the wind almost knocked out of her. Not from the impact. From the recognition.

“Whoa--sorry, I didn’t see-” A voice halted mid-apology.

His hands had automatically caught her shoulders. Gentle. Familiar.

His fingers froze.

Her eyes snapped up. Met his.

Brown. Wide. Familiar.

Mark Grayson.

Oh, great.

Impeccable timing as always. Just what she needed after pawning off a flash drive labeled "End of World, Probably."

She didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

Not at first.

Because she knew he was already squinting.

And not in the normal awkward-teenage-boy way. The I-know-you’ve-kicked-someone’s-ass-in-front-of-me-before kind of squint.

The blazer. The glasses. The hair. She still looked like someone he should walk past in a hallway. But her eyes?

He’d seen them behind a visor. Under smoke. Just before the sword moved.

And he watched them move over him. The way she looked at him made him nervous, self-conscious even. Made him automatically look down at his suit for any oddly placed tears. Made him fix his windassaulted hair. Made him grip his mask even tighter. Made him sweat.

He may not be squinting in the normal awkward-teenage-boy way, but he sure was fidgeting in the normal awkward-teenage-boy way.

Meanwhile, she was facing the quiet internal siren in her head screaming at her to switch from contain nuclear secrets mode to oh no, social interaction mode.

“Uh…” Mark blinked. “Hi?”

(Y/n) adjusted her glasses--not because they’d slipped, but because she needed a second. Maybe two. Maybe a decade.

“…Hello,” she said, cool and even. Polite. The way school acquaintances say it when you spot them in public.

He squinted again.“Wait a second...”

“Nope,” she said immediately, backing out of his hold. “Wrong person. Very flattering though.”

He frowned. “I didn’t say anything yet.”

“You were about to.”

“Was I?”

“You always are.”

“Okay, that sounds like something someone who knows me would say,” he spluttered with a half-hazardly thrown finger gun, confident he was fully caught up with the scene now.

(Y/n) groaned under her breath and pinched the bridge of her nose. And her stomach did a slow, sarcastic spin. Of course. Of course.

This was not on the agenda. Not after footage. Not after war prep. Not after giving Cecil the flash drive of doom and telling him to think faster.

And now she was arguing with a half-sweaty teenage hero in the middle of a hallway that probably had thirty surveillance cameras.

Whiplash.

Absolute whiplash.

“Your eyes give you away,” Mark said, like that settled it. And settled himself against the wall, arms crossed and teeth smiling.

“That’s creepy,” she deadpanned, her face pinched to show her distaste--amused distaste, but still distaste.

“Is it?” he asked, smile widening like he thought he was winning something. “Because I think it’s poetic. Like--Shakespeare-level poetic. Or at least early Poe.”

She let a long sigh through her nose. “Grayson.”

He grinned. “Wow, last name. I must really be getting to you.”

(Y/n) scrunched those eyes he was so very familiar with, apparently.

“C’mon,” he said, taking a small step closer, tilting his head like he was trying to line up her current form with the battle-ready image in his memory. “You think a pair of glasses and a blazer are gonna throw me off?”

“They usually do,” she muttered. “That’s half the point.”

“Well, they don’t. I’d recognize those eyes anywhere.”

“Stop saying that.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re saying it like you’re in a cheesy romcom.”

He chuckled. Real. Stupid. Warm. His smile was crooked now. Warm. And it hit her in a way it absolutely shouldn’t have. Not right now. Not when she still felt the blood pumping cold from her last conversation.

(Y/n) stood there a beat longer than she meant to. Her shoulders were still squared like they hadn’t realized the war room was gone. Her mind was still back on the screen. The footage. The future.

But Mark? Mark was just there. Waiting. No knives. No suspicion. Just the same awkward warmth that had somehow become familiar.

She opened her mouth. The beginnings of a sentence tried to leave her, but then stopped. It swerved into a breath, and she pressed her lips together. Then, she tried again.

“I’m going now.”

She took a step back. He took one forward.

(Y/n) narrowed her eyes.

He saw it, because of course he did.

“I’m not- I’m not following you,” Mark spluttered, unconvincingly, still with a smile. “I’m just… walking the same direction at the same time. Like a coincidence. Or fate.”

She quickened her pace slightly, but he matched her again, too persistent for someone who was just “walking the same government hallway.”

(Y/n) huffed, blowing a strand of hair out of her face as her shoes mutely hit the sterile tile. “You’re unbearable.”

Mark didn’t miss a beat. “You say that like it’s a new development.”

“It’s not.”

“Well, then, at least I’m consistent.” He grinned at her like that was a badge of honor.

She finally cracked--air that almost became a laugh escaped her nose. And she hated how easy it was. How damn fast he melted the steel she hadn’t even unclenched since the sublevels. The shift in her tone, her spine, her pulse--it was too fast. Too much. Whiplash.

She immediately covered it with a cough. And, Mark pretended not to notice, but his teeth shone even brighter than the white lights.

“You are the only person who talks to me like this,” she tried to scoff.

Mark grinned like that was the entire point.

“Yeah, well--maybe I’m just the only one who knows how,” he said, easy, shrugging one shoulder.

(Y/n) rolled her eyes so hard it was practically audible, but she didn’t stop walking. Didn't tell him to leave. Didn't tell him not to follow, either.

They walked in silence for a few steps. Or rather, they moved in parallel--(Y/n) all control and solitary, Mark more of a friendly orbit, like a moon too interested in a planet that very clearly did not want to be the center of anything right now.

It should’ve been irritating.

It was irritating.

But it also wasn’t.

Because he wasn’t asking. He wasn’t pressing. He wasn’t even demanding she confirm who she was, despite the fact he clearly knew. He just walked with her, making the atmosphere lighter whether she wanted it or not.

…She hated him a little for that.

Not real hate. Not the kind that sticks. The kind that flares when someone makes it too easy to breathe after you’ve nearly drowned.

“Do you always do this?” she asked after a moment, gaze forward, voice low.

He tilted his head. “Do what?”

“This,” she motioned vaguely with a hand. “Miraculously time it so you catch me at my worst moments and use that to try to be my friend.”

Mark smiled. Not like before. Just simple. Like the kind of smile you pull on when you don’t know how to respond.

“...Aren’t we friends?”

She stopped walking.

Not with some dramatic skid or gasp or swing of the arms--but like a machine whose program had hit a wall. Like the word itself broke a cog inside her head. Friends.

Her jaw didn’t drop. Her breath didn’t catch.

She just paused.

Long enough that Mark realized he’d said something heavier than it sounded.

He blinked. “I mean--I thought we were. Or at least heading that way? I mean, I hoped-” He was doing that thing again. Rambling. Filling the air. Hands trying to catch his own words as they tripped over each other. “It’s not like I have a quota or anything, I just--well, you’re you, and I like being around-”

“Mark.”

She said it like a pressure valve.

He shut up.

The hallway, the lights, the sterile silence--all of it blurred for a second.

She wasn’t looking at him.

Her posture was still straight, still calculated. But something in her face--something in the space just beneath the skin--looked tired.

Not from walking. Not from running.

From carrying.

“…Aren’t we friends?” he asked again, a little more carefully this time. A little less certain.

(Y/n) didn’t answer right away.

She stared down the hallway instead. Like she might find the right words hidden between fluorescent hums and security cameras.

Then she said, “You don’t know me.”

“I’m trying to,” he said, quiet.

That got a glimpse of something behind her eyes. Not warmth. Not cold. Something unfinished.

She looked at him fully now, and it hit harder than it should have--how much was behind that expression. Grief. Steel. Hesitation. All fighting for the same square inch of space.

“You’re not supposed to,” she said.

He tilted his head. “Why not?”

She gave a breath of something like a laugh, but it didn’t reach very far. “Because if you do, it gets harder.”

“For who?”

“For me.”

That landed with more weight than either of them expected.

Mark’s mouth opened--some clumsy kindness ready to leap out--but her look stopped it before it formed.

She stepped back once. Not far. Just enough to reset the space between them.

“You’re… good,” she said. Like it hurt to admit. “And I’m trying to keep you that way.”

Mark swallowed. “…You don’t have to protect me.”

“Yeah,” she murmured. “I do.”

She didn’t say it like a martyr.

She didn’t say it like someone brave.

She said it like it cost her something.

It hung there.

Simple. Unadorned. Heavy in a way that made the silence around it feel thinner, stretched like glass.

Maybe it was in the way she avoided looking at him. Or maybe it was in the way bits of guilt and sadness peeked out.

But he understood something now--something he hadn’t put words to until this second.

She wasn’t pushing him away because she didn’t care.

She was doing it because she did.

He shifted his weight, eyes flicking to her hands, her shoulders, her jaw--every part of her holding still like movement would make everything spill out.

“You always do that,” he sighed, shaking his head the way you do in every frustrating argument.

It took a beat of hesitation for (Y/n) meet his prying stare. “Do what?”

“That thing where you decide everything for everyone. Like if you hold the weight long enough, the rest of us get to keep pretending this is… normal.”

She flinched. Barely, but enough.

He saw it.

And, she had to look away for her next words.

“Well, that's sort of the point.”

Mark’s brow creased.

“If I hold it,” she mumbled, steadily. Almost eerily so. With that hollow undertone of someone reciting something implanted deep within them. “Then maybe you don’t have to. Maybe you still get make your stupid jokes. Still worry about that test you forgot about. Still flail at every attempt to impress the girl. Still wake up and want something.”

He couldn’t respond to that. Not right away.

Not because he didn’t have something to say--god, he had too much to say. Too many arguments, too many reasons she was wrong, or brave, or unfair to herself.

But none of it would’ve mattered. None of it would’ve reached her the way he wanted it to.

Because she wasn’t asking for comfort.

She was explaining her logic.

And that’s what bothered him the most.

“…You think that’s what I want?” he asked finally, his voice lower now. “To be protected from the world like I’m still some kid who doesn’t get what’s coming?”

“No,” she stated, softly. “I think it’s what you deserve.”

That undid something in him.

Because there it was. Not pity. Not distance. Just… belief. In him, more than she let herself believe in anything else.

He stepped forward--not to grab her, not to reach, but to narrow the space again. Make it real.

“I don’t want to deserve normal if it means you don’t get to have it too,” he said.

Her voice came out barely above a whisper now, but it was still the loudest thing to him. “That’s not how this works.”

She looked at him then, and it almost ruined him.

Because it wasn’t cold. It wasn’t armored.

It was sad.

Not the kind of sadness that breaks down crying--but the kind that’s lived in someone’s bones so long, it’s just part of how they move now.

“You think I don’t want it?” she asked, a wry smile tugging at her mouth. “You think I don’t lie awake wishing for something as simple as a bad grade or an awkward party or a real conversation that doesn’t come with collateral damage?”

She didn’t wait for him to answer. He didn’t try to.

“I want normal more than anything,” she said, voice flat--not because she didn’t feel it, but because she felt it too much. “I don’t even get to pretend to have it as ‘me.’ I don’t go to school anymore. I head a company. I argue with men twice my age. I date to keep the tabloids distracted. I flirt when I’m supposed to, smile when it’ll make a better headline, and leave before anyone can ask a real question.”

Finally, (y/n) met his eyes. Tired meeting pity.

“And everyone keeps telling me I’m impressive. That I’m composed. That I’m handling it.” She paused, her jaw clenching.

“I’m already fighting to keep two lives.” She looked away again. “I can’t handle adding a normal one.”

Mark didn’t back off. No, he stepped closer. Grazed his hand on her shoulder enough to get her attention again.

“Maybe…” he started, not sure and full of uncertainty, but earnest. “Maybe you don’t need another life.”

She didn’t move, but something in her eyes flickered. Caution. Skepticism. Bracing for some hollow reassurance.

“You can take--you’re allowed to take a moment for you. Just five minutes? Where none of that matters. Not the headlines, missions, or- or anything,” he smiled, asking for any form of consideration. “The world won’t fall apart that quickly, right?”

She stared at him like he’d just spoken in a language she hadn’t heard in years.

Five minutes?

Her throat tightened around the idea. Not because it was absurd.

But because it was dangerous.

Because it sounded a little too much like hope.

(Y/n) didn’t answer right away. Her eyes dropped--not out of guilt, not even hesitation, but calculation. Like she was weighing the cost of softness in a life that had no room for it.

He wasn’t asking for forever. Wasn’t asking her to tear down everything she'd built just to let him in.

He was asking for five minutes.

And she didn’t know how to say yes to something so simple.

Because if she said yes now, what would happen the next time someone needed her?

What if five minutes turned into ten? Turned into a habit?

Turned into her wanting more?

And want was dangerous.

Want was weakness.

Want was how people got kill-

Shit. How did it get this bad?

Even when someone is asking for five minutes where you don’t spiral into your responsibilities, you still were.

(Y/n) shut her eyes, letting a new breath cycle through her lungs. She let herself breathe. Just once. Fully.

Then it came out as a curt huff. Just like the ones when you can’t believe how stupid you were.

Her (e/c) met his patient brown ones and a small, pressed smile was willed into existence. Not a smartass smirk. Or that photo perfect grin.

Just her smile.

“...Well,” she said, her tone somewhat neutral. “You got time for a coffee? Or should we keep standing here making eye contact until one of us combusts?”

Mark’s grin was immediate. Stupid. Earnest. Real.

Very Mark.

(Y/n)’s was tentative. Uncertain. But cracked open enough to be real.

Possibly (Y/n).

*bonus scene (b/c i felt like writing it but the chapter officially ended above :] )

The overhead lights in the break room buzzed with the faint flicker of neglect. One of them stuttered every now and then like it was trying to start a conversation. But it doesn’t. Because even the lights know better.

Everything was beige or gray. Tables were bolted down. Chairs were stackable. Coffee machines looked like they have been through war.

Still, there was something oddly comforting about it.

Maybe it was because no one spared the brightly colored hero or the ‘intern’ a second glance. In the eyes of everyone else, they simply just got another two bodies in the bureaucratic purgatory.

The pair stood at the far end of the self-serve station. Mark stared at the array of options like it was a minefield. (Y/n) watched him with a vague sense of amusement, still trying to unclench the knot between her shoulder blades.

“So…,” he gestured with both hands, eyes squinting at the row of burnt carafes. “Do I risk the ‘hazelnut’ or the mystery third pot?”

She picked up a paper cup and lightly snorted, “I think you’ll regret either.”

He nodded solemnly, watching as she picked up the safe pot in the middle. “Cool, cool. Regret it is.”

Grasping the third pot, Mark watched the dark liquid slosh around the glass and swallowed. He filled the cup halfway and immediately winced at the scent that hit him.

“Holy shit,” he groaned, shoving the cup away from his face. “That smells like battery acid and depression.”

(Y/n) hid a shit-eating grin behind her own cup, sipping at the bland, watered-down black coffee to cover a laugh. “That’s actually the Pentagon house blend.”

He gave her a sidelong look, lips quirking. “I forgot you could joke.”

She gave him a look over the rim of her cup. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m hilarious.”

Mark let out a soft snort.

“You’re just never in the crowd,” she finished, deadpan.

He chuckled as they walked their drinks over to a corner table tucked between a vending machine and a bulletin board littered with outdated training memos.

(Y/n) sat with her back to the corner. Old habit. Strategic. Eyes facing the room. One foot hooked around the leg of her chair like muscle memory never quite let her go.

Across from her, Mark plopped down ever so gracefully, staring at his cup like the coffee might melt through.

Still, he, of course, sipped it. Grimaced at it. And, immediately regretted it.

“I’m ninety percent sure this is paint thinner,” he muttered.

She finally let the smile fully break through. Not wide. Just... unguarded. “You’re the idiot who picked the mystery pot.”

He leaned on one elbow and pointed at her, mock-offended. “Excuse you, I was misled. You told me I’d regret both. That made this sound like a fun gamble.”

(Y/n) arched a disapproving brow at him, but the tilt of her lips gave her away. “So it’s my fault you chose to melt your tastebuds.”

Mark threw both hands up, still grinning. “Hey, I take responsibility for most of my terrible decisions. This one’s only, like… seventy percent mine.”

“Generous.”

“You’re welcome.”

She shook her head at his attempts of getting her to laugh, but she didn’t cover the tiny grin on her face.

Mark set the cursed cup down like it might explode if provoked further. He leaned back in the chair and glanced at her again, letting the grin settle into something softer.

Seeing her in this light felt illegal for him. Not that she wasn’t allowed to be normal… adjacent. But with how she usually moved through the world, this felt new. And rare. And kind of good in its own weird, quiet way.

She wasn’t armored up. Not fully. Not right now. No bird-mask. No shield. No mission reports or tactical evasions. Just her. Shoulders still a little tense. Foot still wrapped around the chair leg like she was expecting a breach. But her mouth? Still tilted in something that looked dangerously close to relaxed.

Mark tried not to stare. He did a bad job.

“So…” he started again, grasping at straws for a normalish topic. “No school?”

(Y/n) squinted at him as if asking “really,” but answered with a shrug anyway. “Not anymore.”

His eyes bore into her when she didn’t explain further, almost daring to pour his coffee in her watery one.

Snatching her cup from him, she gave a light glare. “I-um I graduated already.”

Mark blinked. “Wait. Really?”

(Y/n) took a swig from his coffee cup purely out of spite, grimaced, and set it back down like it personally offended her.

“Yeah,” she confirmed, voice recovering around the aftertaste. “Graduated.”

“High school?”

A quiet sip of bland chaser filled the air for a drawn out second. She gazed into the murky brown like it might offer a better way to say what came next. Because how do you admit to this without sounding pretentious? Or… like a government science experiment with a student ID.

“Um. Yeah, high school…” she started carefully. “And, uh. College.”

She could feel him trying to pry more out of her, but she didn’t look at him. Just sipped again.

“Wait.” Mark blinked like his brain was buffering. “College college?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re joking.”

She shook her head, the tiniest twitch of her mouth made a smirk. “I really wish I was.”

His mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again--this time with something that sounded like a confused half-laugh, like he wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or concerned.

“Hold on,” he said, holding out a hand like he could physically stop the revelation from snowballing. “You’re how old again?”

She leaned back slowly in her chair, arms crossing loosely, smirk already spreading.

“Older than you,” she said, annoyingly smug.

He squinted harder at her.

And, as if it actually managed to pull a real answer from her, she gave in. “...by a few months.”

“You’ve got that much mysterious aura and you’re barely older than me?”

“Some of us peak early,” (y/n) shrugged, smug still intact. “Besides, it’s not hard when you don’t sleep and already know half the curriculum because you’ve been hacking into government databases since middle school.”

Mark blinked again. “...What.”

She handed his cup back with a faint, innocent shrug. “What?”

He waited for her to crack and admit it was all a bit. She didn’t.

She smiled. “Is this really what you want to spend five minutes of normal wrapping your head around?”

He made a face. “Okay, fine, but if this is you being normal, I want a refund.”

Clicking her tongue, she put her cup down and corrected him like she was reading the fine print of a contract, “Five minutes of normal. Not five minutes of ordinary.”

"Right, my bad," He huffed a laugh, sinking into his chair like the weight of the day finally remembered it existed. His hand toyed with the edge of the coffee cup, rotating it slowly. “Y’know, for what it’s worth… I don’t think normal’s all that great.”

(Y/n) tilted her head--subtle, questioning.

“I mean, sure, it’s nice,” Mark continued, eyes still on the cup. “Simple. Safe. But--I don’t know. It’s hard to pretend I still fit into that.”

He glanced at her again, searching. Not pushing--just looking. Like he wasn’t sure if what he’d said made him sound ungrateful or just honest.

She didn’t give him an immediate answer. But she didn’t look away, either.

So he took that as permission to keep going.

Mark cleared his throat, “I keep trying to pretend I still care about pop quizzes and gross cafeteria food. But then there’s this whole other life I’m living that I’m not supposed to tell anyone about.”

He paused, swirling the coffee again like it might say something back this time.

“And, then I finally asked out this girl I like,” he said, almost as if he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or wince. “You saw how that went.”

The girl across from him just sat with him. Listening without interruption. Letting him have the air, because he needed it too.

“It was great for the most part. She was great. But I kept having to lie to her, or just leave stuff out,” he admitted, words slowing like they were dragging more weight than expected. “I mean, it was the first date… it’s the first try at getting to know someone you like, and I was already leaving out half my life.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, fingers tangling slightly in his hair. “I want to be normal for her. I really do. But trying to just made me understand what you meant at the bench.”

(Y/n)’s gaze didn’t waver. If anything, it softened--but not in a way most people would notice. Just enough for someone who knew how hard she worked to keep things out of reach.

“You said it,” he added, voice a notch softer. “That’s not how this works when your life becomes fragments.”

She looked down at her hands. One still circled the rim of her cup like it was muscle memory. The other flexed slightly, resting against the edge of the table, fingers twitching like they were fighting the urge to hold something real.

“…Yeah,” she said after a long moment and then she let go of an admission. “I tried to give you a little buffer from that realization.”

His eyes flicked up only to see she wasn’t meeting his but her cup’s.

“Stedman said you were taking a night off so I picked up the alert for you,” she half shrugged as if it was nothing. “I didn’t think you should have to get electrocuted and broken up with in the same hour.”

Mark let out a quiet breath, somewhere between gratitude and humor. “I was wondering how you showed up that fast. Don’t you live in New Jersey or something?”

“Stedman kidnapped me, so I was in the area,” she muttered with a grudge.

He raised both eyebrows. “Like… literally kidnapped?”

She sipped her coffee again like it was a legally binding NDA. “The man has a teleporter at his disposal.”

“So… yeah. Literal kidnapping.”

“Technically, he asked first. I just didn’t realize ‘for what?’ was legally binding.”

He chuckled, a small, disbelieved one.

“But, thanks…” he said quietly. “For taking the alert.”

(Y/n)’s eyes snapped to him for a half-second before she brushed the thanks off with a wave of her hand. “It wasn’t charity. You were busy. I wasn’t.”

“That’s the same tone Cecil uses when he wants me to think he’s not being nice.”

She scoffed, “Well, you both complain the same amount, so.”

“Still,” he said after a beat. “It helped.”

“Sure,” she offered an ounce of acknowledgement through a quirk of the lip.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. Just let the scent of the--pathetic excuse for--coffee fill the air between them. No one else was in the room but them now. Two teens who didn’t feel like teens. Sitting across from each other--not like it was normal, but like normal didn’t matter.

(Y/n) tapped her finger lightly against the rim of the cup again. A rhythm, faint and even. Mark watched the motion--not because it was loud, but because it was grounding. The kind of thing people did when they were still working out if they were allowed to be at peace.

“You think there’s anyone out there who doesn’t care about the ‘normal’ part?” he asked, faintly, almost like he didn’t want her to hear it.

A pause. Measured. Careful.

“Someone who gets it.”

That landed between them like a quiet echo. Not loud enough to demand anything--but not soft enough to ignore, either.

(Y/n) looked at him fully now, the weight of that last line filtering through her in real time. Something passed behind her eyes--quick, quiet, not quite visible. But it was there.

A flicker of recognition.

Of warning.

Of want.

She swallowed once. Then shifted an inch apart from him, gaze narrowing just slightly--not cold, but sharp. Assessing.

“Someone who gets it,” she echoed, carefully.

Not mocking. Not dismissive. Just… weighing it. Like she was trying to decide whether he even knew what he was asking.

Mark didn’t flinch under the scrutiny. He didn’t double down either. He just held the question where it was. In the air. Waiting.

“You’re looking for the wrong person then,” she said, voice quieter now. Less clipped. Less armored.

Mark tilted his head. “Yeah?”

She looked down again, like the words had to be mined from somewhere deeper than she was used to digging. Her next sentence came out like a confession whispered into a storm drain.

“You don’t want someone who gets it,” she said, voice lower. “You think you do. But it’s a different kind of weight when someone understands exactly how much you’re carrying.”

“They don’t say, ‘I’m sorry you’re going through this.’ They say, ‘Yeah. Me too.’ And that’s worse, ” (Y/n)’s voice softened, somewhere between apology and resignation. “Because it’s not just shared. It’s mirrored. And sometimes, you don’t want a mirror. You want a window. A door. Something that opens out instead of in.”

Her eyes flicked back to his then--cautious, a little raw, but direct.

“That’s what normal people give you. Even if it’s fake, even if it’s fleeting. The chance to look at the world like you’re not trapped in it.”

She didn’t say "someone like me can’t give you that."

She didn’t have to.

It was written in the space between her posture and the tired set of her shoulders.

“I think you should give an actual shot with her.”

He could’ve said okay. He could’ve said maybe. He could’ve said nothing at all.

Instead, he leaned forward just slightly, elbows on the table, and said:

“But she doesn’t know this part of me.”

“It didn’t feel real.” His fingers tapped against the side of the cup again, mirroring her rhythm without realizing it.

(Y/n) noticed. She always noticed. And for a moment, she said nothing.

Then--softly, without lifting her gaze-- “Maybe that’s why you tried.”

Mark tilted his head. “Because it wasn’t real?”

“No,” she said. “Because it could be.”

There was a pause.

Just long enough for the weight of it to settle between them. Not heavy--just exact. Measured. Like the moment had stopped pretending it was just casual.

Then his voice cut back in, low but sure.

“You think this--” he gestured between them, between the silence and the rawness and the edge of a conversation that wasn’t supposed to happen, “--feels fake?”

His tone wasn’t biting. It wasn’t dramatic. It was… quietly daring. Like he was offering her a way to deny it—if she needed it. But hoping she wouldn’t.

“No.” (Y/n) gave the smallest laugh. The kind that had too much honesty in it to be sarcastic. “But it’s messy.”

“It always is,” he agreed. “But that doesn’t mean it has to suck.”

“It kind of does, though,” she said. “If it didn’t suck, we wouldn’t be here drinking coffee that tastes like liquid regret pretending we’re allowed to have five minutes to feel human.”

She bit her lip, thinking. “Look, just try for the door before you’re stuck without an exit.”

Mark’s brow furrowed, lips pressing into something between a smile and a frown.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “But what if the door is locked?”

(Y/n)’s eyes flicked to him, guarded. “Then find another one.”

“And if I still end up circling back to the same room?”

“Then you’re not looking for an exit. You’re just stalling.”

His mouth quirked, more wry than amused. “Maybe. Or maybe…” he leaned in slightly, just enough to shift the air between them. “Maybe some rooms are worth getting stuck in.”

Exasperation filled her face. “Mark.”

She said his name like a warning. Like a sigh. Like a bruise she didn’t want him pressing on, even if part of her didn’t mind the weight.

“I don’t…” she hesitated. Then met his gaze--really met it, like she was pleading with him to let it pass through his thick skull. “I don’t want to be the reason you get stuck… Please, just try.”

“Okay,” he said again. Not flippant. Not blindly hopeful. Just steady. Like he understood what she meant, even if he didn’t agree with all of it. “I’ll try.”

(Y/n) exhaled. Not dramatically. Just enough to loosen the breath she’d been holding since the moment got too close.

A beat passed. They sat there, two weapons forged too early in the fire, trying not to need things they couldn’t name.

Then she glanced at the clock. Five minutes had long since passed.

And yet--

She didn’t move.

Didn’t push away.

Didn’t reset.

Instead, she nodded toward the cup he’d been rotating this whole time.

“Drink that again,” she said, deadpan. “Let’s make sure you suffer enough to remember me in a bad light.”

Mark laughed--actually laughed this time. Not the awkward, teen-fumbles kind. The real kind. Like something in his chest loosened.

And when he lifted the cup again in mock salute, (Y/n) laughed with him--moreso at his immediate gag. Letting another five minutes slip through her clock.

<<next chp>>

<3 -> @jiyeons-closet @heiankyonoeiyuukun

#invincible #invincible x reader #mark grayson #mark grayson x reader #invincible show #reader insert #x reader

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tinydappledleaf · 3 months ago

Text

Character Exploration 🍎 Caleb (LaDS)

Caleb is late - and reflects on his situation.

-> an experimental piece to explore writing Caleb

Pairing: Caleb x MC, Caleb's perspective

Rating: T, comparable to game content

A personal vendetta against the fleet, a sabotaged navigational system, an overall messed up patrol flight through the darkness of Deepspace that should have ended more than a day prior.

It all leaves the colonel beyond tired when he finally sets his boot on the busy runway. A sharp gust of wind nearly whips his cap off, which is quickly adjusted in practiced ease. It’s a welcome sensation after days spent in the stagnant recycled air inside the ship. It takes his mind elsewhere for a split second before it returns to the situation at hand.

Hiccups like the recent one have gotten more frequent since the takeover of the Tuum Section.

None of it has been serious or professional enough to become truly worrisome. But the recurrence of similar incidents is wearing his patience thin, steadily gnawing away on his already strained nerves. Worst of all, it costs him precious time.

Time reserved for the one and only person preserving his ceaselessly assaulted sanity.

The colonel leaves Liam to deal with the aftermath, said man all too readily obliging the order despite having shared the taxing experience on ship. The Toring Chip, securely embedded behind the colonel’s right ear, effectively does its job, staving off the onslaught of guilt before it even gets the chance to manifest itself.

After all, there’s no one waiting for his obedient adjutant to come home that night.

Or at all.

'Who cares?' Whispers the chip in a quiet sequence of zeros and ones and preaches logic over emotion in an efficient release of calmative chemicals into the surrounding tissue. No friends, no compassion within the fleet’s hierarchy. Only subordinates and orders.

The chip does not affect, however, that tiny part of grey matter, closely guarded and hidden away behind a barrier of carefully crafted defense mechanisms, with but one desire:

Go home. See her. Finally.

The thought alone is enough to leave behind the 'colonel' for now.

Caleb strips himself of his restrictive uniform in a matter of seconds as soon as he’s boarded his personal aircraft, slipping a comfortable sweater over his remaining undershirt instead.

She loathes the mere sight of the intimidating uniform. He knows by the disdain evident in her gaze whenever it comes across her, whether he wears it or it’s just hanging on the coat rack by the front door. While she’s come to accept things the way they are now, at least he direly hopes she does, she does make no pretense of her despise for it. It leaves an acidic taste in his mouth, knowing that she knows. About the things he does. What he’s involved in. What doesn’t wash off when he showers, no matter how long he remains under the steady spray of water. No matter how hard he scrubs his skin sore.

Nonetheless, she comes to see him every other weekend. Voluntarily.

It soothes his conscience somewhat. That she still seeks him out on her own will. Despite everything, despite his own, now abandoned, aim to keep his distance to guard her safety, he can’t deny that he enjoys her presence. More than anything.

The more the irritation grows that some pesky nuisance dared keeping him away from her for longer than necessary. She had told him she’d arrive Saturday morning. The morning after his scheduled return. Now it’s well past midnight, a day later than planned, and he’s mourning the precious hours lost.

He checks his messages before he departs. A quick glance. To prepare himself.

There’re merely two notifications.

‘I’m at the station’, reads the first one, ‘Where are you?’

The second one, short and crisp: ‘I’m at your place now. Please be safe.’

He'd take any kind of annoyance or accusation over the quiet worry and resignation that echoes in her pick of words.

He can deal with her irritation; with the silent treatment she turns to in her anger that he's endured time and again throughout shared teenage years. What he cannot deal with is her disappointment. Her sad expression when he's yet again failed to keep a promise, no matter how tiny and unimportant it seems in the big picture.

A part of him hopes that she’s long gone to bed when he arrives. That her disappointment morphs into the preferred anger throughout her dreams. That she wakes up staring him down with annoyance in her pretty eyes as soon as she finds him in the kitchen prepping her favorites for breakfast. He can make it up to her then. Pamper her until she forgives him for standing her up.

That thought in mind, he takes to the sky.

The way home - now that he finally allows himself to call it that ever since she’s taken it upon herself to make it one - encompasses merely a few quiet minutes of rumbling thoughts and engine before his aircraft descends through the barriers surrounding his property. The landing is smooth, as it always is, despite the unease brewing steadily in Caleb's chest. The well-known tightness sits at war with a surge of pleasant anticipation to see her as he unlocks the door and steps across the threshold.

The house is as quiet as its owner as he disposes of his leather coat at the door. Quiet enough to make him wonder if she stayed at all.

A treacherous whisper in the back of his mind tells him she would be better off leaving and never coming back. Safe from the danger that lurks in the shadows around his presence. Safe from him and what he has become - Or has always been? He's not even certain of that himself anymore. Blame it on a lack of confidence or the murky spaces left behind by yet another set of (probably) unremarkable memories dissolved into nothing but muddled fog.

But he's too dreadfully egoistic for that. Too dependent on her sweet smiles and fond gazes as his fuel to power onwards.

Too addicted.

It’s despicable in many ways. But guilt and shame have long since faded into the background of his mind. If she comes to him willingly, he tells himself, he may as well allow her and keep her close to shield her from the creeping peril all around.

His silent steps on sock-clad feet carry him through the foyer while he tries not to expect anything, still.

The faint light from the kitchen isle illuminates the living room ahead. He spots half a meal abandoned at the table, cooking utensils already cleaned and neatly arranged to dry in his absence.

A hint that she’s stuck around. He barely shifts his gaze when he spots her barely a few feet away on the couch.

She's haphazardly bundled in a throw blanket, knees tucked to her tummy and hands comfortably curled beneath her chin.

It occurs to him that she must have tried to keep her eyes open until his arrival, regardless of the exhausting mission she had just accomplished herself before setting out to visit Skyhaven. The realization tugs at his heart in an unpleasant way, stirring the captious chip awake again unbidden. He ignores it in defiance and grinds his teeth through the threatening buzz that rattles his mind. Persistent little thing.

Once it quiets down, he redirects his focus to the sleeping girl.

She appears much smaller, curled up like this, much more vulnerable than she truly is these days.

She no longer is the little girl clinging to his sleeve at the faint and distant rumble of thunder. He's well aware that she's grown into a formidable fighter herself. Brave and strong, laughing into the face of danger willingly as she snoops around places that she should definitely not.

His little pip has grown resilient through all the years spent together, blossomed into something bolder and more beautiful than he could have ever imagined.

But that doesn't quell his ever-present desire to protect her. To hide her away from anyone or anything that might dare cause her harm. He's promised her that. So many times, in silence or aloud, whenever her bright mind had been wiped clear, he's lost count. It’s the one vow he will never break, for as long as his stubborn heart keeps beating alongside hers.

He'll keep her safe and sound.

Gentle as he possibly can, he leans down to scoop her into his arms, carry her to bed, lest she wake with a crick in her neck come morning.

Only then does he take notice of the familiar piece of fabric spilling through the gaps between her fingers. Her nose is buried into it, muffling each deep and steady breath she takes.

It’s a worn shirt he'd left on the side of his bed in a hurry. None of the ones he'd brought from Linkon as he left for the DAA. He'd found her snatching those often enough, fresh from the clothesline, claiming them for herself to lounge in. He's used to that, as much as he can be, seeing her in his clothes.

But this one.

This one is recently bought. A necessity now that he gets (and wants) to spend more time out of uniform.

He’d understand she’d grab one of those old, well-acquainted shirts to wallow in memories… but this?

You killed my Caleb.

The echo of her hissed words still stings. It accompanies him, ricochets off the inside of his skull relentlessly. He'd begrudgingly made peace with the fact that she very much rejects who he is now. That she desperately hopes to somehow rediscover the boy that she's known her whole life. But this.

This tiny, unimposing gesture.

He freezes before his fingers touch her sleeping form, emotion welling up, swirling into a dangerous maelstrom of hope and sorrow alike.

A murmur of her name slips past his lips, and she stirs to the familiar sound, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as her sleepy eyes blink open.

Her drowsy gaze finds his in the twilit room and her smile stretches.

"Lebby," she mutters, evidently still half-asleep.

He hasn't heard that one in a while - the age-old nickname kickstarts his brain back into functioning.

"'m here," he affirms, hushed as his unsteady voice allows him to speak, as not to fully rouse her from sleep.

She hums, sounding utterly content, and winds her arms around his neck as he proceeds to pick her up.

Nuzzling her face into his shoulder, she breathes him in, and his mind teeters dangerously on the edge of the cold abyss again.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Resist.

Relax.

This is what it’s all for. He refuses to give in to the persistent chip, denies it access to this one beautiful gain of his whole twisted situation.

Damn the chip. Damn Ever. Damn fucking everyone that dares messing up what he feels for her. He sears the moment into his memory, sealing it securely behind unbreakable barriers.

Her warmth, her scent, her weight in his embrace. This belongs to him and her alone.

"I'll always come back to you," he murmurs and presses a tender kiss to the side of her head. "For as long as I breathe."

The emotional strain only adds to his present exhaustion, the hammering pain within his head as agonizing as ever, and the brief walk to her room grows slow and sluggish. It so happens that, after he’s carefully lowered her onto the mattress, he doesn’t resist her pull when she refuses to let go of his neck.

“Clingy,” he mutters, but doesn’t mean it, as he gives in and lets her topple him over and straight beside her onto the welcoming bed beneath.

It’s far from comfortable; Limbs tangled, her elbow digging into his ribs, his cheek smushed into the cool case of her pillow. Still, he revels in the onslaught of sensation, savors the dull ache that spreads along his awkwardly arched spine. Silence reigns beyond the occasional creak of bones and bed until her voice breaks once more.

She adjusts herself, curls her arms around his bicep instead.

“You’re late, dummy…”

Her soft voice is muffled against his shoulder, barely clear enough for him to grasp.

“But I’m happy you’re home…”

Yeah, thinks Caleb, I am, and wraps his hand around her smaller one.

Enveloped in the shelter of her presence, lastly he yields the steady pull of sleep...

#leaf writes #caleb love and deepspace #love and deepspace #lads caleb #lads mc #lads #caleb x mc #spontaneous writing #character exploration #practice #introspection

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