#disk cleanup | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

alive-gh0st · 2 months ago

Text

❝Marked❞

⋆｡˚✴︎⋆Veil!Mark Grayson x Trouble!Reader⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

•. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˚₊‧⟡꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ⟡‧₊˚ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.•

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

★ summary: he’s supposed to be your handler. a monitor. a leash. but mark grayson doesn’t follow orders—not when it comes to you. when they tried to reassign you, he rewrote the rules. now you’re stuck with him: veiled, violent, and watching you like he already owns you. you don’t play well with others. he doesn’t care. because underneath the blood, the missions, the slow obsession—he isn’t trying to control you. he’s trying to keep you. marked as his.

‪‪★ contains: nsfw (18+). enemies to feral co-dependents. handler x operative dynamic. forced partnership. obsession disguised as protection. surveillance with feelings. feral!mark. dangerous!reader. veil!mark. veil!invincible. slow burn to full meltdown. soft dom vibes. unhinged loyalty. post-mission patchups. emotional warfare disguised as flirting. “say that again and i’ll ruin you” energy. knifeplay (non-lethal, very hot). panty stealing. couch sex. praise kink. sacred-name usage. quiet confessions. dirty mouths, softer hearts. extremely earned smut.

★ warning: graphic violence. blood/injury. canon-typical trauma. stalking (narratively intentional, obsessive-not-malicious). emotional volatility. intense possessiveness. nsfw content (oral + penetrative sex). manipulation of power dynamics (non-abusive). toxic attachment themes. unhealthy coping. emotional depth. explicit devotion. mark being insane about you in every way.

‪‪★ wc: 8437

ᯓ★ requested by: @hyunniestharr (your idea haunted me. now it can haunt you, too)

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: this isn’t a love story—it’s a security breach with a heartbeat. a warning label on loyalty (also yes. he absolutely came untouched. twice.)

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

The knife slid in easy.

Too easy, honestly—especially after chasing this bastard across rooftops, sewer grates, and at least two levels of transit. Your lungs still burned, your shoulder throbbed, and your mood? Absolutely shot to hell.

The blade found its mark between his ribs, sliding in with that soft, sickening give that muscle memory never forgot. The target gurgled—wet, startled, pathetic.

“God, you’re dramatic,” you muttered, yanking the blade out with a practiced twist.

It splattered red across your boots.

“I mean, if you were gonna be this squishy, you could’ve just surrendered ten blocks ago and saved me a goddamn headache.”

He dropped like a ragdoll, face-down into the filth-streaked alley and joined the others in the room that already smelled like copper and regret. The puddle beneath him spread slowly, sluggish in the midwinter air. You stood over the corpse with a scowl, sweat slicking down the back of your neck. The quiet buzz of adrenaline had barely started to fade.

“Stubborn little shit. Had to bleed like a faucet.”

Blood—most of it not yours—stuck to your gloves, smeared across your thigh where the asshole’s last desperate swing had caught you.

“Perfect,” you sighed, inspecting the ruined leg of your suit. “Because what I really needed today was another reason to explain why my laundry bill rivals a war crime.”

The sting of shallow wounds tugged at your nerves. But you didn’t flinch. You never did.

“You better have intel worth all this laundry,” you muttered before crouching and rifling through the dead man’s pockets—only pulling out a charred disk drive and a mangled transponder. Useless. Still, protocol said bring everything, so you stuffed it into your pouch and rose.

“Dumbass bled out for nothing,” you muttered. ”Bet his last thought was about that ugly-ass tattoo he was so proud of. Shame.”

You rolled your shoulder, muscles groaning in protest, and started trudging toward the exit.

The concrete was slick from the mess. You didn’t bother avoiding the blood trail. Let Forensics earn their paycheck.

“This is what I get for volunteering for ‘cleanup duty,’ huh?” you grumbled. “Next time I see Dispatch, I’m stabbing them with this knife. Gently. Lovingly. But repeatedly.”

Your comm crackled.

You froze. Then sighed. Of course.

Swiping the screen open mid-step, you expected a location ping or evac window. Maybe even a rare “good job” if someone up top was feeling generous. Instead, you got flagged.

PRIORITY. LEVEL SIX.

UNSCHEDULED MEETING. MANDATORY.

FILE ATTACHED.

“Yeah,” you muttered. “That’s not ominous at all.”

The folder had your name stamped on it—but nothing else. No briefing, no subject tags, just a sealed file and an address string embedded in the encryption. You squinted at the coordinates.

Underground.

Of course.

You barked a humorless laugh. “Meeting in the bunker. Creepy as hell. Classic you, Command.”

Without even trying to clean up, you took a turn off the main street, ducking into a nondescript elevator shaft hidden behind a disused courier hub.

One retinal scan and two sarcastic clearance swipes later, you were riding down into the belly of the beast.

── .✦

The bunker hadn’t changed since the last time you broke into it. Still dusty, still freezing, still lit with that flickering LED buzz that made you want to file a complaint and commit arson at the same time. You moved through it like muscle memory: two lefts, a keypad, retinal scan. A hiss of doors unlocking.

No guards. No eyes on you.

Just one metal table, and a single paper folder sitting at its center like a damn horror prop.

“Oh, great,” you deadpanned. “We’re going analog. That’s never shady.”

You peeled your gloves off with your teeth, slapping them on the table before flipping the folder open.

“Really setting the mood,” you muttered. “All that budget, and they still print shit on recycled office supply.”

The folder wasn’t marked with anything obvious—just your designation and a date. No mission summary. No ops plan. Just bureaucratic psych jargon. Something about “disciplinary structure,” “high-risk autonomy,” “unstable behavioral metrics.” You rolled your eyes so hard your neck nearly cracked.

“Jesus,” you muttered. “Next thing they’ll say I’ve got commitment issues.”

Then—tucked at the very bottom—you saw it.

Reassignment. Oversight. Immediate effect.

You blinked.

And blinked again.

Your lips parted, half-laugh, half-scoff forming in your throat when—

The door hissed open behind you.

Footsteps. Heavy. Even. Slow.

You turned, instinctively reaching for your knife.

Then paused.

Because the man in the doorway?

Blue and yellow. No cape. No insignia. A form-fitting suit that clung to muscle and violence, with a strange veil that obscured his face like a curtain of secrecy—thin, sheer, barely hiding the line of his jaw.

His eyes glowed behind narrow goggles—calm, calculating.

You never heard him speak. Not really.

You’d seen him before—that’s for sure. Not clearly. Just flashes on rooftops. A distant signal you weren’t cleared to track. Everyone called him something different, if they talked about him at all. You never paid attention to other people anyway.

Until now.

He stepped inside like he owned the room—and maybe he did—and said nothing. Just looked at you. Sized you up.

He looked at you like he already knew how you fought. How you bled. Like he knew where to land a punch—or where it would really hurt.

You looked back.

What was his alias again… ?

You hated that it made you curious.

A beat lagged. Then two. No one said anything.

And then you looked back at the file, still open on the table. Read the fine print. The line that had made you scoff but hadn’t sunk in until now.

“Assigned to field partner. Behavioral reassessment ongoing. Expect prolonged oversight.”

You opened your mouth. Then shut it again.

“Oh, you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ͙͘͡★⋆⭒˚.⋆

Invincible—or just Mark, depending on who was stupid or familiar enough to call him that—watched from the far end of the room.

Arms crossed loosely, leaning back against the wall like he didn’t have half a dozen other places to be. Like he wasn’t technically two hours behind on a recon run he’d already lied about completing.

But whatever.

You were here.

Pacing the concrete floor, muttering darkly under your breath, covered in blood that wasn’t yours. Eyes sharp. Shoulders tight. Currently ignoring him like he didn’t just walk in like gravity answered to his name.

Mark watched. Quiet. Still.

He liked watching you.

More than he should’ve. More than he’d ever admit out loud, even if someone held a railgun to his skull and promised painless disintegration.

Call it stalking, surveillance, an unhealthy attachment—he didn’t care. Not really.

It wasn’t just the way you moved—though that was part of it. You walked like you were daring the ground to talk back. You held tension like it was a weapon and he hadn’t been able to look away since the first time he saw you gut a guy without blinking.

Even now, you stalked around the empty room like you were half a second from breaking the table in two just because it dared to exist.

It made something in his chest tighten.

You didn’t know he’d been watching for a while. Not just today. Not even just this mission.

He checked in on you often. “Checked” was a generous word. It was bordering on surveillance. Okay, it was surveillance. He had a whole folder stashed away with flagged reports from your last five deployments. A few audio files. Maybe a grainy clip or two.

It wasn’t creepy. He wasn’t a creep.

He just needed to make sure you were okay.

(You kill people for a living.)

Still. He liked knowing where you were. So yeah. He watched. Checked in. Every day.

You were reckless. You didn’t follow orders. You acted on gut instinct, and half the time, it worked, which only made it worse. Because one day it wouldn’t work, and they’d send him in too late.

He’d seen the file before you did. Your reassignment.

They were going to put you under some no-name enforcer from another sector. Someone who thought “discipline” meant obedience and “partnership” meant paperwork.

So he said no.

Correction—he said: “If you send her to anyone else, I’ll break your fucking spine and write my resignation on the wall in your blood.”

Direct quote.

So now here he was. Assigned. Official. Watching you sulk around a room you clearly hated.

It should’ve been annoying. You hadn’t even acknowledged him properly yet. Just marched in, read your little file, stared at him for solid 6 seconds before muttering like the universe personally offended you.

He could name a dozen ways to silence you. He just didn’t want to.

He should’ve said something sooner.

But damn, you were beautiful when you were pissed.

Especially when it came with that cute little crease between your brows—like the universe had personally offended you.

Before you could actually spiral into something truly destructive—like ripping out the lights or kicking a chair through a wall (you’d done both before)—he finally decided to speak.

“Y’know,” Mark drawled finally, voice smooth, low, and way too amused, “for someone who just got a promotion, you complain like you got dumped via sticky note.”

You stopped mid-step.

Didn’t turn. Not yet.

He could see the tension coil in your spine like a loaded spring.

“You,” you said flatly. Like it was a diagnosis.

Even your voice sounded like a threat—like it could cut.

Mark’s grin sharpened under the veil.

“Me,” he confirmed.

A beat of silence.

Then, you turned to face him, arms crossed, blood still drying on your collar. “You’re my new ‘handler’?”

“I prefer ‘charming work husband’ but sure,” he said, lifting a shoulder. “Let’s go with that.”

No reaction.

(Okay. An eye twitch. That counted.)

He was delighted.

“I didn’t ask for this.”

“I know,” Mark said, smile curling under his breath. “That’s the best part.”

He stepped forward, slow and unhurried, until he was just a few feet away. Close enough to see the faint smear of ash on your jaw. Close enough to catch the faint chemical tang of blood and steel clinging to you like armor.

Blood, smoke, and a faint scent of whatever damn soap you use to scrub crime off your skin—it drove him fucking insane.

“You’re pissed,” he observed lightly. “That’s cute.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you trying to get stabbed?”

“Debatable,” he said. “Depends where.”

Another twitch. His grin widened.

He didn’t mean to flirt—okay, he did. But not too much. Not yet. You were still dangerous, still vibrating with aftershock fury, and the last thing he needed was for you to go fully feral.

Not until you liked him more, at least.

“I’m not here to babysit you,” he said after a moment. “Not in the way you think.”

You arched a brow. “No?”

“I’m here because I’m the only one who knows what it’s like to do what you do and still not break.”

A beat.

“I don’t break,” you said evenly.

“No,” Mark agreed, his voice softer now. “But they’re afraid you might. And you know what they do to things they think are broken.”

That hit.

You didn’t reply. Just stared at him. Longer. Slower. More like a threat than a conversation.

He could live with that. For now.

“Look,” he said, stepping even closer now, “I didn’t come here to coddle you. I came because if someone’s gonna keep you from getting killed, it’s gonna be me. No leashes. No lectures. Just… you and me. Doing what we do best.”

You said nothing.

Mark waited.

Then, quietly, with something almost close to sincerity—he muttered his final words.

“You can hate it. But you won’t hate me.”

Your eyes darkened. But your silence wasn’t as sharp as it should’ve been.

And Mark smiled.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ͙͘͡★⋆⭒˚.⋆

The rain was coming down in sheets, hammering the rooftops like it had a personal grudge.

You gritted your teeth, one arm tucked tightly around Invincible’s waist as you half-dragged, half-guided him down the dim corridor. His weight leaned into you shamelessly—dead weight, if dead weight had a smug attitude and a pulse like a drum in your ribs.

You didn’t say a word.

Not when he groaned dramatically into your ear, not when he stumbled a little more on purpose, not when you almost slipped trying to keep his dumbass from kissing the floor.

“You can walk,” you muttered through clenched teeth.

“I could,” he agreed, tone so casual it made your blood pressure spike. “But then I’d miss this beautiful team-building moment.”

You didn’t bother answering. You just pulled him harder, jostling his bruised ribs enough to earn a soft grunt from behind the veil.

Good.

His suit was streaked in blood—most of it his, some probably yours, and none of it helped your growing migraine. You were soaked to the bone, adrenaline long gone, fury in its place. The blast that tore through the wall back there should’ve hit you.

He’d made sure it didn’t.

And now you were stuck playing support for the goddamn golden boy of masked arrogance.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you hissed, not looking at him.

“Do what?” His voice was pure innocence. “Save your life?”

You scoffed. “I had it handled.”

“You were standing in front of a literal antimatter core.”

“I was moving out of the way.”

“Sure you were.” He leaned in, shifting more of his weight onto you, his breath warm behind the thin fabric of your collar. “Besides, you look better in one piece.”

Your fingers tightened where they gripped his side, and you seriously considered dropping him face-first into the nearest wall.

You didn’t.

But it was a close thing.

By the time you reached the medbay—a low-lit, sterile chamber lined with supply cabinets and outdated tech—you were seething quietly. You kicked the door open with your boot and hauled him inside like a sack of problematic groceries.

“Bed. Now.”

Invincible opened his mouth—about to reply with some flirty comeback—but one sharp look from you made him retreat.

He moved—slowly, with all the theatrical flair of a dying star—and flopped onto the metal exam table with a groan that would’ve convinced any sane person he was about to flatline.

You weren’t convinced.

“You’re not dying,” you muttered, already rifling through cabinets.

“Didn’t say I was,” he mumbled, watching you over the edge of the table. “But if I do… can I haunt your apartment?”

You threw a roll of gauze at his face.

It hit him square in the goggles.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

You turned away before he could catch the twitch in your expression.

Because pain or not, the image of him stepping in front of that blast—of the way he threw you to the side like it was instinct—was burned into your memory. You were furious.

You were also, maybe, a little bit shaken.

Not that you’d ever admit it.

Not even to yourself.

You found the antiseptic, grabbed a few packs of gauze and tape, then returned to his side. You didn’t bother asking if he wanted your help. You didn’t wait for a nurse.

You’d stitched your own thigh shut in the back of a stolen van once. Wrapped a shattered wrist in duct tape and finished a mission. You weren’t squeamish.

His suit was torn apart—and underneath—muscle, blood, bruises. He was a mess, but he’d live. Unfortunately.

You dabbed antiseptic into the worst of it without mercy. He hissed.

“Don’t be a baby.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“I’m tolerating this.”

His eyes caught yours—bright and unreadable under the goggles.

“You could’ve let me bleed out,” he said, voice lower now.

“I considered it.”

“Mm. That’s fair.”

You said nothing, focusing on a gash along his ribs. He didn’t flinch. But his gaze didn’t leave you.

“You’re pissed.”

You pressed harder.

“I told you I had it,” you said, quieter now. “You shouldn’t have stepped in.”

“I wasn’t going to let you get hurt.”

Your hands paused.

“I don’t need protecting.”

“I know.”

More silence.

Then, softer—closer, “But I like putting my hands on you. Even if it means getting thrown across a warehouse.”

You looked at him then. Really looked.

His veil was torn at the corner. Blood trickled from his temple, and his ribs looked like someone had caved them in with a wrecking ball. And for the first time, he wasn’t grinning. Not cocky. Not smug. Just—there. Honest.

You ignored the way your stomach twisted.

You ignored that it landed somewhere deep.

And worse—you hated that part of you was glad he did it.

Even if you’d never say it out loud.

So instead, you went back to cleaning him up. And he let you.

Touch lingering just a little longer than it needed to. His eyes stayed on you, quiet for once.

But of course, it couldn’t last.

“You know,” he said, voice low, teasing—dangerous, “if you keep touching me like that, I’m gonna pop a boner.”

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ͙͘͡★⋆⭒˚.⋆

The city sprawled beneath, a mosaic of lights flickering in the night. A hundred thousand lives in motion, none of them looking up.

The hum of distant traffic and the occasional siren were the only sounds accompanying the two figures perched on the ledge, threading through the darkness like familiar ghosts. While the rooftop offered a vantage point—both strategic and serene, if you let it be.

You rarely did.

This wasn’t your kind of quiet.

You didn’t like silence—not when it meant being left alone with your thoughts. Not when it reminded you that most of your work ended with blood on your hands and no one waiting for you when it was done.

You were good at what you did, but it came with solitude. That was the tradeoff. Had been, for a long time.

You sat with your knees drawn up, arms resting atop them, eyes scanning the horizon like something out there might change.

Invincible sat beside you—close enough that you could feel the heat of him even with the night air biting through your suit. He didn’t speak. He didn’t fidget. He didn’t even try to make himself useful. He was just there.

And strangely, that made it easier to breathe.

It wouldn’t last. It never did. But maybe tonight, it didn’t have to.

The surveillance gear nearby blinked and pulsed, quietly recording—but neither of you looked at it.

For once, it could wait.

“You ever think about what it’d be like to just… disappear?” you asked suddenly, the question slipping out like breath. Like you hadn’t meant to say it, but couldn’t help yourself.

Invincible turned his head, veil fluttering slightly in the breeze. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But I think I’d miss the chaos.”

A quiet chuckle escaped you. Dry. Amused. “Figures.”

Silence settled again—but not heavy. Not cold. Just… still. You rarely got stillness that didn’t come with tension coiled in your gut. This was different.

And that scared you more than it should have.

“You know,” he said after a beat, voice quieter now, almost careful, “we’ve been through a lot together… and I don’t even know your real name.”

You glanced at him, surprised—but not defensive. Not tonight.

You hesitated for half a second, then gave it to him. Just your name. Nothing fancy, no ceremony. Like offering up something small and fragile just to see what he’d do with it.

He nodded. A small, rare smile played at the edge of his mouth. “Mark.”

Simple as that. And somehow, it meant something.

The name felt strange coming from him. Not because it didn’t suit him—it did. More than you expected. But because no one ever shared real names with you unless they were bleeding out or trying to make peace before dying. It had weight. It had risk.

You tilted your head slightly. “Nice to meet you, Mark.”

His gaze lingered on you a second longer than necessary. You felt the heat of it, sharp and warm, brushing your cheek like a touch he hadn’t made. Then, low and easy, ”Likewise, sweetheart.”

Your heart hiccuped in your chest—and you hated that it did.

He’d called you worse. He’d called you better. But something about hearing him say it now—gentle, sincere—made your stomach twist in a way no battlefield ever had.

You looked away, pretending to study the skyline again—even though you hadn’t really been looking at it for a while.

You were thinking about the last time you sat this close to someone without bracing for betrayal.

You were thinking about how you always worked alone because it was safer that way.

You were thinking about how, for the first time in what felt like forever, being alone didn’t feel so absolute.

He wasn’t touching you. Wasn’t even looking at you anymore. But he was there. And that mattered more than you wanted it to.

The city lights shimmered below, reflecting off wet rooftops and glass towers like starlight that had forgotten its way home. And for one small, stolen moment, you didn’t feel like a weapon in waiting. You didn’t feel like the monster they kept on a leash.

You just felt… seen.

You didn’t say thank you.

But maybe you didn’t have to.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ͙͘͡★⋆⭒˚.⋆

Mark hadn’t meant to watch you.

Not like that.

Not in the beginning.

It started with a glitch in his comms. A rerouted signal. Someone else’s mission logs bleeding into his HUD. A red flag tagged with your designation, blinking across rooftops he wasn’t supposed to care about.

He should’ve ignored it.

He didn’t.

Instead, he paused mid-flight—just above Sector 4, the skyline burning behind him—and turned his attention to a grainy security feed from a busted drone two miles off-grid.

And there you were.

A blur of movement. Blood on your knuckles. Fire in your mouth.

He watched you take down five armed enforcers in less than a minute. Watched you move like violence was a second skin, like your bones had been carved to fit inside chaos.

He felt something shift in his chest.

It wasn’t lust—not at first. It wasn’t even admiration.

It was obsession—quiet, still, and cold.

It was yours.

── .✦

He told himself it was curiosity. A one-time thing. Professionals did that. Kept tabs. Cross-referenced reports.

But the next night, he checked again.

And the next.

── .✦

You never noticed. Or if you did, you never said.

And god, that just made it worse.

── .✦

You drank your coffee black. No sugar. No milk. Always scalding.

He knew this because he’d watched you order it, three mornings in a row, from a corner shop you never paid for—just flashed a fake badge and walked off like you owned the world.

You untied your boots with your teeth sometimes—bit the laces, spat them out. It was feral.

You hummed under your breath when you cleaned your knives. Always the same tune. Off-key. He found it… endearing.

He memorized it.

── .✦

Mark knew your name before you even said it.

It was in your file—buried under layers of redacted bullshit, buried deeper than it had any right to be. But Mark had access. Mark was access.

He read it once, then never again.

He didn’t need to.

It was already carved somewhere behind his ribs.

── .✦

He knew your patrol schedule. Your blind spots. He knew which rooftops you liked. Which ones you avoided.

He knew you slept on your side, curled like you expected someone to stab you in your sleep.

He hated that.

He wanted to tell you that you didn’t have to sleep like that anymore. That he’d sleep beside you. That he would take first watch.

Every night. For the rest of your life.

── .✦

The first time he broke into your apartment, it wasn’t for anything weird.

Just to look.

Just to… be where you were when you weren’t there.

It was quiet. Small. Clean in some places, messy in others. Coffee cups on the counter. A half-assembled gun on the table. A pair of boots by the door.

Your scent clung to the air—warm, sharp, metallic, with the faintest sweetness underneath.

He stood in your living room for almost an hour.

Didn’t touch anything. Didn’t breathe too loud. Just existed in your space.

And then he left.

But he came back.

Again.

And again.

── .✦

Once, he barely made it out.

The click of your front door lock. The soft thud of your boots. He didn’t breathe until he was four rooftops away.

Heart racing. Hard. Excited. Terrified. Alive.

This wasn’t like how his father loved.

It wasn’t control.

It was gravity.

And you were the only thing keeping him from flying straight into the sun.

── .✦

Eventually, he started touching things.

Your mugs. Your books. Your hoodie.

Once, he sat on your couch and imagined you curled up beside him. Hair damp from a shower. Feet in his lap. Trusting him.

He got hard just thinking about it—and cursed himself for it.

But he didn’t stop.

── .✦

Then came the laundry.

Folded in a neat little basket by the window.

Fresh. Still warm. He touched a pair of panties—just brushed his fingers over the edge. Then brought them to his face.

He didn’t moan. Didn’t jerk off. Didn’t cross that line.

But he did smile, dark and private.

Murmured to himself, “Honestly? These feel way better than my veil.”

He left them exactly where they were.

Mostly.

Sometimes, he took one. Just one. Wore it like a badge under the suit—close to his skin. A reminder. A promise.

And then brought it back.

Washed. Pressed. Folded better than you ever did.

Because he wasn’t a monster.

He was just yours.

Even if you didn’t know it yet.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ͙͘͡★⋆⭒˚.⋆

The air was thick with smoke and the metallic scent of blood. Neither one of you saw it coming.

Not the punch, not the burst of kinetic force that ripped through the alley like thunder. Not the split-second shift in Invincible’s stance that changed everything from strategic to savage.

The mission had been simple: recon and retrieve.

Minimal force. Bring the target in alive.

No one said anything about bait.

No one said anything about them using you.

But the second the bastard dropped your name—the second that oily voice curled your real name like venom in the air—it all went to hell.

“You really think she’s worth it?” the target had sneered, blood leaking from his mouth, grin jagged where a tooth used to be. “All that power, and you’re playing guard dog to a broken bitch with a kill streak.”

You froze, not from shock—but calculation. How close was Invincible? How fast could you—

Too late.

You barely got a word out before Invincible was on him.

You didn’t even see the punch. Just the aftermath.

The target’s body hit the wall like a meteor. Cracked brick. Concrete dust in your lungs. Something crunched that definitely wasn’t supposed to.

And Invincible—Mark—wasn’t stopping.

Not with protocol screaming in your earpiece. Not with the command feed blinking red in your HUD. Not even when you grabbed his arm and shouted his name like it was the only thing you could do.

His fist was cocked back, trembling. Veins bulging under torn sleeves. Breathing like he’d just run through war.

“Mark,” you snapped again, sharper this time, like a blade.

His eyes—those glowing, untouchable things—locked on you.

You saw it hit him then.

Not guilt.

Something deeper.

Like the thought of someone using you, threatening you, daring to speak your name out loud—was worse than death.

“Alive,” you said, jaw tight. “We need him alive.”

It took everything in you not to flinch when he finally stepped back.

The target coughed blood, slumped in a crater.

── .✦

You didn’t speak the rest of the mission. Neither did he.

The silence between you buzzed louder than the comms.

And when the drop team arrived, you didn’t look at each other. Not once.

But you felt him watching.

Still burning.

Still ready to kill the next person who dared say your name like it wasn’t something sacred.

── .✦

You didn’t storm off.

You didn’t say a word when Command debriefed, when the team cleaned up the mess, when the target got dragged off in a body bag instead of a prisoner transport.

You just stood there, fists clenched at your sides, your shadow overlapping his as you waited for someone to say it.

They didn’t.

They didn’t have to.

You could feel the way they looked at you now—like you were collateral. A variable. The reason their best weapon nearly lost control.

Again.

── .✦

You could still hear it.

Your name.

Twisted in the mouth of someone who wasn’t supposed to know it. Someone who used it like a curse—like a weapon.

And it worked.

Invincible—no, Mark lost it. You watched it happen in real time.

Not calculated. Not clean. Just rage. Unchecked. Unleashed.

And it scared you—not because he was angry, but because it felt like it was for you.

Like he would’ve killed a man for the crime of knowing you existed. And worse…

Some ugly, buried part of you wanted to let him.

── .✦

You didn’t sleep that night.

You sat on your windowsill in silence, one leg propped up, eyes on the skyline you usually found comfort in. It didn’t work tonight.

Because a small part of you knew he was out there.

Watching. Hovering. Probably furious that you stopped him.

Probably furious you had to.

But you weren’t sorry. Not really.

You’d gotten where you were by staying sharp. Staying smart. Staying in control.

And tonight?

He wasn’t.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ͙͘͡★⋆⭒˚.⋆

Mark noticed how you didn’t look at him once.

Not when they ran your vitals. Not when they shoved the corpse into containment with a glare like it was his fault the bastard’s skull split open like overripe fruit.

He stood back—arms crossed, jaw tight behind the veil.

He didn’t say anything either.

Not when you passed by. Not when you shouldered past the medic—like you were afraid to stop moving. Like if you did, you’d shatter.

He hated that.

He hated that silence lived between you now, not comfort. Not tension. Not heat.

Just cold.

── .✦

He heard it on loop.

Your voice—sharp and panicked, calling his name like a lifeline.

Not “Invincible.” Not “hey.”

Just… Mark.

It made something in his chest twist.

Made his hands curl at his sides. He could still feel the way your fingers had dug into his wrist.

Not gently. Not soft. But grounding.

It was the only reason he didn’t finish the job.

He didn’t regret it.

But he hated the look you gave him after.

Like you didn’t know who he was anymore. Or maybe like you finally did.

── .✦

He didn’t go home.

He hovered three blocks from your apartment, high enough to be unseen, low enough to feel you through the walls.

He didn’t expect to see the light in your room flick on.

He didn’t expect to see you—barely out of your gear, face hard, eyes darker than he’d ever seen them—leaning out the window, staring dead into the dark.

He stayed still. Barely breathing.

You didn’t see him.

But maybe—just maybe—you knew he was there.

Because after a long moment, you whispered to the night.

“Next time you lose control like that… I’ll stop you harder.”

It wasn’t a threat.

It was a promise.

And fuck—he’d never wanted anything more.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ͙͘͡★⋆⭒˚.⋆

They were doing it quietly. Behind walls. Sealed files. Passive phrasing and polite lies.

“Operative instability,” they’d said. “Emotional volatility.” “Unpredictable attachment to assigned partner.”

They meant him.

They meant you.

They meant that moment in the alley when his fist should’ve stopped—and didn’t. When he saw red and acted like a man who didn’t care about consequence.

Because he didn’t.

Because someone said your name and laughed.

Because someone tried to make you a weakness.

Because someone forgot you were his.

── .✦

Mark stood in the center of the server room like a loaded weapon someone forgot to disarm—veil pushed halfway up, breathing like he was trying not to detonate.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.

The lights overhead buzzed, flickering under the strain of faulty wiring. Or maybe that was him. Hard to tell.

His voice, when it came, was quiet.

Deadly.

“Who signed off on this?”

No one answered.

Just the soft flick of fingers on tablet screens. The nervous shift of boots. Everyone pretending not to feel the pressure in the air—like something was about to crack.

Mark didn’t repeat himself.

He didn’t have to.

Because the next second, the console nearest him exploded. Shattered metal and sparks.

A handprint embedded in the wall behind it.

“You don’t get to move her,” he said, voice sharp as razors now. “You don’t get to touch her file. You don’t get to breathe near it.”

A senior director tried to speak. “Invincible—this decision came from—”

“Say that name again. Go ahead. Say it like it doesn’t mean something,” Mark interrupted. “Say that designation. I dare you.”

He took a step forward. The floor groaned under his boots. Not because of weight. But pressure. Because he wasn’t holding back anymore.

Because he was done playing soldier. Handler. Puppet on a leash.

He wasn’t Invincible here.

He was yours.

And they were trying to steal him from you.

They just didn’t know it yet.

The man tried again, slower this time. “You need to understand the optics. She’s compromised. She compromised you.”

Mark’s laugh was low. Joyless. A hollow thing cracked open in the dark.

“She didn’t compromise me,” he said.

“She saved me.”

He stepped in close.

Close enough that the lights flickered again.

“I was ready to kill a man for saying her name. And you think I’m going to let you erase her?”

The air pulsed. No one moved.

“Try it,” Mark whispered. “Try touching her file again. I will wipe your existence so clean no one will remember you were ever born.”

Silence.

Then, slowly, he leaned in. Veil brushing the shoulder of the man in charge. And in a voice made of smoke and control, he whispered his final words.

“She’s not the dangerous one… I am.”

── .✦

He left the room in ruin.

Half the lights were blown. Several systems fried. Three agents too shaken to speak. And when he disappeared from camera range, no one followed.

Because everyone knew where he was going.

Straight to you.

Because if they wanted to take you away—

They were going to have to kill him first.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ͙͘͡★⋆⭒˚.⋆

The window rattled before the door slammed open.

You were on your feet before your brain caught up—knife in hand, blade drawn, feet planted. No hesitation.

No fear.

And then you saw him.

Mark.

Standing in your apartment doorway like a storm that forgot where it was supposed to break.

Hair damp from the wind. Veil twisted, torn halfway up. Blood running in a thin, angry line down his throat—from the blade you were still holding to his neck.

You hadn’t even realized you’d moved that fast.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t stop. Didn’t speak.

He just stepped closer.

Closer, until your knife dug deeper, a warning meant to halt.

But he didn’t stop.

Instead, he leaned in—slow, steady, unshakable—and rested his forehead against yours.

He was trembling.

Not from pain.

From relief. From rage still clinging to the edges of his breath. From the panic you hadn’t seen on him before—not like this.

You lowered the knife, slowly.

Confused.

“Mark—” you started, voice too soft.

But his hand was already reaching for yours. Gripping it—not hard, not desperate, but anchoring. Like you were the last solid thing in a world gone sideways.

You didn’t pull away. Didn’t speak.

You just led him to the couch, never letting go.

He dropped onto it like his knees gave out—but still kept hold of your wrist.

You started to pull back—maybe to grab water, a towel, anything—

But his hand caught yours again. Tighter this time. And when he whispered, it was raw and cracked.

“Don’t go. Please.”

You didn’t.

You sat beside him.

Quiet. Still. Warm.

And for the first time in days, he exhaled.

Like the war ended. Like he finally made it home.

Like you were it.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ͙͘͡★⋆⭒˚.⋆

After that, things shifted between you two.

Not drastic. Not loud. Just enough to feel it.

A new gravity.

You joked more. He smiled more.

The air felt less like a battleground. More like a fuse, waiting. The silences weren’t sharp anymore—they held something warmer, heavier.

And when he touched you—guiding you around a corner, brushing against your arm during recon—you didn’t pull away.

Not once.

He still called you ’sweetheart.’

But now? You didn’t roll your eyes.

You answered him back—with something that sat halfway between sarcasm and a dare.

And Mark…

He took it.

Every word. Every smirk. Every sharp little comment that should’ve meant nothing—but didn’t.

You didn’t know how much it was driving him insane.

Or maybe you did. Maybe you saw the way his jaw clenched when you called him lover boy under your breath. The way his breath hitched when your hand lingered on his thigh for just a second too long in the drop ship.

You played with fire.

And he let you.

For a while.

── .✦

Until one night—

You were both heading back from an op. Low stakes. No injuries. Just exhaustion in your bones and grit in your teeth.

You made a comment—half-flirt, half-threat, maybe something about handcuffs.

You weren’t even trying to tease him. Not really.

But then—

He stopped.

Suddenly, you were pinned.

Like gravity finally decided to snap its fingers.

Your spine hit the wall with a soft thud.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Didn’t speak. You just looked up at him.

Chin tilted. Breath steady. Like this wasn’t new. Like you weren’t caught off-guard—like your heart wasn’t hammering under your ribs like it was trying to tell on you.

Mark’s hand was beside your head, fingers curled against the concrete like he was keeping himself from touching you. His body was so close you could feel the heat radiating off of him—his chest rising and falling like every breath cost him.

His eyes dragged over your face—slow and dark and deliberate. From your mouth to your eyes, then back again.

“Say something smart now,” he murmured.

His voice was velvet laced with warning. And that was all the invitation you needed.

You didn’t smile—but the look in your eyes said enough.

“You always this worked up when someone flirts with you?” You tilted your head slightly, like it was an honest question.

“Or is it just me?”

Something flickered across his bare face—heat, restraint, hunger—and then disappeared again, smoothed out like it had never been there.

“It’s just you,” he said, voice lower now.

“Always you.”

You felt it then.

The slow shift. The quiet unraveling.

His knee brushed your leg—just barely—but it was enough to remind you he could close the space between you in half a second.

He didn’t.

You leaned in, just slightly. Testing him. Letting your lips part, gaze heavy as your voice dipped.

“You gonna kiss me, Mark?”

He didn’t answer. Not with words.

He tilted his head. Slowly. Deliberately.

The space between you collapsed inch by inch, your breath catching as his eyes dropped to your mouth, lingering like he was counting your heartbeats.

You leaned in, too.

Half a breath away.

The heat between your mouths? Maddening.

His lips barely parted—his hand flexed beside your face—and your eyes fluttered shut—

But he stepped back.

Just enough to break contact. Just enough to make it feel like a fucking cliff-drop.

You blinked—slow, disoriented, like a dream just dropped you.

And when your eyes met his again—steady, unreadable, calm as sin—he smiled.

“Not yet.”

His voice was silk. Smug. Dangerous.

“You like pushing? Good.” He stepped back fully, leaving your body cold where his heat had been. “Because now I’m going to push back.”

You stayed against the wall, breath shaky, throat tight, skin burning.

Mark turned and walked away like he hadn’t just wrecked the room with a look.

Like he didn’t know you were seconds away from grabbing him by the collar and pulling him back in.

And god, that’s exactly what he wanted.

Because now? He wasn’t going to touch you.

Not until you begged him to.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ͙͘͡★⋆⭒˚.⋆

It didn’t happen after a mission. It wasn’t triggered by adrenaline, or blood, or fury.

It happened on a quiet night.

No danger. No drama. Just you. Him. Silence.

The kind that didn’t feel sharp or heavy, but warm. Dense with everything neither of you had been saying.

You were sitting too close on the couch. Again.

Shoulders brushing. Fingers almost touching. Breaths syncing like they were conspiring against you.

The TV was on, volume low—some movie you’d both ignored since minute five. You weren’t looking at the screen.

You were looking at him.

And he was already looking at you.

── .✦

It didn’t start like a mistake.

It started slow. Desperate, but slow. Like two people who’d spent too long circling each other finally crashing in the middle.

You didn’t know who kissed who first—maybe it didn’t matter.

One moment you were breathing each other in, and the next, your mouths crashed together like you’d been starved.

Mark kissed like he fought—focused, consuming, always a little cocky. But there was something different this time.

Something fragile under all that control.

His hands didn’t grope—they cradled. His body didn’t press to dominate—it folded into yours like it belonged there.

And you let him.

Because right now, you didn’t want to be dangerous.

You wanted to be wanted.

You barely registered how you ended up on your back—couch creaking beneath you, clothes stripped away like memories he didn’t need anymore. His hands roamed like he was trying to memorize, to prove something. Not just to you—to himself. His mouth trailed heat down your throat, his hand sliding under your shirt like it belonged there.

Like he belonged there.

“You know how long I’ve waited to do this?” he murmured against your skin. “How many nights I had to stop myself?”

You didn’t answer. You just pulled him closer.

He growled—actually growled—and you could feel how hard he was already, grinding against you like he couldn’t stand the space between your bodies. Your clothes were in the way. Everything was in the way.

He kissed you harder.

Then slower. Then deeper. Like he had time to worship and ruin you all at once.

His mouth kissed down your stomach, slower than you expected. Watching you. Waiting. Not asking for permission. Just offering the space for you to stop him.

You didn’t.

You curled your fingers in his hair and impatiently pushed him lower.

When he finally got between your legs, he didn’t rush. No—Mark watched you. Settled between your thighs like he’d been dreaming of it. His hands curled around your knees, pressing them apart, and he groaned like the sight of you could end him.

“Fuck,” he muttered, dragging his thumb over the wet spot in your panties. “Look at you.”

You burned under his gaze.

“Say it,” you rasped. “Say what you’re thinking.”

Mark didn’t hesitate. “I’m thinking I’m never gonna stop doing this.”

Then—his mouth was on you.

He took his time. He devoured. But gently—like worship, not conquest.

Every movement of his tongue against your panties was deliberate, controlled, cruel in its patience. He hummed against your core like it gave him oxygen. You arched off the couch, hand flying to his hair, and he moaned into you like he liked it. Like you were feeding some part of him he kept locked away.

And below, as his mouth worked you over—he was grinding into the cushion beneath him. Slow. Needy. Unapologetic. Desperate.

You felt it. The tension. The line he was walking between control and chaos.

It snapped when you said his name. “Mark—”

He tore your panties in half. His eyes didn’t even blink.

His tongue worked you open with slow strokes, teasing flicks, and just when your breath caught—then he gave you more. His fingers joined in, sliding deep and curling with impossible precision, like he already knew what would ruin you.

And ruin you, he did.

You didn’t mean to gasp. Didn’t mean to arch your back or claw at his shoulders or chant his name like it meant something more. But you did.

You shattered under him—legs shaking, hands trembling, the world breaking open as pleasure crashed through you like a flood. You didn’t expect the way your body reacted—too much, too fast.

And when it happened—really happened—when everything clenched and poured out of you, when you heard yourself cry out his name like it was sacred—

Mark groaned against you, loud, eyes fluttering shut. His hips bucked one final time against the couch.

And just like that… he came. Hard. Without you even touching him.

You blinked, dazed.

Tried to say something snarky, maybe smug. But all you could do was stare at him, lips parted, chest rising and falling like you were still mid-fall.

He hovered over you now, flushed, panting, eyes blown wide. His expression was something you’d never seen before—half in awe, half in love, and still burning with want.

And then he kissed you.

You tasted yourself on his tongue—hot, sweet, raw—and it made your stomach twist in a way no one ever had. You moaned into the kiss without meaning to, fisting the front of his shirt as if letting go would send you spiraling again. He whispered into your mouth between kisses.

“Filthy little goddess,” he breathed. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

Your hips rolled up against him, greedy now. Unspoken things passed between you—need, trust, maybe something scarier.

Then he was inside you. Slowly. Deeply. The stretch made your back arch, your breath catch, your hand reach for something—anything—to ground yourself. But he was already there.

Gripping your waist like you were breakable, kissing your jaw, your mouth, your throat as he filled you, inch by aching inch.

He cursed under his breath, voice ragged and worshipful. “God, you feel better than your panties ever did.”

You would’ve teased him. Called him insane. But you couldn’t. All you could do was whimper as he moved—slow, smooth, deep enough to bruise. He took his time. Let you feel every inch. Let you cling to him like he was the only thing that made sense.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned into your ear. “Made for this. For me.”

His thrusts started patient. Deep. His breath stuttering against your skin every time your body clenched around him. But he couldn’t hold back.

Not for long.

He gripped your hips and snapped into you—again and again—driving into you like he’d finally given up on pretending he could play it cool. You wrapped your legs around him. Let him have you. Let him ruin you.

And god, he did.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he panted. “You hear that? That’s you. That’s how wet you are for me.”

You couldn’t answer. Could barely breathe. He kissed you through it. Sloppy, possessive. Full of need. And when you came—tight and gasping—he whispered more, somewhere near your ear. Praise. Promises.

Worship disguised as filth.

And when it was over—when he shuddered inside you, spilling so much it left you dizzy, when he dropped his forehead to yours and held you like he’d never let go—

Silence. Just your breaths. Your heart. His weight against you. Real. Heavy. Home. Neither of you moved for a long moment. When you finally found your voice—raw and quiet—

“This doesn’t change anything,” you whispered, breathless. The words weren’t cold. Just scared. Just stubborn. Just you.

Mark didn’t argue. He just nodded. Kissed your collarbone.

“Sure, sweetheart.”

But between the way he held you, the way your fingers tangled in his hair, the way neither of you moved to let go—

Hadn’t it changed everything?

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

•. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˚₊‧⟡꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ⟡‧₊˚ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.•

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌Months later…

The apartment was warm with the kind of quiet that didn’t need to be filled. The living room was dim, lit only by the soft flicker of a paused screen and the lazy sprawl of citylight bleeding through half-closed blinds.

The couch sagged under both your weights—you were curled into one side of the couch, socks mismatched, hoodie too big, legs draped across Mark’s lap.

There were pizza crusts on the coffee table. A half-finished soda on the floor.

It was perfect. Stupidly, quietly, mundanely perfect.

And it made you itchy in a way you didn’t hate.

Mark reached for another slice without looking, eyes on the screen. “You’re not even watching this, are you?”

“I am,” you said, then paused. “Well, I was. I just blacked out for a few episodes.”

He snorted. “We’ve been watching this for three weeks.”

You shrugged, chewing. “I was distracted.”

Mark raised an eyebrow. “By what?”

You side-eyed him over the crust. “Mostly your thighs.”

That earned a grin. “That’s fair.”

You glanced at him—barefoot, scruffed, hair tousled like he’d just rolled out of bed and never quite bothered to fix it—and smiled. Leaning back, you let your head drop against the cushion.

“Still can’t believe this is where we ended up.”

Mark didn’t look away from the screen. “What, the couch?”

“No. I mean… this,” you said, gesturing vaguely around the room. “Living together. Sharing pizza. Watching a show we’ve both pretended to like for five episodes.”

Mark didn’t answer. Just turned. Looked at you. Offended.

“You saying this is beneath you?”

You blinked. “What? No, I just—”

“You saying I’m not a good reward?”

You opened your mouth. “Mark—” But it was too late. He pounced.

“Mark—MARK—”

You shrieked—half-laughing, half-cursing—as your plate toppled, pizza slice flopping face-down on the carpet. Your back hit the cushions, his weight pressing down, hands braced beside your head. He was smirking. Infuriating.

You glared up at him, breathless.

“I dropped my pizza,” you hissed.

His grin widened. “You’re about to drop a lot more than that, sweetheart.”

“You’re an asshole,” you wheezed, pinned.

“You’re mine,” he said, nipping your jaw. “Big difference.”

And then he kissed you. Right there—on the couch, under the hum of a half-watched show and the sound of grease soaking into the rug.

You didn’t push him off. Didn’t want to.

Not when he kissed you like that. Not when you could still taste pepperoni on his mouth and feel his heartbeat against your ribs. Because this?

This was exactly where you wanted to end up.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

226 notes · View notes

morgan-va · 5 months ago

Text

Chapter 29: Remembering. (Serial Designation V x reader)

Masterlist

TW: Descriptions of pain and suffering

Back in her room, Uzi spins her chair around, a satisfied chuckle escaping her as N and V begin to stir. It worked. She actually got their memories back.

V, always the quickest to act, barely takes a second before her hand snaps into a chainsaw, the jagged edge revving to life as she growls. "What the hell, Uzi?! What gives you the right to snoop through our heads?"

She stops mid-threat, her optics flicking to the side. Uzi follows her gaze and freezes. Techie is still wired into the computer, slumped in the chair, motionless. Dimmed optics flicker with scrolling text.

ADMINISTRATOR LOCKOUT: SUCCESSFULBEGINNING DISK CLEANUP|||||________________________________ 7%

Uzi’s stomach drops. No. No, no, no. This shouldn’t be possible, Techie should have woken up, just like N and V.

Unless...

No. That’s impossible. The only way anyone could be locked inside like this is if… they were inside their own memory simulation as well.

Her breath hitches. That human—the one N called Techie. There’s no way, right?

She snaps her head toward N and V. “Explain. Now. Who the hell was that technician?”

N shifts as his newfound memories resurface, "I know! That technician was—"

“An old friend,” V interrupts, her voice unusually subdued. Her optics don’t meet Uzi’s. "From before... everything happened."

V exhales sharply, glancing at Techie's lifeless form. "I wasn’t sure at first, but as I’ve spent time with them, I realized... That drone sitting in front of us? That’s that human."

Uzi’s eyes widen as V’s words sink in. Her voice rises into a near-shout. “And you didn’t think to mention that before I sent them into a memoryscape with that eldritch freakshow?!”

V doesn’t hesitate. Her chainsaw revs louder, the jagged blade stopping just short of Uzi’s throat. “Oh, I don’t know,” she growls, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Maybe because you ambushed us and jammed yourself into our heads before I had the chance?”

Uzi swallows hard, glaring at V even as she leans back slightly from the weapon. “Fine. You make a good point.”

“Damn right, I do.” V lowers her weapon, but her glare remains sharp. “Now fix it.”

Not needing to be told twice, Uzi spins back to her computer, fingers flying over the keyboard as she desperately tries to regain control. Code floods the screen, scrolling too fast for her to process.

“Come on, come on…” she mutters, sweat beading on her forehead. Every second that bar inches forward, Techie’s chances of waking up shrink.

She grits her teeth and keeps typing. She has to fix this.

Light floods your vision. The sterile hum of fluorescent lights buzzes faintly overhead, and the scent of hot metal and solder fills your nose.

A workbench stretches out in front of you, scattered with tools, wires, and diagnostic equipment. Right. Your final exam—robotics training. You’ve spent weeks preparing for this, and now you’re almost done.

The test was simple in theory: repair a malfunctioning worker drone suffering from an assortment of mechanical and software issues. Simple. But under pressure? Not so much.

You tighten the last screw into place, sealing the drone’s back panel before setting the screwdriver down with a shaky breath. This should be it. You double-check the wiring, hoping you’ve done everything right. There’s only one way to find out.

Your finger hovers over the power button for a split second before pressing down.

The drone’s optics flicker to life. A soft whir fills the air as it boots up, standing upright before turning to face you.

“Hello!” it chirps, its voice light and pleasant.

Success.

A grin breaks across your face. You did it.

Your professor strides over, their sharp gaze scanning the drone as they run through a quick diagnostic check. They lift the drone’s arms, test its mobility, and check the interface for any lingering errors. After a moment, they nod in approval.

"Everything seems to be in perfect working order," they say, turning to you with an approving smile. "Excellent job. You pass with flying colors."

Relief washes over you. You exhale a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, nodding in thanks as a few of your classmates glance over. Some are still deep in their own work, muttering under their breath as they struggle with their drones. Others shoot you brief looks—some impressed, others indifferent.

Not wanting to linger, you quietly gather your things. The exam is over for you, and there’s no point in sticking around. You sling your bag over your shoulder and make your way toward the door.

Just as your fingers brush against the handle, a loud clatter echoes through the room.

You turn on instinct. One of your classmates has just powered their drone on, and while it seems to function for the most part, something is clearly wrong. Its speech module is glitching, causing it to stutter and garble its words in a mess of static and half-formed syllables.

The student groans in frustration, their expression twisting into anger. "Ugh, stupid thing—"

Before anyone can stop them, they shove the drone off the table.

It crashes to the floor with a sickening crunch.

Without thinking, you rush over, grabbing the student by the arm and spinning them around. "What the hell is wrong with you?!" you snap, anger flaring in your chest. "You can’t just treat them like that!"

The student sneers at you, yanking their arm free. "Calm down. It’s just a hunk of metal," they scoff, rolling their eyes. "Besides, what do you care? You act like they’re people or something."

You clench your fists, heart pounding.

They laugh, shaking their head before shooting you a look of disgust.

"You really are a freak."

That phrase echoes in your mind as everything around you fades away—"You really are a freak."

Over and over again, through the black void.

You open your eyes, the soft sheets of your bed comforting as the morning sun peeks through the curtains. Today’s the day—you’ll be heading out of town for your new job. Some technician gig for a rich family out in the swamp. You’ve been looking for something like this for months, and the offer came out of nowhere, just like that! You didn’t even apply for anything—just created a profile through the JCJenson website, but you hadn’t had a chance to actually browse any listings.

You guess someone’s looking out for you after all.

Rising from bed, you stretch, shaking off the last remnants of sleep before turning your attention to packing. You double-check your suitcase, making sure you haven’t left anything important behind. Clothes, tools, personal items—it’s all here. Just as you’re about to close it, something small and round slips out from between your neatly folded shirts, rolling across the wooden floor with a soft clink.

You bend down, reaching for it. A small, smoky blue gemstone rests against the floorboards, catching the morning light. You pick it up, running your thumb over the smooth surface.

You’ve had this stone since you were a kid. It doesn’t hold any deep sentimental value—not really. You don’t even remember where you got it. But for some reason, you’ve always kept it close. A good luck charm, maybe. You can’t imagine ever parting with it.

You slip it back into your pocket, sighing in relief before zipping up your suitcase. Time to go.

You pick up your suitcase, gripping the handle tightly as you take a deep breath. It’s time.

With a steadying exhale, you step forward and open the door.

Only to find… nothing.

The hallway outside your room is gone, replaced by an endless, yawning void. Before you can react, the ground beneath you vanishes, and you plummet into the vast nothingness, the weightless sensation sending your stomach into your throat. You try to scream, but no sound escapes. Darkness swallows you whole.

You’re late.

You slept in.

Late for your first day of work at the Elliott’s.

How is this possible??

You throw the covers off and scramble out of bed, heart pounding as you yank on your clothes in a panic. Of all the ways to start this job, this is the worst. You barely have time to double-check yourself in the mirror before bolting out of your small basement room and up the stairs—

SMACK.

You collide with someone and nearly fall over, barely managing to steady yourself as they hit the ground.

A maid drone.

“Oh, crap, I’m so sorry—!” You quickly reach down and help her up, eyes wide with guilt. “I wasn’t looking where I was going, I—”

She dusts herself off, looking a little flustered but otherwise fine. “Oh, um, no, it’s okay! I-I was actually coming to wake you up.”

Wait.

You blink at her, confusion momentarily replacing your panic.

“My shift starts in—” You check your watch, only for your stomach to drop as you realize your mistake.

You read the time wrong.

You aren’t late.

Your face burns with embarrassment as you run a hand through your hair, letting out a breathless laugh. “Oh. Wow. Uh, sorry about that. Guess I freaked out over nothing.”

The maid drone giggles softly, her posture still a little stiff. “It’s alright. I was kind of worried you’d sleep through your alarm. I was the first one you met yesterday, remember? My name’s V.”

You pause.

Something about that name stirs something deep in your mind, like an old song you can’t quite remember the lyrics to. It lingers on the tip of your tongue, just out of reach.

But then V smiles at you—timid, polite, a little awkward.

And the strange feeling slips away.

You smile at her. “That’s really considerate of you, especially since we only just met.”

V’s posture stiffens slightly, her eyes flickering as she glances away. “Oh, um… it’s not a big deal or anything.” She fidgets, adjusting her maid uniform. “I mean, if you’re late, it affects the rest of us, too. It’s just in our best interest to check up on each other.”

You chuckle. “Still, I appreciate it. Really.”

Her gaze flickers back to you, uncertainty melting into something softer. “...Well, you’re welcome, then.”

You nod, adjusting your clothes. “I’m looking forward to working with you and everyone else.”

V’s lips twitch into a small smile. “I’d be happy to show you around, introduce you to the others.”

“That’d be great.”

She gestures for you to follow, and you take a step forward—

—but the world around you begins to melt.

Colors blur, shapes distort, the floor beneath your feet ceases to exist.

You don’t even have time to react before the memory crumbles away entirely.

You walk over and take the clipboard from V, scanning the list. It was surprisingly thorough—she’d noted everything from loose doorknobs to fading paint along the baseboards.

You smile at her, “I really appreciate your help with all of this, V. I don’t think I could get through it without you.”

She stiffens, her fingers twitching as she looks away. “I-it’s no problem, I don’t mind. Really.”

You chuckle and, on impulse, pat her head.

Error: Unexpected Affection Detected.

You show V how to make pancakes, guiding her as she stirs the batter. She nods eagerly, then accidentally mixes too fast—sending batter flying across the kitchen. Some splatters onto both of you. There’s a moment of stunned silence before you burst out laughing, V quickly following suit.

“Not too fast,” you place your hand lightly over hers to help steady her grip. “You don’t want to splash it everywhere.”

She freezes at the contact for a moment, her optics brightening slightly, but she doesn’t pull away. “Got it,” she murmurs.

The two of you sit side by side in front of a large window, gazing out at the endless night sky. The soft ambience of the mansion fills the silence, the glow of the stars reflecting in her optics. Your shoulders brush, and static electricity crackles between you.

“The moon is beautiful, isn’t it?” you murmur.

V glances at you, her expression unreadable—until a faint blush dusts her face.

“It is,” she says softly.

You lie in bed, your fingers intertwined with V’s as she reads to you. Her voice is steady, soothing, filling the quiet room with a warmth you can’t quite describe. The world outside doesn’t matter. Here, in this moment, you feel safe.

Warmth pools in your chest, unfamiliar yet comforting. Is this… love?

And then, just like everything else, these memories fade away.

You open your eyes as pain wracks your body. Agony is all you can fathom. Your gaze darts around the room, but you can’t move. You’re strapped to some kind of table, hooked up to a mess of wires and devices. The room around you is dimly lit, a run-down laboratory, cold and unfamiliar. You can’t even begin to question where you are—the pain is overwhelming, searing through every nerve like fire. It’s worse than anything you’ve ever experienced.

You force yourself to look down, instantly regretting it. A gaping wound mars your chest, torn open where that eldritch beast’s tendril had impaled you. The sight alone makes your head spin. How are you still alive? No—why are you still alive? Every attempted breath sends agony lancing through what remains of your ribs, and you open your mouth to scream, but nothing comes out.

Then, the door creaks open.

Your stomach drops as Cyn steps inside. She’s in her worker drone form, as if mocking you with her small, unassuming frame—like she hadn’t just torn your world apart. She tilts her head, smiling as she watches you struggle. “Cordial greeting. I see you are awake. Perhaps human medical technology isn’t useless after all.”

Something shifts behind her. Your eyes widen in horror as a slick, black tendril slithers from her back, lazily extending toward a console beside you. It presses a few buttons with unsettling precision, making the monitors flicker. Another tendril whips off to the side, dragging a gurney into view, carrying a powered-off worker drone, its lifeless body still on the cold metal cart.

Wires snake out from the machinery beside you, latching onto the drone like some grotesque experiment. You can only watch in silent agony, unable to move, unable to voice the fear clawing at your throat. Cyn steps closer, her neon-yellow optics gleaming with sick delight as one of her tendrils picks up a thick cable. At the end of it is a long, wickedly sharp needle.

She holds it up, almost playfully, before leaning in.

“Hold still. I do believe this has never been attempted, until now. Giggle.”

You try to resist, but some unseen force clamps down on you, stopping even the slightest movement of your head. Your body betrays you, locked in place as panic claws at your mind. You can only watch, helpless, as the tendril moves the needle behind your skull—out of sight, but not out of mind.

Cyn tilts her head, watching you with amusement. “Don’t worry. I am not finished with you. And you won’t remember any of this. Well, hopefully.” She lets out a small giggle, her gaze gleaming like a predator playing with its food. “Human minds are so much more fickle than drones.”

You barely have time to process her words before searing agony erupts through your skull. The needle drives deep, and a sensation like a lightning strike surges through your entire body. Every nerve ignites, every fiber of your being screams in protest as darkness swallows your vision. But the nightmare doesn’t end there.

Because while you may no longer see, you can still feel.

Pain unlike anything imaginable overtakes you as something indescribable is wrenched from your very core. Your mind—your self—is being torn away from the brain that has been yours since the moment you came into existence. You are being ripped from your own body. Thought ceases, coherence shatters, and all that remains is raw, unbearable agony.

And then, just as suddenly as it began—everything stops.

ADMINISTRATOR LOCKOUT: SUCCESSFULBEGINNING DISK CLEANUP||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||__ 94%

Uzi’s fingers fly across the keyboard, desperation fueling her rapid inputs as she fights against the process. Lines of code blur together as she forces command after command, trying anything to halt the inevitable. But the counter ticks up to 95%, unfazed by her efforts.

V’s patience shatters. She steps forward, optics burning with frustration. “That’s it. Send me in. Like you did with us.”

Uzi doesn’t even look up, still typing. “That’s a terrible idea.”

“I don’t care.”

“If you’re still inside when the process finishes, you’ll be erased too.” Uzi’s voice is sharp, but there’s a flicker of hesitation beneath it. “And as great as that might be,” she adds with biting sarcasm, “something tells me N won’t like that.”

V’s claws shoot out in a blur, stopping just short of Uzi’s throat. Her optics bore into the worker drone’s, raw with something Uzi doesn’t expect—desperation. “Let me try.”

For once, Uzi is speechless. She stares at V, weighing the risk, the sheer insanity of what she’s about to allow.

She exhales sharply and yanks a cable from the terminal, holding it out. “Fine. Plug yourself in.”

You sit in the void of your memories, a vast and endless darkness stretching infinitely around you. Faint echoes of experiences drift at the edges of your perception—things you know you've lived through, but they remain just out of reach, impossible to grasp. It’s all slipping away, unraveling like loose threads in a tapestry you can’t seem to hold together.

You blink, text appearing in your field of view once again:

A-S Backup Process Enabled.

Purging Incriminating Data

A soft giggle cuts through the silence.

Cyn stands before you, a cruel smile curling her lips as she takes in your broken state. You stare up at her, defeated. There’s nothing left to fight for. Nothing left at all.

She snaps her fingers.

V appears beside her—tall, imposing, her claws gleaming under an unseen light. Her fanged grin is sharp and cold, lacking any warmth.

“A shame my experiment failed,” Cyn muses, tilting her head. “You were quite intriguing to watch.”

V’s claws extend with a metallic shink, her optics narrowing as she sizes you up.

Cyn continues, her voice chillingly indifferent. “I pitied V enough to give you a chance, to be a tool for me just like her, but it’s clear you belong with everyone else—as part of me, the Solver of the Absolute Fabric.”

V lunges.

Her claws clamp around your throat, pinning you to the ground as she looms over you, fangs bared. You don’t fight. You don’t struggle. You don’t even flinch. You’re done.

But then—

V hesitates.

The pressure around your neck loosens. Instead of tearing into you, she lets go, pulling you back to your feet. Her claws retract as she gazes into your eyes, something unreadable flickering across her face.

“As fun as it would be to kill you,” she drawls, smirking, “I think that’d be rather anticlimactic, don’t you think?”

You blink. Confusion stirs in the emptiness of your mind. “What…? Why aren’t you—”

V groans, rubbing her temple. “You’ll get it in a minute.”

Without warning, she raises her arm, her hand shifting into a gun. She fires.

Cyn shatters in a burst of pixels.

Before you can even react, V grabs you by the shoulders, her expression urgent. “Listen to me—you need to snap out of it.”

You stare at her, the weight of her words not quite sinking in.

“You’re inside your own head,” she presses on. “Cyn’s rewriting you. She’s trying to make you forget everything.”

You try to respond, to ask her what she means, but she shakes her head. “No time for that.” Her grip tightens. “You have to remember. Remember me. Remember Uzi. Remember what’s happening in the real world!”

The void trembles. Cracks split through the darkness, revealing blinding white light beneath. The world around you begins to shatter, pixel by pixel.

V’s optics widen in alarm. “No, no, no—stay with me!”

Panicked, she grabs you by the arms and yanks you into a hug, holding you tight. “Come on,” she pleads, her voice almost breaking. “You have to remember—”

The pixels overtake you both.

V gasps as she is suddenly yanked from the simulation, the world around her dissolving into nothing. She flips around, fury already building in her chest—only to see N standing there, holding the cable that had connected her.

Her optics widen in horror. “What did you do?” she screams, her voice raw with disbelief.

She spins back toward Techie, still slumped in their chair, their optics flickering with a new message.

ADMINISTRATOR LOCKOUT: SUCCESSFULDISK CLEANUP COMPLETE||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| 100%

The silence that follows is suffocating.

Uzi stares at the screen, then at Techie’s motionless form. Her shoulders tremble, her expression caught between disbelief and devastation. She failed.

N shifts, gripping the cable tightly as if he can somehow undo what he just did. “V, I—I couldn’t let you get erased too,” he stammers, barely above a whisper. “Losing both of you would just be… too much.”

V barely hears him. She is already at Techie’s side, dropping to her knees as the weight of it all crashes down. Her fingers dig into their arms as she shakes them, harder and harder, desperation creeping into her voice. “I can’t do this,” she chokes out. “Not again. Not again!”

And then, Techie’s system reboots.

Their optics flicker, the dull glow returning as their head tilts slightly.

“Hello,” they say, their voice eerily neutral. “Are you my new coworkers?”

Silence.

Uzi and N don’t move. V can only stare.

Because she knows. They all know.

Techie is gone. Completely erased.

V sits back, her arms falling limply to her sides as she gazes at the drone before her—not them, just an empty shell, stripped of everything that made them Techie. All that remains is the default programming of a Worker Drone.

How ironic.

All the destruction she has wrought, all the pain she has caused—and this is how the universe chooses to punish her. Not with fire, not with death, but with loss. Loss of something she only just got back.

N had forgotten his past. But she never had. She remembered everything. She knows exactly what she has done. And yet…

Here she is.

With a slow, weary exhale, she rises to her feet.

She takes one last look at the drone sitting before her, their optics scanning the room in vague curiosity.

What’s the point in fighting anymore? Cyn will win. She always wins.

She reaches out, her hand trembling as she places it against their cheek. A tiny crackle of static sparks between them.

The moment their metal touches, Techie’s visor glitches, their entire body shuddering violently.

V steps back in shock as the drone collapses, crashing to the floor in a twitching heap.

Even in her last act of comfort, she’s managed to kill something. How tragically ironic.

Your optics flutter open as your systems jolt back to life, rebooting in a rush of energy. The world around you sharpens into focus, bright and overwhelming, as everything comes flooding back at once. It’s disorienting—the sheer weight of your memories crashing over you like a tidal wave. You try to sit up, your joints stiff and unresponsive at first, but you push through the discomfort. Blinking rapidly, you take in your surroundings.

Uzi and N are standing in front of you, their expressions twisted in confusion, eyes locked onto you as if they’re unsure whether to believe what they’re seeing. You glance past them, spotting V in the corner of the room. She isn’t looking at you. Instead, she stares off into space, her posture stiff, her face unreadable.

You turn back to Uzi, your voice hoarse and unsteady as you manage to speak. “Uzi? What… what the hell did you do to me?”

The reaction is immediate. Uzi’s eyes go wide, her whole body tensing. She sucks in a sharp breath, realization dawning in an instant—you remember her. Her shock is evident, but before she can respond, something else happens.

V moves.

Before you can react, she is suddenly in front of you, grabbing you by the shoulders and lifting you off the ground. The intensity in her yellow optics burns into you as she stares, searching your face with a desperate kind of urgency. “Techie?!” Her voice is sharp, demanding, almost frantic. She scans your expression as if looking for a glitch, for some kind of mistake.

Your body tenses at the sudden force, and you struggle slightly in her grip, groaning in protest. “Yes! It’s me! Please put me down.”

For once, she listens. She sets you down on your feet, a significant improvement over her usual habit of just dropping you. Your legs feel unsteady, but you manage to stay upright, adjusting to the sensation of simply being again.

V wastes no time. “Do you remember everything?” she asks, and something in her tone makes your systems freeze for a second.

Everything.

The word echoes in your mind, and suddenly, it all hits.

Your life—your entire life—rushes back to you in an instant, slamming into your consciousness with the force of a collapsing building. It’s overwhelming, the sheer amount of it, so much that it feels like your head might split open from the sheer pressure. Your time as a drone, your time as a human, all of it returns in a flood, every emotion, every experience, every loss, every joy. The weight of an entire existence, something you hadn’t even fathomed regaining, comes crashing down with relentless intensity.

You stagger slightly, your fingers twitching as you try to process the sudden influx of knowledge. It’s too much all at once, the past and present colliding in a way that makes your head spin. Every moment, every decision, every version of yourself that you thought was lost—it’s all here. You’re here.

And you have no idea what to do with it.

Your voice catches in your throat, your entire system struggling to process the sheer weight of what’s just returned to you. You force out a breath, trying to steady yourself, but even that feels like too much. "I... I remember..." The words are shaky, barely more than a whisper. "I remember everything..."

Your optics flicker slightly as a name slips from your mouth. "Cyn..."

At that, Uzi's entire posture shifts. Her expression tightens, and a look of realization flashes across her face. It’s like she had momentarily forgotten why any of this was happening—why they had gone through all of this in the first place. But now, with that single name spoken aloud, it all comes rushing back.

"Nope," Uzi says, cutting off whatever breakdown you’re about to have. "We’re putting the 'my entire life is a lie' crisis on hold. We need to leave. Now."

You barely have time to react before a glow ignites around her hand. That same energy surges outward, wrapping around you before you can so much as blink. The room distorts, reality twisting and folding in on itself, the world around you shattering like a fractured mirror. The force nearly knocks you off your feet as everything warps.

Then—nothing.

Except cold.

Your optics adjust to the sudden change in lighting, and you realize you’re no longer inside. The facility, the walls, the floor—all of it is gone. Instead, you're standing outside, the frozen wasteland of Copper-9 stretching out in every direction. Ice crunches beneath your feet, the wind biting against your frame. The brutal cold is nothing new, but the suddenness of it leaves you reeling.

You barely have time to process what just happened before you see them.

Standing in front of you, unmistakable even through the swirling snow, is Doll. Next to her is J—her arms crossed, her expression unreadable. And beside them...

A woman.

You don’t recognize her. She’s clad in a space suit, her helmet obscuring most of her features, but there’s no doubt about it, she’s human.

Your mind races, trying to grasp onto something—anything—that could make sense of this. Your eyes dart to the nametag on her chest.

Tessa.

What the actual hell is happening?

#murder drones #murder drones x reader #murder drones fanfic #murder drones headcanon #murder drones v x reader #murder drones v #serial designation v

27 notes · View notes