iydiamartinx

[iydiamartinx]

Heyy I was a little hesitant to send this—but I enjoyed your recent regressed Nightwing one shot and it inspired me to draw batmom from your fic, so here is a little sketch (sorry lol I'm not so proud of it)

Girl, you should be so proud!! It’s seriously so good! Seeing this made my entire night. I love it! Thank you so much for sharing it with me 🩵🥹

[iydiamartinx]

CHRONOLOGICALLY INCORRECT

Age regressed!Dick Grayson ft batmom! reader x batman

divider by: @cafekitsune word count: 1.5k synopsis: When an age regressed Dick Grayson wreaks havoc on the Justice League. a/n: Wanted to write something light and humorous, this idea is inspired by a ideo I saw on tik tok giving a similar scenario.

The Watchtower medbay looked like a warzone.

“—How the hell is he still moving?!” Barry Allen exclaimed, clutching his ribs as a small, dark blur zipped past him and slamming a fist into his knee before launching himself at Hal Jordan.

“Ah—ow! He bit me! He bit me!” Hal yelped, clutching his arm.

Earth’s greatest defenders—gods, aliens, meta-humans—stood in disarray, thoroughly outmaneuvered by one small, barefooted terror: Nightwing. Or rather, a ten-year-old, age-regressed version of him with no memory of the team and no mercy to spare.

“Did he just throw a bedpan at me?!” Barry cried out, ducking behind Hal as a metal object flew past his head and shattered against the wall. “Was that filled?!”

“Focus!” Diana barked, deflecting a flying needle with a sharp clang of her bracers. The boy dove straight through the air like a missile, teeth bared and expression wild. “He’s a child! Contain him, don’t kill him!”

“The little shit’s trying to kill us!” Hal snapped back, clutching his forearm—now sporting a fresh, red crescent from a vicious bite.

“Language,” Superman muttered absently. He hovered midair, cape billowing, eyes carefully tracking the boy as he darted like a wolf through shadows. “He’s de-aged and disoriented. Likely under psychic regression. But—”

A sudden blur of blue and black shot from the ceiling like a launched arrow.

With a feral yell, the boy dropkicked Hal Jordan square in the back of the head.

“SON OF A—!”

The Lantern hit the ground with a heavy crash.

“Do not swear at the child,” J’onn said calmly from the corner, watching with the detached exhaustion of someone who had already tried and failed to telepathically soothe him.

“Child?!” Hal sputtered from the floor. “That’s not a child. That’s a miniature assassin in spandex! He's worse than Robin!”

“I’m surprised the suit shrunk down to fit him,” Barry commented, peeking from behind a toppled stretcher. “Who knew Nightwing was this feral as a kid? Where the hell did he grow up—the circus?! He’s like a deadly little raccoon.”

“And armed,” Diana added, eyes narrowing as a third batarang embedded itself in the wall just inches from her face.

Another smoke bomb detonated.

Thick grey fog billowed out, blanketing the medbay in a choking haze. Even with enhanced senses, thermal vision, and metahuman reflexes, the League found themselves disoriented. The child was too quick, too unpredictable—a wraith of his own, slipping through their fingers every time they thought they had him cornered.

“…You know what?” Flash coughed, waving smoke from his face. “I think I prefer having a bedpan flung at my face.”

“Fantastic,” John muttered grimly. “Why did the bloody Bats have to be in Gotham today?”

Superman finally exhaled. “That’s it. I’m calling him.”

“No!” Hal and Barry both snapped in unison, panic clear in their voices.

“We can handle the kid!” Hal added quickly, just as another tray came flying from the smoke and narrowly missed his head.

They could not, in fact, handle the kid.

After another five minutes and three minor injuries—plus one deeply bruised ego—J’onn and Clark made the call.

It didn’t take long.

The Zeta-Tube flared to life behind them with a mechanical chime and the light blue glow of teleportation.

“ZETA-TUBE ACCESS: BATMAN. ZETA-TUBE ACESS—”

The moment Dick saw the glow, he froze mid-swing—one hand still holding a scalpel, the other mid-throw with a stolen IV pole. His head whipped toward the portal with an almost animalistic instinct. Before the system could even finish the second name, the boy bolted like a bullet, launching off the medbay bed and leaping over Diana’s shoulder.

“MOM!!!”

Every head turned.

And who they saw wasn’t Batman.

It was you.

Still dressed in full gear—sleek black tactical armour molded to your frame, twin daggers crossed on your back, and a black half-mask framing your sharp eyes. You had only just stepped onto the Watchtower floor, barely blinking in the artificial light, when a small body slammed into you at full force, arms and legs wrapping around you like a vice.

You staggered back a step under the momentum.

But old instincts had you swiftly catching the small body mid-air.

“Hi, baby,” you breathed with a soft grunt, arms tightening instinctively around the ten-year-old clinging to your front like a baby koala. “I’ve got you.”

Dick buried his face in your neck, panting, heart racing against yours as he trembled in your arms. You just rocked him gently, hand sliding up to cradle the back of his head, thumb stroking through his sweat-damp hair.

Behind you, Bruce stepped out of the Zeta Tube in his full Batsuit, gaze sweeping the Watchtower, assessing the stunned and dishevelled  heroes, the utter destruction of his multi million dollar medical bay, and finally to his son, perfectly still in your arms.

He turned back to league, levelling them with a disapproving glower that could freeze blood.

“…What did you all do?”

No one answered at first.

Superman blinked. Green Lantern’s mouth opened and closed. Flash lifted a hand and pointed limply at his bruised knee.

“He’s—he’s been like this for three hours,” Barry finally blurted. “He got hit by some rogue spell, de-aged to, like, ten, and then just snapped. We tried to sedate him, but he kept dodging and fighting—he made traps, Bats! He booby-trapped the medbay with firecrackers and fishing wire!”

“The little—” Hal started, then faltered when Bruce’s gaze narrowed on him. He cleared his throat, backpedaling quickly. “The kid bit me.”

“Almost knocked him out too,” Barry added helpfully.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Hal muttered, cheeks flaring red as he tried to hide his bruised pride.

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose.

You said nothing.

Your entire focus was on the boy in your arms—no longer Gotham’s golden prodigy, no longer Nightwing, or physically the eldest of your brood, but once again your baby boy. You gently smoothed your fingers through the back of his hair, rubbing slow, comforting circles at the nape of his neck, just like you used to when nightmares woke him at the manor. You could feel his breathing ease, chest no longer heaving with panic, lashes fluttering against your collar.

“Are you okay?” you whispered against his temple.

“’M okay now,” he mumbled sleepily, his voice muffled but laced with comfort. He was crashing, worn out from the adrenaline and the confusion, but safe.

Bruce stepped in beside you, his presence relaxing Dick even further now that both his parents were in his sleepy sight. Something in Bruce’s stance shifted as he looked down at his first son— the shift was small, nearly imperceptible—but you saw it. You always did. No one else would’ve caught the way his shoulders eased, the faintest softening his mouth as he continued staring down at Dick.

“Wait…” Diana’s voice broke through the quiet, her eyes looking at the three of you in confused curiosity. “Why did he refer to you as his mother?”

You glanced up, arms instinctively tightening around Dick before glancing at Bruce who gave a barely perceptible shrug, clearly telling you it was your choice whether or not you wanted to share the truth.

“Because he’s my son,” you said simply.

Hal blinked. “Wait, I thought he was one of Spooky’s brats…” He paused. His gaze pinged between you and Bruce, taking note of how close Bruce stood beside you and the subtle way his arm almost brushed yours. Something clicked behind Hal’s eyes. His jaw dropped. “Wait a second—are you and Spooky a thing?!”

You tilted your head slightly, teeth catching the inside of your cheek to suppress the smirk threatening to break loose. Still, you couldn’t resist shifting a little closer to Bruce, letting your shoulder bump his.

“Sev— What?!”

Diana looked genuinely stunned. “I… How did none of us know this?”

“I knew,” J’onn said calmly.

“You always know,” Barry muttered under his breath.

“So did I,” Clark shrugged.

Hal was still flailing. “No. No way. You two have been on the team for years! How did we not know this?!”

“Because the two of us know how to be professional,” you replied smoothly, one brow raised in amusement.

Diana turned back to study you both again—more carefully this time. Her gaze sharpened, eyes narrowing slightly. And then her expression shifted, something else dawning. “…How many children do you have?”

Bruce grunted.

Your smirk widened. “Define ‘have.’”

“HOW MANY?” Hal all but shouted, throwing his arms into the air.

“Too many,” Bruce muttered tiredly. “And they’re all worse than him.”

“I heard that,” came a muffled, sleepy protest from your arms.

“Of course you did,” Bruce said dryly.

J’onn stepped forward, his tone calm and even. “He has calmed in your presence. Your bond appears to stabilize his regressed state. I recommend removing him from the medbay. For everyone’s safety.”

Bruce gave a short nod. “John, contact Zatanna. Have her meet us at the cave.”

“Alright. Just bloody get that demon out of here,” Constantine muttered, exhaling a puff of smoke and glaring at the scorch marks on the floor.

You adjusted your grip on Dick, who had already begun to drift off against your shoulder, then turned toward the Zeta-Tube.

Hal found his voice again—just in time. “Wait—what else have you been hiding from us? Do you have a dog? A Bat-cave under your Bat-cave?”

You didn’t even glance back as you stepped into the light.

“We also have a Batcow,” you called over your shoulder, voice light with mischief before you vanished, Bruce following a moment later.

[iydiamartinx]

hey💗

I’ve been tryna get into writing and was hoping maybe you could provide tips on how to make your blog look aesthetic and how to make the banners and headers for your fixs look cute instead of boring??

Hey love!

Oof, okay—truthfully, I’m not totally sure what to say since I constantly critique the way my aesthetic looks 😅

For my fics, I usually theme the colors based on the character—like blue for Dick, red for Jason, etc. As for editing, you can find the tools I use in this post here.

For images, I mainly pull from Pinterest.

When it comes to dividers, I have a few favorite creators I like to use from:

@cafekitsune, @thecutestgrotto, @omi-resources, @uzmacchiato, @kodaswrld, @strangergraphics, and @enchanthings are probably my go-tos.

Honestly, the best advice I can give is to scroll through blogs you find aesthetically pleasing, take note of what catches your eye, figure out what kind of vibe you want—and then build something unique to you 🩵

[iydiamartinx]

IN LOVE with the way you write, hits me deep 😥🥰

Thank youu 🥹🩵

[iydiamartinx]

I’m so sorry- I keep you and your family in my prayers. Take as much time as you need! ❤️ ❤️

Thank you so much, love 🩵 I really appreciate the kind words from you and everyone else. I’m hoping to get back to posting soon—it helps give me a break from constantly fixating on the news, and honestly, interacting with you all is one of the highlights of my day 🩵

[iydiamartinx]

Hey everyone—part of me hesitated to post this because I really don’t want to spark any political debates. This account has always been a space for escape, both for me and (I hope) for you. To give everyone a way to have a small break from everything happening in the world and in life.

That said, I wanted to give a quick heads-up in case I go quiet for a while. I have family in Iran who are being directly affected, and with how volatile things are right now, it’s been incredibly stressful. Now, with the news of the most recent attack near their city has only made that stress worse.

I’ll probably still post here and there, since this space brings me some much-needed comfort. But if I disappear and stop posting for a bit, this is most likely why and I didn’t want to go silent without at least giving you all a reason.

[iydiamartinx]

Hey diva I'm a huge fan of your work, especially the formatting of it because each post is so gorjuz, but could you please give me a tutorial of how you get that gradient coloured look on your headers of your posts! Its so pretty!

Sorry to be a bother, keep doing what you're doing!

Heyy love! Since I answered this in another ask, I’m just gonna drop the link to that here—hope it helps! 🩵

Click Here

[iydiamartinx]

Jason [looking at Dick]: If you were a gardening tool, you’d be a hoe.

Dick [offended]: Hey!

Damian [completely serious]: I’m inclined to agree with Todd’s deduction. The statistics back it up.

[Tim choking on his coffee and dying of laughter in the background.]

Dick: I’m not that bad!

Stephanie and Duke [in unison]: Yes, you are.

[Cass sheepishly nodding in agreement]

[Dick looks to Barbara for backup, who only raises a brow, and he blinks as he remembers their relationship history.]

Dick [defeated]: …Okay, fair.

[iydiamartinx]

WINE & PAINT NIGHT

Pairing: Kyle Rayner x Reader

divider by: @cafekitsune word count: 1.1k synopsis: Wine and paint night with Kyle. a/n: Y'all can't judge me for writing another Kyle Rayner fic, he's just too damn sweet.

The apartment smelled like vanilla candles and fresh takeout—cheap pad Thai in cartons perched haphazardly on the counter, abandoned in favour of the two canvases set up side by side on the living room floor. A plastic drop cloth crinkled beneath your socks as you moved, settling into your spot in front of the easel with a glass of wine in hand.

Across from you, Kyle was already grinning like an idiot.

“You’re not allowed to laugh at mine,” you warned, pointing your paintbrush at him like a sword. “I’m a civilian. A normal civilian with zero artistic skills.”

“Please,” he said, swirling his wine with theatrical flair, “I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing at the concept of anyone not being an abstract prodigy with a paintbrush after two glasses of Merlot.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Very much.”

The wine had warmed you from the inside out, loosening your shoulders and making you bolder with every brushstroke. Soft jazz filtered through the speakers, the apartment bathed in the glow of fairy lights and the golden flicker of the candle Kyle had lit an hour ago. 

You sat cross-legged across from each other, canvases angled and half-finished. His was some kind of half-sketched skyline that somehow already looked beautiful, even only halfway done. You glanced down at your canvas. Yours… well, yours might’ve been a tree. Or a shrub. A very confident shrub. Either way, it was a valiant effort.

The next time you looked up, Kyle was no longer focused on his painting. He’d abandoned the canvas completely, now sprawled out on his stomach and sketching something directly onto the drop cloth beneath him. His wine glass sat untouched by his elbow, half-forgotten, as he worked. His brows were furrowed, tongue poking slightly out the corner of his mouth in that way he probably didn’t realize he was doing it, completely lost in concentration.

“What are you doing?” you asked, setting your brush down and leaning forward curiously.

He didn’t answer right away, pencil still moving in light, practiced strokes. Then, without looking up, he said casually, “Just needed to sketch you from this angle.”

Your stomach did a stupid little flutter. “What?”

He rolled onto his side, propping his cheek against his hand, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “You look so serious and focused,” he murmured. “It’s adorable.”

A soft heat bloomed in your cheeks, and his eyes caught on it instantly before shifting to another spot on your face as his grin widened.

“You’ve got a little something…” he said, gesturing vaguely with a finger still stained with paint. His brush hovered midair, forgotten. “Right there.” He tapped the bridge of his own nose, eyes flicking back to yours, mischief glinting in their depths.

You blinked, confused at the sudden subject change. “Where?”

“There.”

You leaned toward the table to look at your reflection in the glass but never got the chance. Because before you could even process it, Kyle dabbed a streak of blue paint on your nose with the tip of his brush.

You gasped. “You did not.”

He bit back a smile. “I absolutely did.”

“You’ve made a terrible mistake.”

Before he could retreat, you dipped your finger into your palette—coincidentally green—and smudged it across his cheek with theatrical flair.

“Now you really are the Green Lantern.” You giggled.

“Okay,” he said slowly, blinking. “…this is so war.”

The next few seconds were a flurry of poorly aimed brush swipes, giggles, yelps, and colour. Kyle ducked as you flicked paint at him, retaliated by streaking your collarbone with a dash of violet. You smeared green across his jaw, and he retaliated with a burst of yellow across your forehead.

“Kyle!”

You shrieked, trying to bolt—but Kyle was faster. He caught you around the waist with ease, hauling you back against his chest in one smooth motion. You barely had time to laugh before he lifted you off the ground entirely, spinning you both in a dizzying circle. Your giggles mixed with squeals as you clung to his paint-slicked arms, breathless and laughing

By the time the chaos settled, you were both breathless and laughing, covered in messy swirls of pigment. You collapsed backward onto the plastic-covered floor with a soft oof, your chest rising and falling with aftershocks of laughter. Kyle followed, lying beside you, one arm draped across his forehead like a man dramatically defeated.

“Truce?” you murmured.

He peeked at you from under his arm, cheeks flushed—not just from the wine or the laughter. “Only if you kiss it better.”

You rolled onto your side, fingers gently brushing the paint off his cheek, softening as you took him in. “You look like a rainbow threw up on you.”

He huffed out a laugh, “So do you,” he grinned before his voice dropped, quieter now. Tender. “Still the prettiest thing in the room.”

You smiled and leaned in, before he could say anything cheesier, you kissed him. The kiss was soft, slow. He tasted like wine and you could feel him smile against your lips, the way his hand cradled your jaw, thumb brushing just under your ear.

His other hand found your waist, fingers curling gently into the fabric of your shirt, anchoring you to him as if he couldn’t quite bear the thought of letting go. 

When you finally pulled back, noses brushing, breath mingling, you stayed close—your forehead resting against his.

“I think I like wine nights,” you whispered.

Kyle nodded, eyes half-lidded as he stared down you. “Next time we skip the painting and go straight to the kissing.”

You grinned. “But then how would I win the paint war?”

His smirk deepened as he tugged you closer, until your noses bumped—his still streaked with a smear of blue, yours dusted with specks of orange.

“Baby,” he murmured, his voice low and full of affection, “I’d let you win any war… if it meant I got to taste your lips again.”

And just like that, he kissed you again. The rest of the night faded into soft kisses, slow jazz, and the comfortable hum of being exactly where you wanted to be—in Kyle’s arms and surrounded by his love.

[iydiamartinx]

Hi! I just finished This means war… I’m so freaking obsessed with it already!! If the taglist is open, could I be added on the next parts? Thank you 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

Hey! I’m so glad you’re enjoying it! If you can, would you mind dropping a comment on the latest chapter to ask? I’ve been getting a lot of scattered requests in my DMs and on other earlier chapters, so it’s getting a bit hard to keep track. I just don’t want to accidentally forget to add you when I post the next update 🩵🩵

[iydiamartinx]

Love love love batsis x Kyle ! I’m wondering how the boys have reacted to their sisters not so decent partners before him… like Jason finding out his sister got cheated on or something

Lol, I don’t have time to write a full one-shot, but it would probably go something like this...

[Batsis storms into the cave, fuming]

Jason [cleaning his gun]: What happened?

Damian [polishing his sword]: You appear… distressed.

Batsis: He cheated! That bastard actually cheated on me.

Jason: I’ll shoot him.

Damian: He shall feel the wrath of my katanas.

Tim [typing rapidly]: Already found his address. Sending coordinates now.

Duke [grabbing his helmet]: I’ll do a fly-by. Make sure the coast is clear before justice is served.

[Batsis beginning to get worried as her brothers begin suiting up, realizing she fucked up. She didn’t want that idiot to be the reason they commit murder]

[Dick walks in, holding a cup of iced coffee]

Dick: …Did I miss a meeting or something, what’s going on?

Batsis [still in shock]: Well my asshole of a boyfriend cheated so…Jason’s grabbing his gun. Damian wants to slice him in half. Tim’s got his location. Duke’s apparently prepping to recon his place. Help. 

Dick [blinks, then puts the coffee down with a sigh]: Absolutely not. Stand down. All of you. 

[He points at each of them] No guns. No blades. No drones. No murdering.

[Everyone reluctantly backs off. Batsis lets out a sigh of relief]

Crisis averted. Or so she thinks.

Because what no one realized was that despite his golden boy happy exterior, there was a reason why Dick was labelled as the angriest Robin. And no one—no one—hurts his sister and gets away with it.

That night, a grinning Nightwing makes a surprise visit.

Your ex was left a sobbing mess, scared out of his mind, with a very literal broken dick.

The next morning, Batsis opened her door to a massive bouquet of flowers, an excessive amount of chocolate, and a 13-paragraph apology text from her ex that practically begged for forgiveness.

[She turns slowly to the two obvious suspects.]

Batsis: Did you two have something to do with this?

[Jason and Damian both shake their heads quickly.]

[Just then, a whistling Dick walks in, spots the flowers and candy.]

Dick [grinning brightly]: Good. He apologized. Ooh, chocolates!

[He grabs a box and strolls away, popping one in his mouth, utterly unbothered.]

[The three stare after him in stunned silence.]

Jason [getting flashbacks of their youth]: Damn. This reminds me why I never try to piss off Dick.

Damian [trying to hide his admiration]: Tt. Amateur. I would’ve sent you his fingers for ever daring to touch another woman.

Jason and Damian are often seen as the dangerous ones (and for good reason), but deep down, they’re secret softies. People tend to forget now that Dick’s older and more laid-back—that he was the blueprint for them.

The whole reason Bruce even let Dick become Robin was because the poor man was genuinely stressed that this kid might go out and kill someone from how angry he was. So, in a situation like this, I think that old anger miiiiight just peek out 😂

[iydiamartinx]

I want to write a DC fanfic, but my only source of info is like. Three tv shows, a friend who is into it and one thousand fanfic. Can you please give me some advice on how to not sound ooc or awful?

Research, research, research 😬 There’s so much DC media out there that you can pull inspiration from. Whenever I write a character, I need to see and believe that what I’m writing is something they would actually do—even in my crack fics (which I’m a little more flexible with, to a degree).

Everyone’s interpretation of a character will be a little different, and that’s okay. But if you can nail their general demeanor and figure out their core values, then even if you bend canon a bit, they won’t feel out of character. That’s actually why I haven’t written any Tim or Duke-centric fics yet. I know enough about them to include them as supporting characters, but not enough to feel confident writing them as the main focus.

I try to take note of their general qualities, understand their story arcs, motivations, and even the small details that might not seem important but are still apart of their character. Once you have that foundation, you can step into their shoes and guide the story in any direction you want.

Ask yourself questions about the character, to really get into their head. Take Bruce, for example.

Bruce is often seen as the embodiment of justice, someone considered almost incorruptible. His no-kill rule is believed to be ironclad… but how much pressure can he take before he finally breaks?

If you wanted to write an evil Bruce, what would that descent actually look like? What would realistically push him down that spiral?

What might make him give up the mantle of Batman entirely?

And then there are the smaller, more playful questions—like, what kind of drink would Bruce order? If he were a god, what would he rule over?

The beauty of DC is that the comics are incredibly versatile and often explore alternate versions of characters that answer questions like these. You can absolutely draw inspiration from those scenarios and build your own interpretations.

The more you understand a character—who they are, what drives them, what their limits are—the easier it becomes to write them in a way that feels realistic, even when you’re bending canon or playing with crazier scenarios 🩵

There are so many pieces of media you can pull from that showcase the characters in different ways and help you get a better feel for their personalities, values, and dynamics. A few Bat Family-centric options to start with:

The DCAU Movies

Wayne Family Adventures

Titans

The Batman (live-action films)

The Dark Knight Trilogy

The Batman (animated series)

Young Justice

And of course—Google, Tumblr, Reddit, and Fanfictions are absolute goldmines when you want to dive deeper into character breakdowns, fan interpretations, or just find a niche comic panel.

[iydiamartinx]

NOT WITHOUT APPROVAL

Pairing: Kyle Rayner x Reader ft. Batfam

divider by: @cafekitsune word count: 2.8k synopsis: Kyle Rayner gets interrogated by your overprotective bat brothers. a/n: This was my first time writing Kyle, so go easy on me if he feels a little off—I was also running on zero sleep while doing it 💀

You knew this day would come.

It was inevitable, really. No matter how much you tried to fly under the radar—normal dates, low-key outings, minimal PDA—the moment Kyle Rayner became a regular in your life, your brothers soon found out after that.

Jason was the first to notice. Of course he was.

You weren’t even with Kyle at the time. Just texting him during patrol, your face lit faintly by your comm screen. You hadn’t even realized you were smiling until Jason’s voice cut through the silence.

“Who the hell keeps making you smile like that?” he asked, eyes still scanning the rooftop across the alley.

You blinked. “No one.”

He slowly turned to look at you unimpressed. “That’s a lie. You only smile like that when you’re watching dog videos or texting someone who shouldn’t be texting you.”

“Shut up,” you muttered, tucking your phone away.

He told the others that night.

Which is why, a week later, Kyle found himself in the deeply unfortunate position of walking into a coffee shop and realizing—with the slowness of a man watching his life flash before his eyes—that your four uninvited brothers were there and you weren’t.

Dick was the first to spot him, his smile a little too bright to be genuine. “Kyle, buddy! Glad you could make it. Sit. Want anything? Coffee? A muffin?” His tone was sweet. His eyes were not.

Tim had an iPad in his hands, his usually sleepy gaze sharp and hard for once. “Just a few questions. Basic background check. You know, standard sibling procedure.”

Jason sat across from them, arms folded, expression carved from stone. He didn’t say a word.

Neither did Damian, who lounged beside him, one leg crossed over the other, fingers steepled like a villain as his emerald green eyes narrowed into the infamous bat glare.

Kyle hesitated in the doorway, scanning the table as if gauging whether to run. But it was already too late. He walked toward them with the same reluctant grace of a man stepping into a den of wolves wearing bacon-scented cologne. His usual confident smile twitched, faltered, then gave up entirely as he looked from face to face—each one offering a different variation of the we will end you look.

“So…” Kyle offered, his voice pitching higher than usual, “does this count as a family brunch, or…?”

“Just sit,” Jason said flatly.

He cleared his throat and did just that. 

You arrived late. The bell above the café door chimed softly, but the scene that greeted you brought you to an abrupt stop.

Kyle sat in the centre of the corner booth, hunched between your brothers who flanked him on either side, like a panel of parole officers.

Your eyes narrowed. “You ambushed him?!”

Dick was the first to respond, flashing a grin that was far too wide, far too cheerful to be genuine. “Hey, baby bat. We were just getting to know your… friend.”

Jason leaned back in his chair, arms crossed tight over his chest. “Boyfriend,” he corrected. “She told Steph and Cass he was her boyfriend.”

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “You little eavesdropper!”

Turning to Kyle, your tone softened with exasperation. “You should’ve just left.”

Kyle gave a sheepish laugh and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. Sorry. I should’ve texted you. But I walked in and they were already here, and honestly?” He glanced toward Damian with a grimace. “I was afraid if I ran, Damian would chase me.”

Damian scoffed, clearly offended. “As if I would lower myself to such a humiliating display.”

You turned your glare on each of your brothers in slow succession, the kind of look that said try me. Your finger jabbed toward Jason. “I swear to God, if you threatened him—”

“I haven’t even pulled out my gun,” Jason replied with mock innocence. Then, after a beat, added, “Yet.”

Tim, seated across from Kyle with a tablet in his hands, cleared his throat. “Kyle Rayner. Green Lantern. Former graphic designer. Lives in Metropolis. Mild arrest record for trespassing—art-related. Consistent League presence, decent intergalactic diplomacy score.” He paused and looked up at Kyle with narrowed eyes, “So far, not bad.”  

You shut your eyes and exhaled slowly. “…You ran a background check?”

Tim didn’t even glance up. “I cross-referenced League records, public databases, and pulled his social media footprint. It’s hardly invasive.”

Kyle shifted in his seat, as he sheepishly said with a nervous laugh. “It sort of is invasive.”

Dick leaned forward then, arms resting on the table, hands loosely clasped. He wore that trademark easygoing smile—and despite looking the friendliest, he was probably the scariest. “Look, kid. We’re not here to scare you. We just want to be sure our sister isn’t wasting her time with someone who can’t handle… well… us.”

“That’s rich coming from the guy who cried when she dated that paramedic,” Jason muttered. 

“He had a moustache like Commissioner Gordon!” Dick snapped. “It was weird!”

Your mouth dropped open. “He did not!”

“It was curling,” Dick insisted. “He looked like he should be directing traffic outside GCPD!”

Before you could respond with the scathing remark forming on your tongue, Damian cut in, his voice calm and infuriatingly cold. “I still have a few questions.”

You blinked, already feeling your temper rise. “Absolutely not. My relationship is none of your business—especially not yours, Damian. You’re twelve!”

“Incorrect,” he said, completely unbothered. “With Father off-world on League business, the responsibility of vetting potential suitors falls upon us. And as the only competent one in the room, it defaults to me.”

A chorus of protests erupted immediately from the others that Damian ignored. His gaze flicked to Kyle with practiced disdain, like he was gum stuck to the bottom of his combat boot. “What exactly makes you worthy of my sister, subhuman?”

Kyle blinked, visibly thrown off, still debating whether or not he should take offence to being called subhuman. 

He frozen in place. His mouth opened, then closed. “Uh…” he began, uncertain, the word trailing off as he tried to form a coherent sentence.

Apparently, the hesitation was answer enough.

Damian’s eyes narrowed into sharp green slits. “Drake,” he said, voice clipped, “what else have you found?”

“Continuing with my findings,” he said, voice casual, “Kyle’s record is mostly clean, aside from the minor trespassing incident involving an unauthorized mural I mentioned earlier. Risk level: moderate. Noted to have a saviour complex. And he also cries during Pixar movies.”

Kyle straightened abruptly, scandalized. “I do not cry at—okay, Up doesn’t count,” he admitted, then looked around in disbelief. “How the hell did you even find that out?!”

“Don’t humour him,” you muttered under your breath, shooting Kyle a warning glance before turning your full attention back to the pint-sized menace sitting across from you. “Again—you are twelve, Damian. What the hell makes you an expert on relationship vetting?”

“I’ve read three psychology textbooks,” Damian began coolly, lifting his hand to tick the points off with deliberate precision, “studied the behavioural profiles of over twenty romantic serial offenders—one of which includes Grayson.”

Dick jolted upright, visibly affronted. “Excuse me?”

“Your pattern of failed relationships is both statistically and psychologically alarming,” Damian continued, undeterred. “I’ve even made charts.”

You and the rest of your siblings snorted in unison. Across from you, Kyle gave a small, nervous laugh—the kind of sound a man makes when he’s not entirely sure whether he’s in on the joke or about to be murdered for blinking wrong.

Dick’s voice shot up. “What charts?!”

“And,” Damian went on, ignoring him entirely, “I once successfully diffused a volatile courtship between two League assassins with conflicting kill orders.”

You opened your mouth to speak—possibly to tell him how utterly deranged that sounded, how Leagueassassins should not be part of any romantic case study, much less one led by a twelve-year-old—but he wasn’t finished.

“Your track record, on the other hand, includes crying over someone who ghosted you for a week and then posted a thirst trap.”

Whatever amusement you’d had vanished in an instant. Your jaw dropped, your face flushed. “That was one time!” you snapped, your voice pitching higher than you intended, voice cracked halfway between defensive outrage and and sheer mortification.

“To be fair,” Jason grumbled from his seat, voice laced with judgment and absolutely no sympathy, “she only dated him because—and I quote—‘he had killer abs.’”

Your head snapped toward him so fast it was a miracle you didn’t pull something. “Jason!”

He shrugged. “Don’t look at me. You did say it.”

Tim nodded in agreement.

“Will you idiots please stop listening in on my conversations with Steph and Cass—” you began, only to be immediately cut off.

“Exactly!” Damian exclaimed cutting you off, throwing up a hand. “We cannot afford another lapse in judgment,” he declared, gesturing toward Kyle like he were Exhibit A in a courtroom trial, “simply because this new lover happens to look marginally appealing in low lighting and owns a sketchbook.”

Kyle blinked, the sentence hitting him a beat too late. He processed the insult, then the strange half-praise buried beneath it.

“…Was that a compliment?” he asked, genuinely unsure.

“No!” four voices of your brothers barked in unison. 

The sheer force of the response made him flinch slightly, hands rising halfway in surrender. You sighed, long and loud, dragging a hand down your face in exhausted disbelief. 

Damian’s full attention had returned to your boyfriend now, gaze cold and assessing.

“So,” he said, tone chillingly level, “let me repeat—what makes you worthy of my sister?”

Kyle swallowed, shoulders tensing under the weight of every glare trained on him. He cleared his throat, trying to will some confidence into his voice.

“Uh… right. Well. I guess… I care about her?” he offered.

Damian’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You guess?”

“No—I do! I do care,” Kyle corrected quickly, sitting forward with more conviction. “She’s smart. Amazing. She’s—she’s brave. She makes things feel… clearer. Like I know who I want to be when I’m around her. She makes me better.”

Jason leaned back in his chair with a groan. “Jesus. That was such a Hallmark line that I think I got a cavity.”

“Do you value your kneecaps?” Damian asked flatly, not even bothering to blink.

That was your cue.

You stepped in at last, exasperated beyond belief, you planted your hands firmly on the worn surface and levelled a withering glare at your brothers. “Okay, this—whatever this is—is over.”

“We’re just doing our due diligence as your brothers,” Tim said, completely unapologetic as he tapped something casually into his tablet.

“No,” you hissed, voice low and livid. “You’re not. You’re all insane. I swear, Duke is the only normal one left in this family.”

Jason shrugged, unfazed. “Your boy toy is still alive. That’s considered restraint.”

Kyle, to his credit, only subtly shift a few inches away from Jason at the his statement.

“I bought him a muffin,” Dick chimed in, as if that excused the interrogation he and the others forced Kyle under.

Kyle nodded quickly, hoping he could help diffuse the tension. “It’s true. He did buy me a muffin.”

You turned to your boyfriend with narrowed eyes. “Stop trying to make light of this. For all you know, these idiots poisoned it.”

The colour drained from Kyle’s face. He looked down at the now-empty muffin wrapper with dawning horror, then slowly turned his head toward Dick, who merely grinned wider and winked—completely refusing to confirm or deny the accusation.

Damian, meanwhile, was still watching Kyle with unnerving focus, arms folded, lips pressed into a thin line. Then, finally, he spoke again, “If you hurt her,” he said, voice firm and cold, “the Green Lantern ring won’t save you from me.”

You let out a sharp breath, pinching the bridge of your nose. “This is insane. I’m not fifteen. I’m not sneaking out to meet a boy behind your backs. Kyle and I are seeing each other. End of story. You do not get a vote.”

Jason leaned back, arms crossed, expression smug. “Actually, we get four.”

“For fuck’s sake,” you muttered, rubbing your temples.

Across the table, Kyle had gone still. Damian’s words had clearly hit their mark. But rather than shrink away, he reached for you.

His hand found yours hesitantly, fingers brushing your skin like the simple act of touching you might trigger a full-on brawl with the others. His gaze flicked to your brothers—who had suddenly gone quiet, watching with interaction with sharp, unreadable expressions—and then settled back on you.

“It’s okay,” he said softly. “Really. I get it. If I had a sister like you… I’d be worried too.”

You froze and softened at the fact he wasn’t completely bothered by your family.

Kyle turned back to your brothers, squaring his shoulders as he looked between them one by one. Then his eyes found Damian again. He held Damian’s glare, steady and unflinching.

Then, with a slow nod, he spoke—his voice calm, steady, and utterly sincere.

“Okay,” he said. “Like I said—I get it. I respect it. But I’m not going anywhere. And I’m not going to hurt her.” He let the words hang there, heavy and unflinching, and then added—more quietly, but somehow more resolutely, “You don’t have to like me. Hell, you can threaten me all you want. I’m not here to fight you. I’m here because I really do care about her deeply.”

There was a long silence. Then Jason sighed like it physically hurt him. ““Well… he’s not the worst you’ve done.”

“I still don’t like him,” Damian added swiftly, as if he needed to get it on the record before anyone mistook him for soft. “But… I suppose if he hurts you, we’ll just make him disappear.”

Kyle blinked. “Wait, does this mean you all approve?”

All of them snorted at the question.

“Don’t push it, buddy,” Dick said, rising from his seat. Tim followed suit, both of them stepping aside to let Kyle escape the booth

You didn’t bother replying. Instead, you grabbed Kyle’s arm and tugged him up with more force than necessary, already heading toward the door with determined steps.

“Okay. We’re leaving,” you announced, throwing one last glare over your shoulder. “Next time, we’ll do dinner off-planet.”

Tim blinked. “You know we can just hack the satellites.”

You only flipped your brothers the bird. Kyle turned to you as you stepped outside, the door swinging shut behind you with the soft jingle of the bell. His expression was a mix of awe and mild terror.

“…You know,” he said slowly, “I suddenly understand why you have trust issues.”

Before you could respond, he leaned in a little closer, voice dipping into a whisper like he thought your brothers might still be listening. “Just so I know… are there more of them?”

You sighed, the sound long-suffering but laced with something almost—almost—fond.

“Technically?” you said, casting Kyle a sideways glance. “Barbara’s neutral. Cass and Steph like you—so far. Duke too. But he also told me to pass along a message.”

Kyle raised an eyebrow, waiting.

“If you break my heart,” you continued sweetly, “he’ll ruin your credit score.”

Kyle blinked, visibly thrown. “That’s… a very specific threat.”

You only smirked, slipping your hand around his arm and tugging him gently forward. “Welcome to my family.” There was a beat of silence before you added, far too casually, “Oh, and remember—you still haven’t officially met my dad yet.”

Kyle stopped cold in his tracks.

You felt the sudden halt in his step and turned just in time to watch all the colour drain from his face.

“Wait. What?” he said, voice a little higher than usual. “I thought… I just survived the Four Horsemen of Gotham. Can’t they just pass along a message or something?”

You turned to face him, your expression amused. “They were the warm-up.”

Kyle blinked. “The warm-up?”

“Mmhmm,” you hummed, nodding. “Bruce prefers one-on-one conversations. Private. Controlled. Somewhere quiet, and… less likely to leave evidence.”

Kyle ran a hand down his face, visibly distressed. “I’ve fought aliens. I’ve stared down gods. I’ve survived being trapped in a black hole with Guy Gardner. But this…” He trailed off, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a prayer.

And yet—he didn’t step back. He didn’t run. He just stood there, eyes wide, shoulders tight. Then, with a sharp breath, he straightened, lifted his chin, and gave a shaky nod.

“Okay,” he said softly. “Okay. I can do this. I’ve got this. Probably.”

You grinned, looping your arm through his. “That’s the spirit.”

From the café window behind you, a small figure stood watching—arms crossed, green eyes narrowed, a satisfied smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Fool,” Damian murmured, his breath fogging faintly against the glass.

Jason, standing beside him and sipping what was left of his coffee, let out a low chuckle.

“Dead man walking.”

[iydiamartinx]

How are you able to frequently post one-shots, I'm literally struggling to finish a single chapter 💔💔💔💔

BLESS ME WITH YOUR KNOWLEDGE 🙏🙏🙏

Haha, I’m always writing, even when I probably shouldn’t be—like at work 🫣 For me it’s an escape and a chance to get out every idea floating around in my brain.

Oddly enough, DC one-shots are the easiest for me to write. Like, every other fandom gives has me struggling and my drafts are overflowing with half-finished one-shots I just can’t seem to finish. (I’m also definitely a mood writer, and DC has been my biggest source of inspiration lately.)

One-shots also give me a nice break from my longer fics, which take way more time and planning. Some of those take months—or even over a year—to update, especially when writer’s block hits hard 💀

Insomnia weirdly works in my favor, though—I’ll just stay up all night writing when the ideas hit.

Honestly, the best advice I can give is to write down every idea you get—even if you think it’s dumb as shit. You never know which one will end up sparking something later. Half my DC one-shots started as random ideas I never actually planned to write… while some of the ones I did plan? Yeah, still sitting in my dusty collection of drafts 🩵

[iydiamartinx]

If I disappear for a few days…this is why

A bond everlasting

[iydiamartinx]

NOBLE RESOLVE

𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗼𝗻𝗲 | 𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐨

Pairing: Fem! Noble Six x Master Chief

Forewarning: This fic is based off the games and books, not the show. It will also follow the events of the games closely.

A/N: This is for the people who want to skip the events of Reach and get into Six meeting Chief

❝ 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑦 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑟𝑡: 𝑖 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑣𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑑. ❞

— 𝐮𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧

𝘀𝗲𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟭𝟵𝘁𝗵, 𝟮𝟱𝟱𝟮 | 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝟎𝟒

IN COUNTLESS INSTANCES throughout her life, Elise had found herself standing at Death’s door. Each time, she defied the odds, survived, and walked away. Yet, she never considered herself lucky. She wasn’t fortunate. She was a survivor. But there was always that lingering question—one that seemed inevitable after so many brushes with death—even survivors eventually meet their end. Was this finally the moment she found hers?

The thought gnawed at her as she found herself standing in a place so pure, so bright, that it made her eyes ache. It felt almost unreal, a blinding white stretching in every direction like the very air was filled with light. She had heard stories of what heaven looked like, seen representations of it in art and in tales—but this? This felt different. This was too pure, too endless. Maybe this was what death looked like. Maybe this was the afterlife.

Yet, despite the oppressive brightness, a part of her clung to the belief that death was simply nothingness. No awareness. No second chances. Just an empty void where even thoughts ceased to exist. But in a small, quiet corner of her mind, she still held a flicker of hope—if only for one thing. Perhaps there was an afterlife. Perhaps she would be able to see her parents once more.

Her reverie was broken when a voice taunted her, cutting through the stillness. “Giving up so soon, Six?”

The voice was unmistakable, almost teasing. It sounded just like Jun.

Her brows furrowed, and for a moment, she couldn’t reconcile the words with the reality she had come to expect. The last time she saw him, he had been escorting Dr. Halsey to CASTLE Base. Was it possible? Was he—was he dead too?

As if on cue, Jun’s laughter filled the void, a low, familiar chuckle that soon mixed with another voice—deeper, warmer, and filled with the strength of someone who had always been there to protect her in the short time she'd known him.

“We all make it sooner or later,” the voice rumbled, thick with a Hungarian accent that made her heart tighten. “But your time still isn’t up, they still need you out there.”

Jorge.

The sound of his voice cracked something inside of her, and a lump formed in her throat. She hadn’t realized how much she had missed him, how much she had longed to hear that steady, comforting tone again.

“He’s right,” came another, rougher voice. The sound of Emile’s gruffness, his unmistakable abrasiveness, was like a slap of cold water. “You ain’t done yet, Six.”

His words stirred something deep within the blinding whiteness, a flicker of something before the light consumed it again. What did he mean? Wasn’t she dead? Her mind swirled with confusion as her thoughts fractured, piecing together the remnants of the battle. The Phantom. The crash. She should have died, shouldn’t she?

A rough, heated grip seized her arms, the sensation startling her into awareness. She could feel the pressure of unseen hands shaking her slightly.

“Wake up!” Kat’s voice rang out, harsh and insistent.

Wake up? Was this real? Was this some cruel trick of her mind, or was she…?

“C’mon Elle, you need to wake up!” Emile’s voice pressed through, sharper now, like a lifeline pulling her back from the edge.

The last thing she could remember was hijacking that Phantom, her fingers wrapped around the controls. The Phantom—was that what killed her? Her thoughts were muddled, disjointed, and the pain… it began to fade, replaced by a slow, gradual brightening of the world around her.

“Wake up, Lieutenant!” Carter’s voice cut through, sharp, commanding.

That was all it took. The command in Carter’s voice was the final catalyst, snapping Elise out of the fog. Her eyes flew open just as a loud boom rattled through her senses, filling her ears and shaking her to her core.

She gasped, a wheeze escaping her throat, before she broke into harsh, jagged coughs, her chest seizing painfully. The realization came slowly—She should’ve died.

Disoriented, she fought to push herself up, groaning from the ache in her muscles as the world spun around her. Her arms felt like lead, but instinct kicked in. She forced herself to her feet, her body protesting every movement.

Wryly, she thought to herself that she needed to ensure falling from orbit didn’t become a habit. After a few moments, her legs steadied beneath her, and with a grunt, she pushed herself upright.

Her first instinct was to survey her surroundings for any signs of danger. Her hand instinctively reached for her sidearm, but the empty holster reminded her of the frantic, fleeting moments before she lost consciousness. Her pulse quickened as she scanned the area, muscles still on high alert, until the surreal beauty of the landscape in front of her stopped her in her tracks.

For a moment, she entertained the thought that she had truly died and been sent to the afterlife. The land before her almost looked too perfect, too peaceful to be real. Rolling hills of rich green stretched out as far as the eye could see, dotted here and there with scattered conifers that swayed gently in a breeze she couldn’t feel. The jagged outcroppings of weathered gray rock rose from the earth like ancient sentinels. It was beautiful, breathtaking even—like something plucked from a dream.

But it was also haunting.

The sight of the trees stirred a pang of nostalgia. The scent of pine was so vivid, so familiar, it made her heart ache. These trees reminded her of those she had seen on Reach—before the Covenant glassed the planet, before everything was burned.

For the briefest moment, she allowed herself to remember those days—before it all fell apart.

But that memory faded quickly as she turned her gaze upward, and the pang of longing twisted into something else—a creeping confusion.

Something wasn’t right.

The land stretched on, but the sky… it wasn’t quite right. Above, the atmosphere curved in a way that didn’t match the planet’s curvature. As her eyes tracked the horizon, the realization slammed into her.

This wasn’t a planet.

This… was a ring.

The curvature of the horizon was unmistakable now that she could see it with her own eyes. The shape tapered upwards, casting a shadow over the world she stood in. Her memory of the view from space was hazy, but now, everything was too clear. It was a ring, a massive ring, stretching into the sky like the very edge of the universe itself.

Just where the hell had she landed?

Pushing the thought of her mysterious surroundings aside, Elise focused on the immediate task at hand. It wasn’t important right now; survival was. What mattered was gathering what supplies she could, getting out of the open, and finding a way off this damn ring. She needed to return to the UNSC—now.

Turning around, her eyes locked onto the smoldering wreckage of the Phantom she had crash-landed in. The mangled aircraft lay only a few feet away, flames licking the sky in patches of blue fire. She must’ve been thrown clear in the initial impact, and, though it could have been far worse, she realized it had been a stroke of luck. The Phantom was a wreck. The sound of it exploding had likely been what jarred her back to consciousness, but now there was nothing left worth salvaging. She was stranded.

Her gaze lingered on the destruction, but there was no time to waste. The Covenant were probably already aware of her crash, and they’d be searching for her soon. But despite the dire circumstances, Elise couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of gratitude for the situation she now found herself in. It could have been far worse.

After fighting on Reach, where the air had been thick with the toxic fumes from Covenant glassing, this place was a literal breath of fresh air. She could feel the crisp, clean air coming through her suit’s filters, each intake a small reminder that she was alive.

With a groan, Elise shifted her weight, every muscle in her body protesting as pain coursed through her. She began limping toward her sidearm, which lay just a few feet away. Her luck seemed to be running thin, though. A quick check on her counter revealed a dire shortage of ammo. If she encountered any Covenant forces, she would need to be careful with her remaining rounds. She’d have to rely on her knives if things got desperate.

But the more pressing concern was the Covenant. They had likely programmed the coordinates into the ship, so it was only a matter of time before they showed up. She didn’t have the luxury of waiting. The best option was to get out of the open and put as much distance between herself and the crash site as possible.

Once she collected her weapon, she glanced around one last time. Nothing salvageable. With a final, determined glance at the smoldering wreckage, she set off in the direction that promised more cover—a denser thicket of trees and rocks.

The world felt unreal, like a dream that she couldn’t quite shake. Her ankle ached painfully, a sprained mess from the crash, and she limped noticeably. But she pushed through, every step a reminder of how far she still had to go to escape this ring and make contact with anyone who might still be out there.

As she moved, she activated her comms, hoping against hope that a nearby UNSC force might pick up her transmission.

“Mayday, can anybody copy? This is Sierra Bravo-312, requesting immediate evac, over.”

Static.

She grit her teeth and tried again.

“Mayday, can anybody copy, this Sierra Bravo-312, requesting immediate evac, over.”

Again, nothing but static. Frustration bubbled up in her chest, but she swallowed it down. She couldn’t afford to lose control, not now. She had to stay focused.

“Mayday, can anybody copy? This is Sierra Bravo-312, requesting immediate evac, over.”

The silence stretched on, her words bouncing back with nothing but static in return. Knowing the risk she was about to take, she activated her distress signal. If there were any UNSC forces nearby they would eventually pick it up.

Her grip tightened on the pistol as she continued to move through the dense thicket, the trees offering some cover but leaving her exposed to any threats she couldn’t see coming. Her radar was down, and her ankle slowed her pace. Every step felt like a battle against her own body.

Then, the faint hum of Banshees reached her ears.

Her heart skipped a beat, and without thinking, she ducked quickly behind a cluster of trees and rocks, flattening herself against the cool stone. The Banshees were close, circling the crash site like vultures. She held her breath, watching as the two aircrafts passed overhead leaving behind a streak of fading plasma. They didn’t stop. Instead, they flew off, presumably back to wherever they had come from.

A cursed breath escaped her lips, but her relief was short-lived. The worst had yet to come.

Her eyes flicked back to the path ahead as she pushed on, but just as she thought she might be in the clear, a low murmur of alien chatter drifted through the air.

It was the unmistakable sound of Covenant troops moving through the terrain, and they were coming straight toward her.

Without wasting a second, Elise ducked back into the trees, holding her breath and praying to whatever gods might listen that she wouldn’t be noticed. The group passed within a few meters of her position, unaware of her presence. She stayed still, her heart hammering in her chest.

Elise was so focused on avoiding detection by the Covenant troops, her senses dulled by exhaustion that she remained unaware of the distortion in the air. It shimmered, like a ripple on a still pond, barely visible, creeping up behind her.

Her mind, fatigued from the stress of her injuries and lack of rest, failed to detect the danger until it was too late. The faintest sound—a soft footfall too close to her—was all the warning she had. But even that wasn’t enough.

Before she could react, her world went dark.

The Elite’s camouflage shimmered and flickered, the last trace of his invisibility fading as he watched the Demon’s body drop heavily to the ground. The nearby Covenant squad, now fully aware of the situation, let out startled yelps and shrieks, the smaller Grunts recoiling in panic at the sight of the unconscious Spartan.

The Elite ignored them, his focus entirely on the Demon’s form lying still in the dirt. He activated his blade, the familiar hiss of the energy weapon echoing in the quiet as it sparked into existence. He raised it, preparing to finish what he had started—this enemy had given them enough trouble. But as he gazed down at the prone figure before him, something made him hesitate.

His mind flashed briefly to the Pillar of Autumn—the ship. The Captain had not yet been captured. The human had led many successful campaigns against their forces. Perhaps this Demon could offer them the information they needed. Perhaps she could lead them to the planet humans called Earth, or at least provide some clue to the movements of their remaining forces.

The Elite studied her body for a long moment, his mind weighing the options. To kill her now, would give him great honour among his people but if he could retrieve the information they’ve sought for so long through the demon…His comrades waited, anxious for action, but the decision was his to make.

Finally, with a decision reached, he deactivated the blade. Its faint glow faded away, the hiss dying with it as he turned to face the squad behind him. His voice came in a low, guttural growl, speaking in the harsh tones of his native tongue.

“We keep this one alive,” he ordered, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed the squad.

The two Major-class Elite leaders exchanged a brief glance before breaking away from the group. They moved swiftly, grabbing Elise’s limp body by the arms and dragging her across the ground with a grunt. The action was rough but efficient, and despite her unconscious state, Elise was hauled back toward their base with little resistance.

The Elite followed behind, his reptilian eyes cold, calculating. The Demon was still useful to them. Perhaps she could lead them to something greater—or perhaps, once the Captain was captured, he would see to it that she didn’t leave this place alive.

She was roused from the depths of unconsciousness by a sharp pain on her cheek—a jarring sensation that pulled her out of the black void and back to reality. Her eyes snapped open, focusing instantly on the towering form of the Elite standing before her, his broad frame casting a shadow over her kneeling form.

The alien’s mandibles flared, twisting into what could only be described as his version of a grin. The sight was both unsettling and maddening.

“The demoness has awoken,” he growled, his voice thick with a deep, guttural Sangheili accent that sent a chill down her spine.

Elise’s body tensed, but she quickly suppressed the instinct to recoil. She glared up at him, her eyes narrowed in defiance, but that was all she could muster. She quickly assessed her situation. She was no longer wearing her MJOLNIR armor—only the undersuit she had worn beneath it. Energy shackles were locked tightly around her wrists, keeping her arms outstretched and her upper body upright, forcing her into a vulnerable position, kneeling in a cold, unfamiliar cell.

The helplessness gnawed at her, but she didn’t let the Elite see it. She kept her expression hard, her gaze icy and defiant. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing her panic, not when she still had a chance to turn this around.

The Elite chuckled, the sound low and cruel, as though he were relishing every second of her discomfort. “I will enjoy watching you be broken,” he said, his voice dripping with malice.

Elise didn’t respond. Aside from a slight tilt of her head, she remained still, her silence louder than any words she could have spoken. The Elite’s words were meant to break her, to see her crack. But she wouldn’t—she couldn’t—let him see that. Not yet. Not until she found a way out.

Before he could continue his taunts, another Elite stepped forward, his voice sharp as he snapped something in their native tongue. The first Elite responded in kind, but the exchange was brief and tense. The second Elite’s words seemed to rattle the one standing over her, causing him to step back with a frustrated growl.

Though Elise’s understanding of Sangheili was basic at best, the fragmented words she could translate allowed her to piece together the meaning. The Elite were holding her in a temporary base, but they planned to transfer her to their ship, The Truth and Reconciliation. That ship was likely their flagship, which meant the general there would take over the questioning once she was brought aboard.

The information gave her a moment of clarity. She had time. The general’s arrival meant there was at least a brief reprieve before the real interrogation began, but that didn’t change the urgency of her situation. She needed to escape. Once she was transferred to the ship, there would be no chance for escape—only the unrelenting torture until she gave them whatever answers they wanted, or until they tired of her and executed her.

She could already feel the weight of exhaustion pulling at her. Her muscles screamed in protest, her body heavy with the toll of injury and sleep deprivation. As much as she hated to admit it, her mind and body were on the verge of shutting down.

A plan. She needed a plan, but her weary eyes fluttered closed before she could even begin to form one.

Against her better judgment, Elise allowed herself a brief respite, her body yielding to the darkness once again. It was a dangerous choice, but it was the only one she could make. She needed rest—however brief—if she was to stand any chance of surviving this.

For now, the black abyss was the only escape from the harsh reality of her situation.

Next Chapter →

banner credits: cafekitsune & omi-resources

[iydiamartinx]

NOBLE RESOLVE

❝ 𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐑𝐄 𝐀 𝐖𝐄𝐀𝐏𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐖𝐄𝐀𝐏𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐏. ❞

𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐇 𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘯 𝘣312 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘶𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥𝘭𝘺 𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴 𝘢 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘯𝘦𝘳.

BOOK TWO

𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗼𝗻𝗲 | 𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐨

𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝘄𝗼 | 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐮𝐞

𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗲𝗲 | 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐦 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐦

𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗳𝗼𝘂𝗿 | 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧