#vaulted cecilings

[cloudsofbluesmoke]

Living Room in Seattle Large tuscan open concept medium tone wood floor and brown floor living room photo with a tile fireplace, a standard fireplace, no tv and beige walls

[throatofdelusion12]

all them

[bunji-enthusiast]

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙻𝚘𝚠 𝙻𝚒𝚏𝚎

Chat noir!reader

Summary || now as a classified asset, you got more than you bargained for.

Note // YAYYY, part 2—RAGHHH

You heard the shift in air pressure before you heard the sound.

A low, pulsing thrum—the kind that tickles the back of your neck, makes your instincts sit up and pay attention. Plagg’s ears twitched, his chewing slowed, and he glanced upward.

You sat up slowly, not transforming. Not yet.

Then the silhouette dropped into view.

A soft impact. Boots on concrete. Not loud. But deliberate.

You blinked, heart skipping a beat.

It was Invincible.

Not in full battle mode—just his suit, not a scratch on it tonight. His posture was relaxed, arms loosely crossed, but his eyes were focused.

“You’re Cat Noir,” he said, voice quiet but firm.

You didn’t move. “You’re… later than I expected.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Expected?”

You stood, brushing off your jeans. “Yeah. GDA's golden boy. Figured they’d send you eventually. To talk. Or spy. Or recruit me again.”

Mark shook his head. “Cecil didn’t send me. He doesn’t even know I’m here.”

You narrowed your eyes.

Plagg hovered warily behind you, muttering, “Okay, I vote we bolt. Like, right now.”

But you didn’t move. You waited.

Mark finally spoke again. “I saw your file. Just… caught my eye. A kid who doesn’t want to be a hero but won’t stop saving people anyway.”

“…So what, you’re here to give me the pep talk?”

He smiled faintly. “Nah. I hate pep talks. I just… wanted to meet you. On my own terms.”

You crossed your arms, sizing him up.

“You ever get tired of it?” you asked. “Of everyone expecting you to fix the world when you’re just trying to survive it?”

Mark looked at the stars for a moment before answering. “Yeah. All the time.”

The silence between you stretched—not awkward, but heavy. Like two sides of a cracked mirror staring at each other.

He finally stepped closer, his voice softer now.

“You’ve lost things. So have I. And the GDA… they don’t really teach you how to live with that. They just give you more missions.”

You said nothing.

“But if you ever need someone who gets it,” Mark added, “I’m around. Not as a handler. Not as a teammate. Just… someone who understands what it feels like to carry power that doesn’t always feel like yours.”

You looked at him for a long moment.

Then—just barely—you nodded.

Mark turned to leave, but paused mid-hover.

“Oh, and… if you ever wanna spar sometime? No claws.”

You smirked. “No flying.”

He laughed, then vanished into the sky.

Plagg floated back to your shoulder, chewing the last of his cheese. “Well. That was weirdly wholesome.”

You sighed and dropped back onto the rooftop.

“Yeah,” you murmured.

“But for once… maybe I needed it.”

It was less than an hour after Invincible left.

The stars were still out. Your rooftop had just started to feel like yours again. You were lying on your back, thinking about maybe sleeping under the sky for once instead of in a bed that never really felt like home.

Then—your ring pulsed.

A sickly green flicker, like your heart skipped a beat.

Plagg jolted upright. “That’s not normal.”

You sat up fast.

Your phone lit up. Encrypted message. GDA code. Not from Cecil this time—this one was from Donald Ferguson. His name barely meant anything to you, but you remembered the file: GDA assistant, often seen in Cecil’s shadow. Quiet. Dangerous in the way chess players are dangerous.

The message was short.

“Field-level emergency. Midtown. Coordinates pinged. Immediate response authorized. Level-3 clearance granted. You’re closest.”

You didn’t hesitate.

"Plagg, claws out."

The transformation slammed through you like a lightning bolt. Fur, leather, power. That sharp weightless moment between being human and being more. Your boots hit the rooftop like thunder, staff clicking to your back as your mask tightened around your face.

Plagg vanished inside the ring. “I hope this emergency involves cheese. Or something easy to hit.”

You sprinted and vaulted off the roof.

Midtown was chaos.

Not Lizard League chaos. Not purse-snatching or bank-robbing. This was bad. You landed atop a flickering streetlight and stared down at the scene.

A biotech transport truck had flipped—split down the middle.

Black, silver-cored ooze leaked from the shattered containment tanks. People were running, some screaming, some stuck in place, frozen with fear.

The real problem?

A man—no, a thing—made of living metal stood in the center of it all.

Tall. Shifting. A humanoid body coated in plates of black-chrome steel, constantly reconfiguring itself. His arms were blades, his face a blank polished mask. His movements were too smooth. Too intentional.

He wasn’t rampaging.

He was hunting.

And you had a terrible feeling you’d just found what he was hunting for.

A GDA drone zipped by overhead, scanning, and pinged your comms line.

“Target confirmed: Codename METALLIK. Rogue cyborg from failed D.A. Sinclair prototype batch. Experimental mind-machine merge. Extremely hostile. Objective unclear.”

You muttered, “Fantastic.”

Then he turned and looked right at you.

A whir of gears. His chest split slightly—revealing something pulsing inside. A heartbeat made of wires. A targeting system.

Plagg’s voice buzzed in your ear. “You’ve got maybe six seconds before this turns into a real problem.”

You leapt down from the light, landing hard on the cracked pavement, claws flexing, tail sweeping behind you.

“Guess we’re skipping round two with Invincible,” you muttered, eyes narrowing.

“Time to dance, tin man.”

You charged.

The second your boots hit the pavement, Metallik’s head snapped to track your movement—smooth, fluid, unnatural. His body spun into motion like a weapon system waking up, every movement calculated. But you were already closing the distance.

Staff in hand, claws out.

The first hit was meant to test him—a fast jab to the midsection.

It bounced.

The impact rippled across his metal plating like it was absorbing the blow, rerouting the force through joints and rebar-like tendons. He didn't even flinch.

“Okay, cool cool cool,” you muttered, flipping back just as his blade-arm slashed through the air where your face had been. “He’s made of cheat codes.”

Plagg’s voice echoed in your mind. "Those joints! Under the plating—look for weak spots. Think spider legs."

You dove forward low—sliding under a second sweeping strike—and jammed your staff into the crook of his knee, claws slicing under the shifting armor.

That one landed.

He staggered, just for a moment, and snarled—not with a voice, but with sound—a distorted digital screech that grated like bad feedback and metal twisting inside your skull.

He reconfigured.

His arm turned into a cannon. A literal cannon.

You flipped sideways midair as it discharged—a blast of plasma heat carving a molten gash into the asphalt behind you. The shockwave knocked you into a parked car, but you landed in a crouch, panting.

You couldn’t just fight him. You needed to know why he was here.

And you needed to know fast.

Your eyes scanned the wreckage around him—broken biotech crates, fluid leaking, scattered containment tags.

One fluttered nearby, charred but mostly intact.

You lunged, grabbed it mid-roll, and skidded behind a flipped van.

Barcode… subject ID… name—

‘Subject: SCION.’

Your blood ran cold. Plagg whispered in your mind. “That’s not just a name.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a failsafe designation. Genetic anomalies. Power potential flagged off the charts. GDA has a habit of locking those away.”

You glanced over the edge of the van at Metallik. He wasn’t here for the tech.

He was here for whoever—or whatever—Scion is.

And now?

He turned. Sensors glowing red.

He saw you holding the file tag.

A new sound came from his chest—something like language, half-garbled through static:

“…Asset… defective… replace…”

And then he charged. You barely got your staff up in time.

The impact threw you through the van like tissue paper. The sound of your bell echoed in your ears as you hit the pavement and rolled, armor scuffed, body aching.

He was above you now, blade raised—ready to carve you in half.

You caught it. Just barely.

Claws against steel. Sparks flying. Your ring glowing like fire.

You gritted your teeth. “You’re not replacing anyone.”

With a twist and a roar, you drove your feet into his chest and launched him skyward.

He flipped midair—machine grace—and landed in a crouch.

But something flickered behind his head.

A shadow.

Not yours.

Another figure was on the field now. Small. Frightened. Leaning against a broken crate.

A kid. Maybe ten. Pale, glowing veins beneath their skin. Eyes bright as your ring.

They locked eyes with you. And suddenly—you knew.

Scion wasn’t a weapon.

Scion was a person.

And Metallik had come to claim them.

Plagg whispered, low and deadly. “We have to get to the kid before he does.”

You stood, cracked your neck, and twirled your staff into a ready stance, tail lashing.

“Then let’s finish this.”

Round Two didn’t start with a punch.

It started with a bell—your bell.

You reached up, unclipped it from your collar, and whispered, “Plagg, give me a little show.”

Plagg emerged with a flicker, a grin forming around his fang. “Oh, I love this part.”

You hurled the bell high into the air. With a burst of green energy and a low hum of Kwami trickery, it split mid-flight into a dozen glowing projections—each one a perfect illusion of you.

Metallik's optics flared.

He scanned. And twitched. Confused.

“Target… multiple… anomaly…”

You didn’t wait.

In the blur of flickering Cat Noirs, you sprinted for the kid—Scion—your staff contracting back into a baton so you could scoop the kid up in one arm.

“Hey, you okay?” you asked, voice low, trying to stay calm.

They looked at you, eyes glowing faint green. “I heard him in my head,” they whispered. “He says I’m broken.”

“You’re not,” you said firmly, hooking your staff to your back. “You’re just new.”

The illusions danced—taunting, dodging, mirroring every one of your fight patterns.

Metallik roared and launched a blade into one. It flickered, then vanished in a pop of green light.

You were already leaping over cars, sprinting through alleys, putting distance between Metallik and Scion.

You ducked into a construction site two blocks over. Quiet. High ground. Steel frame, unfinished walls—a temporary battlefield.

You set Scion down and knelt, gripping their shoulders. “Stay here. Don’t move. Don’t glow.”

Their lip trembled, but they nodded, eyes wide.

Then they surprised you.

“You’re not afraid of him.”

You paused.

“Not enough to run.”

You smiled faintly. “No. I’m just smart enough to pick the right ground to finish a fight.”

And then the steel beams began to quake.

You turned slowly—just as Metallik tore through the concrete wall like paper.

His blades glinted in the dark. The plating along his arms twisted, reshaping into spears, tendrils of tech snaking behind him like extra limbs.

But now?

You were ready.

The confined space would limit his range. The height gave you options. And the silence?

That was yours.

“Let’s finish it,” you muttered, claws extending, stance low.

Plagg’s voice echoed in your mind. “For once, I think he’s the one out of his depth.”

You launched forward—fast, precise—claws sparking against his armor, each strike aimed for the joints, the gears, the soft parts.

Metallik swung wide with a blade—you ducked and drove your baton into the base of his spine. The lights on his chest flickered.

He shrieked in digital rage and stabbed—you caught it between both claws and twisted, snapping the blade’s edge.

You saw an opening. A core, beneath his chest plate. Glowing. Beating. A heart made of stolen power.

You leapt high, spun mid-air.

And drove your staff into it with every ounce of strength you had.

BOOM.

A pulse of green light exploded outward.

Metallik convulsed—his limbs spasming, metal shrieking against itself, body folding inward. The core shattered, sparks flying in every direction. His voice glitched, static screeching—

“BROKEN—BROK—BROK—”

Then silence.

His body collapsed, steaming.

You landed hard, panting, ring dimming as Plagg’s voice rasped, “Okay, now I need cheese. A wheel.”

You walked slowly back to Scion, who hadn’t moved.

They looked up at you. “You didn’t kill him.”

You shrugged, claws retracting. “Not my job. I’m not the reaper. I’m the cat who protects the people monsters hunt.”

Scion nodded slowly. “…You’re not like the others.”

You smiled, exhausted but steady. “You either.”

Mission complete. One saved. One shut down. One step deeper into a world of secrets.

You didn’t go back through the front door.

You dropped in through the window.

Boots silent on hardwood, adrenaline still lingering in your limbs. The city was quieter now—Metallik was down, the kid was safe (for now), and the only thing left to do was wait for the inevitable.

You hadn’t even fully de-transformed yet.

The shadows in your apartment moved before the light did. That faint distortion, like heat off asphalt. The flicker of teleport tech.

Then—Cecil.

He stood near your table, hands behind his back, eyes like quiet knives. No expression. No preamble. Just—

“You kept the kid alive.”

You nodded, cautious. “Scion’s not what you thought they were.”

“We weren’t sure what they were,” Cecil said flatly. “The file was redacted above my clearance. I had a feeling this might be something… unique.”

You crossed your arms. “So you used me.”

“No,” he said. “I tested you.”

You frowned. “Tested me?”

Cecil stepped forward, just once. His voice stayed low. “We’ve had our eye on you since the Lizard League. But we needed to know what kind of player you are. A weapon? A wildcard? A liability?”

“And?”

His eyes narrowed—almost approval. “You saved the kid. Neutralized a failed experiment without leaving collateral damage. Protected a civilian asset without orders. You made your own call, and it was the right one.”

You looked away, jaw tight. “So what, you want a thank-you?”

“No,” Cecil said. “I want you to understand something.”

He took out a small device, placed it gently on your table.

“You’re in this now. Not officially. Not publicly. But you’ve stepped into the game. And this? This game doesn’t have sidelines.”

You stared at the device—black, palm-sized, blinking faintly.

“What is it?” you asked.

“A line,” Cecil said. “Between you and me. Use it when the world stops playing fair.”

He turned to go—then paused at the window.

“One more thing.”

You looked up.

“Scion,” he said quietly. “Don’t try to find out where they are. Trust me when I say… you don’t want to know.”

And then, without a sound, he was gone.

You de-transformed slowly, skin crawling with residual charge.

Plagg floated out, tired and cheese-hungry.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

You picked up the device. Rolled it between your fingers. The blinking light was steady, constant, like a heartbeat.

And for the first time all day… you felt completely alone.

Not because no one was around. But because you were in it now.

Officially unofficial.

Cat Noir… agent of nothing. And maybe, just maybe, protector of something bigger than you can see.

Night falls. The city breathes.

The world isn’t saved.

But it’s safe—for now.

The next morning came without sirens.

No calls. No explosions. No GDA pings or secret files or bleeding-edge murder machines stalking city streets.

Just the sound of birds outside your window and the gentle hum of morning traffic.

A sunrise that wasn’t backlit by fire or debris.

You cracked one eye open.

Plagg was snoring on top of your chest, curled up like an actual cat. A tiny bit of camembert clung to his mouth like a dream he'd never left.

You blinked up at the ceiling.

And for the first time in what felt like weeks…

You didn’t feel like Cat Noir.

You felt like… you.

You took your time that day.

No suit. No transformation. Just your hoodie, headphones, and beat-up sneakers.

You grabbed a scarf on your way out—not to hide your identity, just because it was chilly and kind of matched your vibe.

You got your favorite açaí bowl from that little shop on 5th. The one with the bored barista who now knew your order by heart but still pretended like they didn’t.

You sat by the fountain, spoon in one hand, sunlight in your face. Watching people walk by. Laugh. Talk.

Be normal.

No one looked twice at you.

No glowing ring. No claws. Just a kid with messed-up hair and a tired kind of peace behind their eyes.

It felt… good.

Later, you walked into a comic shop. The dusty kind. Old posters, creaky floors, the smell of ink and nostalgia baked into the walls.

The owner gave you a nod. Didn’t recognize you. Didn’t care.

You thumbed through the bins in silence.

Pulled out a well-worn issue of Silver Claw #14.

One of your favorites.

The hero loses, hard. Spends the whole issue figuring out how to pick himself back up.

You bought it. Left with it tucked under your arm like something sacred.

The bell above the comic shop door jingled as you stepped out, bag tucked under your arm, that faint musty ink smell still clinging to your hoodie. The Silver Claw issue was resting easy against your ribs—like a quiet anchor to something simpler.

You were halfway down the block when you felt it.

That subtle shift in the air.

Like the oxygen itself went taut. A ripple just beyond sight, like something about the world had blinked wrong for a second.

Then came the sound.

BOOM.

Not distant—right around the corner.

You stopped. Turned.

Just in time to see a man flying backward through a glass window, shattering it like paper. He hit a parked car, dented it, and slid off with a groan.

And above the wreckage?

Titan.

Muscles like concrete, fists like wrecking balls. Covered in his signature armor-skin—cracked and steaming, like he’d taken a hit.

You knew him. Not well, but enough.

A hero trying to turn over a new leaf. Used to run with crime. Now he ran toward it.

Someone you’d quietly admired.

But he wasn’t alone.

Hovering above him, flickering in and out of view like a glitch in a game, was Phantom Slash.

A low-tier villain, but dangerous. Hard-light blades. Cloaking. Ex-military with a grudge. Loved collateral.

Civilians screamed, scattering.

Titan pushed up off the car, blood at the corner of his mouth.

"You really don't know when to quit, huh?" he growled.

Phantom Slash hissed, voice glitchy through his visor. “I was trained not to.”

Another blade flicked out of nowhere. Titan barely blocked it—ripped a parking meter out of the ground and used it like a club.

They fought right there on the street.

Power against precision. Brute strength against sharp edges and flickers of invisibility.

And you?

You just stood there, watching.

Not frozen. Just… choosing.

Because today, you weren’t Cat Noir.

And this? This was someone else’s fight.

You slipped back into the crowd. Not out of fear—but out of trust. Titan was holding his own. And you? You weren’t needed this time.

Sometimes, being a hero meant knowing when to stand down.

Later, hours later—after the noise had died down and the cleanup had started—you pulled out the comic book again, back on your rooftop.

Silver Claw #14.

Your eyes drifted to a single panel.

The hero sits on a bench, watching another hero save the day. A little girl asks him, “Why aren’t you helping?”

He says, “Because sometimes the world doesn’t need my claws. It just needs me to believe in someone else.”

You closed the comic.

And for the first time in a long while, you smiled to yourself—because maybe, just maybe, you were learning how to do that too.

As the sun started to dip again, you found yourself on the same rooftop you always came back to. Your spot.

You didn’t suit up. You just sat there.

Feet dangling over the edge. Hoodie pulled tight. Head leaned back.

No missions. No pressure. Just… sky.

Plagg floated up beside you, a piece of gouda in hand.

“You know,” he said around a bite, “you could’ve transformed. We could be doing flips off cranes or shadow boxing against satellites.”

You smirked. “Nah. Today’s a ‘me’ day.”

He paused, then nodded.

“…Good call.”

And the two of you sat there.

A kid and his chaos spirit. Watching the world turn quietly for once. You weren’t Cat Noir today.

You were just you. And it was enough.

However, there was a time that sentiment didn’t seem to ring as loud. Where you were even smaller, smaller than you are now. Your mind faded away to memory lane.

It starts with rain.

Not the heavy kind that pounds windows or floods streets—but the soft kind. Gentle. Constant. The kind that slips between tree branches and fogs up café windows.

You were maybe ten. Maybe eleven.

Still small enough to lose your hoodie sleeves in your fists. Still young enough to believe everything would work out, even when it didn’t make sense.

And you were waiting.

On a bench outside a tall glass building, shoes wet, comic book pressed tight against your chest to keep it from wrinkling.

You’d been there a while, waiting for your dad.

Again.

The receptionist had told you, in that polite-customer-service tone you would come to resent, “He’s in a meeting.”

Said it like it was an apology.

Said it like it mattered.

But you’d waited. Because he said, “I’ll be there, kiddo. Just give me an hour.”

It had been three.

You remember watching the umbrellas pass by. The different colors. The strange rhythm of grown-ups walking fast like they were all late for something important.

And then—someone sat down beside you.

You didn’t look at them at first. You were focused on your comic. Something familiar.

But then a voice broke the silence.

“You know, Silver Claw doesn’t get enough credit. Most people just think he’s all edge and no heart.”

You blinked, looked up.

The guy was older. Not old, just… tired in a way that felt permanent. Leather jacket. Stubbly chin. A bandage on one knuckle.

He smiled a little when he saw your surprise.

“Don’t worry, not a creep. I just know a good comic when I see one.”

You looked at your issue, then back at him. “He’s not my favorite.”

“Oh yeah? Who is?”

You hesitated. “Honestly? I don’t know yet.”

The man nodded like that made perfect sense.

“That’s fair. You got time. But for what it’s worth…”

He pointed at the cover. “This one’s a good pick. It’s not about winning the fight. It’s about what you do after you lose one.”

You looked at him again—really looked.

There was something in his eyes. Not pity. Not concern.

Just… familiarity.

Like maybe he knew what it was like to wait on that bench, too.

He didn’t ask where your parents were.

Didn’t ask why you were alone.

He just pulled something out of his jacket pocket. A granola bar. Slightly squished.

“Trade you,” he said, holding it out. “That issue for the snack.”

You smirked. “Not a chance. First print.”

He laughed. “Smart kid.”

He stood up. Patted your shoulder once—light, careful—and then walked off into the rain, vanishing between umbrellas like a ghost.

You never knew who he was.

But that comic? You still have it.

Taped-up spine. Faded cover. A corner bent from where it got caught in your backpack zipper.

It’s the one you were reading the day your ring found you. And maybe that’s not a coincidence. Because deep down?

That was the day you realized something: Heroes don’t always wear masks.

Sometimes, they just sit down next to you on a rainy bench and remind you that you matter.

Even when no one else shows up.

The next memory rings in mind, the first time you met Plagg. Admittedly you weren’t very proud of your self for the way you acted; embarrassed about the thought even.

You weren’t expecting magic that day.

Just a really weird ring.

You found it in your dad’s office—long after the meetings had stopped, long after his phone calls had grown shorter and his eyes colder.

It was sitting in a velvet box, shoved behind old contracts and dusty plaques.

Jet black. Smooth. Like obsidian but light as air. With a strange green paw print on its face.

You tried it on out of boredom.

It clicked onto your finger like it belonged there.

And the moment it did—Everything changed.

Your vision blurred with green static. Your pulse hit double-time. You stumbled back against the desk—papers scattering, heart pounding, something hot and ancient flickering behind your eyes.

Then—light.

Not blinding. But alive.

And from that light… a floating black cat.

No—smaller. Stranger.

A Kwami.

Eyes glowing. Body light as smoke. A grin carved by centuries of chaos.

"Finally," the creature said, stretching like it had been napping for a decade. “Took you long enough.”

You screamed.

Okay, not screamed. But like—yelled in the awkward, choked, panicked way only a kid caught stealing something can yell.

You stumbled back and hit the desk again. “W-what are you—what is this—what are you?!”

The little creature blinked, then yawned. Then floated right up into your face. “Name’s Plagg. Kwami of destruction. You’re my new holder. Congrats.”

You blinked. “Of… destruction?”

“Yep.”

“Like… boom destruction?”

“Boom. Chaos. Ruin. The usual.”

You looked down at the ring on your finger. It pulsed faintly.

“I didn’t sign up for this.”

Plagg shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. You put the ring on. That’s the bond. Fate’s weird like that.”

You sank into your dad’s office chair, breath shaky.

“But I’m just a kid.”

Plagg looked at you, and for the first time… he didn’t smile. “Exactly,” he said. “That’s why it matters.”

The rest of the day was a blur.

Plagg tried to explain the Miraculous. The history. The responsibility. The power.

You only half-listened—still staring at your hand, wondering how the world got bigger while you stayed so small. But by nightfall?

You stood in the mirror. Ring on your hand. Hoodie hanging loose. And whispered, “Claws out.”

The green light swallowed you. And when it faded? You weren’t just a kid anymore. You were something else.

Something fast. Something strong. Something hidden behind shadows and bell chimes and a smirk that barely hid the ache beneath it.

Cat Noir had been born.

But you—

you were still figuring out what that meant.

Morning light crept into your apartment like it was sneaking a peek, not quite brave enough to wake you up fully.

You sat up slowly. Shoulders sore from the fight with Metallik, mind heavier from the kid—Scion—and everything Cecil didn’t say.

Plagg hovered near the fridge, stuffing his face with aged gouda. “You know, for a guy who got tossed through two cars and punched in the kidneys by a living tank, you’re moving pretty well.”

You stretched, wincing. “Pain builds character.”

“Yeah? I’d like to return some of mine.”

By noon, you were back at the GDA facility.

Unmasked. Hood up. Ring hidden under a glove.

Cecil had left no instructions, just a one-line message on your encrypted line:

“Be here. 12 sharp.”

As usual, the building felt like something out of a clean future nightmare. Glass, steel, corridors that whispered secrets even when no one was talking. You passed guards. Scientists. Some of them glanced at you, then looked away like you were a loaded gun.

You were almost at the elevator to the upper debriefing levels when—

“Hey. Alley Cat.”

The voice was rough around the edges. Young, but carrying weight. You turned.

There she was.

Amanda. Monster Girl.

Her hair was pulled into a messy braid, tied with what looked like a sparkly pink hair tie that didn’t match anything else she was wearing. Green shirt, cargo pants. A scowl she’d probably been born with.

She crossed her arms. “You’re the new maybe-prodigy Cecil’s got whispering through back channels. Didn’t expect you to look like…”

She trailed off, giving you a slow once-over.

“…well, like this.”

You blinked. “Like what?”

“Like a kid trying to cosplay ‘brooding.’”

You smirked. “Says the lady built like a Funko Pop who could crush me into drywall.”

Amanda didn’t laugh—but the corner of her mouth almost twitched.

She stepped closer, voice dropping just a notch.

“You good? After the Metallik thing?”

You hesitated, then nodded. “I’m breathing. That counts.”

“Yeah. It does.”

She looked at you a beat longer, her expression unreadable. “If you need someone who’s been through Cecil’s wringer and lived to complain about it… I’m around.”

You opened your mouth—maybe to say thanks, maybe something dumber—but then a door hissed open beside you both.

A cold GDA voice echoed: “The Director will see you now.”

Amanda gave you a nod, then turned to head down her own hallway “Good luck, Alley Cat,” she called over her shoulder.

“Try not to get used to the quiet.”

You stepped into Cecil’s office and the doors slid shut behind you with a metallic hiss.

And just like that—Playtime was over.

Cecil’s office was cold.

Not physically—though the sleek metal and black glass didn’t exactly scream warmth—but cold in that clinical, calculating way that said nothing in this room is an accident.

He was already waiting, leaning on his desk like he’d been there for hours, arms folded and scar lit by the thin beam of light coming from the holographic interface at his side.

“Cat Noir,” he said without looking up, his voice gruff, dry, and too calm for your liking.

You stepped inside, hands in your hoodie pockets. “You always this dramatic, or is it just for me?”

Cecil smirked faintly, then tapped something on the panel. A hologram sparked to life in the air between you—blue and flickering. A planet. Not Earth.

“Tell me what you know about the Coalition of Planets.”

You frowned, stepping closer. “Not much. Intergalactic alliance. Tries to keep Viltrumites in check.”

“And failing,” he muttered. “Badly.”

He waved a hand and the hologram zoomed in on a specific system. Three planets. One dark and scorched, one bustling with city lights, and the third—green and gold, covered in jungle.

“That last one is called Velthar. One of our deep-space listening outposts picked up a garbled signal from a scout. It didn’t last long. But the few words we decrypted…” He tapped again.

The audio played, crackly and broken, but clear enough:

“Viltrumite… not alone… weapon—no, host—”

static.

“—black ring, green eyes—he’s here—”

Then nothing.

Your heart started hammering before you could even process why. Cecil turned toward you, his gaze sharp. “Sound familiar?”

“…You think that has something to do with me?”

“I think someone out there just described you.”

You stared at the image of Velthar. Dense. Alien. Untamed.

Cecil continued. “We’re sending a stealth probe to collect hard data. But the Coalition’s too bogged down in internal conflict to move quickly. So until then…” He looked at you.

You already knew what he was going to say.

“I want you ready to move.”

You raised a brow. “So what, you think there’s another ring out there?”

“I think there’s something older than the Miraculous system whispering through the cracks of space. And I think if there’s a link between you and whatever’s waiting on Velthar, we can’t afford to wait for it to come here.”

Silence fell for a beat. Then Cecil added, quieter, “And if it is another like you… you might be the only one who can stop them. Or talk to them.”

Your throat felt dry. “…When do I leave?”

Cecil smiled grimly. “You don’t. Not yet.”

He tapped the screen again, bringing up a different file.

“Before that, you’re heading into a joint training op. Earthside. Amanda will brief you. Some old-school Guardians, a few new recruits. I need to know how you really work with a team before I drop you into deep space.”

You sighed, half relief, half tension. “So a warm-up lap before the apocalypse. Cool.”

Cecil looked back at the star map. “That kid—Scion. Metallik. They weren’t random. Something’s shifting. You feel it too, don’t you?”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah.” And in your gut, something twisted. Like a storm on the edge of your senses. Something big was coming.

And your claws?

They might not be enough.

[aspen78]

Chapter 6: How it all Byrnes

<<prev chp>>

--

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

It stopped whispering long ago. It held its breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Black blazer? Check.

Pressed button up? You know it.

Glasses? Exactly the kind you’d never notice.

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

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

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

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

Cecil was going to be pissed.

But she was already pissed.

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

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

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

“Come in, Byrnes.”

She sighed. “You’re no fun anymore.”

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

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

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

She remained standing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re breathing.”

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

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

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

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

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

It made no sound. But the weight was there.

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

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

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

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

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

Cecil didn’t answer right away.

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

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

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

And there he was.

Nolan Grayson. Omni-Man.

Not just standing. Not just moving.

Killing.

The Guardians.

No interference. No defense. No unknown third party.

There was only him. And them. And red.

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

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

“Why bring it to me now?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And if we wait too long-”

“We still all die.”

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

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

“What are you doing in preparation for this.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I saw the file.”

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

“I know, Stedman,” (y/n) cut in.

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

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

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

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

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

The moment didn’t last. It never did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She paused. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The elevator doors dinged open.

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

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

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

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

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

His fingers froze.

Her eyes snapped up. Met his.

Brown. Wide. Familiar.

Mark Grayson.

Oh, great. 

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

She didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

Not at first.

Because she knew he was already squinting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh…” Mark blinked. “Hi?”

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

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

He squinted again.“Wait a second...”

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

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

“You were about to.”

“Was I?”

“You always are.”

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

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

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

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

Whiplash.

Absolute whiplash.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop saying that.”

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m going now.”

She took a step back. He took one forward.

(Y/n) narrowed her eyes. 

He saw it, because of course he did. 

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

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

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

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

“It’s not.”

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

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

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

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

Mark grinned like that was the entire point.

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

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

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

It should’ve been irritating.

It was irritating.

But it also wasn’t.

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

…She hated him a little for that.

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

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

He tilted his head. “Do what?”

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

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

“...Aren’t we friends?”

She stopped walking.

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

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

She just paused.

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

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

“Mark.”

She said it like a pressure valve.

He shut up.

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

She wasn’t looking at him.

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

Not from walking. Not from running.

From carrying.

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

(Y/n) didn’t answer right away.

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

Then she said, “You don’t know me.”

“I’m trying to,” he said, quiet.

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

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

“You’re not supposed to,” she said.

He tilted his head. “Why not?”

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

“For who?”

“For me.”

That landed with more weight than either of them expected.

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” she murmured. “I do.”

She didn’t say it like a martyr.

She didn’t say it like someone brave.

She said it like it cost her something.

It hung there.

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

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

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

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

She was doing it because she did.

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

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

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

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

She flinched. Barely, but enough. 

He saw it.

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

“Well, that's sort of the point.”

Mark’s brow creased. 

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

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

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

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

Because she wasn’t asking for comfort.

She was explaining her logic.

And that’s what bothered him the most.

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

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

That undid something in him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was sad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Five minutes?

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

But because it was dangerous.

Because it sounded a little too much like hope.

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

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

He was asking for five minutes.

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

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

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

Turned into her wanting more?

And want was dangerous.

Want was weakness.

Want was how people got kill-

Shit. How did it get this bad? 

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

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

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

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

Just her smile.

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

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

Very Mark.

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

Possibly (Y/n).

--

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

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

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

Still, there was something oddly comforting about it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mark let out a soft snort.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Generous.”

“You’re welcome.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mark blinked. “Wait. Really?”

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

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

“High school?”

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

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

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

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

“Yeah.”

“You’re joking.”

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

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

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

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

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

He squinted harder at her. 

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

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

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

Mark blinked again. “...What.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So he took that as permission to keep going.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So… yeah. Literal kidnapping.”

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

He chuckled, a small, disbelieved one. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A pause. Measured. Careful.

“Someone who gets it.”

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

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

A flicker of recognition.

Of warning.

Of want.

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

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

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

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

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

Mark tilted his head. “Yeah?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

She didn’t have to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was a pause.

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

Then his voice cut back in, low but sure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Exasperation filled her face. “Mark.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet--

She didn’t move.

Didn’t push away.

Didn’t reset.

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

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

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

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

--

<<next chp>>

<3 -> @jiyeons-closet @heiankyonoeiyuukun

[angel-bitch-boy]

Guys I just fell to my knees in a Walmart over this.

Cecil x male reader please! I haven't seen any catering towards male readers before

Cecil x Male!Reader

We gotta get some more male reader itb for reaaals

hcs under the cut!!

Cecil is a pretty modern dude by all accounts

its giving gay republican

but like yknow specifically when gay politicians are super nonchalant about it?

Have you guys seen Birdcage (1996)? Yeah he's Armand argue with the wall

that being said, he's a VERY understated guy

it's really hard to tell he's gay

but i mean cmon he gilfs it up hard

In a relationship, Cecil tends to be the top in his relationships

it's just natural to him, he's a boss in his day to day so he can't help but take the reigns in his relationships

Not that he doesn't care about your opinion, but unless you're opposed, he usually picks the restaurant and when you have dates

He loves taking you to try new restaurants, especially ones he's never been to himself

it's a little adventure for both of you

"So, what do you think of the fish?" Cecil asks, cutting up whatever rich man meal he's savoring

"mmmish good" you respond with a grin, your cheeks still partially stuffed with food

Hates calling you his boyfriend

he's like way too old for that

he calls you his husband or lover or partner instead

Introducing you to people like:

"Hello, I'd like you to meet my husband, Y/n. Yes, he's my plus one to the event."

you could not even be married and he'd still call you his husband

very John Mulaney "I love saying my wife" energy

The best part about dating Cecil is sharing clothes

or, more accurately, the best part about dating you for Cecil is wearing your clothes

He hates shopping for semiformal or casual clothing

it's too many options and he despises choosing fabrics

and frankly he doesn't have the time for it

so it's a relief that you have such good taste

he can just borrow one of your shirts and a pair of your pants when the two of you go out

"What?" he raises an innocent eyebrow at you, buttoning YOUR button up onto himself in the mirror "I'm getting ready to go see Les Mis, like you asked."

"Cecil that's my shirt." you lean into the doorway, unimpressed

He scoffs, turning around "No, really? But it looks so good on me" his tone is dry, delivered with a knowing smile

Oh and on that note

he's weirdy into musicals and the opera and stuff like that

idk it just feels right to me

He allows himself to be a lot softer with you

like I mean wayyyyy softer

you're a fellow dude, you get it

he doesn't feel the need to impress you or maintain some paragon of masculinity or protection

He can fucking breath

and he does

For example, cuddling

He opts most often to curl his frail damaged body around yours, his head on your chest and his arms wrapped around your waist

It's like a little weird for people to conceptualize Cecil as gay

not because being gay is weird or anything

it just humanizes him too much

like wdym this guy has like.... emotions? and that he like.... fights for gay rights?

Someone get the photos of this bitch marching in the 80's istfg

Gotta learn these kids something

Cecil is OBNOXIOUS as a queer elder

but you don't mind because it comes from a good place

Cecil fucking WISHES Doc Seismic would step to him

i'd pay to see that fight ngl

Cecil adores you soooo much

he lived a pretty sparse life before you, romantically speaking

not many openly queer spies, you know?

So he cherishes you

You're his favorite person, and probably the only person he's truly emotionally vulnerable with

Don't get me wrong, he's still quiet and a man of few words when it comes to his emotions

but he leans on you more than he's leaned on anyone else

He trusts you

You probably had an evil ass slowburn trying to figure out what the other was getting at

but eventually- after like five years (and maybe some Donald Divine Intervention tm) you two get together

He probably does end up proposing at some point, but it takes him forever

You've probably been dating for like ten year by the time he proposes

I'm sorry he's so bureaucratic about this stuff

but your wedding is like magical as shit

He pulls Allllll the government strings in order to make it as magical as possible

and of course

he wears one of your suits <3

[yuriosakawa]

Gray Sons - Cecil III

Cecil’s hand still rests on the edge of the holotable, the tension in his shoulders barely contained. His jaw works like he’s grinding gravel between his teeth. He doesn’t even flinch when Donald Ferguson enters in a brisk, half-panicked walk, panting. 

“Sir—! Sir—I’ve got something. Good news. Actually good.”

Cecil turns, weary eyes meeting Donald’s bespectacled ones.

“Then spit it out.” His voice was flat. 

“It’s Conquest, sir. He’s dead.” Donald reveals. 

“I just got word from forensics. The combined effort of all eight variant Marks—they didn’t just beat him. They killed him. Broke his neck, ruptured half his organs, and caved his skull in. It’s over.”

There’s a heavy pause.

Cecil breathes in. Slowly. And for a brief, fleeting second, his eyes close.

Not in relief. Not yet.

“And the body?” He asks. 

“Still intact. Barely.” Donald says. “We could store it. Keep it in cryo-stasis. Hell, with enough power, we could revive him. Interrogate him. There’s probably a goldmine of intel in his head. Secrets of the Viltrumite Empire. Weaknesses. Strategy. If he wakes up—”

Cecil cut him off. “I know.”

Cecil looks off, staring at a screen still flickering with vitals from the nine operating rooms.

He sees the flatlining spikes, the panicked readings, the blood pressure drops. He hears the screams from earlier echoing in his skull.

All from boys who look just like the kid he’s spent months training, encouraging, and eventually betrayed. 

And suddenly, he doesn’t feel strategic.

He just feels done.

“Burn him.” Cecil said, voice low. Dark. 

“Sir?” Donald blinks. 

Cecil turned to him. “Burn him, Donald. No vaults. No interrogation. No labs. I want him gone. Incinerate the body until there’s not even dust left to sweep.”

“He doesn’t get to come back.” Cecil’s voice was cold. 

Donald stares at him. Sees something in his expression that shakes even his mechanical core.

“Yes, sir.” He turns and leaves.

Cecil stays there, still as a statue.

“Not after what he did to my goddamn kid…” He says to himself, his voice barely a whisper. He glanced back at the monitors. “Any version of him." 

[smallmediumproblems]

Propaganda under the cut

Why isn't John/David/Cecil/Obituary Writer/etc here?

I'm specifically excluding narrators who are also primary characters in the story. There are a lot of really good unreliable main character POVs, and some that are very, very popular. There are also a LOT of found footage / "documentary" shows, so the pool of "main character who is technically also the narrator" is monstrously large. This is for narrators who have things to say about the story but are moderately to severely removed from it. You'll notice I've also excluded the Documentarian from The White Vault, because by the time she's commenting on the story, she's also a main character.

Madeleine can stay because she's very polite.

Madeleine the mouse

Madeleine doesn't exactly serve a narrative so much as she plates and seasons it before bringing it out. Part plot device, part confidante, and all bohemian authoress. But please, consider the other candidates long and hard before you vote. She's not really too unreliable, she's just incredibly biased.

The Voice of HartLife

You have to be a special kind of unreliable for one of your characters to break down the fourth wall into your recording studio to kick the shit out of you.

The Historian

*Gesturing at a lithograph of Eisen and Telesphore making out sloppy style* "Truly, it is tragic that the men of our generation have lost such deep platonic bonds as are depicted here. So secure were they in their brotherhood that our contemporary idea of friendship fails to-"

The Narrator

No, not Leon. The other guy. I can't possibly describe what his Whole Deal is without spoiling a major plot twist of the show, but guys. He killed Matt Damon, guys. He killed Matt Damon while trying to murder dozens of other people at the same time. (Hundreds? I don't know how trains work.)

Dubrach

Yes, I know it's not really confirmed. That's what unreliable narration is all about. But what could be more reliable than the literal word of god on the puny machinations of his flock? :) :) :) Also he's voiced by Alisdair Stuart, our dad.

The Malevolent Patreon Hastur

...is specifically not included, because a) people are going to think I'm talking about John, and b) brand recognition is going to skew the whole thing, as if Madeleine isn't going to sweep for that very reason. But I'm mentioning him here because of the time he made people so angry that the actual real live writer had to come out and remind them that this is a fictional character. iykyk.

[thousand-winters]

"Tamika: Maybe this one? Cecil: Listeners if you’re hearing this, then humanity is surely finished, but instead of a tearful goodbye, I’d like to offer a warm hello to our new alien rulers, who are surely benevolent and- Tamika: Nope, that’s Cecil’s pre-recorded vault of doomsday broadcasts."

LMAO, CECIL

[wrongcaitlyn]

SO AMERICAN AU AHHHHHH ❤❤❤

another little excerpt here :))

(this hasn't been beta read yet if there are any mistakes that's all on meee and there probably are lmao)

“You know what you need?” Cecil tells him as soon as he walks into the studio. “A break from dating.”

Will snorts. He’s got that now, even if he hadn’t really wanted it in the first place.

“Cecil’s right, for once,” Lou Ellen nods, taking her seat by the keyboard. “Don’t worry about finding your true love for once. It’ll come when you’re ready!”

“Or it won’t,” Cecil adds.

“Or it won’t,” Lou Ellen agrees.

Will shakes his head, pulling a guitar into his lap and strumming absently. He never really goes into the studio with something planned—usually his inspiration is struck by something that Lou Ellen or Cecil suggests, and then it unravels from there—but this time, he feels particularly unprepared. “Thanks,” he says sarcastically. 

“So, have you written anything in the past few weeks?”

Will winces. The lack of motivation to write isn’t necessarily a new problem. He had returned from his tour in February. Lester, though acting pretty laidback and carefree about it, has said that for planning, a single should be ready by the end of June. The rest of the album should be finished by late August, giving the label enough time to look over it and polish it and prepare for release.

Of course, Lester told him this with the added on, but really, take your time, no pressure!

Will still can’t really tell if his manager had been sincere about that.

Either way, they’ve got a few drafts for songs in the vault. But it’s not much. It’s not enough, at the very least. And it’s currently mid-May, which leaves him with a little over a month to get a song he likes enough to be the lead single written and recorded.

He’s about to tell them, no, he really hasn’t, but he decides to at least check his phone. Honestly, the journal that he keeps is just for aesthetics, because he never remembers to write stuff down in there in the first place, and he also really appreciates his phone’s autocorrect. Plus, he has to admit that though he never actually did go to college for pre-med, his friends all claim that he’s got the doctor’s handwriting down to a tea.

There’s a series of notes of anything and everything—mainly stuff that he can’t even comprehend or half-started grocery lists that he forgot to look back to. He scrolls through them all, finding his most recent note that actually sounds like something dated May 3rd. 

It looks like a love song. That can’t be right. He may have been dumped abruptly, but he has to admit that it was to no one’s surprise that that relationship didn’t last. Not that Will hadn’t written love songs—which he had—but certainly not two weeks before it ended.

What had happened May 3rd? He had been… well, the Met Gala had been the day before, so he assumes that this was after—

The angel. Of course he had ended up writing a song about him, likely on the drive home, when he had gotten away from the crowds of people and had a few drinks and probably forgotten why exactly that conversation hadn’t led into anything more.

He huffs, scanning over the lyrics, his thumb hovering over the delete button, because Will may not have had the best track record with relationships, but he wasn’t a cheater.

Then again, this song is easily the best thing he’s written in months. “I wrote something,” he tells Lou Ellen, selecting the text and copying it to send it to their groupchat. “You tell me if it’s worth anything.”

[laresearchette]

Sunday, January 12, 2024 Canadian TV Listings (Times Eastern)

WHERE CAN I FIND THOSE PREMIERES?: ROGUE HEROES (MGM +)

WHAT IS NOT PREMIERING IN CANADA TONIGHT?: ALL CREATURES GREAT AND SMALL (PBS Feed) MISS SCARLET (PBS Feed)

NEW TO AMAZON PRIME CANADA/CBC GEM/CRAVE TV/DISNEY + STAR/NETFLIX CANADA:

AMAZON PRIME CANADA MY INTERNSHIP IN CANADA SAS ROGUE HEROES (Season 2) SUR LE RYTHME SUR LE SEUIL

2025 IIHF U18 WOMEN'S HOCKEY (TSN3/TSN5) 8:00am: Bronze Medal - TBD vs. TBD (TSN5) 12:00pm: Gold Medal - TBD vs. TBD

PWHL HOCKEY (TSN3) 12:00pm: Sceptres vs. Sirens (TSN3) 3:00pm: Victoire vs. Frost

NFL FOOTBALL (TSN/TSN4) 1:00pm: Wild Card - Broncos vs. Bills (TSN/TSN4) 4:30pm: Wild Card - Packers vs. Eagles (TSN/TSN4/TSN5) 8:15pm: Wild Card - Commanders vs. Buccaneers

NHL HOCKEY (SN) 3:00pm: Kraken vs. Red Wings (SN1) 5:00pm: Lightning vs. Penguins (TSN5) 5:00pm: Stars vs. Sens (SN) 8:00pm: Wild vs. Knights

NBA BASKETBALL (TSN2) 3:00pm: Nuggets vs. Mavericks (SN1) 9:00pm: Hornets vs. Suns

ERIC STAAL JERSEY RETIREMENT CEREMONY (SN Now) 3:30pm

2025 AUSTRALIAN OPEN TENNIS (TSN2/TSN3) 7:00pm: Early Round Coverage Day #2

THE GREAT BRITISH BAKING SHOW (CBC) 7:00pm: It's Biscuit Week and the bakers make a marshmallow-based signature challenge, a custard classic in the technical; in an illusion-themed showstopper, the bakers make their favorite meal out of biscuits.

CRIME BEAT (Global) 7:00pm: 'Die Like the Rest' Part 1: A Winnipeg teenager is found savagely attacked; investigators arrest a B.C. man who was visiting; years later, another slaying of a teenage girl gives fresh light to old evidence that could help convict a killer.

FAMILY LAW (Global) 8:00pm: When a biased judge rules against Daniel's petition to have a scam marriage annulled, Abby uses Cecil as bait to trap the romance fraudster.

WARDENS OF THE NORTH (CTV Wild) 8:00pm: A warden checks on a hunter he suspects may be illegally baiting deer; a warden tracks down hunters using blinds on state land and finds they aren't quite abiding by the law; wardens enforce the law with anglers on the Detroit River.

SKYMED (CBC) 9:00pm: As the crew struggles to say a difficult goodbye to a fallen team member, the loss forces each of them to question themselves in different ways.

FOOD, INC. 2 (documentary) 9:00pm: Revisiting the food system and its improvements, focusing on innovative farmers and food producers working toward a healthier future.

WHEN CALLS THE HEART (Super Channel Heart & Home) 9:00pm: When the comic book craze sweeps Hope Valley, Elizabeth teaches her students through nature; Rosemary launches a radio show and Lucas meets a new political player.

THE CURSE OF OAK ISLAND (History Channel Canada) 10:00pm: After more than a dozen years of searching, the team may have discovered the legendary Chappell Vault.

FORENSIC FACTOR (Oxygen Canada) 10:00pm (SEASON PREMIERE): A mother of three goes missing the day before Mother's Day; there is no shortage of suspects, but only forensic evidence and an old school detective's trick can untangle what truly happened to Joleen Cummings.

[sims-realty]

welcome to desert springs, the newest and most premiere lot in beautiful oasis springs. with its iconic butterfly roof and exquisite landscaping, the exterior of the home immediately catches your eye. enjoy the incredible mature cactus and succulent garden in the front yard that provides a natural barrier between your expansive front porch and pool entertainment area, with vintage pink terracotta tiles salvaged from a local home original to the area prior to its demolition on a lot nearby. a landscaped palm oasis welcomes you to the expansive backyard that separates the main house from the greenhouse. because of its humidity control, the greenhouse makes an excellent home for all of your exotic plants and gardening hobbies while also providing space for an office or art studio.

just inside the custom glass doors and windows, you'll be blown away by the custom built-in cabinet that separates the curated entryway (lit by a a truly unique - confirmed one-of-a-kind - chandelier) from the large living room designed for gatherings. the 360-degree fireplace anchors the living room and provides heat to the entire house on those chilly 55-degree desert evenings. custom accordion glass doors separate the living room and kitchen that also features the salvaged pink terracotta tiles. a handmade dining table gifted to the home's original owner by the artist natsukashii herself comes with the home and is highlighted by the second of the home's bespoke lighting fixtures. one thing this home doesn't lack is natural sunlight. from your kitchen enjoy the most beautiful view of your backyard oasis, filled with lavender bushes, cacti and palm trees.

this home features two bedrooms and one bathroom, recently remodeled. the guest bedroom features a cozy sitting area perfect for the bookworm in your family, without lacking adequate closet space. custom bed and shelving seamlessly flow together, making this bedroom an aesthetic retreat.

when you walk through the door adjacent to the guest bedroom, you'll take in the walk-through closet which opens to an expansive primary bedroom featuring a lounge area, natsukashii custom bed and living shelving. the primary bed looks out onto the back patio and a break in the sleek concrete and wood fence surrounding the property allows for uninterrupted south-facing mountain views. living shelving moves out from the primary bedroom onto the patio as well, ensuring that you're never far from green in this home.

desert springs is open for showings now, but don't delay because this gem won't be on the market for long. make this home your oasis in oasis springs.

cc used:

SYB: Fency, Astrid, Nathalie, Dreamy, Julie, Maya, Natsukashii, Laundry, Millenial, Pauline, Sabine, Manon, Diane, Cecile, Nothing to Wear, Agnes, Brigitte, Sophie, Elodie, Rosalie, Oceane, How About Tea

SIMcredible: Advent Calendar 2022, Vocatio, Agreste, Veranda, Amazonica, Emblema, Naturalis, Green Time, Pomeriggio, ScandiFever, TV Corner, Nuance, Coastal Plants, Bontempo, Bossa Nova, Calligaris, Zara, Keep Life Simple, Morning Tea, Ofuro, Breezy, MinimaliSIM, Clarity, Modernism, Chlorophyll, Mix It

Soloriya: Winnie

MincSims: Tara, Basset

Siomi's: Vault Avalon House II

Simsova: Plants, Plant Stands

Lapanemona: HEX

Comiko: Boho, Book Nook Zodiac

[music-despite-everything]

Happy birthday, Adrienne Rich!

Adrienne Cecile Rich, born May 16, 1929, in Baltimore, Maryland, and died March 27, 2012, in Santa Cruz, California, was an American poet, essayist, and feminist. She was called "one of the most widely read and influential poets of the second half of the 20th century", and was credited with bringing "the oppression of women and lesbians to the forefront of poetic discourse." Rich criticized rigid forms of feminist identities and valorized what she coined the "lesbian continuum," which is a female continuum of solidarity and creativity that impacts and fills women's lives.

Her first collection of poetry, A Change of World, was selected by renowned poet W. H. Auden for the Yale Series of Younger Poets Award. Auden went on to write the introduction to the published volume. She famously declined the National Medal of Arts, protesting the vote by House Speaker Newt Gingrich to end funding for the National Endowment for the Arts.

---

Snapshots of a Daughter-in-Law, 1963

1

You, once a belle in Shreveport, with henna-colored hair, skin like a peach bud, still have your dresses copied from that time, and play a Chopin prelude called by Cortot: "Delicious recollections float like perfume through the memory." Your mind now, moldering like wedding-cake, heavy with useless experience, rich with suspicion, rumor, fantasy, crumbling to pieces under the knife-edge of mere fact. In the prime of your life. Nervy, glowering, your daughter wipes the teaspoons, grows another way. 2 Banging the coffee-pot into the sink she hears the angels chiding, and looks out past the raked gardens to the sloppy sky. Only a week since They said: Have no patience. The next time it was: Be insatiable. Then: Save yourself; others you cannot save. Sometimes she's let the tap stream scald her arm, a match burn to her thumbnail, or held her hand above the kettle's snout right in the woolly steam. They are probably angels, since nothing hurts her anymore, except each morning's grit blowing into her eyes.

3 A thinking woman sleeps with monsters. The beak that grips her, she becomes. And Nature, that sprung-lidded, still commodious steamer-trunk of tempora and mores gets stuffed with it all: the mildewed orange-flowers, the female pills, the terrible breasts of Boadicea beneath flat foxes' heads and orchids. Two handsome women, gripped in argument, each proud, acute, subtle, I hear scream across the cut glass and majolica like Furies cornered from their prey: The argument ad feminam, all the old knives that have rusted in my back, I drive in yours, ma semblable, ma soeur! 4 Knowing themselves too well in one another: their gifts no pure fruition, but a thorn, the prick filed sharp against a hint of scorn... Reading while waiting for the iron to heat, writing, My Life had stood--a Loaded Gun-- in that Amherst pantry while the jellies boil and scum, or, more often, iron-eyed and beaked and purposed as a bird, dusting everything on the whatnot every day of life.

5 Dulce ridens, dulce loquens, she shaves her legs until they gleam like petrified mammoth-tusk. 6 When to her lute Corinna sings neither words nor music are her own; only the long hair dipping over her cheek, only the song of silk against her knees and these adjusted in reflections of an eye. Poised, trembling and unsatisfied, before an unlocked door, that cage of cages, tell us, you bird, you tragical machine-- is this fertillisante douleur? Pinned down by love, for you the only natural action, are you edged more keen to prise the secrets of the vault? has Nature shown her household books to you, daughter-in-law, that her sons never saw?

7 "To have in this uncertain world some stay which cannot be undermined, is of the utmost consequence." Thus wrote a woman, partly brave and partly good, who fought with what she partly understood. Few men about her would or could do more, hence she was labeled harpy, shrew and whore. 8 "You all die at fifteen," said Diderot, and turn part legend, part convention. Still, eyes inaccurately dream behind closed windows blankening with steam. Deliciously, all that we might have been, all that we were--fire, tears, wit, taste, martyred ambition-- stirs like the memory of refused adultery the drained and flagging bosom of our middle years. 9 Not that it is done well, but that it is done at all? Yes, think of the odds! or shrug them off forever. This luxury of the precocious child, Time's precious chronic invalid,-- would we, darlings, resign it if we could? Our blight has been our sinecure: mere talent was enough for us-- glitter in fragments and rough drafts. Sigh no more, ladies. Time is male and in his cups drinks to the fair. Bemused by gallantry, we hear our mediocrities over-praised, indolence read as abnegation, slattern thought styled intuition, every lapse forgiven, our crime only to cast too bold a shadow or smash the mold straight off. For that, solitary confinement, tear gas, attrition shelling. Few applicants for that honor. 10 Well, she's long about her coming, who must be more merciless to herself than history. Her mind full to the wind, I see her plunge breasted and glancing through the currents, taking the light upon her at least as beautiful as any boy or helicopter, poised, still coming, her fine blades making the air wince but her cargo no promise then: delivered palpable ours.

[dealgemeneverwarring]

De Algemene Verwarring #108 - 4 March 2024

Episode one hundred and eight of De Algemene Verwarring was broadcast on Monday, March 4, 2024, and you can listen to it by clicking on the link below that will take you directly to the Mixcloud page:

Pictured below is Bärchen Und Die Milchbubis! They are a band from Hannover, Germany, they released one album and two singles between 1980 and 1982, and now, in 2024, they are touring again! But that's not why I played them in the show, I played them because they are one of the bands that are featured in the fantastic Inner World 033 podcast, by the World Of Echo label, and compiled by the Famous Mammals. It's a three hour long feast of great great music, and I wanted to direct my listeners to this podcast, go listen and enjoy. Also, this episode of De Algemene Verwarring is a digital one, so as always I'm playing some tracks that I don't own on a physical lp or cd. Some of them are just ripped off the youtubes because unavailable on other places, and some others are from the Bandcamp vaults. Links below in the playlist when available. I particularly enjoyed making this episode, I think there are some real bangers in there. Oh and by the way sorry for the delay with the update here. And beneath the photo you can find the playlist for this show. Enjoy!

Playlist:

The Gories: Nitroglycerine (7” “Nitroglycerine/Makin’ Love” on New Rose Records, 1990)

Snooper: Company Car (digital release on Bandcamp, 2023)

Personal & The Pizzas: (Don’t Trust No) Party Boy (7” “I Want You” on Trouble In Mind Records, 2010)

Cuir: Gast (cassette “Promo Tape” on Offside Records & Forty Tapes, 2024)

Big Black: Rema-Rema (one-sided 7” “Rema-Rema” on Forced Exposure, 1985)

Geo: Elasticate (cassette “Geo”, self-released by the band, 2021)

Onyon:  Alien Alien (LP “Last Days On earth” on Trouble In Mind Records, 2023)

I.L.L.O.: Roses (cassette “10 Ill Songs” on Spared Flesh & U-Bac, 2024)

Dilemmas: Bomb The Clock (cd-r “Zero Work” on You Need To Practice More, 2017)

Bärchen Und Die Milchbubis: Muskeln (7” Muskeln” on Schalter Records, 1982, also on LP “Dann Macht Es Bum” on No Fun Records, 1981 and the compilation “Endlich Komplett Betrunken” on Tapete Records, 2021)

Would Be Goods: Cecil Beatons Scrapbook (7” “The Camera Loves Me” on Cherry Red Records, 1988) - UK indie pop rond zangeres Jessica Griffin, nu solo project

Pletyka: Aug. 31 (cassette & digital release on Szégyen Kazetták, 2023)

Desinteresse: Ver Weg Van Hier (Cassette “Voor Altijd” on Decadence, 2023)

Chalk: The Gate (12” “Conditions II” on Nice Swan Records, 2024)

番長 Taste: Fireflies In The Shrine (CD “Summer Nights” on Carbon Records, 2023)

LSD Fundraiser: Industrial Jazz Hands (Cassette “Fashionably Late For The Apocalypse” on Knotwilg Records, 2022)

Modelbau/Steffan De Turck: Kitchen Sink Realism (Bukhansan) (cd-r “Zweites Treffen (undefiniert)” on Kirigirisu Recordings, 2023) 

[random-quotes-stuff]

...some dusty, crusty tracks from They Might Be Giants' Iron Mountain Vault

—Cecil Portesque

[devilboydogman]

‘CECIL’S PRERECORDED VAULT OF DOOMSDAY BROADCASTS… ‘

I’m guessing he keeps these for post-weather in case the world ends for Real one day… jsmsmsmsmsmsm

[allthenewzworld]

Romanian gymnast Ana Barbosu received her Olympic bronze medal during a ceremony in the capital Bucharest on Friday that marked the conclusion of a swirl of controversy after the medal was first awarded to U.S. gymnast Jordan Chiles but later revoked.

"I did not expect the medal to be so heavy, but I would wear it day and night if this is what it takes to have it," Barbosu said after the ceremony.

The medal was reallocated to Barbosu after a ruling by the Court of Arbitration for Sport last week that voided an appeal by Team USA coach Cecile Landi during the Aug. 5 floor exercise final in Paris, which had vaulted Chiles into third place and pushed Barbosu down to fourth.

Chiles was initially awarded the bronze following the appeal and participated in the medal ceremony following the competition.

That decision caused an uproar in Romania, historically a gymnastics powerhouse, and led gymnastics federation to request a review of the U.S. team's appeal procedure. CAS ultimately ruled in favor of Barbosu, saying the U.S. team had made its appeal four seconds beyond the one-minute deadline.

📸 by Vadim Ghirda