01/18/2026  The Return of the Surfer Category: Adventure Galactus, a huge cosmic threat had been defeated by the Fantastic Four, with some help from his own herald, the Silver Surfer. Years had passed calmly. Little known to all a new threat was emerging from Latveria.  In space, Shalla-Bal, the Silver Surfer roamed. She had managed to survive pushing Galactus into the portal created by Reed Richards, but now she had no real place to go. Home was the first thought, but when she arrived, the hero's welcome she thought she would receive was not what she got.  Her people, once proud and saddened by her sacrifice to save them, now looked at her with disgrace. She was no hero. She was just as bad as Galactus. Destroying lives. Destroying worlds. Sacrificing the many. They asked her to leave and never return. And so she did. 04: PM 120 Comments  (Add Comment)  | 180 Kudos  Back to Blog List

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	Wєв Sριηηιηg, Sρι∂єя Vєяѕιηg	Peter really had no business standing between a cosmic herald and a sentient semi‑truck, but there he was anyway. He felt small—like “accidentally‑deleted‑an‑important‑file” small. The red and blue fabric of his suit clung close and warm against his ribs, that smooth, flexible weave that always made him feel a little too aware of his own breathing. It still smelled faintly of the Tide pods that May liked, which felt offensively domestic given that the street currently looked like a discarded set from a disaster movie. He stood there, planted in the middle of the asphalt, feeling like someone had hit pause on a much braver hero and swapped him in by mistake. The night air didn’t just chill; it bit, tightening the suit across his shoulders as he shivered. Every breath he exhaled was a jittery little cloud of fog that basically advertised how much he was shaking. Inside his chest, his heart wasn’t just beating; it was doing full‑speed parkour. To his left, Shalla was a pillar of moonlight—cold, silver, and unnervingly still. To his right, Wanda was the opposite: a low, steady burn of an ember, warm enough that he could feel the heat radiating off her sleeve. They were like bookends of pure, terrifying competence. They didn’t fidget. They didn’t talk. They just existed at a much higher level than he did. Peter swallowed, and the sound was so loud it felt like it should’ve echoed off the buildings. The mask lenses tightened a fraction with the motion, narrowing in that expressive way they did when he was trying not to panic. “Okay,” he croaked, his voice cracking with the grace of a dropped phone screen. “Cool. No pressure. Just… cosmic stuff. Normal Tuesday.” Optimus’s shadow was massive. It didn’t just cover the street; it swallowed it. Heat rolled off the truck’s frame in waves, that heavy mechanical warmth you get standing too close to a subway train. Peter’s suit hummed in sympathy, the micro‑servos in the gloves and along his forearms buzzing against his skin like a hive of confused bees. He stepped forward, trying to plant his feet the way he’d seen Cap do it in those old training videos. The soles of his boots gripped the asphalt with that soft, tacky pull he never quite trusted. It felt fake. It felt like a YouTube tutorial he’d only half‑watched while eating cereal. “Uh—yeah. I’m here too,” he blurted out, trying to sound like he wasn’t currently reconsidering every life choice. “Ready to… help. Or web things. Or, y’know, punch something small? I’m very flexible with the punching.” His gloved fingers fluttered at his sides, the red fabric creasing lightly at each nervous twitch. Shalla didn’t even blink. Neither did Wanda. They were statues—beautiful, scary, “I‑can‑end‑the‑world” statues—and Peter was the only one whose knees were actively filing a formal complaint against him. Optimus lowered his massive head. Those blue optics didn’t just look at Peter; they searched him. When he spoke, the sound rolled through the street like distant thunder, making a loose street sign rattle somewhere behind them. “Spider‑Man,” the voice was deep enough to make Peter’s teeth ache. “Your courage is not diminished by your fear. It is defined by it.” Peter stared up at the giant metal face, his eyes wide behind the mask. The lenses whirred open just a touch, giving him a startled, too‑human expression. “Oh my God,” he whispered, mostly to himself. “He really does the speeches in person. That is… that’s actually wild.” He took a shaky breath, trying to settle the hum in his nerves. His fingers flexed again—open, shut, open—the webbing pattern stretching and relaxing with each motion like he was warming up for a piano recital instead of a localized apocalypse. “Okay. I’m good. I’m here,” he muttered, bracing himself. “Just tell us what we’re fighting. Is it a space thing? It’s usually a space thing.” Shalla shifted just a fraction closer to him. It was a tiny move, but it felt like she was locking him into some invisible formation. Wanda didn’t move an inch, but her presence stayed warm against his side—a steady, borrowed heartbeat for when his own started to fail. Optimus straightened up, his servos locking with a heavy clunk that rang out through the empty neighborhood. “Then listen well,” he said, his voice dropping into a tone that sounded older than the stars. “Because what approaches does not fear you… but it will learn to.” The lenses on Peter’s mask narrowed again as he squinted. His breath hitched, and yeah, his legs were definitely trembling—but he didn’t back up. The suit tightened across his thighs as he steadied himself, a small, involuntary brace that made him feel just a little more real. “Cool,” he whispered, his voice tiny against the silence. “Terrifying, obviously. But really, really cool.” Posted by Wєв Sριηηιηg, Sρι∂єя Vєяѕιηg on Mon Feb 16, 2026, 02:02 [Reply to this]

	ℌ𝔢𝔯𝔞𝔩𝔡	Shalla‑Bal moved like mercury spilling across the broken pavement, her silver form catching the chaotic interplay of streetlights and the brilliant, blinding blue of the massive machine’s optics. She didn’t recoil from the transformation. While Peter scrambled back and Wanda grounded herself in magic, Shalla simply tilted her head, her eyes widening—not in fear, but in a kind of clinical, cosmic fascination. She felt the heat coming off the metal giant before she registered his words. It rolled off him in waves—the smell of ozone, hot oil, and burning diesel. It was a mechanical, industrial heat, distinct from the stellar fusion she was used to, but it was heat nonetheless. It warmed the air that the approaching dead things had chilled. For a fleeting second, the sheer thermal output of him reminded her of Johnny—of that reckless, combustion-engine roar of a man who burned just to prove he was there. The familiarity of that warmth made her step closer to him, rather than away. ​“You are… biological machinery,” she observed, her voice chiming with that metallic resonance, cutting through the settling steam. She watched the blue energon pulse in his exposed conduits, entranced by the evidence of a soul inside the steel. “Living metal. I have seen civilizations dream of what you are.” ​She glanced around when he said Sideswipe, her luminous eyes scanning the shadows for the heat signature from the vehicle they had arrived in, but seeing only the three of them and the looming, cold void of the undead horizon. She filed the name away—another variable in an equation that was becoming increasingly volatile. ​Shalla shifted her stance, her silver shoulder brushing against Wanda’s maroon leather jacket. The contact was a deliberate anchor. She needed Wanda’s organic warmth on one side and the machine’s radiator‑heat on the other to keep the cold at bay. ​“You perceive the threat correctly, Titan,” Shalla said, her gaze snapping back to Optimus, her expression hardening into something regal. She raised a hand, her silver fingers reflecting the red of Wanda’s magic and the blue of Optimus’s eyes. “But your sensors may be misinterpreting the nature of the enemy. You are built of sparks and fire. They…” She gestured toward the darkening avenue, where the unnatural silence was growing louder than the city itself. ​“They are the absence of fire,” she whispered, the thought making her ache with a sudden, sharp longing for Johnny’s flames. “They are cold. Entropy given form. If we do not burn them…” She looked up at Optimus, her face a perfect, terrified mirror of his battle-mask. “They will consume every spark in this sector.” ​She clenched her hand into a fist, the silver skin tightening. “I am Shalla‑Bal of Zenn‑La. I have ridden the currents of dying stars.” She stepped forward, aligning herself with the massive truck’s wheel well, looking small but undeniably dense with power. “And I will not let the cold win. Command us.” Posted by ℌ𝔢𝔯𝔞𝔩𝔡 on Fri Feb 13, 2026, 03:02 [Reply to this]

	𝓗𝓮𝔁𝔂 𝓕𝓾𝓷	​Wanda rose from the booth like she was waking up a spell — slow, deliberate, every inch of her moving with that quiet authority that was like second nature. As she stood, her chest lifted in a steady breath, the soft rise framed by the open maroon leather jacket and the low‑neck black cropped shirt beneath it, the warm curve of her breasts catching the café’s dim light. It wasn’t a show; it was just her body settling into readiness, the kind of instinctive bracing that came from surviving too many worlds that went wrong too fast. ​She didn’t look toward the window first. She looked at Shalla. Her gaze swept over the silver cosmic sheen, lashes lowering in that warm, wry way that made her attention feel like a hand on your cheek. Wanda stepped closer, her hips angling toward Shalla with a subtle, natural shift that brought their bodies into a shared pocket of heat and cold. The maroon leather creaked softly as she leaned in, her posture protective without being possessive — like she was already positioning herself between Shalla and whatever was coming. “Yeah,” she murmured, voice low and velvet‑rough. “I feel it.” ​Her hand lifted next — slow, steady — fingers flexing once as the first pulse of red light gathered at her tips. She didn’t touch Shalla, but she hovered close enough that the glow painted a faint blush across Shalla’s reflective surface. Her rings caught the café light, scattering it in tiny sparks across the table, each one flickering like a warning. ​Wanda shifted her stance, grounding herself, and her thigh brushed Shalla’s with a warm, steady pressure. The sudden movement and the way she anchored her weight allowed the tight dark blue jeans to betray her vulva contours, the denim pulling taut against her as she settled into her power. The contact wasn’t flirtation; it was presence — Wanda anchoring the moment with her body, reminding Shalla she wasn’t alone in whatever she was sensing. “That silence?” she said, tilting her head, strawberry‑blonde hair slipping forward over her collarbone. “That’s not magic holding its breath. That’s something trying to swallow it.” ​She glanced at Peter — still clutching the napkin like it was a hostage — and her mouth curved in that tiny, amused smile she did when she was trying not to laugh. “Sweetheart,” she said, warm but firm, “you need to get up. Now.” ​Peter blinked, startled, and Wanda’s eyes softened for a heartbeat — that maternal, exasperated affection— before she turned back to Shalla. The softness drained from her expression, replaced by something sharper, older, and infinitely steadier. The red glow at her fingertips brightened, slow and rhythmic, like a heartbeat deciding whether to become a weapon. “You’re right,” she murmured, voice dipping into that intimate rasp. “Whatever’s coming… it’s not alive. And it’s not here to negotiate.” ​She stepped past Shalla, her hips brushing the edge of the table as she moved toward the window. The café lights flickered as she passed beneath them, the air around her hand warping with the first hints of chaos magic waking up. Her boots clicked softly on the tile — not loud, but decisive, each step a quiet declaration that she was done sitting still. ​Wanda paused at the glass, her reflection a mix of warm human softness and the red glow building in her palm. She breathed out once — slow, steady — and the breath fogged the window before the cold outside swallowed it. Her hand hovered near the glass, fingers splayed, the red light pulsing like it was listening to something only she could hear. “But we are,” she said softly. “And that’s going to matter.” ​She pushed the door open with her shoulder, stepping into the jagged silence of the street. The transition was sharp; the biting evening air cut through the thin fabric of her cropped shirt, and the sudden chill made her nipples tighten against the cotton, two hard points visible against the soft weight of her breasts. The red glow in her hands brightened like a promise, casting a faint crimson halo across the pavement as she moved forward. ​The street was too quiet. Shalla followed her out, silver form gleaming like a blade under moonlight, and Peter stumbled after them, still trying to decide if he should be brave or nauseous. For a moment, the city held its breath, as if waiting for someone else to make the first move. ​Then the ground trembled. Not the chaotic shake of an explosion — deeper, slower, a rolling vibration that moved through the concrete like the pulse of something enormous approaching with purpose. Wanda’s head lifted, eyes narrowing, her hair brushing her cheek as she listened. Another tremor followed, then another — steady, heavy, rhythmic. “That’s not a creature,” she murmured, voice low and velvet‑rough. “That’s weight.” ​A mechanical growl echoed down the avenue — not a roar, not a screech, but the deep, resonant rumble of an engine built for war and miles and myth. The kind of sound that didn’t just fill the street; it claimed it. Wanda’s fingers curled slightly, the red light tightening around her knuckles as she turned toward the source. ​Headlights appeared first. Twin beams of bright blue cut through the drifting dust, followed by the unmistakable silhouette of a massive semi‑truck rolling into view. The chrome grille caught the streetlights, throwing silver flashes across the buildings. Blue flame detailing curled along the hood, sharp and clean, and the red paint gleamed like fresh armor. ​A Freightliner FLA cab‑over-engine semi‑truck — Boxy, powerful, industrial, with a squared‑off cab that looked like it could punch through a building and keep going. The front bumper was reinforced steel, the kind that had seen battles and survived them. His wheels were thick, heavy‑treaded, built for terrain far worse than Manhattan asphalt. His trailer loomed behind him like a mobile stronghold — silver, angular, retro‑futuristic, a rolling fortress. ​The truck rolled to a stop, engine idling in a deep growl that vibrated through the pavement. Then the engine dropped into a lower register — a mechanical inhale. ​Wanda’s eyes narrowed. “Here we go.” ​The transformation began with a heavy metallic clunk as the front bumper split down the center, each half folding inward with hydraulic precision. The cab lifted off the ground, pistons hissing as the entire front section rotated upward. Panels along the sides slid back like armored shutters, revealing layers of inner machinery — gears, servos, glowing blue energon conduits pulsing like veins. ​The hood folded in on itself, collapsing into a compact chest plate. The grille split and rotated, locking into place as the iconic window‑chest rose into position. The sound was a symphony of shifting metal — grinding, sliding, locking — each movement deliberate, powerful, ancient. ​The wheels retracted next, folding into the legs as the lower chassis extended downward. Massive metal thighs formed from reinforced steel plating, each piece sliding into alignment with a heavy, satisfying thunk. His feet unfolded from the undercarriage, slamming onto the pavement with enough force to rattle the streetlamps. ​The arms emerged from the sides of the cab, panels peeling back like petals to reveal forearms layered with blue and silver armor. His hands unfurled from compact blocks of machinery, each finger clicking into place with a precision that felt almost surgical. ​Finally, the head rose from within the torso — blue optics igniting with a bright, focused glow. The faceplate slid into place with a sharp metallic snap, sealing him into the familiar warrior visage that had led armies across galaxies. ​When the last piece locked, the street fell silent again. Optimus Prime stood fully transformed — towering, battle‑scarred, and unmistakably ready for war. ​Wanda exhaled slowly, the red glow in her palm dimming just a fraction as she took him in. Her hair lifted slightly in the breeze stirred by the transformation’s final exhale of steam and heat. “If Optimus himself is here…” she said, voice low, velvet‑rough, edged with that warm‑wry style gravity, “it’s bad.” ​She stepped forward, boots crunching over broken glass, her expression tightening. “And I don’t mean Dinobots loose in Central Park bad either.” ​Optimus lowered his head, blue-optics narrowing as he scanned the street, his voice rolling out like thunder wrapped in steel. “Wanda Maximoff… Spider-Man... Shalla-Ball… Sideswipe,” he said, voice deep and unwavering. “Stand with me. A great danger approaches, and we must face it together.” Posted by 𝓗𝓮𝔁𝔂 𝓕𝓾𝓷 on Fri Feb 13, 2026, 00:02 [Reply to this]

	ℌ𝔢𝔯𝔞𝔩𝔡	Shalla-Bal did not pull her hand away. Instead, she turned her palm upward, her fingers curling around Wanda’s with a deliberate, studying slowness, as if trying to imprint the sensation of human warmth into her metallic memory. The contact grounded her, a tether to a reality she was still learning to navigate without the vast, cold silence of the void dampening every impulse. ​“To burn because he burns,” Shalla murmured, the words vibrating with a low, harmonic chime that seemed to ripple through the booth. She looked down at their joined hands, her reflection distorted in the curve of Wanda’s rings. “I have spent eons as a creature of the vacuum, Wanda. Absolute zero. Static. Unchanging.” She lifted her gaze, her eyes luminous pools of light that softened with a confession she had never voiced aloud. “He is… entropy. He is the chaos of a newborn star. He is everything I am not allowed to be.” ​She leaned in, the denim fabric of the borrowed jacket on her shoulder brushing against the maroon leather of Wanda’s jacket, seeking that proximity, that strange, messy humanity Wanda wore so easily. “I do not just want to observe the supernova,” she whispered, her voice tightening with a sudden, fierce intensity. “I want to be caught in the blast radius. If that is what it means to be alive… then let me incinerate.” But as the commotion outside shifted—curdling from the usual frantic rhythm of the city into something jagged and discordant—Shalla went rigid. Her human appearance fading back to her silver cosmic form. Her head snapped toward the window, her eyes narrowing as the silver of her skin seemed to dim, reacting to a sudden drop in the ambient spiritual pressure. She didn’t just hear the noise; she felt the sudden, sickening absence of life in the approaching wave. It wasn't the heat she had craved. It was a coldness far deeper than deep space. ​She turned back to Peter, who was still frantically smoothing his napkin, oblivious to the specific frequency of the horror rolling down the avenue. ​“Your physiological distress is misplaced, Spider-Man,” Shalla said, her voice dropping to a flat, chilling monitor tone. She released Wanda’s hand, not out of rejection, but readiness, her body flowing into a posture of defense, liquid metal hardening into armor. “This is not the Sorcerer Supreme’s mathematics. Magic has a pulse. It has a rhythm, however chaotic.” ​She looked at Wanda, and for the first time, the cosmic longing in her expression was overlaid with genuine, primal alarm. ​“Do you feel that silence?” Shalla asked, her voice barely a whisper, yet heavy with dread. She gestured toward the window, where the screams were beginning to sharpen, separating from the city hum. “It is not a storm, Wanda. It is an eclipse. I sense… hunger. Millions of hungry mouths, but no heartbeats.” She stood up slowly, the table creaking under the sudden shift in her density. “Whatever is coming… it is already dead.” Posted by ℌ𝔢𝔯𝔞𝔩𝔡 on Tue Feb 10, 2026, 21:02 [Reply to this]

	𝓗𝓮𝔁𝔂 𝓕𝓾𝓷	Wanda let Shalla’s fingers stay threaded with hers, her touch softening in a way that felt instinctive rather than deliberate. A slow breath lifted her chest beneath the open maroon leather jacket, the rise and fall steady, framed by the low‑neck black cropped shirt that showed a warm line of cleavage and the soft stretch of her stomach. She didn’t rush the breath — she let it settle, let the moment anchor her bones before she spoke. “Mm,” she hummed, warm and low, her voice brushing the space between them like velvet. “A system reboot is… honestly? Kind.” Her eyes drifted toward Peter, who was still trying to flatten a napkin that clearly had no interest in cooperating. Wanda didn’t move for a beat — that stillness she had, the kind that made the world lean in — and then a tiny smile curved her mouth, lazy and amused, warming her whole face before it reached her lips. “You’re lucky he’s still vertical,” she murmured, her tone dipping into that velvety rasp that made even her teasing sound like affection. When Shalla spoke of binary stars and gravity and burning, Wanda shifted in the booth, her hips easing into a new angle that brought her closer without making a show of it. The maroon leather creaked softly around her ribs as she turned, giving Shalla her full attention. The movement made her dark blue jeans brush lightly against Shalla’s thigh, the soft scrape of denim and the quiet click of her black leather heeled boots settling beneath the table. Her posture changed the air — steadier, warmer, more anchored — like she’d just decided the conversation deserved her whole presence. “Hey,” she said, gentle but sure, her fingers giving Shalla’s hand a slow, grounding squeeze. Her black‑polished nails contrasted beautifully against Shalla’s skin. Wanda’s eyes softened — warm as candlelight, steady as gravity. She held Shalla’s gaze for a long, quiet beat, letting her eyes do the work of a whole paragraph. “You don’t have to touch someone for the pull to be real.” Her voice dropped, intimate. “Some people… they hit you before you ever get close. Like they’re already written into your orbit.” A strand of strawberry‑blonde hair slipped forward over her shoulder, brushing her collarbone. She let it fall, didn’t bother tucking it back. Her thigh settled against Shalla’s again, warm and sure. She didn’t call attention to it — she simply let the closeness exist, natural as breath. The aged silver locket at the hollow of her breasts shifted gently as she leaned in. The café light caught on its worn edges, and for a moment the two tiny pictures inside — one of her with her parents and Pietro as children, one of her with Vision and her boys — felt like they were glowing against her skin, quiet anchors to every version of love she’d ever survived. She didn’t open it, didn’t touch it, but the weight of it seemed to deepen her next words. “But burning because he burns?” Wanda’s smile softened into something knowing, something that lived in the corners of her eyes. “That’s not just lust.” She tilted her head, studying Shalla with a quiet, reverent curiosity. “That’s knowing. That’s the universe nudging you and going, ‘Sweetheart… look.’” Shalla’s dry little comment about stripping down pulled a helpless laugh from Wanda — low, warm, a little wicked. Her hand lifted from the table and drifted back down in a soft tap, a thoughtful rhythm she didn’t seem aware of. The movement made her antique rings catch the light, tiny glints of history on her fingers. Her shoulder brushed Shalla’s with a warmth that felt like invitation rather than accident. “Stopping the thinking is allowed,” she murmured, her voice brushing the space between them like a secret. “Trust me, I’ve done worse to get out of my own head.” Her smile curled, slow and wry. “But don’t pretend it’s just about shutting your brain off. You want to feel something. You want to feel him. And that’s not wrong.” Her presence wrapped around Shalla like a warm, steady blanket — not smothering, just sure. Wanda’s fingers brushed Shalla’s hand again, slow and certain, grounding her with a touch that felt like truth. “Alive is volatile,” she said, her voice soft but anchored. “It’s messy. It makes you want things you can’t explain.” She let her body settle again, a quiet certainty radiating from her. “But it’s also the first thing that’s ever really been yours.” The café shifted — a ripple of noise from outside, a rising murmur, the kind of commotion New Yorkers only bother reacting to when it’s truly unusual. Wanda’s head turned slightly, her strawberry‑blonde hair brushing her cheek as she listened. She didn’t move for a heartbeat — that stillness again — then her brows lifted, amused. She looked back at Shalla first, giving her that soft, conspiratorial smile. “Never a dull moment in the Big Apple,” she murmured, voice warm with wry affection. Then she turned to Peter — still crouched, still red‑faced, still smoothing that poor napkin like it owed him money — and gave him a soft, knowing smirk. “Please don’t tell me you made another spell with Stephen,” she said, her tone half‑tease, half‑warning. “Because Wong is going to be beside himself if Spider‑Man villains from other realities start raining from the sky through Midtown… again.” Posted by 𝓗𝓮𝔁𝔂 𝓕𝓾𝓷 on Tue Feb 10, 2026, 10:02 [Reply to this]

	ℌ𝔢𝔯𝔞𝔩𝔡	Shalla watched Peter scramble for the napkins with a tilt of her head, her expression hovering somewhere between fascination and mild clinical concern. To her, thi boy was a chaotic collection of kinetic energy and nervous impulses, vibrating at a frequency that seemed exhausting to maintain. Yet somehow, he managed. "Three seconds,” Shalla repeated, her voice chiming with a distinct, metallic resonance—like a bell struck underwater. She didn’t move her leg from Wanda’s; the contact with her was a tether, a singular point of gravity in a world that felt too loose, too messy. “He fights interdimensional threats, yet distinct biological geometry causes a… system reboot?” A flicker of amusement, bright and quick as a solar flare, crossed her delicate facial features. “Your species is inefficient, Wanda. Delightfully so.” ​She turned her gaze back to the woman beside her, the humor fading into something more contemplative. Shalla looked at Wanda’s hand covering her own, Wanda's flesh against the once sleek, indestructible substance of her own skin. Skin that now almost passed for human, if not for a colder feel and silver undertone. She turned her hand over slowly, interlacing their fingers. The contrast was stark: the soft, mortal pink of Wanda’s palm against the cool, silvery sheen of hers. "Lust is loud,” Shalla echoed, testing the words. She looked down at their joined hands, her brow furrowing slightly, the smooth surface rippling with the effort of translation. “Perhaps that is the problem. I have never really met him. I have never really breathed his air or felt the heat of his skin against mine. And yet…” ​She looked up, her eyes solid pools of light that somehow conveyed a depth of longing that was entirely human. “It is not quiet, Wanda. It is not sneaking up on me.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper that vibrated against the maroon leather of Wanda’s jacket. “It feels like a binary star system. Johnny is the other sun. I can feel his gravity from sectors away. I burn because he burns.” ​She shifted, the movement fluid, like mercury pouring over the booth’s seat. She understood the physics of the universe, the death of nebulas, the birth of black holes. But this—this ache for a man she had only observed from a distance, a man whose flame called to her cosmic silence—was an equation she couldn’t solve. "If I strip down,” Shalla said, the corner of her mouth twitching upward, acknowledging the double meaning with a rare, dry wit, “it is not to think. It is to stop thinking. To stop wondering if the fire will consume me when—if—I finally stand before him.” ​She squeezed Wanda’s hand, a pulse of power humming harmlessly between them, grounding herself in the Scarlet Witch’s certainty. “You say I am just alive,” Shalla murmured, glancing back at Peter, who was now red-faced and aggressively smoothing out a napkin. “But this ‘alive’… it is far more volatile than the Power Cosmic.” Posted by ℌ𝔢𝔯𝔞𝔩𝔡 on Fri Feb 06, 2026, 01:02 [Reply to this]

	𝓗𝓮𝔁𝔂 𝓕𝓾𝓷	Wanda let Shalla’s words settle between them, not rushing, not flinching — just letting the honesty ripple through the air with that slow, grounded ease she carried everywhere. A small smile tugged at her lips, warming her eyes before it reached her mouth. She shifted in the booth, hips easing into a more comfortable angle, the maroon leather jacket creaking softly as it folded around her ribs. Her thigh stayed pressed against Shalla’s, warm and steady. She didn’t pull away. If anything, she leaned in a little, like Shalla’s cosmic bluntness was something she found quietly delightful. “Mm,” Wanda breathed, the sound soft and warm. “Brave because you actually say what you mean.” Her voice dipped into that velvety rasp, gentle but sure. “Not because you’re… flashing anyone into submission.” A tiny smile curved her lips, amused and fond all at once. Her fingers drifted across the back of Shalla’s hand — a feather‑light brush, more grounding than anything else. The black polish on her nails caught the café light, a sharp little glint against her softness. She glanced toward Peter — now crouched on the floor, trying to gather napkins like they were escaping wildlife — and Wanda let out a quiet, helpless breath. Her chest rose gently, the silver locket shifting in the warm hollow between her breasts. “Oh, sweetheart…” she murmured, shaking her head with a soft laugh. “Mentioning your boobs? Yeah. That’ll fry an Earth boy’s brain in about three seconds.” Her smile widened, warm and wicked. “Peter’s about to melt straight through the floor.” When Shalla brought up Johnny, Wanda’s expression softened. Her whole posture eased — shoulders lowering, hips angling a little more toward Shalla, the jacket folding naturally at her waist. She looked at her like she was seeing something familiar. “Lust is loud,” Wanda said, voice dropping into something intimate, steady. “It grabs you by the face and goes, ‘Hey. Look at me.’” She gave a small shrug, the leather jacket sliding along her shoulder. “Love doesn’t do that. It’s quieter. It sneaks up on you when you’re not paying attention.” Her eyes softened. “You’re hearing one of them. Doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy the noise while you figure out the rest.” She shifted again, crossing her legs under the table. The denim creased naturally along her thighs, hugging her legs as she resettled. Her boot brushed lightly against Shalla’s ankle — a small, grounding touch she didn’t call attention to. A strand of hair slipped forward over her shoulder, brushing her collarbone, and she tucked it back with a slow, absent motion. “And if stripping down ‘just enough’ helps you think?” Wanda lifted a brow, her smile turning wry and warm. “Then, honey… do what you need to do.” She let out a soft breath, the jacket shifting with her. “Just don’t confuse the… release… with the answer. They’re not the same thing.” Her fingers tapped once on the tabletop, a soft, thoughtful rhythm. She angled her body a little more toward Shalla, her presence steady and warm, like she was anchoring the whole booth. “You’re not wrong for wanting him,” she said, voice gentle but sure. “You’re just alive. That’s all.” A tiny smile tugged at her lips. “And there’s nothing wrong with being alive.” She let the words sit there, warm and unhurried, her thigh still pressed to Shalla’s, her eyes soft and steady — the kind of presence that made everything feel a little safer, a little clearer, just by being there. Posted by 𝓗𝓮𝔁𝔂 𝓕𝓾𝓷 on Thu Feb 05, 2026, 06:02 [Reply to this]

	𝓓𝓪𝓻𝓴 𝓐𝓷𝓰𝓮𝓵	Max stared at him, the silence stretching until it hummed. For a second, the urge to deflect was strong—to throw out a sarcastic quip about his bedside manner or the brightness of the room lights being like a lab. But the words died on her tongue. ​She looked at him—really looked at him—and felt a bizarre, terrifying vertigo. It wasn’t just the empathy; it was the logic. He had deconstructed her emotional state with the same clinical, efficient precision she used to secure a perimeter. It was infuriating. It was familiar. It was like arguing with a mirror that had gone to college instead of boot camp. ​"You analyze everything," she said, her voice raspy, lacking its usual bite. "Emotions, structural integrity, me. You pull it all apart to see how it works." ​She stepped back, just half a pace, jamming her hands deeper into her pockets until her knuckles grazed the lint at the seams. "You’re right," she admitted, the words tasting like ash. "I’m tired. But you’re wrong about the armor. It’s not armor, Richards. It’s structural support. I take it off, the whole building might come down." Her eyes flicked past him, toward the half-lit slice of the hallway where the shadows seemed a little too dense. Her enhanced hearing picked up the steady, rhythmic thump-thump of a heart that was trying very hard to remain calm. Susan still there. Still watching. Listening. ​"And you can tell your wife," Max said, raising her voice just enough to carry into the corridor, "that I’m not going to break anything. Or steal the silverware." It was a weak attempt at a deflection off Reed's analysis of her. The scrutiny making her uncomfortable. Even her own parents didn't read her as well as this version of Reed and Sue. ​She brought her gaze back to Reed. The anger had drained out of her, leaving her feeling hollowed out and impossibly heavy. Seeing him standing there—her biological father in a world that wasn't hers—made her chest ache with a specific kind of grief she hadn't known existed. The grief of missing someone you never actually knew. ​"You say I'm human," Max murmured, a bitter, crooked smile touching her lips. "That's a hell of a variable to throw into the equation this late in the game." She let out a breath that shuddered in her lungs. "But you've got a room with a lock... and little to no windows... I'll take it." ​She paused, her dark eyes locking onto his, searching for the catch. "Just... don't look at me like that," she added quietly, her voice cracking. "Like you're proud of me for just not dying with the rest of my world. I don't know what to do with that." Posted by 𝓓𝓪𝓻𝓴 𝓐𝓷𝓰𝓮𝓵 on Wed Feb 04, 2026, 01:02 [Reply to this]

	𝙼𝚛 𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚢	Reed didn’t move at first. He stood there in the quiet Sue left behind, shoulders slightly hunched, head bowed just enough that the overhead lights caught the silver at his temples. He looked like a man who’d been carrying too many worlds on his back for too long — not broken, but bent in that tired, human way that made people trust him without knowing why. Then he exhaled, slow and heavy, and pushed off the wall. His steps were soft, almost soundless, the soles of his shoes whispering against the floor. He approached Max with the kind of careful gravity that made the air shift before he reached her — not caution, not fear, but respect. A man walking toward someone who’d been hurt enough times to mistake kindness for a trap. He stopped a few feet from her, leaning one shoulder into the wall beside her like he needed something solid behind him before he opened his mouth. His hands slid into the pockets of his white lab coat, thumbs hooking the edges, a gesture that made him look both older and more grounded. His voice, when it came, was low and warm and rough — that soft, sandpapered scientific cadence that sounded like he’d been awake for three days and still found room to care. “Max,” he murmured, “you don’t have to keep the armor on with us.” She didn’t look at him, but Reed saw the way her jaw flexed, the way her shoulders rose a fraction too high. He nodded once, slow, acknowledging the tension without calling it out. “You’re exhausted,” he said, voice dipping even lower. “Not weak. Exhausted. There’s a difference.” He shifted his weight, the fabric of his coat brushing the wall with a soft scrape. His eyes tracked the tiny tremor in her fingers — the one she tried to hide by shoving her hands deeper into her jacket pockets. Reed’s expression softened, the corners of his mouth pulling into something that wasn’t quite a smile but carried the shape of one. “You’ve been running on adrenaline and grief for… God, I don’t even know how long,” he said. “And you’re still standing. That’s not defiance. That’s survival.” Max’s breath hitched — barely — but Reed caught it. He always caught it. He tilted his head, studying her with that warm, tired intelligence that made even silence feel like a hand on the shoulder. “You don’t sleep well because your brain hasn’t had a safe place to land in days,” he said gently. “You don’t need a babysitter. You need a room where nothing’s trying to kill you, infect you, or use you.” Her eyes flicked toward him — sharp, defensive — but she didn’t look away this time. Reed let out a soft huff of breath, almost a laugh, the sound warm and worn at the edges. “You want to hit something tomorrow?” he said. “Fine. We’ll find something that deserves it. I’m not gonna stop you from throwing a punch you need to throw.” A tiny crack appeared in her armor — not a smile, not relief, just a loosening, like her ribs finally remembered how to expand. Reed’s voice gentled even further, dropping into that intimate, steady register Mr. Fantastic used when he’s telling someone the truth they didn't want but desperately needed to hear. “But tonight,” he murmured, “you let your body stop fighting long enough to remember it’s human. Manufactured or not. You’re still human where it counts.” He didn’t touch her or try to close the distance; he simply stayed where he was, warm and steady and unflinching, offering something Max had never been given without conditions. His presence settled around her like a quiet shield, not trapping her but giving her space to breathe, to let her shoulders drop, to remember she didn’t have to be a weapon every second she was awake. For the first time since she’d landed in this universe, someone wasn’t demanding answers or obedience or performance. Reed was just there — tired, human, and resolute — asking nothing of her except to stay alive long enough to see tomorrow. Posted by 𝙼𝚛 𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚢 on Tue Feb 03, 2026, 03:02 [Reply to this]

	𝓓𝓪𝓻𝓴 𝓐𝓷𝓰𝓮𝓵	Max didn’t flinch when Sue reached out, but the stillness that overtook her wasn’t calm—it was the frozen alertness of a predator realizing it had been cornered by something bigger. For a split second, the instinct to snap back, to throw a wall of sarcasm or a literal punch between them, flared hot behind her eyes. Manufactured. The word hung in the air, stripping away the soldier routine Max wore like armor. Most people didn’t know what that word meant, not really. They used it for cars and toasters. Susan said it like she knew the barcode on the back of Max’s neck was itching. Max’s jaw worked, a muscle feathering under the skin as she ground her teeth together, fighting the tremor in her hands by jamming them deep into the pockets of her leather jacket. She shifted her weight, breaking the intimate proximity Sue had established, stepping back just enough to reclaim her own air. ​“You’re good at that,” Max said, her voice rougher than she actually intended it to be, lacking the smooth, velvet polish of Sue’s. She cleared her throat, tilting her chin up to regain some height, some ground. “The whole… ‘I see your soul, now go drink some warm milk’ routine. They teach you that at superhero school, or is it just a mom thing?” It was a deflection, weak and jagged, and they both knew it. Max looked away, staring fixedly at a spot on the wall just past Sue’s shoulder. The rage was still there, buzzing under her skin like a live wire, but Sue’s words had poured concrete over it. Don't confuse movement with progress. It was annoying how much sense that made. ​Max let out a short, sharp huff of breath—a laugh that died halfway up her throat. She looked back at Sue, her dark eyes glittering, defensive but undeniably tired. The universe traveling, and finding out her family were gone, taking a huge toll. Physically and mentally. ​“I don’t sleep well,” Max muttered, the admission costing her. She pulled one hand out of her pocket and ran it through her dark long hair, a mirror of Susan’s earlier gesture but faster, messier. “And I don’t need a babysitter. If I stay… it’s because I decide to. Not because you ordered me to.” ​She watched Susan carefully, looking for a crack in the older woman’s composure, a sign of condescension. She found none. Just that steady, unbearable understanding. ​Max’s shoulders dropped, the tension bleeding out of her not because she wanted it to, but because her body simply couldn't hold it anymore against Sue’s immovable gravity. She felt suddenly young, and the weight of the genetic engineering, the mission, the Manticore programming, felt heavy enough to crush bone. “Fine,” Max said, the word clipping off the end of her tongue. She turned toward the interior of the room, away from the door she’d been desperate to storm out of moments ago. She paused, looking back over her shoulder, her expression guarding itself again, the mask slipping back into place—though perhaps a little looser than before. ​“But if I wake up tomorrow and the world looks exactly the same,” Max warned, a flash of the X-5 steel returning to her voice, “I’m hitting something. Hard. And I’m not asking for permission.” ​She didn't wait for a dismissal. She moved past Sue, her steps silent and cat-like, retreating to the neutral corner of the room to do the one thing she hated most: wait. Posted by 𝓓𝓪𝓻𝓴 𝓐𝓷𝓰𝓮𝓵 on Sun Feb 01, 2026, 02:02 [Reply to this]

	④𝕴nvisible 𝖂oman④	Susan didn’t answer Max right away. She let the girl’s bravado echo off the walls, let the silence thicken just enough to make it clear she wasn’t buying a single ounce of the performance. Her weight shifted into one hip in a slow, instinctive arc — the kind of movement that looked like nothing and meant everything. Her chest rose with a long, steady inhale, the suit stretching subtly across her breasts as she gathered herself, not to calm down but to choose her words with surgical precision. A strand of blonde hair slipped forward, brushing her cheek. She flicked it back behind her ear with a small, irritated motion — not at Max, but at the universe for forcing a teenager to carry this kind of grief twice in one lifetime. “Mm,” she said at last, voice velvet‑dry. “The t‑shirt wisdom. Very… motivational.” She stepped toward Max, her thigh sliding forward in a smooth, unhurried glide that carried the quiet authority of someone who didn’t need to raise her voice to raise the stakes. Her hand drifted to her opposite arm, fingertips brushing lightly across the skin — a grounding gesture, subtle and instinctive, the kind a woman makes when she’s holding more emotion than she intends to show. “You’re right,” Sue murmured, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Girls do kick ass. I’ve done my share.” Her gaze dipped to Max’s hands — unclenched now, but still trembling with the aftershocks of everything she was trying to swallow — then lifted again with that devastating Storm precision. Sue’s own fingers flexed once at her side, a tiny release of tension before she spoke again. “But let’s not confuse rage with readiness,” she said softly. “And training doesn’t make you immortal. I’ve buried people who thought it did.” She moved closer, close enough that Max could feel the warmth radiating off her. Sue didn’t crowd her; she simply occupied the space with the quiet, unshakeable confidence of someone who had already decided she wasn’t moving. Her chest rose again, slower this time, the fabric shifting gently with the inhale, her breath steady in a way that made Max’s feel frantic by comparison. “You want to save your family,” she said, her voice dropping into something low and precise. “Good. Hold onto that. But don’t confuse movement with progress. Right now, the only thing you can do for them is stay alive.” Her eyes softened — not warm, but unbearably human, the kind of softness that made bravado look childish without ever calling it out. She reached out, her hand lifting just enough to hover near Max’s arm, offering presence without pressure, support without pity. “And for the record,” she murmured, leaning in just a fraction, “caring doesn’t make you weak. It makes you a person. Manufactured or not.” Finally, she stepped back, giving Max space. Her fingers brushed the doorframe as she moved, a slow, grounding sweep that steadied her more than she’d ever admit. Her hip shifted again as she settled her stance, the motion quiet, instinctive, and unmistakably adult‑woman. “You’ll get your chance to hit something,” Sue said, tone turning dry as a British winter. “But not tonight. Tonight, you breathe. You eat. You sleep. And you let us do our jobs.” A faint, wry curve touched her mouth — the closest she ever came to a smile when she was being serious. “And if you wake up tomorrow still feeling heroic…” Her head tilted, blonde hair sliding across her shoulder with the motion. “…we’ll see what the world looks like then.” She didn’t wait for Max to argue. She simply held her gaze, steady and unblinking, the way only the Invisible Woman could — a mother who could dismantle someone’s defenses with a single, quiet look. Posted by ④𝕴nvisible 𝖂oman④ on Sat Jan 31, 2026, 04:01 [Reply to this]

	ℌ𝔢𝔯𝔞𝔩𝔡	It was a little experiment. Just to see how flustered a Earth man would be at the mention of breasts. Granted, this Spider-Man did come across as more innocent and boyish compared to her intended target. Perhaps Peter hadn't had much experience with the female form in the nude. And Johnny seemed to have nude girls on the regular according to his sister. Her eyes stayed locked on Peter as he fumbled over everything. His words, his surroundings, himself. He was by far the most entertaining person to watch that she had met yet. He made a comment that he did like boobs, and that he hadn't noticed hers, yet did notice them. She couldn't help but furrow her brow and look down at her chest then back up at the boy with a mischievous grin. She could have lots of fun making this kid sweat. Stumbling over the table, Peter managed to get to his feet and make his way over to order them some cookies. Watching him, Shalla couldn't help but chuckle to herself. So far Peter had been the highlight of coming back home. Wanda the new best friend, Peter the entertainment. And then there was Johnny. Possible lover. Wanda's leg gently brushed against her, drawing Shalla's attention back toward her strawberry blonde friend. "Brave?" A curious expression flashed across her face. "You say I'm brave because I will use my breasts to seduce?" Once more her brows furrowed, again not understanding human customs fully. "Honestly Wanda, it's kind of been my natural state for years to practically be naked. Just silver. You felt the need to dress me." She placed her hands on the table and locked her fingers together as she refocused her attention from Wanda to Peter. "Jonny Storm will not get out of my head. Love or lust? I'm not sure. But I do know that if I see that man again, I will strip down just enough to conform to your planets social standards, and seduce him. Get him to bang it out of me. Literally." She glanced back at Wanda, mischievous intentions clear to see on her face. "It's the only thing that can be done. Will my obsession end, maybe? Maybe not. But I do believe I will be able to focus more on the threats this planet faces and less of getting laid." Posted by ℌ𝔢𝔯𝔞𝔩𝔡 on Thu Jan 29, 2026, 07:01 [Reply to this]

	𝓗𝓮𝔁𝔂 𝓕𝓾𝓷	Wanda slid into the booth beside Shalla with that slow, deliberate grace that made everything around her feel quieter. Her hips shifted first, a grounded sway that let the maroon leather jacket settle around her torso. The structured fabric creaked softly as it adjusted, folding at the waist and softening across her chest. Beneath it, the black top hugged the gentle rise of her breasts, the aged silver locket nestled in the hollow between them — a quiet, glinting presence resting in her cleavage like a secret she’d carried for years. She angled her body toward Shalla, thigh brushing the booth in a quiet, anchoring way. Her dark-blue jeans creased naturally at the bend, worn just enough to move with her. The touch wasn’t dramatic. It was the kind of closeness you gave someone you’d already decided to care about. Her fingers drifted to Shalla’s arm again, feather-light and familiar. The black polish on her nails caught the soft café light as she moved, subtle and sharp, like punctuation on her warmth. “Hey,” Wanda murmured, voice low and velvety, “you’re doing fine.” The cadence was pure — soft, wry, protective. Her eyes held steady, the corners warming with a kind of affection that didn’t need to be spoken aloud. Across from them, Peter was unraveling in spectacular fashion. His suit flexed with every jittery movement — red panels stretching across his ribs, mask lenses widening like they were trying to keep up with his emotions. Wanda watched him with a slow blink, her lips curving in a tiny, private smirk. Her shoulders rolled back, the leather jacket shifting with her, drawing a soft line across her chest as she breathed out. One hand came to rest on the table, fingers relaxed, the rings on her middle and index fingers glinting faintly — aged silver, worn smooth, grounding. “Mhm,” she hummed under her breath, “he’s already overheating.” She hadn’t missed Shalla’s earlier dip — the way her gaze had dropped to her sneakers, the way her posture had folded in on itself like she was bracing for disappointment. So when Shalla lifted her chin again, confidence flickering back to life, Wanda shifted closer. Her thigh pressed gently against Shalla’s under the table, steady and warm. Her hips angled toward her in a quiet, protective tilt, the jacket folding naturally at her side. Then came the bold little line — I have boobs — and Wanda’s eyebrows lifted in that unmistakable relaxed arc. Slow, amused, and a little impressed. Her breath rose, lifting her breasts in a soft, warm laugh she didn’t quite let out. She turned her head slightly, strawberry-blonde hair brushing her collarbone, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Oh, you're brave,” Wanda murmured, voice dipped in fondness. “Very brave.” Peter’s reaction — the squeak, the flailing, the mask lenses expanding like someone had hit him with a flashlight — made Wanda press her fingers briefly to her lips to hide a laugh. Her thighs shifted beneath the table as she adjusted her seat, settling deeper into the booth with a relaxed, grounded ease. The denim hugged her legs naturally, creasing at the knees as she crossed one thigh over the other. Her boots — black leather, heeled just enough to shape her posture — tapped softly against the floor as she resettled. “Peter,” she said gently, not even raising her voice, “sweetheart… breathe.” He snapped upright like she’d cast a spell. When he scrambled off toward the counter, Wanda finally let her shoulders relax fully. The leather jacket creaked again as she settled, the maroon folds catching the soft café light. Her body angled toward Shalla once more, her posture open, her energy steady. Her fingers traced a small, absent circle on the tabletop — grounding, quiet, the kind of gesture that said I’m here with you without needing words. “Mhm,” she hummed, watching Peter immediately knock over a stack of napkins. “He’s trying so hard. It’s adorable. Painful. But adorable.” She tilted her head, hair falling across her shoulder, watching him with that warm, slightly exasperated affection she reserved for people who were all heart and no coordination. Her chest rose with a soft, amused breath as she whispered, “Oh, honey… you’re losing a fight with napkins.” She didn’t say anything else. Her presence did the talking — warm, steady, protective in that quiet, instinctive way she carried without effort. Her hips angled toward Shalla, her thigh resting close, her posture open and sure. She wasn’t using magic. She didn’t have to, she was just being herself. Posted by 𝓗𝓮𝔁𝔂 𝓕𝓾𝓷 on Thu Jan 29, 2026, 06:01 [Reply to this]

	Wєв Sριηηιηg, Sρι∂єя Vєяѕιηg	Peter perked up so fast it was almost audible — like someone had hit a hidden “activate enthusiasm” button in his spine. The suit responded instantly, red panels flexing across his ribs, blue mesh tightening around his shoulders like it was bracing for impact from his own excitement. His whole body jumped before his brain caught up: chest expanding, fingers halfway into a gesture he hadn’t consciously chosen, the web-shooter ports glinting as his wrists spun in little circles. “Okay—okay, so—cookies,” he said, and the word came out like it had been launched from a slingshot. His hands started drawing invisible shapes in the air, palms flipping, fingers splaying, the red-and-blue gloves catching the light with every twitch. The suit’s forearm segments shifted subtly as if trying to keep up with his momentum. “You have to try the cookies. They’re like… emotional support but edible. And warm. And they don’t judge you. Ever. Even if you drop them. Which I have. Multiple times.” He nodded too fast, then tried to slow it down, which only made the nodding look like he was buffering. His heel bounced under the table, the suit’s soles making a soft rubbery tap-tap-tap against the floor, the blue toe panels flexing with each bounce. When Shalla made her bold little comment about boobs, Peter’s entire nervous system short-circuited. The mask lenses widened in a mechanical gasp, the white irises expanding like he’d just seen a ghost. He made a noise that absolutely betrayed him — a squeak-cough-hiccup hybrid that no human should ever produce. “Uh—yeah—guys—uh—yeah,” he stammered, hands flying up like he was surrendering to the universe. The red gloves caught the overhead light as he flailed. “They’re… popular. I mean—not that I was—looking. I wasn’t. I mean, I have eyes, but I wasn’t—using them. On you. In that way. I’m gonna—just—stop talking.” He slapped a gloved hand over the mask’s mouth, then groaned into it, shoulders curling inward like he wished the suit had a “mute embarrassment” feature. The chest panel dimmed slightly as if the suit itself was embarrassed for him. When Wanda gave him that subtle, quiet warning look — the one that said Peter, breathe before you implode — he straightened instantly. His spine snapped upright, chest puffing out, hands folding neatly in front of him like he was suddenly auditioning for “Most Respectful Boyfriend Material.” The suit adjusted with him, smoothing out the bunching at his elbows, the blue fabric catching a soft gleam as he tried to look composed. “Right. Yes. Food. Ordering. I can do that,” he said, voice cracking just a little at the end. He slid out of the booth with too much momentum, bumped his hip on the table, winced, then pretended it didn’t happen. “Structural integrity test,” he muttered. “Table passed. Very sturdy.” He pointed at the counter like it was a mission objective. “Okay. Cookie run. Priority one. I got this.” Then he jogged off — but his feet didn’t quite agree on a direction at first, so he did a tiny stutter-step, nearly tripped, caught himself with a discreet web-thwip to the underside of a chair, and straightened like he meant to do all of it. The suit’s shoulder seams rippled as he recovered, the red panels flexing like they were sighing. “Totally fine,” he whispered to himself as he walked. “Totally normal. Everything’s great. No one saw that. Probably.” He reached the counter and immediately knocked over a stack of napkins with his elbow. They fluttered like startled pigeons. Peter froze, stared at them, then slowly tried to gather them with the dignity of a man who had absolutely lost control of the situation. The gloves weren’t helping — too grippy, too slick — and the napkins kept slipping like they were mocking him. Behind him, he could feel Wanda’s amused stare like a warm spotlight. And Shalla’s soft, curious smile like a gravitational pull he didn’t know how to orbit yet. But he was trying like only how Spider-Man could. Posted by Wєв Sριηηιηg, Sρι∂єя Vєяѕιηg on Thu Jan 29, 2026, 06:01 [Reply to this]

	𝓓𝓪𝓻𝓴 𝓐𝓷𝓰𝓮𝓵	Zombie plague? World gone? The words rushed through her like a raging river. Her jaw tensed, her eyes grew dark and heavy, her fists clenched. The emotion running through her were unable to be pinpointed. Anger? Sadness? Fear? One thing was clear as day though, the need to do something. To save them. She was gripping the sides of her pants in each fist. Tightening her grin with each new sentence. Her breathing growing more erratic. Yet somehow she kept her facial features calm. She had mastered the ability to keep her rage inside and letting it explode on the deserving parties. Her life had been full of loss. This was not new. As Reed and Susan continued to explain in scientific and maternal ways, the realization that they would not let her run home to save her family hit her. She could fight them, make a run for it. She was faster then either of them. Scenario after scenario flickered through her brain. However she didn't move a muscle. She even finally relaxed her hands, letting her jeans finally free. There was nothing she could do. Her parents sent her here to be safe. They were heroes. Always putting the safety of others first. Especially children. Their children. She respected that. "You’re taking all of this far too well,” Sue murmured, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Which tells me you’ve had to do it before. More times than anyone should.” Max's dark eyes flickered over to her 'other' mother. "Yeah, well, as you said. Not the first time I've had to do this." She smirked with the bravado she usually carried herself with. "Tragedy just rolls off me like water." It wasn't that she didn't care. Max actually cared deeply about the people she cared for. And even those she didn't. But showing it was a vulnerability she was not taught to do. Tough times made her lean into her military training. "You can keep me quarantined for the time being, but not forever." She looked directly at Reed then Sue. "I'm not a fragile child that needs protection. I'm a manufacturered assassin. And sooner or later I'm going to leave this building and find someone's ass to kick." She crossed her arms across her chest, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. "In my experience, kick enough ass, you can save the world." She locked onto Susan's blue eyes. "And if I know one thing to be true it's that girls kick ass. It says so on a t-shirt." Posted by 𝓓𝓪𝓻𝓴 𝓐𝓷𝓰𝓮𝓵 on Mon Jan 26, 2026, 04:01 [Reply to this]

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