#Air Dispersion Modeling

[joelsrose]

Dark Matter

i haven't written reed before but here we go! i hope yall enjoy xx

warnings: fingering, age gap? (reader is mid 20's), cheating (sorry sue), power-dynamic, semi-public

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

You walked into the lab the same way you always did—quietly, carefully, your notebook hugged to your chest like a shield, pages dog-eared and smudged with graphite, filled with half-solved equations, theoretical scribbles, and tiny margin doodles of molecules and stars.

The click of your heeled boots echoed off the cold, polished floor, a sound that somehow felt too loud in the stillness of the room. The air inside was always a little too cold, like the whole space was suspended in a vacuum—untouched by the warmth of human hands—but you liked it that way. It made you feel sharp, focused. Like anything could happen here. Like everything already had.

It had been exactly seven days since you started your internship under Mr. Richards—or Reed, as he’d insisted you call him on the very first day, his tone polite but firm, eyes flickering to yours with something unreadable when you stammered out “Dr. Richards” instead. The man was brilliant. Obviously. He was also deeply intimidating in the way only truly intelligent people could be—effortlessly so, like he didn’t notice the way the rest of the world bent around his mind.

He wasn’t cruel, not at all, but there was something about him that made your pulse skip whenever he turned to you with a question, something about the way he spoke in low, thoughtful tones, his hands always busy with some piece of machinery or scribbling formulas on the glass board like his thoughts couldn’t be contained by paper.

You’d been selected from a pool of thousands—won the LUMINA International Science Initiative, a fellowship that granted a single spot, once a year, to shadow one of the world’s leading innovators.

You never expected to get it. You’d submitted your proposal last-minute, half-convinced it was too ambitious, too naive. But something about it must’ve caught their attention—maybe your hypothesis on temporal field distortions, maybe the way you phrased it like a love letter to curiosity itself. Either way, it landed you here, standing just inside the threshold of the Baxter Building’s most secured lab, wearing your best skirt and your favorite boots, heart thudding in your chest like a metronome gone mad.

You adjusted your grip on your notebook and cleared your throat softly, the sound swallowed by the lab’s cavernous quiet. “Morning,” you offered, voice smaller than you meant, eyes sweeping the room for him—half-hoping he wasn’t here yet, half-hoping he was.

From behind one of the massive monitors, you heard the gentle clink of metal, followed by a low voice.

“You’re early.”

You turned and there he was, sleeves rolled to his forearms, collarbone peeking where his lab coat had come undone. His hair was tousled, like he’d been up for hours already, running his hands through it between equations. There was graphite smudged on his wrist, and a faint streak of oil down one thumb, and somehow that made him look even more untouchable. He glanced over his shoulder at you, then down at your notebook.

“More scribbles?” he asked, one corner of his mouth lifting—not quite a smile, but close enough to make your chest flutter.

You nodded, holding it out. “A few questions from last night. I kept thinking about the energy dispersion curve in the 5-D field model, and—well. It didn’t make sense that it plateaued. Not at those values.”

He took the notebook, flipping through the pages like he was reading a novel written in his own handwriting, then looked up at you with a sliver of something warmer in his gaze.

“You know,” he said quietly, “I think you might be the first person to ever challenge that curve. Everyone else just accepted it.”

You blinked. “Oh. I—didn’t mean to be... disrespectful or anything.”

“You weren’t.” He looked back at the page, his brow furrowing like he was genuinely considering your notes. “You’re just... asking the right questions.”

And the way he said that—asking the right questions—it made your cheeks heat, made your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag like you were suddenly fifteen again, flustered and awkward and unsure of what to say next, even though you were here because you belonged here, even though you were brilliant in your own quiet way.

He glanced at you again, slower this time, eyes scanning your face like he was watching a theory unfold in real time, and said, “Let’s run it. See if you’re right.” Just like that, like it was nothing, like it didn’t mean the world.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

Hours passed, though you barely noticed them. What started as a single equation quickly unraveled into an entire evening of hypotheses and recalibrations, the two of you moving around each other in this strange, quiet rhythm—typing, adjusting, scribbling, calculating, retrying, failing, fixing, retrying again.

The room had fallen into that kind of sacred stillness where every noise felt sharper—the whir of machines, the scratch of pencils, the occasional creak of the stool beneath you. Every time a result came back wrong, you’d lean in beside him and try again. Every time it came back right, your shoulders would touch, just barely, and you’d both say nothing.

And then it happened again—casual, effortless—Reed stretched.

This time, to grab his phone from across the room without moving from his chair, his arm extending impossibly far and elegant, fingers curling around the device with that same practiced ease, like it was just another part of his body responding to his mind. You watched it happen with that same quiet awe you always did, eyes following the length of his arm as it retracted, as he settled back into himself like it hadn’t been strange at all, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It wasn’t even the stretch itself, not really—it was the nonchalance, the way he didn’t even think about it. But you did. You thought about it too much.

You were still thinking about it when he glanced at his screen, a quiet frown flickering across his face.

“It’s eight already,” he murmured, thumbing through a text. “We’ve been here all day.”

You blinked, surprised by the time, and then watched as his expression shifted—something soft and faintly guilty tugging at the edge of his mouth as he read whatever had been sent to him.

“Sue made dinner,” he said after a beat, sighing, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand like he hadn’t sat down for a proper meal in days. “Guess I should…”

He trailed off as he stood, the chair sliding back with a scrape, and something in your chest twisted—tight and unexpected. Not sharp enough to hurt, but deep enough to notice.

You weren’t sure if it was jealousy, exactly, but there was something inside you that ached a little at the thought of him leaving. At the thought of him sitting across from someone else, in a warm apartment somewhere above the city, eating food someone else had made for him, laughing over things that had nothing to do with lab results or radiation curves or the way your hands always trembled just slightly when he got too close.

You didn’t realize you were staring until he glanced back at you with one brow arched, curious, amused, his coat slung half over his arm and a faint smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth.

“Something wrong?” he asked, voice low and too steady, like he already knew the answer but wanted to hear you say it.

“No,” you said quickly, too quickly, the word tripping over itself on your tongue. “No, nothing.”

He looked at you for a long second, long enough that your skin prickled under the weight of it, his eyes steady and a little too knowing, like he could see past your flustered expression and straight into the chaos of your thoughts. Then—he chuckled, soft and brief, like the sound had slipped out before he could stop it, low and warm and close enough to make your pulse stutter.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he murmured, shaking his head slightly, not in disapproval, but something more bemused—like he found you endlessly curious and had all the time in the world to figure you out.

You ducked your head, the heat rising in your cheeks again, blooming in a flush that you tried to suppress with a tight little smile, your fingers worrying the corner of your notebook as though it could ground you, steady you, hide the fact that your heart was now pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears.

Then his voice came again, low and coaxing, that soft velvet drawl of someone deeply used to being the smartest man in the room—“Come on,” he said, “what’s going on in that brilliant mind?”

And you should’ve lied. You should’ve laughed it off, said something safe, something neutral, something clever and unassuming and appropriately scientific. But your brain had been wandering all week—had been drifting there over and over again, uninvited, unwelcome, inappropriate, gnawing at the edges of your curiosity in the quiet moments between experiments.

You’d tried not to think about it, tried not to let your gaze linger when he stretched, tried not to imagine what else could stretch, how far, how much, how deeply.

And somehow—somehow—it slipped out of your mouth before your brain had a chance to intercept it, just a whisper of a thought spoken aloud, soft and breathless and too curious to be innocent.

“Does everything stretch?”

The silence that followed was instant and absolute.

You heard it in the way the machines kept humming but your breath caught.

You felt it in the way Reed’s eyes snapped to yours, too quickly, like he wasn’t expecting that.

And you saw it—oh, you saw it—in the way he froze, the way the lines at the corners of his mouth shifted, lips parting slightly like he was about to speak but couldn’t quite remember how.

Your eyes widened almost immediately, your whole body locking in mortified horror, hands flying up to your face as if that could undo what you’d just said, as if that could pull the words back into your throat and shove them into the void where they belonged.

“Oh my God—I didn’t—I didn’t mean it like that, I swear—I swear, it was just—I was talking about your arm, I mean your body—not your—oh God, not your body body, I meant your abilities, like biologically—scientifically—I’m so sorry—”

You were rambling now, barely breathing between the words, voice growing higher and faster with every sentence, and he was still just looking at you, still absolutely silent, like you’d short-circuited him and he was trying not to let it show. His expression hadn’t changed much—but his eyes were different now, darker maybe, or maybe just sharper, like a wire had pulled taut somewhere beneath his usually-calm exterior.

Then—finally—he blinked.

And his mouth twitched.

Not a smirk. Not quite. But close. Very, very close.

“Everything?” he echoed softly, voice rough around the edges like it had dropped an octave without permission.

You wanted to melt through the floor.

“Forget I said anything,” you mumbled, practically squeaked, your hands halfway up your face now, notebook clutched uselessly against your chest like a shield made of paper and shame.

But he didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease. He just looked at you for another long moment, like he was tucking the question away in some private drawer of his mind, like he was considering it—you—carefully.

And then he said, his voice quiet and unreadable. “Some things stretch more than others.”

He said it with the same offhand ease he might’ve used to mention the weather or the results of an equation, as if the words weren’t heavy with meaning, as if they didn’t land like a struck tuning fork in the center of your chest and hum there, low and electric. And then—just like that—he glanced at the time again, slipped his phone into the inside pocket of his coat, his fingers moving with quiet efficiency, and looked toward the door without even a flicker of hesitation in his expression.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, voice smooth and calm, like it had all been nothing—your question, his answer, the unbearable silence that followed—like he hadn’t just reduced you to a trembling, wide-eyed mess with five words and a look you couldn’t quite decipher.

And then he turned and walked out, his footsteps steady and unhurried, as though the entire moment hadn’t happened, as though he hadn’t noticed the way your breath had caught or your lips had parted slightly or the way your fingers had curled around your notebook like you were holding onto it for dear life. The door eased shut behind him with a soft, final click, and the silence that followed felt far too loud, as if the air itself had been holding its breath and now didn’t know what to do with the tension left behind.

You stood there for a moment, completely still, eyes fixed on the door like he might come back—might say something, might clarify or laugh or admit that yes, that had been what you thought it was, that you weren’t imagining the way his gaze had sharpened, the subtle shift in his voice, the pause before he’d answered like he was trying to decide how honest he wanted to be.

But the door stayed shut. The lab was quiet. And your face was burning.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

The next morning, you thought about quitting.

No—worse—you thought about being removed, escorted out of the lab with quiet, professional shame, the faculty committee shaking their heads at the girl who couldn’t keep her thoughts scientific. You’d spent the entire night twisted in sheets and mortification, staring at the ceiling of your tiny dorm room with cheeks that wouldn’t stop burning and hands that kept curling into fists against your pillow, your mind looping the same sentence over and over like a taunt.

Does everything stretch?

It had sounded so much worse in hindsight. In your head, it was a purely biological question—curiosity, theoretical, relevant. But the moment it left your lips, soft and shy and tilted with unintended suggestion, you’d felt the way it landed. The way his eyes had flickered. The way his voice had dropped just a hair lower. The way he’d looked at you after.

And then he walked out like it was nothing.

Which somehow made it worse.

So when you walked into the lab that morning, notebook clutched to your chest like a shield, heart crawling up the back of your throat with every step, you were fully prepared for disaster—for tension, awkwardness, maybe even polite dismissal. But he was already there, of course he was—leaning over one of the central consoles with his sleeves rolled, hair still rumpled from sleep, lips pursed slightly in thought as he ran through some new readout, a mug half-full of black coffee resting near his elbow.

And when he glanced up at you?

Everything was... fine.

He offered you a brief, familiar nod, the same one he always did, and then gestured to a screen without so much as a hint of discomfort, as if the night before had been a dream, as if you hadn’t asked the most humiliating question of your life and then spiraled into a dimension of shame he probably discovered himself.

You blinked, stunned by the ease of it, by the way he moved through the morning without even a trace of tension, without a single flinch. It was—professional. Cordial. Kind.

And strangely, that grounded you.

The day unfolded slowly, then steadily—small victories, clarified hypotheses, new data sets—and your body slowly began to relax into the rhythm you’d started to love, the silent teamwork of minds that trusted each other. And even though he hadn’t said anything beyond the work, even though the stretch of time passed with nothing but research and updates, you caught yourself looking again—watching the way his hands moved, the way he’d lean into the screen, the way he thought so deeply with his whole body, and the way you were beginning to understand him in ways that had nothing to do with science.

It wasn’t until late afternoon, when the sun outside had dipped low enough to cast long gold shadows across the lab floor, that he finally spoke without referencing an equation.

“Sue was asking about you,” he said casually, eyes still on his screen, voice calm as if he didn’t know he’d just sent your stomach tumbling.

You blinked, startled. “Oh?”

He nodded once, the motion subtle. “Think I’ve been talking too much about how smart you are.”

Your breath caught in your throat and then returned all at once in a rush of heat to your face. You looked away, your lips parting slightly as your blush bloomed across your cheeks, creeping down your neck, the words lingering like sunlight on your skin.

“She wants to meet you,” he continued, finally glancing over at you with that steady, unreadable gaze that always made you feel a little exposed, a little unsteady.

“Really?” you asked, blinking up at him, your voice too soft, too unsure. “I—I mean, I’d be honored.”

He chuckled, quiet and amused, and God, it made your heart stutter.

“Tonight?” he asked, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

Your lips parted again. “Tonight?” you echoed, because your brain was clearly still catching up.

He tilted his head, expression flickering with something close to amusement. “Unless you’re busy,” he said smoothly. “Or unless you were planning on camping out here all night again, trying to crack the wavefield inversion curve without sleeping or eating—because that does sound like you.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself, the sound escaping like a sigh, soft and a little breathless, and he smiled—genuine and rare, the kind that made your knees feel unsteady and your chest warm.

You shook your head, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, suddenly too shy to meet his eyes. “No,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not busy.”

“Good,” he said, his smile deepening just slightly. “I’ll see you for dinner then.”

And with that, he turned back to his screen, the moment slipping away like mist, but the warmth of it stayed, curling low and steady in your chest.

You were going to dinner. With Reed Richards. And Sue Storm.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

The Baxter Building stood tall and impossible in the heart of the city, its sleek, glinting frame catching the last of the golden evening light like it had been plucked from some distant future and set gently down in Manhattan.

The security in the lobby had let you through without question, as if they’d been expecting you, as if your name already belonged in the same breath as Reed Richards and Sue Storm, and that thought alone made your stomach twist with something between awe and panic as you stepped into the elevator.

It was silent inside—sterile and smooth, the walls a brushed metal that reflected the softest version of your silhouette back at you, almost dreamlike. You stared at your reflection for a moment, adjusting the bottle of wine you held with both hands, the paper bag crinkling slightly beneath your fingertips.

You’d picked it up on the way here after spending a full thirty minutes in the wine shop pretending to know what pairs with intellectual dinner parties hosted by superheroes. You smoothed the front of your dress—a soft, modest thing that you’d chosen carefully, something that felt like you, but maybe a little prettier, a little more delicate than usual, your lips painted just faintly, enough to make you feel like you were trying without looking like you were trying.

You exhaled slowly, barely noticing the way the elevator glided up without a sound, your heartbeat louder than anything around you. Your thoughts raced, of course they did—what if it was too much? What if you shouldn’t have come? What if he hadn’t meant it the way it sounded, that subtle curve of his voice when he said see you at dinner, the glint in his eye, the way his attention had lingered for just a moment too long?

The elevator chimed softly.

The doors opened.

And then— There he was.

Reed stood just inside the threshold, one hand braced casually on the edge of the doorway, the other slipping his phone into his back pocket like he’d only just finished checking something, his sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, collarbone peeking slightly where his top button had been left undone, no tie, no lab coat—just a simple, perfectly tailored shirt that made your brain stutter for half a beat.

His hair was slightly tousled, like he’d run his fingers through it absentmindedly more than once, and there was a tiny streak of ink or maybe graphite on his knuckle that hadn’t been washed off completely.

It was Reed, but not the version of him you’d grown used to seeing in the lab, not the hyper-focused, brilliant blur of intellect you worked beside every day—this Reed looked like he’d been waiting. For you.

His eyes moved over you slowly—once, all the way down and back up again, not rushed, not obvious, but deliberate enough that you felt it everywhere, like heat pressing into the skin of your chest and the backs of your knees, your fingers tightening instinctively around the bottle you were holding.

He didn’t say anything at first, just quirked the corner of his mouth into something halfway between a smirk and a smile, soft but amused, his gaze still lingering just a little too long.

“You clean up well,” he said finally, voice lower than usual, not teasing exactly—more like he was confessing something he hadn’t meant to say aloud.

Your mouth parted slightly, but your voice caught, and when you finally managed to speak, it came out soft and a little breathless. “I—brought wine.”

He glanced down at the bottle, then back at you, his smile deepening just enough to make your heart skip. “Dangerously overqualified,” he murmured, stepping back to let you in. “Smart and thoughtful. Sue’s going to love you.”

You stepped past him into the apartment, the warmth of the space wrapping around you instantly, the scent of dinner and city lights and him curling at the edge of your senses, and even as you tried to focus on your breathing, on your posture, on not tripping in your kitten heels, you could still feel the echo of his eyes on your skin, like he hadn’t really stopped looking.

The apartment unfolded around you like a page in some impossibly curated design magazine, only softer, warmer, more lived-in than anything artificial—clean, modern lines met rich textures, brushed steel softened by warm walnut floors and deep navy accents that glowed golden under the cascade of low, amber-hued lighting.

One entire wall was glass, and beyond it, the Manhattan skyline burned softly against the horizon, city lights just starting to glitter like distant stars, and even the air inside smelled expensive and comforting—like slow-cooked herbs and something faintly sweet.

You were still catching your breath, still clutching the wine like a lifeline, when you heard a voice float in from down the hall—clear, warm, and unmistakably female.

“There she is.”

Sue Storm walked into view like she had been sculpted from light itself—tall and impossibly graceful, wrapped in soft neutral fabrics that draped just right, her golden hair falling in loose waves that framed her face perfectly, her eyes a crystalline blue that held a kind of sharpness you immediately respected.

She was breathtaking, in that way women are when they know who they are, and the moment she looked at you, her whole expression softened with something kind and curious and real.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” she said with a small smile, her voice smooth like honey stirred into tea, her gaze never once breaking from yours.

“Hi,” you breathed, the word escaping before you could shape it into anything more eloquent. “It’s such an honor to meet you.”

She waved you off with a flick of her manicured fingers, as if the formality embarrassed her. “Please,” she said with a light laugh, stepping closer. “The way my husband talks about you? I’m the one who’s honored.”

And you blushed so hard you felt it in your ears, your whole body warming beneath the soft light, fingers tightening just slightly around the neck of the bottle as you dipped your head in modest disbelief, not quite sure if you should laugh or hide.

Reed, who had stepped away to adjust the music or maybe just give you a moment, said nothing, but you felt the weight of his glance again—the quiet satisfaction in the corners of his mouth like this was exactly what he wanted: you here, now, nervous but luminous, admired and welcomed.

“Come in,” Sue insisted gently, her hand brushing your arm in a way that grounded you immediately. “Dinner’s almost ready. I made way too much food—he said you don’t eat much, but I never trust him when he says that. He’s never once finished a plate himself.”

You smiled, heart still beating a little too fast, and followed her deeper into the space, the sound of your shoes soft against the hardwood, the city glowing quietly beyond the windows as if watching you take your first steps into something bigger than an internship—something warmer, more dangerous, and far more personal.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

Dinner was lovely—elegant but warm, the kind of meal that felt intimate without trying, served at a long polished table that glowed honey-gold under the overhead lights, the city sparkling just beyond the glass like a living mural.

You sat across from them, Reed to your left, Sue across from you, and despite the tight coil of nerves you’d carried into the evening, it was… comfortable.

Sue had a way of making you feel like you belonged, like you weren’t just a guest in the home of two of the most brilliant minds on the planet, but someone worth sitting at their table, someone they genuinely wanted to know.

You found yourself watching them more than you meant to—Sue leaning toward him with quiet laughter, Reed murmuring something back without looking up from his wine glass, the two of them moving in the kind of rhythm that only came from years of intimacy and quiet understanding. And still, as you watched them, something bloomed low and warm in your stomach—not jealousy, exactly, but a kind of quiet ache, a fascination that hummed beneath your skin, a longing that had less to do with their relationship and more to do with him.

You were still chasing the thread of that thought when Sue turned to you again, eyes bright with interest.

“So,” she said, “how did you get interested in all of this?”

You blinked, startled out of your reverie, and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear with a shy smile. “Well,” you began softly, glancing down at your plate before meeting her gaze again, “ever since I was a kid, I just… I always wanted to understand how the world worked. The math, the movement, the rules. I remember watching the stars and thinking—that’s what I want to learn. That’s what I want to be part of.”

Sue offered you a warm smile, nodding in that gentle, encouraging way that made you feel like your words mattered, like they weren’t small or naïve or too eager. “Well,” she said, “it’s always nice seeing young people interested in this kind of work—especially a fellow…” she paused, grinning as she reached for her glass, “…girl genius.”

You laughed softly, cheeks warm, about to reply with something awkward and grateful and probably too modest—when it happened.

You felt it.

Unmistakable.

A hand. Large, warm, and undeniably real, sliding gently across your thigh under the table.

Your heart stopped. Your breath caught somewhere high in your chest, your eyes flickering toward Reed so quickly you barely caught Sue sipping her wine across from you. But he didn’t look at you—not exactly. His gaze remained calm and forward, his profile composed and entirely unreadable as he took a slow sip of his wine and then glanced up at Sue, his hand still resting firmly on your leg.

“She’s brilliant,” he said casually, his voice smooth and even, like he was commenting on the weather, like he wasn’t currently touching you from across the table while sitting next to his wife.

You sat frozen, pulse thundering in your ears, body rigid but electrified, your fingers tightening ever so slightly around the stem of your glass as you tried to focus, to breathe, to not move.

“She corrected me the other day about a flux equation I wrote in ’04,” he continued, eyes finally drifting to meet yours—and holding there, steady and direct, a silent dare written behind his calm expression. “She was right, too.”

Sue laughed, clearly delighted. “Good. God knows someone needs to keep you in check.”

You could barely hear her. Could barely focus on anything except the heat of Reed’s hand, the way it pressed gently into the top of your thigh, just enough to let you know it was real, just enough to make your stomach twist with something hot and shivery and shamefully thrilling.

And then—his hand moved.

Not in that subtle, polite way you might’ve been able to ignore or convince yourself had been some kind of misunderstanding, not a graze or a twitch or something incidental—but deliberate, slow, intentional, his palm sliding higher, slipping beneath the hem of your dress in a single fluid motion that felt so impossibly confident it made your entire body lock up at once.

The heat of his skin against your thigh stole the breath from your lungs, and when his fingers skimmed the delicate edge of your underwear, just barely brushing the fabric, you felt your heart climb straight into your throat and stay there.

You almost choked on your wine.

The glass halted halfway to your lips, your hands trembling just enough for the crystal to click against your teeth, and you let out a strange, stifled sound—half gasp, half cough—your eyes wide, your posture going ramrod straight as you struggled to swallow the panic and arousal crawling up your spine in tandem.

“You alright?” Sue asked gently, glancing up from her plate with concern etched between her brows, the picture of warmth and kindness and everything undeserving of what was happening beneath her dinner table.

“Yes,” you stammered, too quickly, the syllable snapping out of your mouth like it had been fired from a slingshot, your cheeks flushed a deep, telltale red as you nodded a little too hard. “I’m fine. Just—went down the wrong way.”

Across from you, Reed glanced up from his glass at the sound of your voice, his expression calm—no, worse than calm—amused, like he was enjoying watching you fall apart in real time, like he was studying the way you squirmed and flushed and fidgeted with quiet, academic satisfaction. His fingers moved—barely a shift, just enough to press the pad of his thumb along the inside of your thigh, skimming the thin lace of your panties with a featherlight drag that made your vision blur for a moment, your teeth sinking into the inside of your cheek to stop a sound from escaping.

Sue kept talking, mercifully, unaware of the silent war happening beneath the table, and you tried to nod along, tried to pretend you were still following the story she was telling about something at the foundation gala last week, but Reed’s hand was still moving—so slowly, so wickedly gentle, fingers drifting along the edge of the fabric like he was memorizing it, teasing it, learning every soft line of you with nothing more than a ghost of touch and that insufferable, unreadable look in his eyes.

You were blushing so fiercely now you were sure it had reached your chest, heat blooming down your neck like a fever, your knees squeezing together reflexively beneath the table as your breathing turned shallow, chest rising and falling in a way that did not feel casual anymore.

“Are you hot, honey?” Sue asked suddenly, concern returning to her voice, her eyes flickering to your cheeks. “A house full of so-called geniuses and we still haven’t figured out how to fix the aircon properly. I’ll be back—I’ll check the thermostat.”

And before you could answer—before you could find any response at all—she stood, placing her napkin neatly beside her plate and disappearing down the hall with a rustle of fabric and the click of her heels.

The door hadn’t even shut all the way before Reed finally spoke, low and calm and just for you, his fingers still resting against the soft, soaked curve of you beneath your panties.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured, voice a dark, honey-dipped whisper that sent shivers straight through your bones. “Don’t stop now.”

“Reed—” you stammered, your voice cracking under the strain of your own name trembling on your lips, barely more than a whisper, a breath caught halfway between panic and disbelief, your thighs squeezing together out of instinct, out of desperation, out of need you didn’t yet know how to name. “What are you—”

He didn’t lean in.

He didn’t move closer.

He didn’t even blink.

He simply sat there, on the opposite side of the table, one elbow resting near his wine glass, the other arm subtly stretched beneath the surface like a quiet secret unraveling in the dark, and his voice, when it came, was soft and low and steady.

“Tell me to stop.”

And as he said it—calm, impossible, infuriatingly composed—you felt it: the cool air against your skin, your panties slipping down your thighs with a slow, torturous grace, peeled away by a hand that wasn’t even near you, stretched from across the table, precise and gentle and unspeakably brazen. The fabric caught just slightly at your knees before his fingers nudged it past, and you sat there frozen, wide-eyed, red-faced, with your dress pooled neatly over your lap and nothing beneath it now but heat and humiliation and the thundering pulse between your legs.

“Reed—” you breathed again, barely able to shape the word, and his gaze met yours in that maddening, quiet way—no urgency, no shame, only that still, measured calm that made your insides tremble, as if he was watching a reaction unfold under glass.

And then—

Sue's heels clicked softly on the polished floor as she entered the room again, moving with that effortless, elegant grace as she crossed behind you and returned to her seat.

“That should fix it,” she said lightly as she sat, her smile warm and unbothered, her tone casual as if nothing had changed in the few moments she’d been gone.

You turned toward her, your face flaming, your smile shaky and paper-thin as you tried to find your voice again, tried to stitch together whatever pieces of yourself hadn’t yet dissolved under Reed’s hand, which now rested high on your bare thigh like it belonged there.

“Thank you,” you managed softly, the words nearly catching on the breath that refused to sit still in your chest, and somehow, impossibly, you held her gaze.

And across from you, Reed Richards—calm, brilliant, monstrous in his control—simply took another sip of wine.

You tried to focus, truly you did—on Sue, on her words, on the soft clinking of silverware and the gentle thrum of jazz somewhere in the background—but all of it became nothing more than a blur of light and noise the moment his fingers moved again, slow and purposeful, the stretch of his arm impossibly seamless beneath the table, as if he could command every tendon, every muscle, with surgical precision.

He didn’t even shift in his seat, didn’t look down, didn’t so much as twitch, and yet—you felt him, truly felt him now, his fingers slipping between your thighs with exquisite control, brushing over your bare, trembling core with a deliberate slowness that made you forget how to hold your breath steady.

And then—he pushed.

Just one finger at first, and it was too much, because it was him, because it was stretched impossibly long and thick, curling up with inhuman ease, reaching deeper than anyone had ever dared, pressing into you like he already knew exactly where to go, what you needed, like he’d studied your anatomy and had all the answers memorized.

Your thighs tightened automatically, knees trembling under the weight of holding in a sound you very nearly let out, and your hands clenched into your lap, the wine glass beside you forgotten, your whole body alight with the unbearable tension of being touched like this—open, pulsing, absolutely undone—and doing nothing about it.

And then—

“Why don’t you explain to Sue what we went over the other day,” Reed said smoothly, as if he hadn’t just buried his finger inside you under the dinner table, as if he wasn’t slowly crooking it up to find that sweet, aching spot that made your stomach twist and your eyes nearly flutter shut.

You froze.

“What?” you whispered, blinking at him.

He offered a slight tilt of his head, his eyes resting on yours with a look of calm expectation—amusement, even—and then shifted his gaze to Sue, who was looking at you with the kindest, most open smile, entirely oblivious.

“The resonance collapse formula,” Reed said helpfully, voice steady. “She corrected one of my assumptions about it earlier this week. She’s sharper than she lets on.”

He curled his finger again.

And it took everything in you not to cry out.

You blinked rapidly, your lips parting around a breath that wasn’t quite a word, trying to remember the theory, the math, the basic principles of language, but all you could feel was the stretch inside you, the thick, gentle press of him moving in slow, unrelenting circles, coaxing you open without haste, without apology, without shame.

“I—” you started, your voice embarrassingly thin, “we—uh, we talked about—about the resonance curve failing at the threshold of—”

He added a second finger.

Your breath caught so hard you coughed, the burn of it tight in your chest, and you reached for your water like it might ground you, like the coolness of the glass could balance out the unbearable heat pulsing between your legs.

“Are you alright, sweetheart?” Sue asked again, concerned.

You forced a smile, shaking your head quickly, eyes wet with the effort to look normal, to act normal, when Reed’s fingers were pushing deeper now, stretching you in a way that was obscene, careful, perfect, and somehow managing to keep the rhythm slow and steady, barely moving, just enough to make you drip helplessly onto his knuckles under the table while you tried to describe a physics principle with your body unraveling second by second.

“I’m okay,” you managed to whisper, voice too soft, too high.

Reed’s thumb brushed upward. You jolted. He smiled—just slightly.

“You were saying?” he asked gently.

You wanted to cry. Or scream. Or crawl under the table and never come out.

Instead, you looked up, cheeks flushed, throat tight, and murmured, “We adjusted the decay rate curve based on the harmonic threshold failing beyond point-six-three, and—and recalibrated the control conditions to reflect a more dynamic waveform—”

His fingers pressed up, deep, and you gasped—but you made it sound like awe, like wonder.

Sue beamed at you. “That’s amazing.”

You blinked, barely nodding, and Reed—still untouched himself, still seated like a man entirely at ease—just gave you the faintest smile across the table, like he was proud of you. Like you had passed some unspeakable test.

You weren’t sure when it changed—when Reed’s fingers, once so slow and exploratory, shifted their rhythm, no longer teasing but deliberate, their movement suddenly quickening beneath the tablecloth, each stroke firmer, deeper, more precise, curling up into that one devastating place inside you with the kind of methodical expertise that only a man like him could possess.

His thumb pressed again and again against your swollen clit in quiet, unrelenting circles, and it was obscene, unbelievably obscene, because he was still sitting across from you, back straight, shoulders calm, expression thoughtful and polite as Sue continued her story—talking about an ambassador, or a charity gala, or maybe a speech she gave—and you couldn’t hear a single word of it.

Because you were about to come.

Right there. At their dinner table.

Your thighs were trembling beneath the fabric of your dress, your body pulled taut like a string about to snap, nerves alight and burning in every limb, and you could feel it rising, fast and hot, building in your belly like a storm, spreading up through your spine with every practiced motion of his hand—stretched from across the table, long and dexterous and hidden beneath the soft, quiet clink of silverware.

You were soaked, dripping, pulsing around his fingers, and he knew. Of course he knew. He could feel every flutter, every desperate little squeeze your body gave him, and when he looked at you—really looked at you—his eyes burned with a satisfaction so soft it felt like praise.

You tried to hold it back. God, you tried. Your nails dug into the fabric of your skirt, your breathing shallow and uneven, your lashes fluttering as you ducked your head and bit into the back of your hand, trying to hide the sound, trying to bury the moan that threatened to rip itself from your throat. You were right on the edge, hovering there, helpless, when—

DING!

The sound of the oven’s timer rang out sharply through the kitchen, perfectly, cruelly timed—at the exact second you broke apart, your body shuddering around his fingers as the climax hit you so hard and fast you saw stars behind your eyes. You muffled the moan with your hand, trembling violently in your chair as you faked a cough so sharp it made Sue look up, concerned, just as she was standing to go check the dessert.

“Poor thing,” she said sweetly, already halfway out of the room, completely unaware of what had just happened right beneath her nose. “Let me go grab the cobbler—Reed, didn’t I tell you to turn on the vent fan for the oven? It smells like caramelized sugar in here.”

You barely managed to nod, your breath still stuttering in your chest, the taste of your own bitten-down moan lingering in your mouth like smoke, your vision wet and dizzy as you tried to collect yourself—but it was impossible, completely impossible, because Reed was still watching you, still calm, still composed, still seated like nothing had happened at all, as though his fingers hadn’t just coaxed your orgasm from you with the kind of precision that only a man with endless patience and supernatural reach could possess.

And then—he moved.

His hand, the one he had just pulled back from beneath your dress, rose slowly from beneath the table, casual, unhurried, and with the sort of smooth detachment that made your blood run hot all over again. You watched—helpless, horrified, entranced—as he brought his fingers to his mouth, his expression unreadable but his gaze never leaving yours, and then—

He licked them.

Just the tips. Just a quiet, deliberate motion—his tongue flicking out to drag across the pads of his fingers with unbearable slowness, like a man tasting something rare and sacred, like someone who savored knowledge, savored reactions, savored you—and your breath caught so hard it made your throat ache, your hands clenched in your lap, body still trembling beneath the table.

And that was the exact moment Sue walked back in.

The tray in her hands held a golden, bubbling dish still steaming at the edges, a pitcher of vanilla sauce tucked beside it, and she moved with the same easy grace she always had, placing the dish gently in the center of the table as the scent of caramelized fruit and butter filled the space.

“Was the sauce that good?” she asked with a light laugh, glancing over just in time to see her husband finishing his little motion, his fingers slipping from his mouth like it was nothing at all. “You just licked your fingers like you hadn’t eaten in days.”

Your entire body tensed.

Reed—calm, collected, horrifyingly composed—didn’t blink. He didn’t flinch. He simply tilted his head toward her, then turned back to you, his eyes locking with yours across the table, his gaze heavy with meaning, with memory, with the weight of what he’d just done to you, and said, without a flicker of shame—

“Delicious.”

Your stomach dropped. Your cheeks flamed. You looked away instantly, your eyes darting toward your lap, toward your empty plate, toward anywhere that wasn’t him, your skin hot and crawling with mortification, your thighs pressed tight together under the table, still slick and tender and sensitive as hell, and now—now you had to eat dessert.

With him. With her. With the taste of your orgasm still on his mouth.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

You said your goodbyes to Sue as sweetly and shakily as you could manage, your voice still thin and breathless from the quiet ruin Reed had left you in, the remnants of your orgasm still echoing in your body like a pulse you couldn’t calm, and still—still—you smiled, you nodded, you played the part of the polite, well-mannered girl who had not just come in silence at the dinner table. Sue hugged you lightly at the door, warm and soft and lovely, thanking you for coming and saying how nice it was to meet you, her words kind and sincere, her smile so genuine it made you ache.

“We’ll have to do this again,” she said gently, her voice carrying no suspicion, no awareness, only the comfort of a woman who’d welcomed you into her home and truly meant it.

“It was an honor,” you murmured, your voice barely more than a whisper, eyes lowered, fingers nervously wrapped around the strap of your bag, heart pounding loud and unrelenting in your chest.

Reed appeared behind you then, as if summoned by the rhythm of your exit, and without saying anything, without asking, he moved to walk you out, his hand resting lightly at the small of your back—a simple gesture, one that should’ve been harmless, innocent, but that felt anything but, especially after what those fingers had just done to you beneath a tablecloth in the dim golden light of a family dining room.

The door clicked shut behind the two of you, and the hallway beyond was quiet, cool, and still, a soft hum from the city beyond the glass, but the silence between you buzzed with something thicker, darker, more intimate than you could bear. He said nothing at first, only walked beside you with slow, unhurried steps, like the moment hadn’t already been branded into both your bodies, like he hadn’t watched you fall apart with your hand over your mouth while his wife got dessert.

At the door to the elevator, he stopped, and you turned toward him, still too flustered to meet his eyes, still trying to hold yourself together with trembling fingers and shallow breaths, your lashes lowered as you whispered, “Thank you for… dinner.”

His response came after a pause, his voice smooth, impossibly steady. “You were perfect.”

You froze—eyes flicking up, breath catching—and found him watching you with that same calm, unreadable expression, but there was something beneath it now, something warmer and darker and dangerous, the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth that made your knees weaken all over again.

“Good girl,” he added softly, low enough that only you could hear it, and the elevator doors opened behind you with a soft ding, cool air spilling out into the hallway like a breeze that didn’t belong.

You stepped inside on trembling legs, unsure if you remembered how to breathe, and as the doors began to close, you looked back—just once—and there he was, standing exactly as he had before, his hands in his pockets, head tilted ever so slightly, still watching you, like you were a puzzle he couldn’t wait to take apart again.

And when the doors shut fully, sealing you into silence, your hand finally flew to your chest.

Because you had just survived dinner. Barely. And you weren’t sure you’d ever be the same again.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

let me know your thoughtssss

[mingi-s-dimples]

Laced in Couture - C.SN

"Whenever I’m away from you.. I get closer and closer to insanity.”

~ a special for today's dgfw25.. because I simply couldn't resist.

pairing: san x fem!reader

genre: 18+, slightest filth, fashion au, model au

summary: san just couldn't take his eyes off you at the show, even if he was the model himself... and he ruins you.

wc: 3.5k

warnings: san is needy and desperate af, slightly teasy reader, model x manager, fashion au, kitchen sex on a counter, he's so desperate he doesn't get fully undressed, lots of kissing, neck kissing, manhandling, teasing, pussy eating, cum eating, unprotected (boo use protection irl!), completely consensual, might have forgotten something, might edit later.

author's note: everyone around me had to hold me from falling and turning into dust when i saw how this man looked today.. hello >.< he's fucking insane... and it's even more insane *upcoming bia fun fact and childhood lore* that i've been a dolce & gabbana fan and fashion hard fan since I was.. 9 or 10. so when he was announced as an ambassador y'all can bet i ran 50 laps that day. anyways here's a small fic combining two of my most prized obsessions: san and dg.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and does not represent the reality of the member in any way.

Milan had been a fever dream. A whirlwind of flashing cameras, hushed conversations in back corridors, and the ever-present scent of expensive perfume and burning stage lights. Fashion Week had its own rhythm—fast, relentless, intoxicating. Models, designers, managers, press—all moving in a delicate choreography, where one misstep could ruin an entire show. And yet, amidst all of it, there had been him.

Choi San, draped in Dolce & Gabbana, skin kissed by the stage lights, walking with the kind of controlled, effortless confidence that made people stop breathing. He was untouchable out there, a vision sculpted in luxury, every step leaving an imprint in the air. But you knew the truth. Knew what lay beneath the carefully constructed poise—the way his fingers twitched slightly when he walked off stage, adrenaline rushing through him, the way his eyes always found you first in the crowd. No one else noticed, but you did. Because you knew him.

No one else knew about the nights spent behind closed doors, the whispered words between hurried touches, the stolen glances in rooms too full of people. The industry thrived on secrecy, on illusion, and the two of you had perfected the act. In public, you were just a manager, and he was just another model. But behind locked doors?

That was something else entirely.

Now, Fashion Week was over. The lights had dimmed, the crowds had dispersed, and the city had exhaled its last breath of excitement. Milan was quiet again. And so were you, sitting in the back of a black car, your body still buzzing with the adrenaline of the past few days. Your phone vibrated once in your hand. A single message.

"Penthouse. Door’s open."

Your heartbeat tripped.

San wasn’t one for unnecessary words, but that didn’t mean his messages weren’t heavy with meaning. Penthouse. The place he had been staying—hidden away from the chaos, away from prying eyes.

The car pulled up in front of the sleek, modern building, the kind that exuded wealth and exclusivity. You stepped out, heart hammering, fingers tightening around your phone. The elevator ride felt endless, anticipation coiling low in your stomach.

When the doors slid open, the hallway was silent. And just as he’d promised—the door was unlocked.

You stepped inside, closing it softly behind you. The space was dimly lit, the glow of the city outside spilling in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. It was beautiful, expensive, but your eyes didn’t linger on the decor. Because there—leaning against the kitchen counter, dark eyes locked onto you—was San.

Still dressed from earlier, black slacks hanging low on his hips, a half-unbuttoned shirt revealing the golden skin beneath. He was watching you, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips, his head tilted slightly in that way he did when he was waiting for you to make the first move.

And just like that, the last few days, the restraint, the distance—it all melted away.

Because here, behind closed doors, there was no need for pretense.

There was only him. And you.

Your heels clicked softly against the marble floor as you stepped further inside, the air between you humming with something electric. San hadn’t moved from where he leaned against the counter, but his gaze was heavy, dark, intent.

“You were unbelievable tonight,” you murmured, your voice softer than you intended, still caught in the spell of watching him command the runway. “The way you carried yourself, the confidence—San, I swear, the entire room was holding its breath.”

“Mhm,” he hummed, barely acknowledging the words, but his body had started moving. Slow, deliberate steps, closing the space between you inch by inch. His fingers toyed with the next button of his shirt, slipping it undone, exposing more of the golden skin underneath. “That so?”

You exhaled a quiet laugh, tilting your head. “Yes. You were stunning, San. The way you—”

The next button popped open. Another step forward.

You caught the flicker of something dangerous in his eyes before his hands moved again—this time, undoing the last button in one slow, teasing motion. His shirt hung open now, framing the toned planes of his torso, the silver chain against his skin glinting under the city lights.

“Are you even listening to me, baby?” you asked, amusement lacing your voice, though your breath hitched slightly when he reached you.

San’s hands found your waist immediately, warm and insistent, pulling you flush against him. His lips hovered just above yours, his breath fanning across your skin as he murmured, “Haven’t heard a single word, love.” His voice was low, thick with want. “I’m too gone for you.”

And just like that, his lips were on your neck, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses against the sensitive skin as his fingers gripped at your waist, at the fabric of your clothes, needing more, needing all of you.

You bit back a smile, pretending to ignore the way his lips were trailing heat along your neck, his fingers gripping your waist like he was afraid you’d slip away. Instead, you let your hands wander up his chest, your touch featherlight, barely there.

“Too gone for me, huh?” you teased, your voice sweet, playful, your nails tracing the curve of his collarbone. “Then maybe I should keep talking, just to see if you can actually focus—”

San exhaled sharply through his nose, and before you could say another word, his hands were cupping your jaw, tilting your face up just so—and then his lips were on yours, claiming.

The kiss was deep, urgent, his mouth moving over yours with a hunger that stole the air from your lungs. His fingers slid into your hair, tilting your head to deepen it, his body pressing flush against yours, letting you feel just how affected he was. His teeth scraped your bottom lip before he sucked it into his mouth, pulling a quiet, breathless sound from you.

“There,” he murmured against your lips, his voice husky, satisfied. “That shut you up, didn’t it?”

You would’ve fired back with something equally teasing, but then his hands were on your thighs, gripping firmly as he lifted you with effortless strength, setting you down on the cool marble countertop.

Your knees bracketed his hips as he settled between your legs, his touch everywhere at once—hands splaying over your thighs, thumbs rubbing slow circles into your skin, lips pressing against the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the sensitive spot just below your ear.

“God, you’re unreal,” he breathed, fingers slipping to the first button of your shirt. He took his time, unfastening it slowly, brushing his knuckles against your skin with every movement. His touch was soft, reverent, but his body was needy, his hips pressing closer, his breath uneven as he drank you in.

He pushed the fabric apart, his fingertips tracing lightly over your newly exposed skin, his lips trailing down the column of your throat. “So perfect,” he murmured, his voice dropping lower, warmer, almost possessive. “I don’t know how I lasted all week without this.”

His hands tightened on your waist, his lips finding yours again—deeper this time, almost desperate.

A slow, knowing smirk curled at your lips as you shifted slightly, your legs tightening around his hips. The movement pressed him closer—enough for you to feel the unmistakable hardness beneath his slacks, straining against the expensive fabric.

San’s breath stuttered, his fingers flexing against your waist, but he didn’t pull away. If anything, he pressed closer, as if daring you to acknowledge what you’d done to him.

You tilted your head, feigning innocence, but your hand was anything but as it trailed down his chest, over the planes of his stomach, before finally reaching the bulge between his legs.

Your fingers traced the outline slowly, deliberately, watching the way his jaw clenched, how his lashes fluttered as he exhaled heavily through his nose.

“Hm,” you mused, your voice laced with amusement. “You are faaar gone for me.”

San let out a breathy chuckle, but it was strained—like he was barely holding on. Then, in one swift movement, he caught your wrist, pressing it down against the counter beside you. His other hand grabbed the edge of your blouse, and before you could tease him again, he finished undoing the last buttons, peeling the fabric from your shoulders, exposing you completely to him.

His gaze devoured you, dark eyes trailing over every inch of newly revealed skin, his lips parting slightly, his tongue flicking out to wet them as he swallowed. His grip on your wrist loosened, his palm sliding down your arm, fingers ghosting over your ribs before settling on your waist, his touch possessive.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmured, voice thick with need. His hands squeezed at your sides, his hips pressing forward.

Then, he leaned in, lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, “You know.. I’m gonna fuck you right here.”

A shiver ran down your spine, your fingers clutching at his arms as he kissed down your throat, down the curve of your shoulder.

And judging by the way his fingers were trembling slightly against your skin, you knew—he wasn’t just saying it.

He meant it.

San didn’t waste a second. The moment those words left his mouth, his hands were on you—gripping, touching, taking. His fingers slid down your back, over your waist, then lower, bunching up the fabric of your skirt with a sharp tug.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his forehead pressing against yours, his hands roaming everywhere.

His lips crashed against yours, messy and desperate, while his fingers hooked into your panties. He didn’t even bother easing them down properly—just pulled them aside, then down, letting them slip past your thighs before he tossed them somewhere onto the kitchen floor.

Your breath hitched, and he felt it. Felt the way your thighs tensed slightly around his hips, how your fingers curled into his arms. He groaned against your mouth, his hands sliding down to grip the back of your knees, pulling you open for him.

“You feel so fucking good,” he murmured, his voice rough, almost pained, his fingers trailing over the soft skin of your inner thighs. “You know what you do to me, don’t you?”

You barely had time to answer before he reached down, fumbling with his belt. His fingers were quick, impatient, pushing his slacks down just enough—just to his knees, no further. He couldn’t be bothered to take them off completely. Not when he needed you now.

And then he was pressing forward, his body crowding you against the counter, his cock heavy and hard, brushing against your bare skin.

His hands never stopped moving—gripping at your waist, sliding up to cup your breasts, thumbs rolling over your nipples, before skimming down again, squeezing, claiming.

“Fuck, fuck,” he whispered against your lips, panting now, his fingers digging into your hips as he lined himself up. “I can’t—”

And then he was pushing in, his head dropping to your shoulder, a wrecked moan slipping from his lips.

“Jesus, baby,” he gasped, his arms wrapping around you completely, holding you flush against him. His hands wouldn’t stop—palming over your back, up to your shoulders, back down to your ass, like he couldn’t decide where he wanted to touch you the most.

“God, you feel unreal,” he groaned, his lips pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to your throat, his hips already rolling into you, deep and slow, like he wanted to savor it.

But you could tell—his control was slipping. His breath was uneven, his fingers gripping at you like he needed to anchor himself, his body shuddering slightly every time he buried himself deeper.

And then, in a voice so desperate it nearly broke you—

“I need you.”

His lips crashed against yours again, his thrusts growing faster, rougher, his hands gripping at your waist like he was trying to pull you closer, trying to consume you completely.

Your breath hitched as he bottomed out, your walls stretching around him, the ache bordering on overwhelming. He was thick, every inch of him forcing your body to accommodate him, and he knew it. He felt it—the way your walls clenched around him, the way your nails dug into his shoulders, the way your thighs trembled against his hips.

“Shit,” San rasped, his forehead dropping against yours again, his breath ragged, uneven. “So fucking tight—so perfect.”

His thrusts stuttered for just a second, his hands tightening on your waist, as if he was trying to breathe through it, to keep himself from absolutely losing it. But then—

“...these damn glasses,” he muttered, frustration lacing his voice. In one swift motion, he reached up, yanking them off and tossing them onto the counter beside you without a second thought. And as soon as they were gone, it was like something in him snapped. And of course, you thought that was so hot.. that you clenched your thighs further on his hips, pulling yourself flusha against him

His hands were back on you instantly, gripping, pulling, dragging you into him as he fucked into you with a newfound desperation. His teeth scraped over your jaw, his lips trailing fire down your neck, his breath hot and needy against your skin.

“Look at you,” he groaned, voice thick with lust, one hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck, forcing you to meet his gaze. His now bare eyes were blown wide, pupils dark and hungry, his brows furrowed in something close to agony. “You’re taking me so well—fuck, I could stay inside you forever.”

His hips snapped forward, rough and deep, pulling a choked gasp from your throat. He drank it in like a man starved, his fingers digging into your skin, his body pressing you so tightly against the counter that you had nowhere to go, no way to escape the way he was completely wrecking you.

“Feels so good,” he panted, his lips brushing yours with every ragged breath. “You feel so fucking good—I can’t—fuck”

And the way he said it—so raw, so utterly desperate—made something inside you snap.

His thrusts turned frantic, his rhythm faltering as he slammed into you, hips stuttering against yours. His breaths came in ragged gasps, his body trembling with the sheer effort of holding on just a little longer. But he was so close—you could feel it in the way his grip tightened, in the way his moans grew more desperate, in the way his cock throbbed inside you, thick and pulsing, dragging against your walls with every deep, shuddering thrust.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he groaned, his head dropping against your shoulder, his lips pressing open-mouthed kisses against your flushed skin. “Baby, I—fuck, I can’t hold it—I’m gonna—”

And then, with one final, wrecked thrust, he broke.

A deep, guttural moan ripped from his chest as he came, his arms locking around you, pulling you impossibly close. His entire body tensed, his hips pressing flush against yours as he spilled inside you, warmth flooding deep, his fingers digging into your skin like he needed to hold onto something or else he’d completely fall apart.

His breath was ragged, his body shuddering slightly as he rode out his high, his lips still pressing weak, open kisses against your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—like he needed to worship you even as he unraveled.

But then—his breath hitched. His fingers flexed against your thighs.

And suddenly, despite his own exhaustion, his head lifted. His dark, blown-out eyes flickered down between your bodies, taking in the way you were still trembling, still clenching, still needing.

And just like that, his own pleasure wasn’t enough.

“No,” he murmured, his voice still breathless but laced with something firmer. “My baby hasn’t come yet.”

Before you could even process his words, he was pulling out, a slick mess of both of you trailing down your thighs. But he didn’t give you a second to mourn the loss—because the next thing you knew, he was dropping to his knees.

His hands grabbed at your thighs, spreading you open again, his breath hot against your soaked, swollen skin. And then—

“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned, his fingers pressing into the flesh of your thighs as he stared. “So messy. So pretty.”

And then his mouth was on you.

A sharp gasp tore from your throat as his tongue flattened against you, licking a slow, deep stripe through your folds, gathering up every last drop of you and him combined. He moaned at the taste, his hands tightening their grip, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

And then he devoured you.

His lips wrapped around your clit, sucking hard, his tongue flicking over the sensitive bundle of nerves before dipping back down, thrusting into you, lapping at everything you had to offer. His pace was ruthless, desperate—like he needed this just as much as you did, like he wouldn’t be satisfied until you were shaking, crying for him.

“Come for me,” he groaned against your heat, his voice wrecked, his fingers digging bruises into your thighs as he pulled you closer. “Come on, baby—let me feel you.”

San did not let up. If anything, your sounds—those breathy little gasps and whimpers—only fueled him, made him even hungrier. His tongue worked relentlessly, dragging through your folds, swirling over your clit, sucking and devouring like he couldn’t get enough of you. His nails dug into your thighs, spreading you wide, keeping you right where he wanted—helpless, shaking, his.

“God, you taste so fucking good,” he groaned against you, his lips slick, messy, his voice thick with obsession. “So sweet, baby—so fucking mine.”

And then—his fingers.

One pressed against your entrance, then two, sliding in so easily from how wet you were. He groaned at the way you clenched around them, his tongue never stopping, flicking, sucking, teasing, demanding your pleasure.

“Fuck—so tight,” he rasped, curling his fingers, stroking right there, right where you needed. “Gonna come for me, baby? Hm?”

Your entire body tensed, your thighs shaking against his shoulders, your breath breaking into short, desperate gasps. You were so close—too close. His fingers thrust deeper, faster, curling perfectly, his lips wrapping around your clit—

“San—wait, I—ah—!”

But it was too late.

The pleasure slammed into you like a tidal wave, your back arching against the counter, your fingers tangling in his hair as you came, hard, uncontrollably, a broken moan spilling from your lips. Your walls clenched around his fingers, your thighs trembling as the orgasm tore through you, overwhelming, mind-numbing.

And San? He didn’t stop.

His tongue lapped up every drop, his fingers still moving, working you through it, dragging out every last tremor, every last pulse of pleasure. He groaned as you clenched around him, as you gasped his name, as you trembled beneath his mouth.

“Fuck,” he panted and looked up at you, still on his knees, his voice raw, ruined. “You look so pretty when you come, baby.”

San finally pulled back, his fingers slipping from you, leaving you trembling against the counter. He pressed slow, open-mouthed kisses along your inner thighs, trailing them up your stomach, over the curve of your ribs, all the way to your heaving chest. When he finally reached your lips, he kissed you softly, a stark contrast to how he had just wrecked you.

His hands found your waist, lifting you onto unsteady feet. The second your legs wobbled, a breathless chuckle escaped him, and he tightened his hold, steadying you against his body.

“Shit, baby,” he murmured, smirking against your temple. “You can barely stand.”

You let out a weak laugh, pressing your face into his shoulder, your fingers gripping his biceps for balance. But then, as you pulled back slightly, your gaze dropped—and you saw it.

San’s cock was still achingly hard, standing thick against his abs, flushed and leaking, twitching slightly with every deep breath he took.

You giggled, lifting a shaky hand to brush over his abdomen, teasing. “What about you?”

San groaned, tilting his head back with an exasperated sigh, his fingers flexing against your waist. “We’ll take care of that later,” he muttered, though the way his jaw clenched told you just how difficult that decision was for him.

You arched a brow, still teasing. “Later?”

His dark eyes flickered back to yours, burning with something deep, possessive. His hands slid down to grip your ass, pulling you tight against him, making sure you felt just how hard he still was.

“Yeah,” he rasped, his voice low, almost dangerous. “Because if I fuck you again right now, I won’t stop—and I need you in one piece, baby.”

A shiver ran down your spine, but before you could respond, he leaned in, lips brushing against your ear.

“Whenever I’m away from you,” he murmured, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your jaw, “I get closer and closer to insanity.” His hands squeezed at your hips, his breath hot against your skin. “You ruin me, baby.”

And the way he said it—so raw, so needy—made you realize one thing.

You were absolutely not done for the night.

NETWORKS: @illusionnet @blossomnet @mirohs-aurora-society

PERMANENT TAGLIST: @strawberry-mingi @musiclovingfairy @crazylittlebisexual @sanhwalvr @memorabxlia @artistic-rendition @hongjoongtime117 @cypher-03 @peachy-bell26 @tahiraax1 @my-atiny-kookie-rkive @atzlordz @chai0tea @miyaluvvsyou @lezleeferguson-120 @sopematesxx @joyfulcadence @puppytruther

[phosphns]

⊹ ࣪ ˖ milan nights with bf!chris

you take chris around milan, enjoying a cute night in the sweet italian atmosphere.

warns. bf!chris x italian!reader | established relationship, fluff, cursing, kissing, pet names [babe, pretty], some italian sentences, flirty comments, no use of y/n

The Prada fashion show had been nothing short of breathtaking.

When Chris asked you to go with them at the show, you were beyond excited. Not just because the show would have taken place in your hometown, but also because you’d always loved fashion. You couldn’t believe you were really going to attend a Prada event, so it all felt like a dream when you actually stood in the first line, examining every outfit with heart-shaped eyes.

Chris stood beside you, his hand wrapped securely around your waist. He looked so cool in that black suit, but you could tell that he wasn’t used to this world. His brothers, Nick and Matt, were nearby, doing some comments about the designs now and then and trying to sneak pictures of the show that they would have posted later.

“You okay?” Chris leaned in close, his voice soft in your ear. The faint scent of his cologne mixed with the air of sophistication around you.

“I’m better than okay,” you replied with a smile, your Italian accent giving your english words a unique charm that he adored. “This doesn’t even feel real.”

“Yeah,” he said, his lips curving into a grin. “It’s wild, right? I didn’t think we’d actually get invited to something like this.”

You nod, your gaze not leaving the runway, too focused on the way models walked or held the precious bags.

After the show wrapped up and the crowd began to disperse, Nick and Matt said their goodbyes, leaving you and Chris alone. The night was still young, and the streets of Milan were alive with lights, laughter, and the allure of adventure

Chris took your hand, pulling you away from the crowd of paparazzi and fans surrounding the fashion show area, leading you to a quieter spot.

As soon as you were alone, you wrapped your arms around his neck, caressing the back of his head while his hands moved to your hips. “Did you enjoy it?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

You smiled, biting your lip as you looked into his eyes. You nodded. “You have no idea how much,” you said, before connecting your lips with his in a sweet kiss that expressed all your happiness and gratitude.

“Thank you,” you added after pulling away. He gave a confused little smile. “For what?” he asked, his fingers running up and down your sides in a reassuring but very sensual way.

“For giving me the chance to come,” you answered, looking up at him. It was true; you were extremely grateful to have been invited, but above all, you were proud of him. In such a short time, he had managed to get so far, doing it all on his own, with his brothers. You were thankful to be with someone like him.

He smiled sincerely, then his smile turned into a knowing smirk, and he added mischievously, “You have no idea how many more times I’ll give you that chance.” You gave him a playful tap to reprimand him.

“Can’t you be serious for five seconds?” you scolded, trying to hold back a grin. “Not when I’m around you, pretty,” he replied, making you blush.

You decided to pull away, taking his hand. “I want to show you something,” you said, stopping the first available taxi. Chris didn’t say anything, getting into the car after you and wrapping an arm around your shoulders. You leaned forward, murmuring the destination to the driver in Italian, so Chris couldn’t understand.

Once back in your seat, the dark-haired guy wasted no time asking where you were taking him. “Wait and see,” you replied simply, leaving him in suspense. He playfully huffed, but didn’t say anything else, partly because he wanted to play along, and partly because he wanted to enjoy the view outside the window: Milan by night was enchanting, whether seen through the eyes of a local or a tourist. The lights, the life, the sounds, never failed to amaze you

Finally, the taxi stopped, and after paying, you both got out. In front of you was the square, illuminated by the lights of the street lamps and the reflections from the lively bars filled with people. Some stopped for a drink, others greeted each other with laughter and chatter.

Chris looked up, his eyes widening when he saw the cathedral. Its gothic facade seemed even more impressive under the dark sky. “Holy shit,” the guy exclaimed, looking at the building in all its beauty.

“Pretty, right?” you asked, standing beside him in front of the majestic cathedral. He nodded, but after a moment, his expression shifted slightly as he turned to look you in the eyes. “It’s almost as beautiful as you,” he whispered, getting closer to you. His low voice carried a teasing tone.

You turned to look at him too, rolling your eyes playfully. “Stop being cheesy.” He laughed and shrugged. “What? It’s true,” he replied, though his tone made it clear he was just messing around. Before you could respond, he turned suddenly and looked around.

“Hey, excuse me, could you take a picture for us?” he asked a passerby, who happily agreed. You looked at Chris, confused, not understanding what he had in mind. You watched as he handed his phone to the man with the camera app open. Then he came back to you and grabbed your waist, pulling you close to him for the umpteenth time that night.

Once again, he didn’t give you time to react, pressing his lips to yours and kissing you slowly and sensually, as if in that square full of people, you were the only ones who mattered. It was just the two of you, and time seemed to slow down.

When you pulled away, you let out a chuckle. “That was definitely corny,” you whispered, our faces still close. He winked at you and took the phone back from the stranger after thanking him.

“Okay, maybe a little,” he said.

Chris gave you a soft tap before wrapping his arm around your waist and dragging you to a nearby bench. The two of you sat down, and you rested your head on his shoulder while he opened the photo app to check out the shots.

“Babe, we need to post these, you look so sexy,” he said, placing a hand on your thigh while adding the photo to his favorites. “Mhmh, sure” you replied, making him smirk, clearly proud of his choice.

“So,” he began, “teach me something in italian. You know, to make me sound cooler.”

You couldn’t hold back a smile at his silly idea, but you didn’t refuse. “Are you trying to impress the locals?” you teased him.

“Of course, I want to show off my italian skills,” he replied with an obvious, cocky tone. “Alright then,” you said, giving him an amused glance. “Sei un coglione di prima categoria, ma sfortunatamente ti amo lo stesso.”

The brunette blinked a few times, as if trying to register the sentence, which sounded so odd to him. “Wait, I caught a ‘ti amo,’ right?” he said, his expression amused but also a little curious. You looked at him, returning his usual smirk. “You only got that part,” you replied, pretending to mock him.

“I got it! Woah, I’m basically fluent now,” he exclaimed, leaning back on the bench and taking a long, satisfied breath.

“You’re ridiculous,” you laughed.

He shot you a teasing glance. “Yeah, and yet you publicly said, I quote, ti amo.”

yaps. “milano we love you” we all say in unison. ALSO requests are open, so feel free to request anything!

wc. 1.2k

[socksandbuttons]

Wake Up, Daydream (Part 1)

He woke with a start.

The sun model had been sitting on his knees with his hands lightly folded on his lap, as his oddly groggy mind slowly found reality returning to him. He had been seated in what he assumed to be the middle of a very large room with a single overly bright, florescent light shining down on him from above. This, while the rest of the room was fully concealed in shadows. The light sensors in his rays adjusted slightly as he sat up a bit straighter and tried to make out more of his surroundings. This room was as black as pitch and try as he might he couldn’t discern anything else in the area. He shifted and tried to stand up, but he found that his limbs were shaking as he did so and he ended up falling back down again... it was as though he had been asleep for hours, if not longer. It was unusual that he was this disoriented by everything after merely sleeping. Not to mention he couldn’t make out anything in the darkness that surrounded him.

‘Where... am I?’

Was he in parts and service again? Did he-

“Moon? D-did it work? Where’s Ecl-” He started, only to be interrupted by the sound of slow footsteps approaching him from a direction he couldn’t immediately discern. The sun themed animatronic tensed as he looked in all directions. Why’d Moon leave the lights off-

“Moon isn’t here. You don’t need to worry about him.”

This Sun froze and watched as another version of himself walked out from the dark directly in front of him. Right into the ring of light that shone down on the sitting Suns somewhat smaller than average form. The whole situation felt incredibly strange, his apparent doppelgangers presence only amplifying that feeling. Not to mention that when he looked into the other Suns eyes, he found no warmth. His steely gaze seemed to make the room feel colder. That cold feeling sending a chill down his spinal struts, but his frigid eyes aside, his face bore the expression of satisfaction.

The seated Sun furrowed his brow. Did... he know him?

“I’m glad to see you’re awake. I was starting to wonder if your processing unit would be responsive after all that.”

The smaller Sun blinked, confused. “W-What?”

“You were gone for quite a long time. I was starting to wonder if your system just didn’t want to wake up. Would’ve been a waste of effort if you hadn’t.” This stranger spoke so casually and matter-o-factly, as though Sun understood what was going on when he didn’t. He just kept staring. Who is this? What’s he got to do with- wait.

“Where’s Moon? Eclipse? Where are my brothers?” He asked, frantically looking around as if the darkness would disperse and reveal their location. But no such thing happened.

The strange Sun, Dark Sun, just placed a hand on this Sun’s shoulder, a motion that might have been comforting in a normal situation, but sadly it gave off no such feeling here. “I told you; he isn’t here. Neither is... Eclipse.”

“Did... did something happen to them? Who are you? Why-”

“I know you must have a lot of questions. But I promise you, I am here to help. Well, I already did given that you’re fully functioning now.” Dark Sun said as he gave him a halfhearted grin. But Sun didn’t feel any warmth from it. No comfort. Just that same coldness that seemed symbiotic with Dark Suns existence. But it was dawning on him what he was implying.

“...It... it didn’t work?” He whispered as he slumped back down. His mind started to race, all he could think about was that if he had survived then it meant- “I killed him?”

Dark Sun raised an eyebrow before giving him a rather quizzical hum; wordlessly asking for him to elaborate on that.

“Eclipse... is he-?”

“Oh.” Dark Sun suddenly chuckled, as if bemused. “No. He’s alive and well.”

Sun immediately let a relieved sigh, a small smile returning to his face. Though it faltered when he looked back to the other. Both knowing the next question, it hung silently in the air before the other Sun could speak it.

“Where’s Mo-” He didn’t get to finish asking, as Dark Sun swiftly reached down, grabbed his hands and brought him to his feet.

“Now is not the time to dive into all that.” He seemed to chide. “You want to see Eclipse, don’t you? Your brother?” The other Sun blinked rapidly, his muddled mind still trying to process what his doppelganger was saying. But once it truly registered, he nodded promptly.

“I-I do!”

With a sudden snap of Dark Sun’s fingers, the rest of the lights in the room turned on. Revealing to the smaller Sun that this definitely wasn’t parts and service. It… it looked more like a room that belonged in some sort of dark citadel or a castle.

Dark Sun didn’t let his guests attention linger on where he was for more than a few seconds. He kept his grip on confused animatronics shoulder and began guiding him out of what was actually his laboratory and toward the destination he planned for. Sun stumbled a bit along the way while trying to match the other’s quick and steady pace. Though he felt his balance was a bit off, the longer he was on his feet the more he felt his stability return. Eventually helping him to keep up with his mysterious companion, rather than just be dragged along.

“I’m sure that you have realized by now, that you were presumed dead.” Dark Sun stated as though this fact was a simple one and not one of deep, terrible significance. His guest actually stopped walking for a moment as this registered that this stranger even knew. He began to tense, wringing his hands in a nervous manner. He had indeed known the risks of what he had agreed to.

“I’m impressed you chose to agree to such a procedure and accepted all its risks down to your own code. However, we don’t need to worry about that anymore.”

“’We?” Sun glanced at Dark Sun as he was being led into another, even larger room. Although he didn’t really have the chance to get a response as Dark Sun released his grip on him and this Sun stopped walking and just gaped at the sheer size of this place and how its gothic architecture made it look like they had just walked into an ancient cathedral.

“Now then, please step into the circle there.”

Sun finally turned back to Dark Sun, just as he pointed to a large glowing red circular panel in the middle of the room. The smaller Sun swallowed nervously and took several hesitant steps toward it. “Why?”

“You’ll see soon enough. I shouldn’t need to tell you who you’re going to find.” Dark Sun said as he turned toward a nearby pedestal that held a vast array of different buttons and switches and he began to input various commands. “Of course, I’m unsure of how prepared you may be for this. So my apologies in advance if it disorients you.”

The Sun felt a chill, realizing what he meant as he slowly walked into the glowing circle as he had been asked. Only for his legs to suddenly lock up and refuse to move at all once he was inside. Suddenly feeling a wave of fear, he tried to speak up only to find his voice was locked as well. He could only watch as Dark Sun looked up from the console and gave a small wave before pressing one final button.

And then he just wasn’t there...

It was as though the other Sun was suddenly falling forwards at an incredible speed. Colors, shapes and streams of lights rushing past him at a dizzying rate, his light processing overworking and glitching out. There came a moment when he couldn’t see anything-

And then he was in the dark again…

He took a second and let his eyes adjust. Noticing there were speckles of light now. He tried to sit up, the colorful balls he had unknowingly been submerged in shifting and rolling away as he did so. Oh. He was in the ball pit.

He looked around as he managed to stand up and wade out of the ball pit. Everything was so bright... and quiet.

“Hello?”

He didn’t get any response. Was this home? Was... was everything that just happened all real? Did that other Dark Sun mean it when he said that his brothers were alright? He could only look nervously ahead as he cautiously walked around. It seemed odd to him. All of it. He knew his Moon had built a portal in the ball pit. He’d explained how it worked before. Although... he hardly understood it really. Was that somehow how everything had all happened? He’d never gone in before.

Did he black out somehow instead?

He slowly took in his surroundings. It... it looked a lot like home. Isn’t it home?

Although he suddenly noticed that the barrels weren’t stacked properly. Oh no, he’d never leave this so messy. He wasted no time to start doing something that came to him as natural as breathing was to a human. Cleaning…

---------- AND THE FIRST PART WAS WRITTENNN for a while actually just forgot to edit something and post it lol BIG SHOUT OUT TO @thorns-and-rosewings for proofreading and adding descriptions!! ;0; truly i am grateful!! Anyway the first part to my Daydream Intro Fic! He's refered to as Sun here for now. I got him and solar meeting next. (Which had to be rewritten) Writing is hard. But its Happening!

Idk how im gonna write up Servant Moon but we'll get there when we get there. Maybe just thru various doodles ill bombard people.

[thepeaklegendoffirstgen]

It Takes Two to Tango !

A day amidst the pool of chaos, thankfully, with no new threat rising on the horizon. Coming back to Korea after a long time, you were finally able to execute the long-awaited plan.

You thought it would be a great day to just relax and unwind since everything was taken care of. Incheon might still be a pain in the ass, but soon it would follow the same story as Busan, so you weren’t too worried.

Surprisingly, you and Kitae decided to go out and see what Seoul had to offer. You had a bunch of recommendations from people here and there, but nothing ever beats what truly fits your taste. And when you spotted a dimly lit bar tucked away in the narrow streets of Gangdong, your excitement kicked in, you urged him this place would be just right.

The drinks were served, the food was decent, and the environment was your kind of vibe. The lighting was low and warm, the music just the way you liked it, and the night air outside set the mood perfectly.

Kitae wasn’t the kind of man to show open affection, nor was he one to call outings like this a “date night”—he’d much rather phrase it more vaguely. So when you asked him to take your hand and dance, he just scoffed, lingering by the bar and sipping his drink.

You pouted but let him be, deciding to go ahead and enjoy yourself.

It wasn’t quite like dancing back home, but the energy was there. Once you joined the floor, the room’s infectious vibe started to wrap around you, and you couldn't help but let go and move with it.

What was pure fun for you was a growing irritation for someone else. Kitae, watching from the side, noticed the way other guys were circling, some brushing fingers against you, others trying to get closer under the pretense of dancing. Hungry hyenas. And as much as he wanted to pull out his axe and be done with it, he didn't want to ruin your night.

So instead, he stepped in and handled it his way. His hands snaked around your waist and firmly took hold, turning you toward him. You giggled.

“Finally showed up, huh? Thought someone was shy.” you said.

He pulled you closer, sending a glare across the room. “Friends, let’s not kill the night,” he muttered loud enough for the leeches to hear. The unwelcome men quickly dispersed, obviously intimidated by the height and the power radiating from him. The girls, on the other hand, were now very obviously fawning over how damn good he looked.

You ran your fingers through his arms with a smirk. “The only one killing the mood is you. Do you even know how to dance?”

He didn’t answer. He just took the lead.

As the music shifted, so did the energy in the room. The atmosphere bent into something different, messier, rougher. His movements weren’t graceful, but they were surprisingly in rhythm with the song. His grip stayed firm on your waist, his hands, usually meant for unleashing chaos, now guiding you through the music as he spun you.

And when the song slowed and you both stood still, catching your breath, you laughed and nudged his shoulder with your elbow. “You should become a dancer. Or a model. Idol, maybe?”

Disgust etched across his face. His hand settled at the small of your back as he muttered, “This is the first and last time.”

“Nope. I want more,” you said plainly, holding onto his arm. “There’ll be more.”

He pulled you even closer, forehead resting against yours, his hot breath fanning your face. Then he spoke, without hesitation, no trace of fear, just certainty.

“Next time I see someone get that close to you… it’ll end very differently. Very conveniently.”

And with that, he tilted your chin up and kissed you, hungry, possessive, consuming.

You smiled into it, matching his intensity, your hands tugging at his hair. You knew there were many more moments to come, whether in chaotic dances, detached limbs, or shared hunts under the city sky.

[xreaderaddict]

|Change|

Summary: After what felt like years you find yourself back in forks for a short visit catching up with a family friend, but after a series of strange events your mom is forced to leave you under mysterious circumstances putting you under the care of your former baby sitter Billy black. Although you feel excited to be spending your entire summer in La push—something about the conditions this falls under doesn’t feel right.

Pairing: Seth Clearwater X reader

Word count: 1,226

Request are open!

part 2>>

…

The suv creaked it’s tires scratching against the gravel as it stopped at a red light, they were old having plenty of plugs littered across its wheel. It paired with the car an old model that’s seen better days the window’s having little anime characters on the side and some permanent drawings on the doors.

A woman’s arm hung on the window, her other hand nitpicking her daughter’s face. She sat relaxed one knee being up against her chest as she leaned back on the seat “ Where did all these bumps come from? What did you do—have you been using my soap to wash your face? “ She was throughly unamused. Y/n let out a snicker softly swatting her mothers hand away “I didn’t do anything! It’s just the dry air breaking me out” she loudly yelled swiftly turing her head to the distance. She could hardly hide her embarrassment—she may have, possibly—been using her mother’s soap against her wishes, but was to prideful to admit her mother was right.

Ms. L/n withdrew her hand eyeing her young daughter “Just like your father” Y/n only stuck her tongue out towards the remark.

The trees swayed in the wind as they drove by, La push had the smell of salt in the air. The sight was beautiful grey skies and tall trees, stores lined up against each other, la push felt like summer. Y/n swayed her head to the radio it was playing a somber tune, She smiled as a wave of nostalgia hit her, childhood memories coming back remembering the times of following billy around, he took you everywhere.

The duo smiled as they parked into a green yard, a long haired man rolled out greeting them as they stepped out. “ Billy!” Both girls shouted as they ran towards the man billy let out a boisterous laugh as he felt the arms of both the girls wrap around him “ You girl’s are to big for this” Y/n and her mother pull away pouting at their reminder of their age. “ You’re almost seventeen–“ She frowns and begins playing dejectedly her hair “—And you, thirty-three! “

The color from Ms. L/n face drops her face turing red with embarrassment she clears her throat before standing straight fixing her wounded expression “ that was uncalled for”. Billy chuckled shaking his head seeing how the girls haven’t change a bit he gestured towards the girls to follow him inside, Y/n gave a smile looking around as she stepped into the house, everything stayed the same, pictures of Mrs. Black being hung up on the wall as you entered, the smell of lavender warming up against your nose—candles being left out from the night before just like Mrs.black used to. “You know where everything is already, Don’t be afraid to get comfortable—” before he could even finish his sentence the girls dispersed from behind him Y/n making her way to the pantry while her mother got to putting luggage away.

Billy smiled, before helping Ms. L/n with unpacking.

Y/n watched them from her peripheral vision, seeing the loud laughter turn into tense smiles and uneasy chuckles.

The house was bustling with energy as the Tv sung loudly with sports chants and cheers Billy an Ms. L/N sat on the couch yelling and cheering for their respective teams, stupid merch on both of them. This could only bring a smile on Y/n’s face—the kitchen was fogged up with steam, delicious scents taking over the home, seasonings were lined up next to each other as different pots were filled with something Y/n stood tapping her finger on the counter waiting for everything to finish cooking, her beads of sweat dripping off of her forehead onto the hot kitchen floor.

She began taking out servings, filling Billy’s plate with the biggest piece of salmon before setting his bowl at the table. She set her mothers plate next giving her vegetables all over her rice and salmon, lastly platting herself which was nothing more than a plate of rice with chicken “ Ma, Billy! I’m done”

They sat down billy gave a giant smile looking down at his dinner“ you’ve gotten better! I remember you used to leave the scales on and burn it “ She laughed remembering her younger years of cooking “all you would have to eat was the charred remains! “ Billy turned towards Y/n’s mother giving her a warm look “better than this one! she didn’t even know how to thaw the meat just throw it straight into the pan” he softly ruffled her hair.

Ms. L/n laughed, “ You say it like your any better—“ her mouth filled with rice “ I know the truth you did it that way until Mrs. Black showed you how and that wasn’t until college!”

Billy looked away ignoring her words

“ Do you feel a draft in here Y/n? I must’ve left a window open”

Ms. L/n simply mocked him snickering as he gave a fake shiver.

Dinner wrapped up as everyone in the house was getting ready for bed, Y/n leaned on the counter wiping the dishes her mother passed to her when she finished washing, a howl rang out faintly being heard deep in the forest Ms. L/n gave a hum. “ How’s Jacob these days? “ Y/n eyes squinted as she secretly watched Billy’s expression—her tone seemed more strenuous than before, what’s with the sudden interest in Jacob?

Billy gave a weak smile towards her mother, before making eye contact with y/n, her eyes drifting away staring at the oven clock —10pm. “ Y/n, you can take a shower first I’ll clean everything up” she didn’t argue only nodding her head this happened often with every visit since she could remember—the mentioning of Jacob always changed the air in the house making everyone feel uneasy. As Y/n reached the bathroom door she heard hushed whispers tones of confusion and worry

“ He’s with a what!? “

“ Keep your voice down—I don’t want Y/n involved any more than she already is”

“ She isn’t—I know she isn’t”

Y/n eyebrows furred, this wasn’t new for her when it came to those two growing up she fondly remembered the nights where the living room light creaked into her room. Her mother and billy staying up for hours at a time sipping on wine and retelling stories from their younger years even sometimes having mentions of her father—

“ I thought the same for Jacob but now look at him”

—But as the years went by the joyous laughter turned serious, and the nights went from inebriated bliss to scared low murmurs. A name becoming more and more frequent as the years came and went.

Bloodsuckers.

Howls sung into the night drowning out the whispers taking her chance she crept into the bathroom glancing at the picture of a young boy shoved into the corner of the mirror it was Jacob black.

A boy she hadn’t seen for years.

“ Jacob black, what happened to you?”

…

The night was silent trees swaying as the wind blew heavily against them, the moon was full having a yellowish tint to it, things lurked in the trees surrounding the red quaint home.

Y/n laid in her bed tossing and turning as the room felt extremely warm, she couldn’t get ounce of sleep feeling to uncomfortable to properly rest.

“ This is bigger than I thought billy”

Mrs. L/n mumbled her hands trembling, she fidgeted with her jackets zipper her blood running cold. “ Their coming billy and I can’t take her with me” billy nervously looked into the deep forest behind his home hearing sounds of rustling all around them “ But what about Y/n?”

“ you can’t just leave her Melanie”

She softly looked at the purple door behind her giving a saddened expression “ It’s for the best billy, what more can I do? it’s either her or me.” Though billy didn’t show it his heart snapped, only giving her a saddened expression, “ what will you tell her? She’s not five anymore Mel’ she nervously paced her hands rubbing against her neck “ She’s an understanding girl bill’ she won’t look deep into it” Melanie sat at the edge of a couch handle her eyes heavy with bags “ keep her safe billy”

She glanced into his eyes before asking him one final favor.

“Please, don’t let her find out.”

Billy didn’t say a word only holding her shivering hand giving it a tight squeeze, she knew he’d keep his word.

Ms. L/n grabbed everything she could and hastily ran out the door recording a voicemail for her daughter.

Her only daughter.

Billy wheeled out of his house watching the woman walk into the darkness of the night, his heart aching with each step. Only now letting out a baited breath he didn’t even know he was holding , whispering something into the air he hoped she’d hear

“ Stay safe Melanie“

“Sorry this is so sudden Y/n but the office called and they really need me something about a slip up in the spreadsheets I know I know this week was our get-away week but it was really urgent I need to fly back soon as tomorrow. But I promise I’ll make this up to you okay? I will, your gonna have to stay with bill for a bit okay? Like the old times, tell billy if you need anything don’t have to much fun without me, mommy loves you, stay safe.”

The sunshine creaked through the windows rays hitting Y/n’s eyes, her door creaked open and she groaned before sitting up being met with a smiling billy with breakfast in hand.

“Hope you like pancakes”

Y/n only snickered.

“do you even need to ask?”

The car was still outside.

AN: This is meant to be a multiple part series! Its a slow-burn depending on if school doesn’t work me too hard I’ll be able to update this story often!

[novaursa]

The Dragon's Right (14)

- Summary: It was by grace of the gods that firstborn child of Viserys I and Aemma was born a boy and he lived. And all of the rest, scholars will later say, is by power of something more malevolent in kind.

- Paring: male!reader/Rhaenyra Targaryen

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Previous part: 13

- Next part: 15

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The sea air is heavy with salt and sorrow as the royal family steps off the ship onto the black stone of Driftmark. Waves crash against the shore, a mournful symphony that echoes the grief in every heart gathered here. The Velaryon banners flap in the wind, their vibrant colors a sharp contrast to the somber mood that hangs over the assembled nobles.

You stand with Rhaenyra and your sons, Jace and Luke stiff by your side. Joffrey is in Rhaenyra's arms, his small face confused by the sarrow he doesn’t yet understand. Viserys and Alicent’s children stand apart, an invisible line drawn between your family and theirs. It’s an unspoken separation that feels almost tangible, like a chasm you cannot cross.

Viserys, frail and bent with age, is supported by Alicent. She’s wrapped in mourning black, her face a mask of solemnity, but there’s a tightness around her mouth, a stiffness in the way she holds herself that you recognize all too well. Aegon, Aemond and Helaena stand close by, watching your family with guarded expressions. Even now, on this day of loss, the divide is painfully clear.

The funeral rites are performed with all the gravity and tradition expected of House Velaryon. Laena’s casket, intricately carved and draped in blue and silver, is lowered into the sea. You watch Daemon, his face a mask of stoic grief, his eyes dark as he stares at the waves. There’s a loneliness in his stance, a pain that no words could touch. You know what it is to lose, to feel helpless against the tides of fate, and your heart aches for your uncle.

As the ceremony concludes and the crowd begins to disperse, you make your way toward him. Daemon stands apart from the others, his gaze still fixed on the spot where Laena’s casket vanished beneath the water’s surface. He does not turn as you approach, but you know he’s aware of your presence.

“Uncle,” you say quietly, your voice carrying just enough to reach him over the sound of the surf. “I am sorry for your loss. Laena was a remarkable woman.”

He glances at you then, his violet eyes shadowed. “Thank you,” he replies, his voice low and rough, as if the words cost him more than he can bear to give. “She deserved better than this.”

You nod, standing beside him, the two of you looking out over the endless expanse of the sea. “If there is anything you need, anything I can do…”

Daemon huffs a mirthless laugh, shaking his head. “What can anyone do, except let the dead rest and the living grieve?” He falls silent for a moment, his gaze drifting to the Velaryon children, huddled together in their own pain. “They will need strength now, and guidance. We cannot let them be consumed by bitterness.”

“I will help where I can,” you promise. “But I know they will look to you.”

Daemon’s lips twitch in something like a smile, though there is no warmth in it. “The wandering rogue of House Targaryen, a role model. Gods save us all.” He sighs, the sound heavy with more than just grief. “And you, how is life in the Red Keep these days? I hear the Hightowers have made themselves quite comfortable.”

You stiffen at the question, glancing over to where Viserys stands, isolated despite the presence of his children and wife. Alicent’s gaze keeps straying to you and Rhaenyra, a watchful, calculating look that makes your skin prickle. “Comfortable would be one way to put it,” you reply, keeping your voice low. “They hold much sway over the King now. More than they should.”

Daemon’s eyes narrow, a sharpness returning to his gaze. “I warned him, years ago. Warned him what would happen if he let that snake Otto slither too close. And now his daughter’s there, her children in line before yours.”

You glance back at your own sons, standing awkwardly with Rhaenyra, their young faces solemn and unsure. Jace and Luke keep glancing over at their half-uncles, the silent anomasity between the two sets of siblings visible even from a distance. “Viserys still loves us, still claims me as his heir,” you say softly. “But every decision, every move is shadowed by Alicent’s influence. They’ve all but taken over the Small Council.”

“And yet you remain,” Daemon murmurs, his tone unreadable. “I’d expected you to take your family and fly far from that viper’s nest.”

You shrug, watching as Rhaenyra kneels to speak softly to Jace, brushing a stray lock of hair from his face. “For now, it’s best we stay. The closer we are, the more we can watch and counter them. And besides,” you add, your gaze flicking to your father, looking frailer than ever, “Viserys is not long for this world. When he’s gone, the realm will look to us. We need to be ready.”

Daemon’s jaw tightens, his eyes dark. “He’s grown weak, blinded by his need for peace and love. He doesn’t see the knives being sharpened behind his back.”

“No, he doesn’t,” you agree quietly. “But we do. And we’ll be prepared.”

You fall silent then, your eyes once more drawn to your sons. Jace and Luke stand straight and tall, though you can see the stiffness in their shoulders, the uncertainty in their eyes. You watch as they exchange a few words with each other, the bond between them strong despite everything. You take comfort in that, at least.

Daemon follows your gaze, his expression softening slightly. “They’re good boys,” he says, a note of pride in his voice. “Stubborn and fierce, like their mother. And their father.”

“They’ll need to be,” you reply, a grim smile touching your lips. “The road ahead will not be easy.”

“No,” Daemon agrees, his gaze shifting back to the sea. “But they have you and Rhaenyra to guide them. And they have the blood of the dragon. That counts for something.”

You nod, feeling the weight of the future pressing down on you. But for now, there is nothing to do but stand here, beside your uncle, and honor the memory of a woman who was lost too soon. 

The sea continues its mournful song, a lullaby for the dead and a reminder to the living. And you, like the tide, will endure.

Rhaenyra stands quietly among the mourners, her eyes fixed on the sea where Laena’s casket has just disappeared beneath the waves. The ceremony is over, but the heavy weight of grief still hangs in the air, a palpable presence that settles in the hearts of all gathered. She glances at her three sons—Jace, Luke, and Joffrey—standing close by, their small forms huddled together, their faces solemn and uncertain.

She takes a deep breath, steeling herself. This is not just a time for mourning but a moment to show unity and strength, especially in the face of the silent but glaring division between her family and the Hightowers. Her gaze flits to you, standing a little distance away with Daemon, your head bowed as you speak quietly with him. The sight of you brings her a fleeting sense of calm amidst the turmoil.

Turning her attention back to her children, she kneels down to their level, her voice soft but steady. “Jace, Luke, Joffrey, I need you to go and speak with your cousins, Baela and Rhaena. They need to know that they’re not alone in their grief.”

Jace shifts uncomfortably, glancing over at the twins, who are standing with their grandmother, Rhaenys. The Queen Who Never Was has her arms wrapped around her granddaughters, her regal bearing barely concealing the depth of her sorrow. “But, Mother,” Jace murmurs, “what if they don’t want to talk to us?”

Rhaenyra reaches out, brushing a lock of hair from Jace’s forehead. “It’s not about what you say, my love. It’s about showing them that you care. Just being there for them is enough.”

Luke looks up at her, his young face twisted with uncertainty. “Are you sure we won’t make it worse?”

Rhaenyra’s smile is gentle, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “You won’t. They need to see that their family is with them, that we’re all here to support each other.”

Joffrey, the youngest but no longer a baby, steps forward, his little face serious. “What if they cry?” he asks, his voice small and hesitant.

Rhaenyra’s heart aches at the question, but she forces herself to remain strong. “Then you comfort them, Joffrey. Sometimes, it’s okay to cry. It shows that you care.”

Joffrey nods slowly, still unsure but willing to follow his mother’s lead. With one last glance at you, Rhaenyra gently ushers the boys forward, watching as they make their way over to where the twins stand. Her gaze lingers on you for a moment longer, your presence a solid anchor in the swirling chaos of grief and uncertainty. She draws strength from knowing you are here, that you are with her.

Baela and Rhaena are huddled close to Rhaenys, their faces pale and streaked with tears. They look so small and lost, so unlike the vibrant, lively girls they usually are. Jace hesitates, glancing back at Rhaenyra for reassurance. She gives him a nod, her eyes encouraging.

Taking a deep breath, Jace steps forward. “Baela, Rhaena,” he begins softly, his voice trembling slightly. “We’re really sorry about your mother. If you need anything, we’re here for you.”

Rhaena looks up first, her big, sorrowful eyes meeting Jace’s. “Thank you,” she whispers, her voice barely audible. “But nothing will bring her back.”

Luke moves closer, his heart aching for his cousins. “We know. But we want to help, even if it’s just being here with you.”

Baela’s gaze is fixed on the ground, her jaw clenched. She doesn’t look up, doesn’t acknowledge their words, but her hand tightens around her grandmother’s. Joffrey, standing beside Luke, reaches out and gently touches Baela’s arm.

“It’s okay to be sad,” he says quietly, his young voice earnest. “We’re all sad.”

For a long moment, there’s silence. Then Baela finally looks up, her eyes fierce despite the tears brimming in them. “I don’t want to be sad. I want her back.”

Jace takes a step closer, his face serious. “I know. We all do. But she’d want us to be strong, to be together.”

Rhaenys watches the exchange, her gaze softening slightly as she looks at Rhaenyra’s sons. “You’re good boys,” she says, her voice steady despite the pain etched in every word. “Your parents have raised you well.”

Rhaenyra, watching from a distance, feels a swell of pride and relief. She glances at you again, your eyes meeting hers across the space. There’s a wordless exchange between you, a shared understanding of the challenges your children are facing and the pride in how they are handling it.

You give her a small nod, and she takes a deep breath, drawing strength from your support. She knows this is only the beginning of the trials they will face as a family, the divisions and rivalries that will continue to test them. But for now, here on this rocky shore, they are doing what they can—standing together, offering what comfort they can in the face of loss.

The boys remain with their cousins, their presence a small but solid comfort. Rhaenyra stays where she is, watching them, her heart heavy but filled with a fierce determination. Whatever lies ahead, whatever storms may come, they will face it as family. As Targaryens.

The night on Driftmark is dark and still, the only sounds the distant roar of the waves crashing against the cliffs and the occasional mournful cry of a seabird. The funeral had left an oppressive silence in its wake, grief heavy in the air like a storm about to break. Inside the guest chambers, Jace and Luke lie sleeping, their small forms huddled under the thick blankets. Joffrey sleeps soundly beside them, his tiny hand clutching the fabric of his pillow.

A soft whisper breaks the silence.

“Luke… Jace…”

Luke stirs, blinking groggily as he turns over to see Baela and Rhaena standing by the door, their faces pale in the faint moonlight streaming through the window. “Baela?” he mumbles, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “What is it?”

“Someone took Vhagar,” Baela whispers urgently, her voice trembling with anger and fear. “Come on, you have to see.”

Jace sits up immediately, his heart racing as he throws off the covers. “What do you mean, someone took Vhagar?” he asks, his voice low but insistent.

“We don’t know,” Rhaena whispers, glancing anxiously at the door. “We just know she’s gone.”

Luke glances over at Joffrey, who’s still fast asleep. He carefully slips out of bed, trying not to make a sound. “We can’t wake him,” he murmurs. “He’s too young.”

Jace nods, his expression set with determination. “Let’s go.”

The boys follow their cousins out of the room, moving quietly through the darkened corridors of High Tide. The stone walls are cold and damp, the silence around them oppressive. As they reach the outer courtyard, the reality of what Baela and Rhaena have said begins to sink in. Vhagar, the largest and oldest dragon in the world, gone? How could anyone have taken her?

They slip outside, the chill night air biting at their skin. Ahead, in the dim light of the moon, they see movement—two figures approaching. As they draw closer, the faces of Aemond and Aegon become clear, the older boys walking with a swagger that sends a surge of anger through Jace and Luke.

Jace and Luke exchange a glance, a silent understanding passing between them. This was the confrontation they’d promised themselves before leaving King’s Landing, after Aemond had insulted their father. They wouldn’t back down now.

“What’s going on?” Jace demands, stepping forward. “Where’s Vhagar?”

Aemond’s smirk is sharp, his eyes gleaming with a strange triumph. “I’ve claimed her,” he says, his voice filled with a smug satisfaction. “She’s mine now.”

Baela’s face contorts with rage, her fists clenched at her sides. “She was my mother’s dragon!” she shouts, her voice breaking with a mixture of grief and fury. “You had no right!”

Aemond’s smile doesn’t falter. “She was your mother’s dragon,” he agrees, his tone condescending. “But now she’s mine. And she’s the most powerful dragon in the world. She could eat all of yours in one bite.”

Luke steps forward, his young face twisted with anger. “Vhagar was ours to claim, not yours. You can’t just steal her!”

Aemond’s expression darkens, his smirk fading. “She chose me. And now you’ll have to live with it.” He turns his gaze on Jace, his eyes cold. “Or would you rather challenge me, Jacaerys? Let Vhagar settle it. Your little dragons wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Jace’s jaw tightens, and he takes a step closer, his fists clenched. “Maybe they wouldn’t,” he says, his voice low and steady, “but my father’s dragon, Silverwing, would burn your old beast to ashes. You think you can insult my father and get away with it?”

Aemond’s face twists in disdain. “Your father is nothing but a reckless fool, who only cares for himself. He’s not half the dragonlord he thinks he is.”

Before Jace can respond, Baela steps forward, her eyes blazing with fury. “Vhagar was my mother’s!” she yells, her voice shaking. “You had no right! None!”

Aemond’s smirk returns, but before he can speak, Jace lunges at him, the fury he’s been holding back all evening exploding to the surface. The two boys collide, falling to the ground in a tangle of limbs, fists flying.

Aegon moves to step in, but Luke is already there, shoving him back. “Stay out of this!” he shouts, his voice high and furious. “This is between us!”

The courtyard erupts into chaos as the children clash. Rhaena tries to pull Baela back, but Baela breaks free, launching herself at Aemond with a scream of rage. Jace and Aemond roll across the ground, each trying to land blows on the other. Aegon grabs Jace, pulling him off Aemond, only to be shoved aside by Luke.

It’s a wild, desperate fight, all the anger and grief of the past few days spilling out in a furious storm of fists and shouts. Aemond manages to break free, staggering to his feet, his eyes wild with fury.

“You’re all just a bunch of inbreds!” he snarls, wiping blood from his split lip. “I have the true blood of the dragon, and now I have Vhagar! I’m more Targaryen than any of you!”

Jace roars and charges at him again, but Aemond is ready. He swings, landing a punch that sends Jace sprawling. Before Aemond can follow up, Luke steps between them, his small form trembling with rage.

“You don’t deserve Vhagar,” he spits, his voice shaking. “You don’t deserve any of it.”

Aemond sneers, stepping closer. “And what are you going to do about it, little one?”

Luke’s hand moves instinctively to his belt, where the small Valyrian steel dagger you gifted him for his nameday is sheathed. He pulls it out, his hand steady, the blade catching the moonlight as he holds it up.

Aemond’s eyes widen in shock and then fury. “You think you can scare me with that?”

He lunges at Luke, his hand reaching out to grab the dagger, but Luke moves faster, his arm swinging in a desperate, instinctive arc. The blade catches Aemond across the face, a line of red blooming across his cheek and eye.

Aemond screams, a raw, terrible sound, as he stumbles back, clutching his face. Blood pours between his fingers, the wound hideous in the moonlight. The other children freeze, the shock of what’s just happened crashing over them like a wave.

And then, there are footsteps—heavy, urgent. Ser Harrold Westerling appears at the edge of the courtyard, his face going pale as he takes in the scene before him.

“What in the name of the gods—?” he begins, rushing forward. But it’s already too late. Aemond’s eye is gone, his screams echoing into the night, the others standing around him, horrified and frozen in place.

Ser Harrold shouts for help, his voice urgent, commanding, and within moments, the courtyard is filled with guards and attendants, their faces mirroring the shock and horror of what’s just occurred.

Luke drops the dagger, his hand shaking, his face ashen. Jace steps forward, his heart pounding in his ears, his eyes locked on Aemond’s bloodied face.

“It was an accident,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “It was an accident…”

But even as he says the words, he knows it won’t matter. The damage is done. The divide that had been brewing for so long has now erupted, and there will be no going back.

As the adults converge, shouting orders and lifting Aemond’s screaming form from the ground, Jace and Luke are pulled away, their hearts pounding with fear and guilt.

And in the cold, unforgiving night of Driftmark, the bonds of family are stretched to their breaking point.

The flickering candlelight casts a soft, intimate glow over the chamber as you and Rhaenyra move together, bodies entwined in the heat of your shared passion. The soft sounds of your lovemaking fill the room, mingling with the gentle rustle of sheets and the quiet murmur of the sea beyond the windows. This moment, stolen in the midst of sorrow and tension, is a brief escape from the heavy burdens that weigh on both of you.

Rhaenyra’s hands grip your shoulders, her breath hitching as you press deeper, your lips finding the curve of her neck. You’re both lost in the sensation, in each other, when a sharp, insistent knock at the door shatters the quiet.

You freeze, your heart pounding, and Rhaenyra’s eyes snap open, her expression shifting from pleasure to sudden worry. The knock comes again, louder this time, accompanied by a voice.

“Prince, Princess, forgive me, but you’re needed immediately!”

You close your eyes briefly, frustration and concern warring within you. “What is it?” you call out, your voice rough, still thick with the remnants of your passion.

“It’s one of the guards, my lord,” the voice replies, strained. “The King has called for an emergency meeting in the great hall. There’s been an incident with the children.”

Rhaenyra sits up abruptly, the color draining from her face. “The children?” she whispers, her eyes wide with fear. You can see the thoughts racing through her mind, each more terrible than the last.

You pull away, your body already cooling as the urgency of the situation seeps in. “We’re coming,” you call back, your voice steadier now. You turn to Rhaenyra, your hand brushing against her cheek. “We need to go.”

She nods, though her eyes are still distant, her hands trembling as she reaches for her robe. You both dress quickly, the easy intimacy of moments ago replaced by a cold, gnawing dread. Every movement feels heavy, your mind spinning with possibilities, each more unsettling than the last.

You can hear Rhaenyra’s breathing, quick and shallow, as she ties the sash of her robe, her fingers fumbling in her haste. “What do you think happened?” she asks, her voice strained. “Do you think—”

“I don’t know,” you interrupt gently, reaching for her hand. “But we’ll find out soon.”

With a final glance at each other, you move to the door and pull it open. The guard outside looks tense, his face pale in the dim light of the corridor. “Your Graces, the King is waiting in the great hall. He seemed… very distressed.”

“Thank you,” you say curtly, your hand still clasping Rhaenyra’s. “Lead the way.”

As you walk through the dimly lit halls of Driftmark, the air feels charged, every shadowed corner holding a sense of foreboding. Rhaenyra’s grip on your hand tightens, her eyes darting around as if expecting answers to spring from the very walls.

The night is unnaturally quiet, the only sound the echo of your hurried footsteps on the stone floor. The guard moves ahead of you, his back stiff, and you can’t help but feel the tension radiating from him as well.

“Do you know what happened?” you ask the guard, keeping your voice low.

He hesitates, glancing back at you. “Only that there was a… confrontation between the children, my lord. I’m not privy to the details, but from what I heard, it was… serious.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes widen, and she stops short, her breath catching. “The children—are they hurt?”

“I—I don’t know, my lady,” the guard stammers. “I’m sorry. I was just told to fetch you.”

You exchange a glance with Rhaenyra, your heart hammering. You can feel the fear in her eyes, mirroring your own. The thought of your sons, hurt or worse, makes your stomach twist with a sickening dread.

“Let’s keep moving,” you say, trying to keep your voice calm, though your mind is racing. “We’ll know more soon.”

As you continue down the winding corridors, you can see servants and guards moving about, their faces tight with unease. Whispers follow in your wake, but you pay them no mind. Your focus is on reaching the great hall, on finding out what has happened, on making sure your children are safe.

You and Rhaenyra burst into the great hall, the heavy doors slamming against the stone walls as you rush inside. The scene before you is pure chaos—voices raised in anger and fear, bodies milling about in frantic confusion. Your heart plummets at the sight.

On one side of the room, Jace and Luke stand with Baela and Rhaena, Daemon already at their side, his face a mask of simmering rage. The children look disheveled and frightened, Luke’s hands stained with blood, his face pale and tight with anxiety. Jace’s jaw is set, his eyes blazing with fury, while Baela stands rigid, her small frame vibrating with barely contained anger.

Across the hall, King Viserys sits hunched on the dais, his face pale and drawn, Alicent hovering anxiously beside him. Aegon stands nearby, his usual swagger gone, replaced by a tense, watchful look. Aemond is seated in a chair, Grand Maester Mellos just finishing the last stitch on a savage wound that runs across his cheek and where his eye used to be, a patch hastily tied around it. Blood stains his skin, his tunic, and the floor beneath him.

You take a step forward, your voice cutting through the tumult. “What happened?”

The question hangs in the air for a heartbeat before the room erupts into a cacophony of shouting voices, each one clamoring to be heard over the others. Rhaenyra moves to Jace and Luke, her hands on their shoulders, as if her very touch could shield them from the storm of words and accusations flying through the air.

The doors swing open again, and Corlys and Rhaenys stride in, their expressions thunderous as they take in the scene. Corlys’s eyes flash as they fall on Aemond, the fresh wound stark and terrible. “What madness is this?” he demands, his voice booming across the hall, instantly silencing the clamor.

“Madness indeed,” Alicent snaps, her voice quivering with fury as she glares at you and Rhaenyra. “It is your children’s violence that has caused this! They are the ones who should be telling the tale!”

“Violence?” Daemon’s voice is a silken drawl, dripping with contempt. “From what I’ve heard, it was your precious son who instigated this.”

Viserys, his face flushed with a mixture of confusion and frustration, raises a shaking hand. “Enough! All of you, silence!” His voice cracks through the room, forcing everyone to fall quiet, if only for a moment. He turns his weary gaze to the children, his eyes lingering on Jace, Luke, and then on Aemond, the wound on his son’s face making him flinch visibly. “I want to know what happened. Now.”

Jace, his voice trembling but clear, steps forward. “Aemond insulted us. He insulted my father,” he says, his voice growing louder, firmer. “He called us—he called us inbreds.”

A ripple of shock sweeps through the hall, followed by a tense, stunned silence. Viserys’s face drains of color, and he takes a faltering step toward Aemond, his hand trembling as he reaches out. “Aemond, why would you say such a thing?”

Before the boy can answer, you step forward, your voice cutting through the tense quiet like a blade. “Because it’s something his Hightower Faith-loving mother would say.” Your words are cold and precise, each one landing like a blow. The room seems to freeze, all eyes turning to you.

Alicent’s face goes ashen, her breath catching audibly. She stares at you, a mixture of shock and wounded disbelief twisting her features. It’s as if the air has been sucked from the room, the silence now heavy with accusation and unspoken truths. She takes a step back, her hand clutching the fabric of her gown, the strength of your words shattering something fragile and deeply buried within her.

Viserys’s head snaps toward Alicent, confusion and betrayal warring in his eyes. “Alicent…?” he whispers, his voice barely more than a breath.

She opens her mouth, but no words come out. Her face is a mask of conflicting emotions—anger, pain, and something like heartbreak, her eyes shining with unshed tears. She looks at you as though seeing a stranger, the weight of your accusation pressing down on her like a crushing weight.

Daemon, standing at your side, lets out a low, amused chuckle, his lips curling into a smirk. “Bold words, nephew,” he murmurs, his eyes glittering with dark satisfaction. “Very bold indeed.”

You hold Alicent’s gaze, your own eyes hard and unyielding. “If you won’t own your words, Lady Alicent, at least have the decency to control your child,” you say, your voice icy with disdain.

The silence in the hall is thick, suffocating, as everyone waits for what will happen next, the air charged with unspoken tensions and shattered façades.

And then, with a deep, ragged breath, Viserys straightens, his frail form trembling but his voice firm. “Enough,” he says, his eyes sweeping over the room, taking in the shocked, tense faces of his family. “This has gone too far. I will have order.”

But even as he speaks, the sense of impending disaster lingers in the air, the threads of control slipping through his grasp, the rift between the families widening, the fractures deepening with every breath.

“This infighting must cease!” he declares, his voice strained with desperation. “We are one family, and we will not tear ourselves apart!”

Alicent’s face twists with rage and disbelief. “That is not enough!” she cries out, her voice sharp and filled with venom. “Aemond has been permanently disfigured. And Prince Lucerys brought a dagger into a fight with clear intent. This cannot be dismissed, Viserys!”

Viserys lifts a trembling hand, his patience wearing thin. “Alicent—”

But she cuts him off, her words like a whip cracking through the hall. “You must stop shielding them! You cannot let your grandchildren escape punishment for this. There must be consequences.”

His frail body stiffens, anger and exhaustion warring in his eyes. “What would you have me do, Alicent?” he demands, his voice rising in rare fury. “They are children!”

Alicent’s gaze, cold and unyielding, locks on Lucerys, who stands pale and wide-eyed beside his brothers. “I want justice, Viserys,” she says, her voice dropping to a deadly calm. “I want one of his sons to lose an eye, as my son has lost his.”

A gasp ripples through the room, shock and horror painting every face. Rhaenyra pulls your boys close, her eyes blazing with fury and fear as she shields them with her body. You step forward, placing yourself between your family and the Queen, your own anger simmering beneath a cold veneer of control.

“This is madness,” you say, your voice low and dangerous. “You’re speaking of mutilating my child.”

Alicent’s eyes, burning with a desperate, almost manic intensity, shift to Ser Criston Cole. “Ser Criston, bring me the eye of Lucerys Targaryen.”

Cole hesitates, his face tightening with conflicted emotion. “Your Grace, I swore to protect you,” he says, his voice strained, “but not for this.”

“Cese this insanity!” Viserys roars, his voice cracking through the room. He points a trembling finger at Alicent, his eyes filled with a mixture of grief and disbelief. “This ends now! I will not have this—”

But before he can finish, Alicent lunges forward, grabbing the King’s dagger from its sheath at his side. The Valyrian steel blade gleams menacingly in the torchlight as she whirls toward your children, her expression wild, her intent unmistakable.

“Rhaenyra!” you shout, stepping toward Alicent, but you’re not fast enough.

Rhaenyra moves like lightning, pushing past you and intercepting Alicent before she can reach the boys. The two women collide, Rhaenyra’s hands gripping Alicent’s arm, struggling to hold back the dagger.

“Stop this, Alicent!” Rhaenyra snarls, her voice shaking with rage and desperation. The room is frozen, every person watching in horrified fascination, too stunned or too fearful to intervene.

“Let go!” Alicent hisses, her face twisted with fury and despair. “You did this! All of it! You poisoned him against me! You took him from me! You’re responsible for everything!”

Rhaenyra’s eyes flash with anger. “You’re mad, Alicent!” she shouts back, her voice filled with contempt. “You can’t stand that he chose me, that he saw through your manipulations!”

They struggle, Alicent’s face contorted with rage as she tries to wrestle free. Rhaenyra holds firm, but the blade shifts dangerously between them. And then, with a sickening inevitability, the dagger slips from Alicent’s grip, the sharp edge slicing across Rhaenyra’s forearm.

A collective gasp echoes through the hall as blood wells up, a dark crimson line marring Rhaenyra’s pale skin. Alicent freezes, her eyes widening in shock as the dagger clatters to the floor, the sound like a death knell in the tense silence.

For a moment, everything is still.

You move before you even realize it, rushing to Rhaenyra’s side. “Rhaenyra!” you breathe, tearing a strip of fabric from your robe and pressing it against the wound. “Hold still. I need to stop the bleeding.”

Rhaenyra looks down at the blood seeping through your fingers, her expression stunned, as if she can’t quite believe what’s happened. Alicent, her face drained of color, stands rooted to the spot, her hand shaking as she stares at the blood on it.

From across the room, Otto Hightower’s voice rings out, harsh and commanding. “Alicent, stop this madness! Stand back!”

Alicent blinks, her father’s voice breaking through the haze of rage and pain clouding her mind. She stumbles backward, her eyes locked on Rhaenyra, confusion and anguish warring in her gaze.

Rhaenyra, her breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts, looks up at you. “I’m fine,” she says, her voice firm despite the pain. “It’s not deep.”

You nod, though your hands shake as you press the cloth harder against the cut, willing the bleeding to slow. “I’ve got you,” you murmur, your voice fierce and steady. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

The room remains tense, everyone watching the two of you, the weight of what has just occurred hanging heavy in the air. You can feel the eyes of the entire court upon you, but your focus remains solely on Rhaenyra, on the woman you love, the mother of your children, and the blood that stains your hands.

A week has passed since the night of blood and betrayal, but the echoes of that fateful confrontation still linger over Driftmark like a storm that refuses to fully dissipate. You and Rhaenyra stand on the cliffs overlooking the bay, watching as the ships of King’s Landing sail away, their white sails billowing against the backdrop of a leaden sky. In the distance, the dragons of Alicent’s children take to the air, their wings beating a steady rhythm as they follow the ships below.

Rhaenyra’s eyes are fixed on the departing figures, her face tight with a mix of emotions. “I can’t do this anymore,” she murmurs, her voice raw with a vulnerability she rarely shows. “I don’t want to go back to King’s Landing. I don’t want to put our children through any more of… whatever this was.”

You nod, understanding the unspoken weight behind her words. “Viserys hoped this would heal the rifts between us,” you say, your voice steady but tinged with bitterness. “But all it did was deepen them.”

She turns to you, her gaze fierce despite the sadness that lingers in her eyes. “I won’t let them be in that viper’s nest again. Not after this. They’re children—they deserve to grow up somewhere safe, somewhere we can protect them.”

“Then we’ll go back to Dragonstone,” you agree, your hand slipping into hers, squeezing gently. “Away from the court, away from the Hightowers’ poison.”

Rhaenyra’s shoulders relax slightly at your words, some of the tension easing from her frame. “But we can’t just run and hide, can we?” she asks, her tone thoughtful. “We’ll need allies, support… and a plan for what comes after we don't appear in the capital.”

You nod again, turning your gaze back to the bay, where the distant figures of the dragons are now just dark specks against the sky. “I’ve already spoken with Corlys,” you tell her. “He’s agreed to our proposal—Jace to Rhaena and Luke to Baela. The Sea Snake seemed more than pleased. His blood will sit the Iron Throne one day, through our sons.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes widen slightly, and a smile, though small and hesitant, tugs at her lips. “That’s… that’s good news. They seem to get along well enough with the girls.”

“They do,” you say, a faint smile of your own touching your lips. “It’s not just about alliances, Rhaenyra. They need each other. They’re stronger together, and they’ll need that strength for what’s to come.”

She nods, her gaze drifting back to the horizon. “They’ve been through so much already. I want them to know love and loyalty, not just duty and fear.”

“They’ll have that,” you promise, your voice firm. “We’ll make sure of it.”

She leans into you, her head resting against your shoulder, and for a moment, the weight of the world seems to lift, just a little. You watch the ships disappearing into the distance, the dragons following, and feel a surge of resolve settle in your chest.

“We’ll build our future on Dragonstone,” you say quietly. “Where we can watch over them, guide them. And prepare for whatever challenges come our way.”

Together, you watch as the last of the ships vanish beyond the horizon, and then you turn away, walking back toward High Tide. Your initial plans to stay close to Viserys disappearing like waves that clash against the cliffs of Driftmark.

[enigmatist17]

The first thing Cade Yeager felt was pain, which was to be expected when you're suddenly slamming into asphalt that had not been there five seconds ago. Well, that and the combat bruises and cuts, but those were permanent these days.

"Holy- are you alright?!" He can hear a few voices around him, and Cade winces as he cracks an eye open to see a few people knelt down around him. "Sir, can you hear us?"

"Just...just give me a second." His head feels like it's about to roll off when Cade sits up, but his physical discomfort is pushed aside for fear when he realizes he's surrounded by a large group, that little voice in his brain telling him to run run run run run. "What...?"

"Everyone back up!" The whistle of a police siren had Cade up and onto his feet in seconds, glad someone grabbed onto him when the world pitched to the side and he nearly fell back to the ground.

"Look, you guys are sweet to be concerned, but I have to go." Cade tried to pull away, swaying a little but mainly remaining upright as he looked around, realizing for the first time that things were...off.

"You're not going anywhere, not until we contact the Autobots. Guys don't come falling from the sky every day!" One of the cops shook their heads, Cade blinking at the kind of uniforms he hadn't seen since he was a kid back in the day.

"Wait wait wait, you know the Autobots?" That was...not what he expected, but regardless of the nods as the crowd was dispersed, he scooted ever closer to a huge gap that could easily lead to a large forest. Whatever answer one of the officers had been saying went unheard over the din of approaching cars, and Cade bolted for his exit, ignoring the surprised cries as he went for the forest behind the shops around him. It was jarring as hell to go from being in the middle of South Dakota to somewhere in the Pacific Northwest ???, but Cade could worry about the cool air when he was far enough from the public, shivering as he jumped a log and headed toward some distant running water.

"You know, I was not expecting to chase down a wayward human today." Cade had a split second to register the voice from his right before something landed in front of him with a loud thud, the human barely having enough time to dig his heels into the dirt to prevent himself from slamming into said thing. An Autobot he'd never seen stood a few feet away, hands up in a friendly gesture as they tilted their head slightly, clearly waiting for Cade to make the first move in their impromptu standoff. "I mean you no harm."

"Uh...thanks?" Cade cleared his throat as he slowly stood up from where he'd been crouched, running a hand through his hair. "I don't recognize you man, gotta name?"

"My designation is Prowl, and yours?" One of Prowl's doorwings twitched when Cade glanced around, blue eyes tracking every move with an intensity that made the inventor very uncomfortable. As much as Cade wanted to get a better look at the Cybertronian, the black and grey coloring, coupled with the unmistakable shield emblems that belonged on police cruisers, only made him wary. "If you try to run, I must advise you that you will not make it very far."

"I don't know man, I can run pretty fuckin' fast, been evading bots and the military for years." This Prowl's eyes widened momentarily before kneeling down, eyeing the human curiously. "What?"

"I do not know where you have come from, but we do not hunt humans for sport." The human crossed his arms with an annoyed look, before jumping at the sound of rapidly approaching cars, eyeing an escape once again. "Those are my allies."

"Oh jeeze, that's real comforting." Cade could feel the talisman crawling down his arm as various cars appeared between trees, watching the six cars that had appeared transform into Autobots of various sizes, the largest one towering far above the rest not too far from where Cade stood. Despite the older model of semi-truck, Cade felt his jaw drop when the taller bot spoke, kneeling down with a friendly hand held out.

"Greetings, I am Optimus Prime, and these are my fellow Autobots."

"....you know, I have to say, you are massive." The Optimus in front of him tilted his head slightly at the lack of surprise, and Cade shivered at the feeling of being scanned, though from this Optimus, it felt wrong. "Also rude, ask to scan me first? What is it with you Autobots and not askin' for shit?"

"You know of us?" This Optimus retracted his hand, but kept himself in place. "I also apologize for the scan, I was curious. What is your name?"

"...Cade, Cade Yeager." The talisman rested in the palm of his hand as he waited for the next move. "So...you guys can just walk around in the public eye?"

"Of course, we are allies with the human race, and protect them as much as we aid." Optimus shuttered his optics at the surprise that crossed Cade's face, shooting a quick glance at Prowl, who shrugged as he stood.

"Wow...never thought I'd see the day." There's a bitterness that lingers in his words, the human shifting in place before taking a proper look around. "And there are so many of you guys."

"You haven't seen anythin' yet my man." A bot to Cade's left hummed good-naturedly, and for the second time, Cade's jaw dropped at a familiar yet unfamiliar figure. "Got more of us back at the Ark and worldwide."

"...holy shit, you -!" Mission City had been kept quiet for a long time until the Chicago War, and footage of that day had been circulated once the government could no longer suppress the information.

That included someone catching Megatron ripping Jazz in half.

"Judgin' by the look on your face, I'm not around anymore huh?" Despite the smile on his faceplate, Jazz felt his Spark falter at the implication, catching Prowl's doorwings twitching in the corner of his optic.

"You - you went down trying to kill Megatron, for what it's worth." The name of the enemy faction's leader made more than one bot hiss in anger, but otherwise, they remained silent. "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it, can't change what's already happened." Jazz shrugged. "How's about we take this party to the others? I can just about hear Wheeljack and the others gettin' ready to tear out and head this way."

"Wheeljack is here too?!"

---

The Ark ended up being some sort of Autobot ship; Cade relieved to find the spaceship wasn't in the middle of flight or deep underwater. Hopping out of Optimus' cab once they had arrived, Cade couldn't help but stare at the sheer amount of bots just walking around, a far cry from the ragtag group of survivors he knew. Optimus kindly led him inside their base and explained their background, pointing out a few bots he had heard of, and many others he had not as they approached a massive computer.

"This is Teletraan-1, the heart of our operation. If your Optimus is here, this will help us find him as it did for you."

"Must be one hell of a computer." Cade whistled, picking a spot along the wall out of the way of the various Autobots to take a seat with a yawn. "Where are we anyways? This is not South Dakota."

"You are in Oregon, not far from the city of Portland."

"Oh...never been to Oregon." He watched the Autobot leader start typing away at the massive screens that littered the computer, unsure what else was needed from him. To be honest, it was the first time in ages Cade didn't need his head on a swivel, and before he could think on it too much further, the inventor was out like a light.

"Cade Yeager, do you -" Optimus blinked when he turned to the human, only to find the man slumped over against the wall, chest rising and falling in recharge. The Prime walked over and knelt down, carefully sliding one servo under the recharging human to pick him up in one movement, Cade freezing at the initial contact before going lax once more. The walk to the room they had repurposed for the small growing bad of humans that worked with them wasn't too far away, Sparkplug the only one around for the moment as he tinkered with one of Wheeljack's failed experiments.

"Hiya Optimus, what brings you here?"

"Someone needs to recharge, and doing so against Teletraan-1 is not the most comfortable place." The leader chuckled, depositing a man Sparkplug hadn't seen before on the bed Carly usually used when she came to visit Ironhide.

"Who's he?"

"He is...a visitor." Optimus carefully pulled a blanket over Cade before straightening, giving Sparkplug his full attention. "His name is Cade, and I fear he might be disoriented if he awakens alone. May I ask that you watch over him?"

"No worries, I was planning on spending the night anyway." Sparkplug nodded, eyeing the man with a curious look. "I'm assumin' he set off that weird alert from Teletraan?"

"Indeed, and it appears he might not have arrived alone."

---

In a forest not far from the Ark, Optimus Prime comes online with a groan, his frame rattling from some sort of impact he can't remember. The pain wasn't too overwhelming as he slowly sat up, a little relieved to see his sword wasn't too far from his reach, groaning as he grabbed it and drew it close.

His spark stops when he doesn't sense Cade anywhere nearby, the Prime looking around wildly as he finally gets fully up onto his pedes.

"Cade?! Where are you?" Optimus winces when he takes a step forward, but disregards the pain as he continually scans the area, cursing at the human town that wasn't far off. His only luck was that it was the dead of night, and despite Cade not responding to his calls, there were no recent signs that anyone had been around the area to potentially arrest Cade. What eventually did catch his attention were faint energon signals that appeared to be coming closer to his location, battle mask emerging as he did his best to hide in the thick forest. A few kilicks later four cars pulled to a stop along the road Optimus observed, transforming with their backs facing each other as they scanned the area.

"Teletraan-1 marked the signal not far from here, so fan out and keep your weapons holstered." A white and red bot spoke with a pointed look, Optimus' spark stopping yet again as he had to stop himself from calling out to a bot that shouldn't be alive. "If any of you startle him, you'll be on Red Alert duty for a whole deca-cycle."

"That is cold mech, real cold." A black and white visored mech responded with a shake of his helm, and this time, Optimus couldn't stop the pained vent that escaped him. All four bots whipped their helms to look in his direction, servos flexing but remaining away from their weapons, barely able to make out a tall figure within the trees.

"....Optimus? Is that you?" A taller red mech called out, stepping forward with a small smile. "Yer buddy Cade told us you'd be comin'."

"Where is he?" Optics widened as Optimus slowly stalked forward, clearly a few helms taller than their own and looking like he'd been through the proverbial grinder, a massive sword in hand as he stared down at them with his battle mask extended. "If this is some trick, none of you will leave alive."

"Whoa whoa my mech, no need for threats." The visored mech stepped forward, servos still raised. "We aren't here to hurt you, I swear to Primus. We don't know how this happened, but you and your buddy got pulled here from...wherever you're from, and we only want ta help ya get home."

"Home...a word I know no longer." Optimus stared at the mech, who could only be Jazz, before slowly sheathing his sword. "We cannot remain here, the humans are too close."

"The humans are our allies, they won't harm you." The fourth bot chimed in, one so small Optimus had not seen him initially. The Prime stared at him for a long time without speaking a word, shoulders sagging from weariness as he finally walked forward to the road, transforming into a massive semi-truck.

"Show me the way."

Optimus didn't say a word as they led the bot to the Ark, the beat-up truck getting more than a few side eyes from passing motorists. If eyes stayed on his form for too long, Optimus would veer off-road and remain there until the humans pressed on. The four other bots eventually formed a perimeter around Optimus, sparks aching at the insinuations. More than a few bots were hovering around the ship's entrance when the group arrived, whispers and shocked noises escaping them when Optimus transformed, scanning the crowd with a pained expression.

"I would normally ask a new bot for their designation, but I believe this time, we can skip the formalities." A shorter version of himself stepped forward, and it was clear that their shared voices were a bit disconcerting to hear. "Welcome to the Ark."

"Thank you." Optimus stepped forward as he retracted his mask, eyeing the Ark with a curious expression. "This ship is...much larger than the Ark I knew of long ago."

"I shall take that as a compliment." His double chuckled softly as he turned to the other bots, helm tilting forward slightly. "Everyone, please return to your posts, there will be time for questions later."

"You heard the man, let's go." Jazz whistled as he passed by the taller bot, giving him a nod as various mechs grumbled but dispersed to avoid any potential punishments. It wasn't long before the two Primes were alone, the shorter Prime motioning for his counterpart to follow.

"Ratchet can fix you up if you'd like, unless you require something else?"

"Please, show me to Cade Yeager."

"As you wish." Optimus led his taller counterpart inside the Ark, explaining what various areas were as they walked, ignoring the stares and whispers as they headed for the human living quarters. The shorter Prime stepped back to allow the other to step inside, Cade still asleep on the bed he'd been placed on breems earlier. He was silent as he watched the other Prime kneel down beside the human, a servo gently resting on his cheek as he murmured to him in their native tongue. Cade stirred at the voice and pressure, and to Optimus' astonishment, his eyes were shining blue much like their optics did as he looked around blearily, visibly relaxing when he caught sight of the mech crouched in front of him.

"You're here?" Cade moved to sit up, but Optimus gently pressed him down with a soft shake of his helm, Cade frowning a little but sank back into the mattress with a hum. "You alright, big guy?"

"I am alright, you need not be concerned for me." The human scoffed as Optimus shifted to sit by his bedside, sagging against the wall behind him.

"Right, and I'm in the best shape of my life right now." Cade rolled his eyes, the glow fading from his eyes as he sat up with a wince, holding a hand out when his Optimus moved to steady him. "Do you want to transform, or is that too much?"

"I would prefer to remain this way." Optimus held a servo out when Cade grabbed the blanket and pillow from his bed, the human climbing on as Optimus opened his chest plating, carefully placing Cade onto the seat inside. "Is this comfortable?"

"Always is." Cade sounded half asleep as he got comfortable, pulling the blanket over himself and gently knocking some of the metal beside him. "Get some recharge, or I'll make you regret it."

"As you say." Optimus made an amused noise as he adjusted, his optics appearing to flicker off as he heard the other human in the room stop tinkering. Not long after, the lights in the room dimmed. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it, you both look like hell." Optimus grumbled something as the second human chuckled, only truly offlining his optics once the other had left the room, closing the door behind him. Tossing the maglock he carried for emergencies onto the door, it helped to know it would at least buy them time if anyone came by, and Optimus finally let his beleaguered body experience relief as he faded into recharge.

[galaxysupreme17]

AU - Parent-Teacher Night

Y/n = Your Name

Rio Vidal x daughter!reader

Agatha x Rio

The buzz of conversation filled the halls of Westview High as parents meandered between classrooms. Rio adjusted the cuff of her blazer, her eyes scanning the doors for Room 204. Parent-teacher night was her least favorite kind of evening-it blended her roles as a teacher and parent, forcing her to toe the line between professional and personal. But tonight had a distinct edge of anticipation. She was about to meet Y/n's English teacher, Mrs. Harkness, her girlfriend of a few months.

At last, she found the room. The door was open, and inside, the space buzzed with an organized chaos of parents filtering in and out. At the center of it all stood Agatha, effortlessly commanding the room in a crisp white blouse tucked into a tailored black pencil skirt. Her deep purple heels added just the right touch of elegance. Rio felt her breath hitch.

"Pull it together," she muttered to herself before stepping in.

Agatha glanced up, her warm blue eyes lighting up as she recognized Rio. "Mrs. Vidal," she said smoothly, extending a hand. Her lips curled into a subtle smirk that only Rio could decipher.

"Mrs. Harkness," Rio replied, taking her hand. Her grip was firm, her tone perfectly polite, but her gaze lingered just a bit longer than necessary. "Pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise," Agatha said, gesturing for Rio to sit across from her at the desk. The rest of the parents seemed to have dispersed, leaving them in rare privacy. Agatha leaned forward slightly, folding her hands. "Let's talk about Y/n."

Rio nodded, focusing. "How's she doing?"

Agatha's expression softened. "She's exceptional. Her writing shows a depth of thought and creativity that's rare for someone her age. She's articulate and observant...but sometimes, I think she holds back. It's as if she's afraid of fully stepping into her own brilliance."

Rio frowned slightly, leaning forward. "What do you mean by that?"

"She'll submit an essay that's technically flawless but lacks that spark I see when she talks in class," Agatha explained. "I think she's afraid of being too much, of standing out."

Rio's jaw tightened. "That tracks. She's been through a lot, and blending in has become second nature for her. But she's stronger than she gives herself credit for."

Agatha nodded. "That's why I've started giving her more creative assignment freedom. She thrives when she feels in control of her narrative. She's remarkable, truly."

Rio's chest swelled with pride. "Thank you for seeing her."

Agatha's smile turned gentle. "It's impossible not to. She's an extraordinary young woman."

They just looked at each other momentarily, the hum of fluorescent lights filling the space. Then Rio's lips quirked into a grin. "You're very thorough, Mrs. Harkness. Makes me wonder how you prepare for all these meetings."

Agatha tilted her head, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Oh, I'm always prepared, Mrs. Vidal. Though I suspect not every parent appreciates my thoroughness quite as much as you do."

Rio's grin widened. "Well, I'm not every parent."

Agatha's laugh was low and melodious. "Clearly."

The conversation lingered on the edge of professionalism, the air between them charged. As the last stragglers left the hallway, the school grew quieter, leaving them in their own private world.

The silence felt intimate as Rio leaned casually against one of the desks, watching Agatha gather her things. "So," Rio began, her tone playful, "did I pass the parent test?"

Agatha chuckled, looking up. "Oh, you're a model parent. Engaged, insightful, clearly invested in your daughter's growth." She smirked, her voice dropping slightly. "But I suspect you knew that already."

Rio's lips twitched into a smirk of her own. "Maybe. But it's always nice to hear."

Agatha stepped closer, her movements deliberate. "You know, you could've just asked me about Y/n at home. This whole charade wasn't really necessary."

Rio's eyes flicked to Agatha's lips before meeting her gaze again. "And miss the chance to see you in your element? Not a chance."

Agatha's laughter was soft, her cheeks tinged with color. She placed a hand on the desk beside Rio, their proximity narrowing. "You're incorrigible."

"You love it," Rio countered, her voice low.

Agatha's smile softened, her gaze lingering. "I do," she admitted, the words barely a whisper. "But we're in a classroom, Rio."

"Then I guess I'd better behave," Rio murmured, though she made no move to step back. Instead, she reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from Agatha's face. The gesture was tender, almost reverent.

For a moment, the world outside the room ceased to exist. The fluorescent lights above seemed to dim, and the quiet hum of the building was their only witness. Agatha's breath hitched as Rio's fingers lingered near her cheek.

"You're dangerous," Agatha finally said, her tone light but her eyes serious.

Rio's grin returned. "Only for you."

Agatha shook her head, stepping back with a reluctant sigh. "We should go. It's late."

Rio nodded, pushing off the desk and straightening her blazer. "You're right. But I'll see you later?"

Agatha's smile was warm. "Always."

As Rio walked to the door, she glanced back one last time. Agatha was watching her, a look in her eyes that made Rio's heart skip a beat.

With a wink, Rio disappeared into the hallway, leaving Agatha alone in the quiet room. She sighed, a small smile playing on her lips as she lingered at her desk. The faint scent of Rio's perfume still hung in the air, a tantalizing reminder of the moment they had shared. She allowed herself a brief moment of indulgence, resting her hand against her cheek where Rio's fingers had brushed.

When Agatha finally gathered the last of her things and stepped out of the classroom, she found Rio waiting by the entrance of the building, leaning casually against the wall.

"I thought you left," Agatha said, her voice tinged with amusement.

Rio straightened, her smile playful. "I couldn't leave without walking you to your car."

Agatha's lips curved into a grin. "Chivalrous, are we?"

"Always," Rio replied, offering her arm. "Shall we?"

Agatha looped her arm through Rio's, and together, they walked out into the cool evening air. The quiet hum of the town surrounded them as they made their way across the parking lot. When they reached Agatha's car, she turned to face Rio, her expression softer now.

"Thank you for tonight," she said. "For being here...and for seeing me."

Rio leaned closer, her voice low. "Always, Agatha. Always."

For a brief moment, they stood there, the quiet night wrapping around them like a blanket. Agatha's gaze flicked to Rio's lips, her resolve wavering. "You're impossible, you know that?"

Rio smirked, her hands slipping into her pockets casually, though her eyes betrayed the heat she felt. "And yet, here you are."

Agatha laughed softly, shaking her head as she leaned back against her car. "You make it difficult to stay professional."

Rio stepped closer, the warmth between them almost palpable. "Good thing we're off the clock now, huh?"

For a moment, neither of them moved the electricity in the air thick enough to cut with a knife. Then, almost instinctively, Agatha tilted her head up, her lips parting just slightly. Rio hesitated, her hand reaching out to grab Agatha's waist with one hand and the other moving to brush some hair from Agatha's face, testing the waters.

"I shouldn't..." Agatha whispered, her voice trailing off as Rio leaned in, their faces mere inches apart.

"But do you want to?" Rio murmured, her breath warm against Agatha's skin.

Agatha didn't answer with words. Instead, she closed the gap, her lips meeting Rio's in a soft and searing kiss. It was brief but left them both breathless as if the world had tilted on its axis for just that moment.

When they pulled back, Agatha's cheeks were flushed, her eyes brighter than ever. Rio smiled, her thumb brushing against Agatha's cheek. "That was worth waiting for."

Agatha laughed softly, her voice tinged with both amusement and surrender. "You're trouble, Mrs. Vidal."

"And you love it," Rio replied with a wink, stepping back to let Agatha breathe.

Agatha sighed, her smile lingering as she opened her car door. "I'll see you later?"

Rio nodded, stepping aside but not before one last teasing grin. "Count on it."

As Agatha drove off, Rio stood in the parking lot momentarily, the cool air in sharp contrast to the heat still coursing through her veins. She chuckled, shoving her hands back in her pockets as she headed to her car. Tonight had been more than she'd expected-professionally and personally-and she wouldn't have it any other way.

[karinadele]

Knockout x Reader

sorry its all brainrot, i dont even write often. my notes app wouldnt even let me write all of it.

warnings: none

(I had originally planned for this to be to have some teasing on k.o's part but my adhd ass as lost track and no longer want to finish it.)

•Megatron was not happy Knock Out went out on an excursion on earth again.

This time he went to a car show ending up quite literally displaying himself as humans paraded around him. an ego boost definitely.

•A human girl took an interest in him, she was one of the models for the show. She ran her fingers along his hood while posing for pictures as needed. Knockout definitely welcomed the attention. Perhaps not the fleshing having contact with him, but the fact that everyone's eyes were focused on him and the cameras flashing everywhere. This is how the Aston Martin should be presented.

•As the day turns to night, the show slows down. The human is gone, and the attendees have dispersed. He took this moment to zip it and make a beeline out, navigating around the other cars and calling for a ground bridge.

•Unbeknownst to him, the human was close by, making her way to her car in the parking lot. You noticed the exact same red car that was not long in the show, but now somehow outside. Was it a private dealer that was just showing off their car for the day? Curiously you made your way over to it.

•A wave of air gushed out, followed by a white light that swirled into a blue green, surrounded by the white light. A portal looking white hole right infront of the red Aston Martin.

•You see the car revving up and starting to drive through it. Without thinking, you've started chasing after it. Not sure if the driver knows what the hell is going on, hell, not sure if you know what you're doing with it. It was just too wild.

•As the swirl closes, landing on the other side, you took a look around to see where in the hell you've landed. Its dark, everything seems to be metal, the place is huge. Something you've never seen before. You grip onto the metal wall stabilizing yourself as you feel a wave of nausea through yourself.

•Knock Out has already transformed and is making his way down the hallway, hoping neither Soundwave or Megatron has caught wind of his little excursion. Something nags him in the back of his processor. He most definitely enjoyed the attention that was given to him earlier today, but a lingering feeling he has about a certain human running their fingers across his hood. He brings his servo up to his chassis, chasing after that feeling again.

• Where the fuck?? are you? And what the fuck did you just get yourself into? Hell, where's the car you were following? Everything is so confusing. you look back to see nothing but hallway, look forward, same thing. A string of bad decisions, you tell yourself. Deciding to just make your way down wherever and quietly explore your surroundings.

• Nope. Megatron definitely knows. And he's not happy. "Knock Out." he calls out as the doors to the medbay opens up. Knock Out inside tinkering with a buffer, still riding off the high.

• "Lord Megatron!" He exclaims. "How may I be of service?" He turns around and quickly tucks the buffer behind him, looking a little guilty.

• "Where have you been this cycle? I do not recall giving you permission to leave." Megatron states, moving in closer into the medbay, towards Knockout. "Have you been out street racing again?"

• "N-no my liege!" He stammers as he takes a step back, placing the buffer on the berth. "I- I was on patrol! Just scouting out energon deposit!" He lies through his grited denta. Megatron definitely would not be happy knowing he was out parading himself in the presence of *humans*.

• "Oh? Is that so?" Megatron takes a step towards the console thats to the left of Knock Out. "Then tell me why Soundwave has gotten several reports of a red Aston Martin that looks *oddly* familiar in a car show?" He presses a button on the console, bringing up the human version of the internet, The social media sprawled with photos of Knock Out in his alt form. Some with a human posing next to him.

• This place is endless. You finally see some semblance of a gigantic metal door. It's odd you haven't ran into another else so far, and it was too eerily silent. But not for long. You hear some sort of chatter behind the said door, so picking up the pace, you jog over to it.

• "You weren't out racing. Decided to pick up *modeling* now?" A snarky comment dripping with sarcasm comes out from the other side of the door. You press your hand towards the door, fully intending to put your ear next to eavesdrop on the conversation. Hell! this was the first sound you've heard since being on this weird metal enclosure!

• The door slides open on contact. and you find yourself falling face first towards the ground. A small "woah" comes out of you as you flail your arms infront of you trying to brace for impact before smacking onto the metal ground.

• That was enough to catch the attention of whoever was inside talking. You take a look up, still in your knees and hands. "What... the fuck." you exclaim. Two giant metal robots. One extremely large, looking like a silver shark, and gives off a powerful eerie feeling. The red eyes glowing onto you. The slightly smaller one next to him, Red in colour, oddly familiar colour pattern actually, you thought. It also has glowing red eyes thats pinned onto you. But it's aura is more timid. Still scary, but not as much as the shark looking one.

[crazycatgirl420]

Not Magic, Science Part 3

Danny stared at the young CEO of Wayne Enterprises. Mr. Drake-Wayne was five years old when the Fentons stole his dna for tgeir clone kid project. The Fentons didn't use accelerated aging, their notes said there could be developmental risks in doing so and they wanted their own little genius to be perfect.

Danny was exactly five years, nine months, and six days younger than Timothy Drake-Wayne.

Five years ago Timothy Drake was eleven years old, with his own photogarphy gallery and charming rich old ladies at galas.

When Danny was eleven he was starstruck at space camp and building model rockets in his bedroom.

Wayne Enterprises was interested in working with FentonWorks too mass produce ecto-fueled vechiels, as well as exploring ecto energy more. Danny let Mr. Drake-Wayne's voice wash over him, professional and commanding, confident.

Everything Danny should have been, everything Danny was supposed to be. No wonder his parents were never proud of him, he was a pale imitation of Timothy Drake.

"Before we go that far though, what exactly is Ectoplasam?"

Danny knew that question was coming. He came prepared but his slide show felt very childish compared to everything Mr. Drake-Wayne had presented. He clutched his usb, and plugged it into the presenter's laptop.

"Everything that lives creates Ectoplasam. It is the energy of emotions, the spark that fuels life. Everything that lives, must then eventually die, and with death is the release of the remaining ectoplasam in their body. The ectoplasam would then disperse into a demension known as the Infinte Realms, where it either forms an Ecto-Entity or is cleansed and released into a living relam as a new lifeform. This process can take from a year to a thousand years to complete. The FentonWorks Ecto Processor takes the Ectoplasam in the air and turns it into useable energy-"

Ectoplasam was fascinating, but so was the teenage clone trying to be professional. It had been so easy to find the files, to find who and how, then why made itself perfectly clear not long after.

Tim couldn't really call the kid his clone anymore. Sure that's what their invesitagtion had been sparked by, an uncanny valley look-a-like on the cover of Damian's News in Zoology magazine. But Daniel Fenton wasn't made to replace Tim. No, he was made to be the perfect Heir to the FentonWorks bussiness and research, just like Tim had been for Drake Industeries.

The slide came to a silly photo of a cartoon ghost, Fenton hastily trying to skip it, and the following slid being a cutesy diargam of the Ectoplasmic life cycle. Fenton blushed, speaking a bit quicker on where Ectoplasam comes from and how it cycles through all demensions, before skipping to a more plain info graphic.

Tim wasn't sure what to do, or if he really should do anything, regarding the cloning issue. The ones who had done it were dead, the boy himself wasn't a bad person. Frankly it was more like meeting a cousin than anything.

"We are in agreement then?" Tim asked, standing to shake Fenton's hand. "There's plenty of time to discuss the contract another time, with lawyers. Wayne Enterprises looks forward to working with you Mr. Fenton,"

"Of course Mr. Drake-Wayne," Fenton nodded. "Thank you for seeing me today,"

"Would you join me for lunch?" Tim asked. "I'd like to talk more in a more casual setting,"

Fenton hesitated, fidgiting with the usb between his fingers, before nodding.

Tim had hope lunch would go well, it'd be nice to have another tech-minded person to talk to.

[robininthelabyrinth]

Fic: intent and opportunity - ao3 - chapter 1

Relationships: Appo & Slick, Slick & Slick's squad, Appo & Slick's squad, others on ao3 Tags & Warnings on ao3

Summary:

After the postmortem briefing on the Christophsis campaign concluded and the command staff allowed to disperse, Appo did not leave with the others, but stayed behind to talk to Rex. “Captain, do you have a moment?” he asked, standing at attention and waiting until Rex nodded to continue. “I noticed an error in the flimsiwork and I’d appreciate your assistance in fixing it. Specifically, it relates to Sergeant Slick -" (when the GAR’s most blindly obedient clone starts following in the footsteps of its first clone traitor, the galaxy starts to change)

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

After the postmortem briefing on the Christophsis campaign was concluded and the command staff allowed to disperse, Appo did not leave with the others, but stayed behind to talk to Rex.

“Captain, do you have a moment?” he asked, standing at attention and waiting until Rex nodded to continue. “I noticed an error in the flimsiwork and I’d appreciate your assistance in fixing it.”

Rex huffed a half-laugh. “You and your flimsiwork, Sergeant Appo,” he said, although his relatively light-hearted tone suggested that what could have been a censure was in fact a commendation, or at minimum a neutral observation. “I should’ve known. Given my little time and General Skywalker’s little interest, I think the 501st would fall apart if we didn’t have you.”

Rex paused at that point, as if he expected Appo to say something, but Appo remained silent, unsure of what aspect of Rex’s statement called for a response.

Possibly he was expected to issue some sort of expression of gratitude (“Much appreciated, sir”) or denial (“I’m sure it’s not that bad, sir”)? Both responses seemed inadequate, since Rex’s statement was fundamentally accurate: Appo’s immediate promotion, upon the 501st’s official deployment, to Master Sergeant (in addition to his existing duties as a regular sergeant) had been based on his patience for filling out flimsiwork, a task detested by General Skywalker and Captain Rex alike, and the 501st would have fallen apart if Appo didn’t regularly submit operations reports or procurement requests.

They might only be half a year into the war, but battlefields were costly, and the fact remained that replacement starship fuel and ammunition did not appear from thin air.

When Appo did not respond, Rex shook his head in a seemingly self-directed gesture, as if asking himself what he had been expecting. “Never mind. Permission to speak granted.”

“Thank you, sir. I identified an inconsistency in the personnel record following the campaign. Specifically, it is in relation to Sergeant Slick –”

Rex’s shoulders twitched. This was an anomalous gesture for him, something Appo would have expected to see in a more stressful situation than a casual conversation with a subordinate.

“Slick isn’t listed on either KIA or MIA lists,” Appo continued, filing the body language detail away as irrelevant. “But he also hasn’t reported in, which suggests –”

“Don’t worry about Slick,” Rex said, interrupting, and Appo paused.

This, too, was anomalous.

“Sir, you don’t understand,” he said. “There are only three categorizations for a trooper after a battle: killed in action, missing in action, or at their post. Slick isn’t listed in any of those.”

“I know that,” Rex said, which suggested a greater mastery of the art of flimsiwork than he had hitherto ever displayed. He was more a warrior than an administrator, though the same could be said for most clones, based on their template’s model. “However, in this instance, I’m telling you that it’s not a problem.”

Appo was baffled. Had he somehow failed to adequately communicate his concern?

Not talking right as usual, Appo. Acting like you’re actually some sort of droid in there under the muscle. Maybe you should dig your knife into your arm to see if there are wires –

Intrusive thought. Rejected.

(Appo had a problem with intrusive thoughts, which had haunted him for as long as he could remember. According to the medical staff back on Kamino, it was not entirely uncommon, even in troopers. One of the medics had described it as being a reaction to trauma, although Appo had developed it unusually early and without the battle that usually preceded post-battle shock. Regardless, the recommended treatment was the same, which was to learn to ignore them.)

“Sir, there are different procedures that need to be followed in each situation,” Appo said, and decided to start with the least unsavory option. “If Slick’s dead, we need to know so that we can add him to the remembrance wall –”

“Do not put him on the remembrance wall!”

Appo blinked.

Rex gritted his teeth and purposefully released a breath, as if attempting to regulate himself. “Listen, Sergeant,” he said. “Slick’s not dead, so you don’t need to add him to the wall or anything like that.”

“But –”

“I know you mean well. But I’m telling you, you really don’t need to worry about him.”

“But –”

“Is there a reason you keep asking about this?” Rex demanded. A moment later, his expression changed, softening with an expression of something like sympathy or empathy. “Is that it, Appo? I know you and Slick shared quarters. Were you and him – close?”

“No,” Appo said honestly. Slick was quick-witted, clever, and sociable, popular with his men, appreciated by his peers and superiors alike, while Appo was quiet and awkward, not the sort of person others would pick to spend off-time with. He was generally valued more for his skillset than any aspect of his personality, and he was fine with that, preferring to spend his time with the rare people he genuinely liked or else alone. He and Slick had never meshed especially well, though Appo wouldn’t consider their relationship bad, either; merely collegial and professional. The fact that they shared a bunkroom on account of their matching ranks (troopers were always at least four to a room except for high command, and sergeants were no exception) had minimal relevance.

It certainly wasn’t relevant to the inaccurate scenario that Rex had constructed for himself. Rex, himself, was known to occasionally get close with other troopers, a fact that everyone knew but politely did not say. This had already been well known back on Kamino, but following deployment Rex’s overly social tendencies had only intensified, extending beyond the clone ranks and encompassing even natborns like General Kenobi and previously-Commander now-General Skywalker. Lower-level staff gossip rampantly speculated that before the war was done they would see Rex run the whole gamut of emotional relationships, ranging from friendships, romantic entanglements, and even favoritism, though hopefully not enough to affect mission completion. Appo assumed that it was that tendency of Rex’s that had generated the misunderstanding, rather than any indications Appo had provided from his own conduct.

(Appo, notably, was not one of the troopers Rex had grown close to.)

(Prior to today, he would have said that Slick was.)

“No?” Rex asked. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, sir. Quite sure.”

“I see. Then…why the insistence…?”

“Things must be in their proper place, sir. If Slick isn’t dead, then he’s missing. That means we need to revoke his permissions and put him on a watchlist for a minimum period of –”

“Enough, Sergeant.” Rex reached up and rubbed his forehead with his palm, as if he had started to develop a headache. “If this is just about the flimsiwork, then I’m officially telling you to drop it. The matter’s above your paygrade – and mine, too, for that matter. So just stop asking. Is that clear?”

“No, sir,” Appo said, meaning I don’t understand at all. When Rex glared, though, he grimaced and amended his words to “Yes, sir,” meaning I will put an end to this conversation as ordered.

“Good. Dismissed.”

Appo left.

He was no less puzzled, though. There simply was no categorization that fit the situation or explained Rex's bizarre instruction. A trooper was either at their post, dead, or missing, a category which covered both unidentified bodies left on the battlefield (the majority), those captured by the enemy (deemed dead), or potential deserters. In each case, the appropriate forms needed to be filed and appropriate actions needed to be taken: memorials for the dead, a watchlist for the living, instructions for those at their post. One could not simply “forget about” those processes, not even on the orders of a superior officer.

Under normal circumstances, Appo would always choose to obey orders. That was what clone troopers were made for, and it was trained into them from before they could even remember.

A clone trooper who did not obey orders was not worth anything.

On the other hand, if he’d listened every time either Rex or General Skywalker had said “don’t worry about it, we’ll get to it later”, the 501st would have run out of just about everything within months, if not weeks. They were a highly active battalion, alternating between joint and solo missions and regularly being redirected to new areas of high concern. Someone needed to stay on top of everything: not just replacing fuel and ammunition, but making sure there was enough food and water for all the men aboard, sourcing their clothing and armor and bedding, managing the euphemistic personnel shortage issues (everything from transfers to funerals to ordering replacement soldiers), ensuring critical spaceship repairs got done, resupplying with medicine and life-support units, making sure they got upgrades and new tech and sufficient pieces to keep their droids in working order…though they probably would’ve still had plenty of extra R2-line replacement parts, since General Skywalker always took meticulous care of his personal astromech unit.

Actually, that was a thought. Rex had said that the matter was “above his paygrade”, hadn’t he?

That meant it must have been marked as confidential at the Jedi General level.

Well, that was simple enough to solve.

Appo went to talk to General Skywalker.

You're violating protocol. They'll decomm you for this. They've just been waiting on an excuse -

Intrusive thought. Rejected.

Protocol said that flimsiwork had to be filed promptly and accurately, which required an answer regarding the present status of Sergeant Slick (confirmed not dead, but not listed as missing). Protocol also said that unusual or uncharacteristic orders from a superior that violated SOP had to be reported to command, in case the superior in question had been compromised. Appo would strongly prefer that not to be the case. A simple chat with the General would achieve both objectives while avoiding hitting Rex with the stigma of a formally filed complaint.

It was clearly the optimal solution. 

Appo's nervous anxiety at the idea of talking one-on-one with his general, who usually limited his communications to Rex and whoever Rex had picked to be his immediate support squadron (typically a team composed of available troopers or relevant specialists, which had to date never included Appo in his Master Sergeant role), was purely his own issue. It was therefore his responsibility to ignore his discomfort and proceed.

He knocked at the General's door and waited until he heard a garbled "Come in!" before proceeding. "General?"

"Oh, hey!" General Skywalker lurched to his feet from where he'd been sitting at his tinkering desk. He seemed to be trying to stand in front of it, as if to conceal the R2 upgrades he was working on (a technically illegal upgraded flamethrower mod). Appo wasn't sure why he was bothering, both because Appo, as the General's subordinate, had no standing to criticize him regardless of what he was doing and because Appo had been the one to process the parts requests and oversee their delivery to the General's quarters. "Sorry, I thought you were Rex - probably should've checked first - anyway, yeah. It's, uh, Appo, right?"

"Yes, sir."

 "Right. Good. Rex’s mentioned you a couple of times. What can I do for you?"

"I'm hoping you can assist me with a flimsiwork issue -" The General's enthusiastic expression faltered. "- relating to the status of Sergeant Slick."

General Skywalker’s expression shifted once more. Appo was not particularly familiar with non-clone facial movements, but most human or humanoid species tended towards similar forms, which suggested to him that General Skywalker’s expression had moved from dread-imminent-boredom to dread-immediate-panic. However, there was no logical reason for an emotional reaction of that type, and no additional evidence to correlate or support Appo’s conclusion. It was entirely possible that he was mistaken regarding the nature of General Skywalker’s feelings at the moment.

He didn’t think he was, though.

“I spoke with Captain Rex about it –”

“You did? Oh, good –”

“– and he said the matter was confidential at a level higher than his,” Appo concluded. “That’s why I’ve come to ask you about it, sir.”

“Gee, thanks, Rex,” General Skywalker muttered under his breath. “Uh, listen, Appo…about Slick…”

He trailed off. Appo politely waited for him to continue, but the General seemed to have lost steam. Instead, he was glancing around the room as if seeking an answer somewhere in the mess of tools, parts, and miscellanea.

Alternatively, he was possibly waiting for Appo to be the first to break the silence, but that would have been a tactical error on his part. Appo was fairly notorious for what his trainers liked to call his “imperturbable even keel” and what his peers preferred to call his “stone face with dead eyes” – even the training sim droids lost patience faster than he did.

It wasn’t that Appo didn’t feel the awkwardness of standing there and staring blankly at his General while his General shifted from foot to foot and cleared his throat repeatedly. It was just that he was so lost as to what to do about it that it seemed safer to stay in position and wait.

“…listen,” General Skywalker finally said. “Listen, Appo. Slick’s – uh – that is – what did you say that Rex said about it, again?”

“He said that it was confidential at a level above his,” Appo repeated obediently. “Specifically, that it was ‘above his pay grade’. He requested that I forget about it, but that would be contrary to protocol.”

And would require a formal report of malfeasance that would go on the Captain’s permanent record, so it would be great if the General would countermand that order at once, please.

General Skywalker brightened. “Yeah, no, actually, that sounds right? You should forget about it. It’s not a big deal.”

“Post-battle personnel records must be updated with accurate information,” Appo said, starting to wonder if it was them that had all lost their minds or if it was just him. “If we don’t supply a status, we can’t take appropriate steps. The record will not be accurate.”

“It’s all right if the record’s not accurate this once,” General Skywalker said, for some reason waving his hand vaguely in the air, as if to bat away some invisible gnat. “You can just move on.”

That’s right, you should just move on. You have so much to do, and this is taking time you really don’t have. General Skywalker and Rex know what they’re doing. This is just the once –

Intrusive thought. Rejected.

(Oddly non-violent. Most of Appo’s intrusive thoughts about the Jedi involved killing them.)

“Sir, operational efficiency depends on accurate record-keeping,” Appo said firmly. “Even a single deviation potentially leaves room for future inconsistencies. We’ve got to file something, it’s not something we can just skip.”

General Skywalker grimaced. “Right. Yes. Of course… Has anyone ever told you that you’ve got unusually strong willpower and clarity of purpose, Sergeant Appo?”

“…no, sir,” Appo said. Was that relevant to the present conversation?

“Listen…okay…uh…he’s…what are the options again?”

“KIA, MIA or at his station, sir.” Appo paused, then added, helpfully, “Captain Rex has already confirmed the Sergeant is not dead, sir, and I can confirm he’s not at his post. Based on Captain Rex’s reaction, it also does not appear that he is ‘missing’.”

“…right.” The General groped around in the air as if trying to grab something, then appeared to hit on something. “You said Rex said it was confidential, right? Isn’t there some sort of form you’d need to file to get something confidential opened up? And some sort of status relating to that?”

“Yes, sir,” Appo said. “Newly issued Form 15b63. Anything related to an information request would be listed as pending.”

“Great!” The General beamed at him. “Why don’t you file one of those? By the time that’s done, there should be an answer for you, and you’ll be able to make the flimsiwork all nice and neat.”

The flimsiwork was only the means of making sure the record on which they based all other decisions was accurate, not the end in itself. But Appo did not bother to correct the General with information he was fairly certain the General did not wish to receive – the General was not a brother, who he trusted to respond to his inquiries in a reasonable and cooperative fashion. At any rate, he’d gotten an answer, or as close as he thought he was likely to get of one.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “I’ll do that.”

He went back to his quarters and called up the form on his datapad. It was one of the Jedi additions to Republic standard. It had been issued in one of the recent circulars, which had included an explanation of when it was appropriate for use and the reasoning behind it – something about how belonging to the Jedi Order meant entitling the rank and file to getting answers to questions from the Jedi if they had them.

It sounded like a whole lot of junk to Appo. Soldiers weren’t meant to ask questions that weren’t mission-relevant, they were supposed to obey. That was the point of being soldiers.

A clone trooper who didn’t obey orders wasn’t worth anything.

Appo checked, and, to his lack of surprise, the number of times Form 15b63 had been filed could be counted in the low double digits. Most of them appeared to have been filed in error, although there appeared to be at least one instance of Alpha-17 submitting a form requesting information regarding…hm. To translate it into the vernacular, he appeared to be asking “what the kark is wrong with General Kenobi”, and the answer provided was “he’s just like that, sorry”.

(Appo had only met Alpha-17 very briefly during his time on Kamino, and they had not gotten along particularly well. One time, relatively early during command class training, Alpha-17 had loudly said in the presence of his favorite training squad of commanders-to-be that if all clone troopers could be represented by landing strip lights, Appo’s would have been dim enough to cause a ship to crash. Appo still had no idea what he'd done to merit the comment.)

The form itself was easy to fill out. Appo listed his name and number, added identifying details regarding his battalion, described the nature of his request and the relevant background, and even attached his personal security clearances as support. He expressed, in the strongest terms as he could manage, that identifying Slick's ultimate fate was important not necessarily for itself, but as a matter of good conduct and appropriate protocol, which seemed more likely to be convincing. He made sure to indicate that he would be satisfied with mere notification that a resolution of the information issue had been reached, under the assumption that the matter likely exceeded his personal clearance level. 

He submitted the form, designating it as urgent and tagging it for the next data burst headed back to HQ on Coruscant. These could often be unpredictable, creating all sorts of delays; there was a reason that urgent orders came through by holocall. But since Appo was in charge of the comm officer's schedules, it was easy enough to arrange for the burst to go out the same day.

Unexpectedly, he received a response in the very next return burst, only three hours later.

Your inquiry has been received and has entered processing. Your request for information is very important to us, and we are committed to answering it in a timely matter. If you have not heard back in two weeks and your question remains outstanding, please resubmit the form.

May the Force be with you.

~J. Nu

Appo stared at the message. He’d never seen anything like it before. The vast majority of the forms he filed went into the yawning black void of GAR High Command with no response whatsoever, and those responses he did get were brusquely dismissive. Presumably this bizarrely conversational tone was due to the involvement of the Jedi.

It was probably just an automatic filler response.

But...that didn't mean he couldn't take it seriously.

The response did say to resubmit the form if he didn't get an answer. Technically speaking, it was not an order Appo was obligated to follow, as it came from outside his line of command - but since the Jedi were involved, Appo could choose it treat it as one. All Jedi were Generals. It wouldn't be totally against protocol. Order were meant to be followed.

It would, however, be a waste of time.

Appo wasn’t stupid, and he wasn’t actually blind, either. He followed orders without question, of course, but his strict adherence to protocol wasn’t about being dogmatic for the sake of it, the way it was for some others. It was because the rules were simply far too easy to break – and once you started breaking them, it was easier and easier to keep on doing so, and harder and harder to turn back. If Slick could be vanished without a proper designation, then so could anyone else, and that was a dangerous precedent to set. But in truth, one trooper more or less wouldn't actually cause any real issues. The 501st were due to get a new cohort of clones shipped out of Kamino relatively soon, exact details to be determined. It would be easy enough to just slot one of those into the right place, keep the numbers even. There would be no disruption in service, and the record would not really be affected.

In short, it would be easy to do as Rex and the General had instructed and to leave it alone. Appo had already filed the request form, which was more than anyone could have expected him to do on behalf of a fellow clone he had no particular feelings about. He could just leave it at that, and move on to the myriad of other far more urgent tasks he had to do. 

Slick probably wouldn't have done even half as much if it had been Appo who had been left in this strange technical limbo, assuming he would have even noticed it in the first place. 

Assuming anyone would have noticed.

A clone is just a copy, meant to be used up and discarded. Why must you keep persisting? You’re making a bad impression on your commanding officer, and for no reason at all. Isn’t it bad enough already that you’re you, without making it worse..?

Intrusive thought. Rejected.

Appo finished his work period and went to his bunk. All of the sergeants he shared a room with were on the same shift, meaning that they all rose and slept on the same schedule; there was another group that was on duty during the other shifts. There should have been more of them to fill out a full complement, but lots of people had died, and not every post had been filled yet. Officers in particular took longer to train and were harder to replace, even NCOs like him, and they were running low while they waited for resupply and promotions to be doled out. Every sergeant was meant to have had their own squad of five troopers to focus on, but they had already started grouping multiple squads under one sergeant - a temporary measure, they said, and meant it, but Appo suspected that as long as the war continued, personnel pressures would get only worse, not better.

Appo laid there, in the dark, and listened to the others breathe. Only two others, now, since Slick was gone, and the sound of the room that he had grown used to was different. 

That wasn't uncommon. The war was savage, brutal, and there were new losses after every battle. There wasn’t a single trooper outside of the shinies that didn’t know the feeling of looking for someone and seeing only an empty gap, blank spots in their ranks filled only by the ghosts of the dead.

Only...Slick wasn't dead.

He wasn't dead, he wasn't missing, he wasn't at his post.

He wasn't anything. Not even a numerical designation on the right list.

"Hey, Riven," Appo said, staring blankly at the ceiling above his bunk. 

A huff, cough, the noises of someone already mostly asleep waking back up partway. "Yeah, Appo?"

"Can we swap third squads?"

"Third..? Oh, Slick's old squad? Sure, you're welcome to them, if you're sure about it. It's tough luck, losing their sarge like that."

It was a nasty hit to morale, he meant. Clones were designed to be loyal, loyal to the Jedi, to the Republic, to each other, and that loyalty generally flowed up. Losing a superior was particularly hard, and a superior you actually liked was even harder. And when morale was low...

No one expected Slick's squad to survive for long. 

Whoever their next sergeant was, they would have to be ready for that. Both emotionally and practically - it would be their job to make sure that the grieving squad didn't take anyone with them when they went down. That was the grim reality of life as a sergeant, right up close and personal with the troopers and the way the war devastated them in a way the commanders and captains and even lieutenants rarely were. It was not a task any of them enjoyed, and so they generally split it among themselves, taking turns. 

Unless someone volunteered.

"I'm sure," Appo said. “I’ll take them.”

"All yours, then. I'll register the transfer in the morning."

Appo didn't say anything.

"...or I could register it now. Like the diligent, protocol-abiding soldier I am and aspire to be."

"Thanks, Riven,” Appo said, satisfied. “Tell me your preferred position for the next campaign, and I'll give you first shot at it if I can."

Riven made a pleased sound, even as Hutch in the bunk next to his immediately came awake with sounds of complaint and jealousy. He would almost certainly challenge Riven for the privilege during their next downtime, and only chance and the sabbac table would tell who actually had it by the time they went into the battlefield once more.

Appo closed his eyes.

[gaiaseyes451]

Excited to share my first @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt!

Slow Waltz

The antique record player turns only slightly newer vinyl around in a slow circle, the needle gliding unhurriedly along its well known path. The genius of men long dead, composed even longer ago dances with the dust motes and lamplight of the bookshop. It’s a waltz, Crowley pictures the dance steps as the first spirited notes pluck at his fingers, tapping in time. Shostakovich, if he’s not mistaken, and he knows he is correct. The tender, legato melody begins and Aziraphale’s eyes flutter shut, his hands conducting as they hover over his lap, a smile lifting his cheeks.

He remembers the salons in Paris, the halls in Moscow, the chambers in Vienna. They would sit—or stand—hands moving in time together yet never touching. Crowley knew better than to ask the angel to dance.

Perhaps eventually, maybe one more song.

***

Midnight is heralded by the rich toll of the grandfather clock’s chimes reverberating through the calm air. Aziraphale startles at the sound. As he’d watched Crowley melt deeper into his chair and his cups, Aziraphale’s thoughts had wandered to centuries long past. The people and customs and drink had changed and yet these nights—passed alone but together—were constant. The easy banter and exasperating contrariness yielding to a devastating fondness as the alcohol loosened their lips and cleared their vision.

”’S late,” the demon says, schooling his limbs into a semblance of a sitting position. “Should be going.”

”So soon?” Aziraphale asks, almost lighthearted if not for the tightness around the words. “It’s just now midnight and you seemed rather comfortable and it’s not as if I would sleep,” he rambles before stopping and taking a breath.

Crowley is watching him, one eyebrow quirked, more curious than wary.

“We haven’t even finished the bottle,” Aziraphale waves at the table strewn with wine bottles and if there’s a faint tinkling of miraculous bells neither seems to hear it.

There’s a smirk playing at Crowley’s lips. Aziraphale relaxes a little, settling back in his chair, pleased with himself at a successful temptation.

“Well,” Crowley drawls, sliding back into his chair. “Maybe one more drink.”

***

Motionless is an usual state for Crowley. His entire existence, he feels, has been a string of perpetual motion. Buzzing with anxiety, humming with affection, shimmering with hope. This moment—standing still while the world moves around him—is a harsher collision than he’s experienced in all his millenia. He regrets supporting the concept of inertia.

First, his breathing had stopped when Aziraphale said he was returning to Heaven. Then, Crowley’s heart when he’d asked Crowley to go with him. Now, no part of Crowley moves as he stands, motionless and resolute, braced against the Bentley. Only his eyes follow Aziraphale out of the bookshop, across the street, into the lift that will take him away for Satan-knows-how-long.

Crowley wills Aziraphale to turn, to look at him. To see him standing there. He did not leave; Crowley will never leave. Not without Aziraphale.

Maybe one more look, one more glance over his shoulder and the angel will see it, too.

The look never comes.

***

Crisp white suit, cold white tiles, vapid austere company, Aziraphale walks through the corridors of Heaven. At the model of Earth, he pauses and the angels walking with him stop, too. It is a well worn routine by now and the other angels disperse into idle chatter or feigned tasks as he rotates the globe in search of one being.

He always searches for the same person. He always finds him, no matter how well Crowley hides.

This time, he’s making no attempt to be covert. Quite the opposite, really. On the globe Italy—Venice in particular—smolders with temptations of lust and gluttony and an abundance of venial sins. Carnival.

Aziraphale turns his head into his shoulder to hide his smile. He remembers all the times he and Crowley met at this celebration, choosing to enjoy the revelry themselves rather than wasting the energy to negate the other’s influence.

He spares a small miracle, changing the crimson lining of Crowley’s mask to marigold. He hopes the demon will know what it means, when he sees it.

Aziraphale believes they will meet again, in Venice or Moscow or Paris or Vienna. Or London. In a bookshop, with a bottle of wine and Schostacovich’s waltz. And they’ll finally, finally dance.

Maybe one more year and it will be safe.

[artherzenswarme]

A Professional and Their Tools: Figure 1. - The Pyro wears what seems to be a variation on an Air-Force Captain's uniform. Their gas mask seems to be partially melted, and permanently fused to the face underneath. Figure 2. - The Pyro's External Compression Pack. It both cleans air for the Pyro to breath, but also charges compression blasts which can be dispersed through the Pyro's Flamethrower, or through the exhaust vents on the ECP itself, which provides a small amount of vertical thrust. Figure 3. - The Pyro's Flamethrower. Made to be reminiscent of an All Terrain Vehicle, or a Dirt Bike. Pyro's work often sees them working far off the grid, a durable and reliable flamethrower is key to success in these rugged environments. Figure 4. - The Flare Gun. Pyro's only real tool for long ranged engagements. Can be combined with his ECP blast for additional movement options. Figure 5. - Shotgun. Modeled to resemble a SPAS-12 style shotgun. My designs for the TF2 mercs are intended to be older, reflecting the amount of time that has passed for both the viewer and the characters. This style of shotgun began production in the early 80s, which is around the timeframe I place my mercs. Figure 6. - Pyro's Fire Axe. Made to more closely resemble the types of axes used in fighting forest fires and in controlled burnings, rather than axes used by domestic firefighters. I see Pyro as a somewhat reclusive character, and one who enjoys using the destructive power of fire to maintain and nurture. Figure 7. - Pyro's Medal of Courage. Technically, a Congressional Medal of Courage Displayed in the Face of Overwhelming Fire. Presented to the Pyro by President Jane Doe. Figure 8. - A Rubber Ducky. One of Pyro's prized posessions.

[thoughtdaughtr]

Paris Fashion Week (Harry x Model!Reader)

-> got this idea from Harry at Paris Fashion last week, lol. This is kind of rushed cause I had a doctors appointment 😭

Warnings: None

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The air was electric as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow over the bustling streets of Paris. The iconic Eiffel Tower shimmered in the distance, providing a breathtaking backdrop for the fashion show that was about to commence.

Y/N, an up-and-coming model, adjusted her sleek black dress, the fabric hugging her curves perfectly. She felt a rush of excitement mixed with nerves; this was her moment to shine. It wasn’t just the show that had her heart racing, though. Harry Styles was sitting front row, his presence magnetic, even from afar.

As the lights dimmed and the first model stepped onto the runway, Y/N took a deep breath. She focused on the rhythm of the music, letting it guide her as she stepped onto the catwalk. She felt eyes on her, but one gaze was more intense than the others. Harry’s eyes met hers, and for a brief moment, time stood still.

After the show, Y/N’s heart still raced, but this time from the thrill of the performance and the anticipation of what might happen next. As the crowd dispersed, she caught sight of Harry, surrounded by fans and photographers. He smiled and waved, his charm undeniable.

“Y/N!” someone called. It was her stylist, Zoey, beckoning her to join the after-party. She hesitated, glancing back at Harry, who seemed to sense her gaze and looked right at her.

“Come on,” Zoey urged, nudging her. “You need to celebrate!”

The party was a whirlwind of laughter, music, and flashing lights. Y/N mingled with other models and designers, but her mind kept wandering back to Harry. Just then, she noticed him slipping through the crowd, his eyes searching.

“Hey,” he said, leaning against a nearby wall, a playful grin lighting up his face. “You were incredible out there.”

“Thank you! You really think so?” Y/N replied, trying to keep her voice steady.

“Absolutely. You’ve got something special,” he said, stepping closer. “I’m Harry, by the way.”

“Y/N,” she introduced, feeling a rush of warmth.

They talked for a while, the world around them fading away. Harry was charismatic and funny, and she found herself laughing freely. As the night went on, they wandered to a quieter terrace drinks in hand, the city lights sparkling below.

“Do you come here often?” he asks with a chuckle, leaning against the railing, his gaze fixed on her.

“Not really. This is my first Fashion Week,” she admits with a nervous laugh, glancing down nervously.

“First of many, I hope. You have the talent,” he said, his eyes sparkling with sincerity. “And the looks to match.”

Y/N felt her cheeks flush. “Thanks, but I still have so much to learn.”

“That’s part of the journey, isn’t it?” he replied. “You have to enjoy every moment.”

Their conversation flowed effortlessly, and Y/N felt an undeniable connection. The night deepened, and the stars twinkled overhead. Suddenly, Harry took a step closer, his expression shifting to something more serious.

“I know this sounds crazy, but I feel like I’ve known you forever,” he said softly.

Y/N's heart raced. “I feel it too.”

Just then, a loud cheer erupted from the party below, breaking the spell. Harry chuckled, shaking his head. “Maybe we should join them before they think we’ve vanished.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” she replied, though a part of her wanted to stay in this moment forever.

As they made their way back inside, Harry turned to her, a playful glint in his eye. “Can I see you again after this?”

Y/N smiled, her heart soaring. “I’d like that.”

The night continued, but that promise lingered in the air, filling her with hope and excitement. In the city of love, amidst the glamour and chaos, two paths had crossed, and it felt like just the beginning of something beautiful.

[kevin-the-bruyne]

You calling khao a fuccboi cz of his insta posts is taking me tf out 🤣🤣🤣🤣 i havent seen anyone being as real about them as you are, it’s a breath of fresh air. i love them even though theyre basically non existent to anyone except eo 😭

oh I can get so real about them. I get so real about them that I get mistaken for an anti on Twitter all the time 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣 like no jokes I had to put it in my bio

they really know nothing else in a way that’s actively kinda bad for their rep (though it drives a certain faction of people that I am absolutely part of totally nutso).

Like if this were fake then they’re doing too good a job and they have to dial it back. They have to sometimes look like they remember it’s fake. Like those dispersed moments of character break is really really important for this to be successful in the format of the business model of imaginary couples. Like even if the couple were really in a romantic relationship they would still have to pretend they were fake at times do you understand what I’m trying to say?

and I cannot explain this in words but khaotung at his solo event was pining for first. I just- I don’t remember it being like that at the event with montow??? They’re getting worse at this. Like they hit the soft spot somewhere back in 2023 and have just regressed into diminishing marginal utility 😭😭😭

But also like??? thank god??? for that!!!!!!! I am endlessly entertained! I’m at the edge of my seat. I don’t think any of these men are normal about their fake partners by the way. But don’t you understand them??? Say if you had a friend that you had some ritualistic hobby with. Like everytime a spider man movie comes out you always watch it with them. And then when the next one came out they suddenly watched it with someone else. Like wouldn’t it drive you absolutely crazy? wouldn’t it make you sad?

Like the versions of themselves that are in fake love with each other are THEIR blorbos 🤧 But firstkhao are blorbo-ing a little too close to the sun 🤧🤧🤧🤧 best friends who take care of each other as more than best friends - yessir whatever you say sir 🫡