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lets-try-some-writing · 3 months ago

Note

Concept: the entire Transformers franchise is one giant time loop. Every new iteration is another attempt to get it right and avert the Great War.

I wrote an entire one shot specifically for this ask. Enjoy.

Aversion at its Finest

Primus has never been pleased with the fact that his creations always go to war with each other. Thus, in an attempt to keep the Cybertronian civil war from occurring, he has chosen to periodically rebuild reality and try again with the help of his chosen. Unfortunately for Optimus, Primus is learning the ropes just as much as he is, and until they both get it right, neither can rest.

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━

The skies were thick with smog. Fires burned in the distance, but only their crackling filled the void. There were no more cries. No more moans of pain or the curses of the most hardened warriors of both sides. All was quiet. Everything was gone… save for Optimus and his foe.

The hole in his chassis burned. He could feel his frame shutting down as he lay in the ash, his limbs useless now that he had no enemy to fell or weapon to hold. He would have liked to see the stars as it all came to an end, especially since he was not surrounded by friends and family as he had been during his first death. Yet, he didn’t dare turn his gaze away from the blackened skies. If he did, he knew all he would see was Rodimus’s body stabbed through with dozens of pieces of rebar and Elita torn limb from limb.

Both had fought so very hard for him. Trying desperately to buy him just a little more time. If they had only had the chance to activate the space bridge, maybe they could have brought their species to its bitter end on their homeworld rather than dragging Earth down with them. As it was… this was to be the end. The end of everything. No more games. No more laughter.

Only silence.

“We had a good run, didn’t we, Prime?” Megatron spoke up, his voice as deep and grating as ever. There was a faint tremor to it, the barest inklings of fear that threatened to peek through the persona of madness he usually wore. After so many millennia of fighting the mech, Optimus could tell that he was seeking companionship, even now as they lay waiting for their respective ends.

“Yes we did, Megatron.” Optimus replied just as faintly, his right optic flickering just enough to annoy him even with the pain of death creeping at the edges of his every waking thought. He kept his optics on the sky, not wanting to see the devastation. At least the black above was without blemish. It was solid, not filled with horrors. Merely the echoes of them.

How had it all come to this? Cybertron was restored. Their people were thriving. Optimus and Rodimus were ruling together and Galvatron left for the stars? Just how had it all gone so wrong?

A renewed war.

A plague of hate.

The Quintessons and their creations.

Unicron’s wrath.

So many little things… all of it leading them right back to where they started. War and violence, pain and anguish… without a hint of hope to be found. When had Optimus heard any of his soldiers laugh? It had to have been centuries.

“Rodimus was a poor replacement. I never did get the same thrill fighting him.” Megatron chuckled and Optimus had to fight the urge to work up the strength to throttle him to death for it. Even now as everything they could have possibly worked toward lay burning to ash, his foe was still laughing about it all. Like it was some grand game.

“He was never meant for war, and you were hardly yourself when you were Galvatron.” Optimus was unable to stop the hint of bitterness that entered his tone. Rodimus had not asked for the burden. He never deserved such an end.

“Very true.” Megatron responded with a faint huff that died down soon enough.

Silence consumed the battlefield for a while. Perhaps it was mere minutes. Or maybe it went on for years. Time meant nothing now. But eventually, as if to spite him one final time, Megatron opened his mouth again.

“You were a good rival, Optimus. Always taking me by surprise.” The comment briefly took Optimus by surprise. But the cold was already settling into frame, making his processor slow and his reactions more controlled. He said nothing, opting instead to observe the skies as he had since he fell.

“I’m going to miss this.” Megatron’s faint wish rang in his audials. Optimus acknowledged it with a soft hum, his final offer of amiability considering the circumstances. As much as a small part of him screamed that he should let Megatron suffer at the end of it all, the rest of his spark could not handle that idea. They were dying anyway. Might as well do so in relative comfort.

So many millennia of conflict… Why had they battled at all? Megatron was a power hungry villain, yes. But how did it reach that point? Why did Megatron attack him and his friends at the docks? Why had Megatron risen to power at all?

Why had it turned out this way?

His processor ached as he thought back, dredging up ancient memory and finding nothing. Had there even been a point?

“Why were we fighting to begin with? Why did you choose to do all of this?” Optimus found the question escaping his vocalizer before he could stop it. Against his better judgement, he looked over at Megatron and saw his foe grinning, but not meeting his gaze. The beam stuck in Megatron’s abdomen left him spitting up energon as he cackled.

“Come now Prime. You should know the answer to this.” Megatron’s optics blazed between flickers, his servo reaching up toward the sky as if to grasp at some invisible goal. Optimus wondered what the answer would be. Glory? Some strange ideal that he’d never seen fit to share? Perhaps to avenge a long dead loved one?

“Power of course.”

Ah.

He should have known better.

“But why? You were a state of the art model. You had the whole world in front of you, and instead you chose to burn it all down.” Anger and despair boiled in Optimus’s very core. All this death had been for some twisted power fantasy? At least if it had been due to some old rivalry or goal Optimus could have died with an answer.

By the stars… what a life he’d lived.

“I’ve forgotten.” Megatron’s response to his anguished question came soft and oddly thoughtful. Yet, Optimus could only respond with a grim scoff, a sound he hadn’t made since he was Orion Pax.

“You’ve forgotten why you killed millions?”

“You act as though you haven’t slaughtered thousands yourself.” Megatron shot back with a vicious retort before laughing. If Optimus were capable of shaking in rage, he would have. But his frame was weakening, his systems failing faster now. He simply didn’t have the energy.

“Does it really matter, Prime? Today we die. So shut up and do it with a bit of grace.” Optimus’s optic twitched in agitation. Megatron was one to talk when all he’d done was screech at Starscream and Soundwave the times he lay on death’s door.

“Never would have taken you to be a mech to go down quietly.” Optimus snarked as he sensed the Matrix going quiet. That was his sign to hurry up with his final will and testament if he’d had anyone aside from the glitch next to him to express his thoughts to.

“Normally, I wouldn’t. But I dragged you down with me, didn’t I? Ripped your Autobots apart and blasted you half to pieces.” Oh for the good of Vector Sigma-

Optimus’s optic twitched again, anger bubbling so hotly that if he’d had even the barest inkling of strength left he would have gotten up and shut Megatron up himself, mercy forgotten. As it stood, all he could do was clench his fist and rage internally.

“You are the worst.” His bitter remark was met with a laugh, one he didn’t bother responding to. Not even a few minutes later, the faint sounds of Megatron’s venting vanished, leaving Optimus alone with his fate. A bitter part of his processor cursed at his old foe for being selfish yet again and dying before Optimus could. But most of his spark was simply weary.

Anger faded into sorrow and lamentation. Strength slipped right through his digits and the only comfort Optimus had in his final moments were the memories of better times. Even those did little to ease him as his venting grew harsher.

It wouldn’t be long now.

“Elita… what would you think of this madness?” Optimus coughed weakly, an instinctual response to try and clear his soot filled vents. He knew it was useless, especially as his processor started furiously running through every memory file it had access to.

He saw his soldiers in their final moments. He saw the war at its worst and the peace Rodimus brought. He saw his first clash with Megatron after his reformat. But most importantly to him, he saw Ariel’s fair face smiling at him as she guided Orion Pax along the docks for one of their usual dates. He felt her derma against his as they danced under the moonlight, and with that memory held close, all was right with the world.

It was a pleasant vision, one Optimus clung to as his optics shut down and the rest of his frame quickly followed suit. But instead of the Allspark greeting him, Optimus found himself in a void. Formless and alone.

He had no idea how long he spent there or if it even mattered. But eventually, as thought and consciousness grew less important, a voice rang out.

“So much death…”

The chorus-like nature of the voice washed over Optimus in waves, reviving memories that had gone dormant and bringing him back to full awareness. He could not identify where the song came from or if it came from anywhere at all. All he knew was that it was powerful and demanded respect he knew not how to give.

“You were all such innocent children. It should not have come to this.”

Children? Strange.

“We will try again. We will make this right.”

What was that supposed to mean? He died. That was it. He was one with the Allspark once more. Wasn’t he?

“Who’s there? What’s going on?” He tried to ask questions, but his voice felt like a faint wisp in the wind compared to the power of the entity which spoke as if the whole universe hung in its grasp.

“Hush now. Rest while you can. Your duty is not yet done.”

Optimus’s vision was flooded with images of things he could hardly comprehend. War. Death. Fire and brutal combat. The forms of the fighters changed, sometimes thick and sometimes spindly. But through it all, there was one figure Optimus knew by spark. Gunmetal gray and built for war, he knew the frame of his foe without even having to think about it. With his blaster raised to the sky and a roar bubbling in his vocalizer, Optimus understood what was being asked of him.

The battle was not yet over. He didn’t know how or why, but Megatron was out there, and he had to be stopped. That was the only possible conclusion Optimus could come to.

“How long must I fight?”

“Till All Are One.”

And then everything faded away once more.

----

Optimus came online slowly, memory washing over him in an overpowering wave that left him shaking on whatever berth he was laid out on. There was much to sort through, but the first thing he remembered was his current identity.

He was Optimus Prime, brought to life using a protoform and trained at the Academy to serve the Autobots and guard Cybertron against their greatest foes, the Decepticons. He was raised under the belief that the war was over and that his programming defined his reality. However, he fought against both of these concepts and strove to be something more, a hero of all things.

He had friends during training. Elita-One and Sentinel. Both betrayed him, although at different times and with varying justification. Cast aside for his ‘crimes’, Optimus was allowed to keep the rank of Prime, a position that came close to equaling that of General rather than supreme ruler of the people. From there he was all but demoted and supplied with a crew to repair space bridges.

It was a simple life, but ambition and one unfortunate crash led them to Earth. Megatron and his Decepticons remerged. He made friends, growing close to his team who were so similar and yet so different all at once. He did not know a Bulkhead until now, or a Sentinel for that matter. But Bumblebee, Ratchet, and Elita? They sparked recognition in him.

Slag, his processors hurt.

“Bossbot! You alright?” A far too excitable voice prompted Optimus to unshutter his optics, coming online fully with a groan. He sat up slowly, rubbing his face and trying to comprehend his reality as he began to recall more. Looking at the bot who called him, Optimus logically knew him as Bumblebee. But half his processor screamed at him that Bumblebee looked and acted differently. Boxier, more mature in some regards, and yet playful all the same.

This Bumblebee was his, but he was wrong. All so very wrong.

“Bumblebee? What… happened?” Optimus’s optics tried to calibrate, but there was something off about it. These optics were a little different from the ones he knew. Where was his battlemask? Why was he so… lanky?

No. He was always lanky. The memories… they were not his.

“You were holding the Allspark and got a bit too close.” Ratchet put a servo on his shoulder, stunning Optimus as he stared at the medic. Slag, he was ancient. His records stated he was old, but contradicting memory indicated that Ratchet was meant to at least act a bit younger with humor and laughter. What the frag happened?

“It knocked you flat on your aft!” Bumblebee laughed, and that much at least was familiar. Optimus touched his chassis, feeling his spark pulse within as memory settled. Ancient and now useless protocols faded away to make room for data he could actually use.

“I… yes. I remember.” He was a dock worker once. Orion Pax was his name. He was shot. He was reforged. He claimed a relic his current reality did not know until the Allspark was placed within it. He fought against his enemy, Megatron. He went on adventures, made friends.

Then he lay in ash and ruin, his world shattered.

“I died.” His voice came out softer than intended as Optimus looked down at his servos. They were not covered in scars like his old ones. They did not reek of plasma, nor did his body ache with familiar pains from centuries of hastily tended wounds. He was young, and now he had wisdom.

“Yeah, but that was forever ago back on Earth!” Bumblebee tapped his arm lightly, but Optimus hardly reacted. It was difficult having two personalities settle, but purpose guided him. The voice in the void ordered that he fight Megatron. Did he have to obey?

Looking at his team, his friends… Optimus found himself leaning into the order regardless of the validity of the voice and its authority. The wisdom of the Prime he once was, or at least the Prime that existed in another time and place, would aid him in saving his own people and saving them that same fate.

He was Optimus Prime, and his mission was to stop Megatron at all costs.

“His processor is scrambled.” Bulkhead gestured nervously, earning a huff from Ratchet who began taking scans. Optimus paid him no mind, instead standing up and squaring his shoulders. The joy of his first existence was more subdued now, calmed by reawakening and determination.

“Where is Megatron?” The question came sharply, more so than Optimus intended. His voice shook as he attempted to speak with a vibrato he no longer possessed. His friends looked at him strangely, and Ratchet took the chance to quietly begin assessing his frame. Optimus allowed it, his focus elsewhere.

“In prison. We brought him back to Cybertron, remember?” Bulkhead informed politely, only earning a low hum from Optimus as he considered. Megatron was defeated. So why had the voice done this and ordered that he fight? He’d won, hadn’t he? Surely there was something missing… Perhaps another Decepticon? A Galvatron in the making? Or was Unicron the threat?

“And the rest of the Decepticons?” He could feel his spark sinking in his chassis as he considered the possibilities. If so much as Starscream managed to get away-

“Unaccounted for.” Frag.

Optimus cursed under his breath, a habit that his prior self would have never approved of. He crossed his arms, thinking and reviewing memory for a long moment until something stuck out.

Tender touches shared in the dark. First with Elita-One, and then with another. A blue visor that shone in the moonlight, the simple pleasure of digits laced together. A soothing voice and dozens of hours spent in meditation he never quite understood but engaged in anyway for the sake of companionship. The adoring glances exchanged when the others were deep in recharge or otherwise engaged…

“What about Prowl?” His spark knew the truth, as did his processor. But some small fragment of Optimus’s being needed confirmation.

“He fell in the final battle.” Ratchet’s words hit harder than expected, and Optimus couldn’t help but sit back down with a sigh.

It was never official. What he shared with Prowl was a simple companionship that walked the line between something deeper and mere brotherhood. They never used words to describe themselves because such labels were dangerous. They both claimed it would hurt more that way. And yet, as Optimus reviewed his memories of their intimate moments shared when no one was looking, he felt nothing but grief. No one knew what they had. None would understand.

It was like leaving Elita-One on Cybertron all over again. The ache would never fully fade, but it was dulled by the memories of his prior existence which diluted his affections, spreading them out over others who he had not even met in his current reality.

“I see…” Optimus took a moment to sit in silence, a grace period that even the likes of Bumblebee respected. Memory supplied him with countless battles, and from the experiences of his prior self, he had a feeling that he’d already come too late to stop what was brewing. His memory would do little when the Decepticons were already a fully trained, highly organized militia. There was no stopping it now.

“This… is not going to end well.” Optimus’s words were hardly a whisper, but they felt dooming.

His declaration turned out to be entirely correct as time wore on.

The Autobot empire fell apart in brutal fashion, with Ultra Magnus dying and Sentinel Magnus making a fragging mess out of everything. Optimus raised a militia of his own with the help of his other self’s memory, but by the time he had his people in line and Sentinel in prison, war was already upon them. Megatron matched the vision the voice shared as he burned their cities and killed their warriors. Optimus fought as well as he could, but this Megatron was far more cunning that the one his prior self knew. Not quite as vicious perhaps, but highly intelligent.

One battle after another, and Optimus watched history repeat itself. The laughter and joy of his people dimmed. Stoicism and anger set in as the Allspark failed and their war grew more destructive. It was like the great war from long before his forging, only a thousand times worse. Optimus had no words to describe it as he led his warriors onward, fighting for something even he no longer understood. He acted because that was what duty demanded. Heroism and personal agendas were irrelevant.

Vorns upon vorns of conflict, and he ended up right where he began. His warriors had all been slaughtered, with Bumblebee and Sentinel of all bots having fallen in his defense instead of Elita-One and Rodimus. His frame was slowly shutting down from yet another brutal blaster wound to his chassis, leaving Optimus on his knees. But instead of having the satisfaction of bringing Megatron down with him, Optimus sat alone amidst the rubble of their world, a blaster pointed right at his helm.

“This is the end, little Prime.” Megatron’s voice rang out, but he couldn’t even find it in himself to be angry. This Megatron was not a glitch about his victory. Instead… he seemed somewhat solemn as he lowered his weapon temporarily, allowing Optimus a chance to speak.

“Why? Why go this far?” Optimus couldn’t help but ask the question that had been burning at the back of his mind since he woke all those vorns ago, before he was bitter and scarred. His Megatron had been a power hungry glitch, insanity driving his every action. But this Megatron was far wiser. So why had he done this? Why burn it all down?

“Because your people, the society you built, are corrupt. My kind were bound in chains, told they were monsters and enslaved.” Megatron knelt down, a sign he recognized as indicating respect. Optimus released his axe with a faint cough as he clutched the wound on his side. There was no point fighting now. And beyond that… there was truth in Megatron’s words.

Reviewing the history of both his lives, he could see that there were cracks. Orion Pax had been oblivious to the hidden discrimination toward the frame types that fell out of acceptable ranges. In his current existence, Optimus could now clearly sense the lies that had been fed to him. Thousands of warframe and only warframes would not rebel without reason. They would not flee for millennia instead of blowing the planet to the next solar system. They weren’t an organization built for seeking out power.

Megatron had reasons for his violence, and that at least was a vague comfort.

“I may have had to wait millions of years, but today my people shall have their vengeance and their freedom.” Megatron’s optics were blazing, and yet offered no emotion except eerie calm. Optimus coughed as he tried to respond. It hurt so much now…

“I… I fought for the freedom of my people too. I have fought for so long.” He hated whining, but he was unable to stop the tremor in his voice as he sagged in defeat. He’d managed to fail a second time.

“And I do not blame you for your struggle. You had no way of seeing through the lies.” Megatron, in a gesture of good will Optimus would have never expected, carefully pulled Optimus to his pedes. He held the back of Optimus’s neck, keeping up the illusion that he had the strength to walk himself as Megatron guided him to stand before the Decepticon army, now reveling in their victory.

“Here stands the last of the Autobots! The only one among their number who shall die with honor!” Megatron’s voice rang out. But instead of cheering, the Decepticons stood quiet and firm. Their optics were all locked onto him, but none were disrespecting the dead. The Autobots who had fallen were laid out, gathered by lower ranked Decepticons to be put to rest respectfully. It was enough to have Optimus’s venting hitch as Megatron’s blade came to rest against his neck.

He had failed. But at least this end was an honorable one.

“You were a good rival, Optimus. Die well, and know that I have respected no other as I have you.” Optimus managed a faint laugh as he looked up, uncaring of the doom that awaited him as he once again found himself staring up at smoke filled skies.

He missed Elita. He missed Prowl.

“Till All Are One.” With his final mutter, the blade came down, and Optimus knew no more…

Until the voice rang out as it had millennia earlier.

“Too late. You woke too late.”

The chorus washed over him again, soothing and yet dejected all at once. Optimus felt a flash of anger infused his being as he snapped back, pain and anguish from both lives overwhelming reason.

“How was I supposed to have remembered earlier? I only got my memory back when I used the Allspark-” Before he could finish, the voice cut him off firmly, but not unkindly.

“It was not your fault. You fought well, my chosen.”

Optimus wanted to stay angry, but the faint comfort kept him from doing more than bristling internally.

“We will try again. Just as we did before.”

Oh.

So the voice was going to send him back again. But why? What did this thing care about so deeply?

“Who are you?” He tried to pose a question, but again the voice silenced him as it washed around him in a maelstrom of love, determination, and conviction.

“Not now. We are out of time.”

----

Once more, Optimus woke. This time however, he came online with a start.

He shot up, clutching at his chassis as his spark spun and his processor burned with new data. It was easier this time to know and to accept. This frame was built for larger stores of information, a genetic quality of his lineage. He heard others around him, but he was far more focused on the meshing of personalities that now overwhelmed him.

He was forged a Prime, rather than made into one. He was of an ancient line, but only by the standards of his current reality. By any other metric, he was still young, practically a newbuild. He had a brother, Megatron. Together they were raised by Sentinel Prime, but only Optimus was chosen to lead their people. Megatron was to be his Lord High Protector, but too many squabbles and differences of opinion led to jealousy. That jealousy boiled over into war.

Optimus led his people as well as he could, but compared to the experiences of his other lives, he was all but a child. He had strength and he had wisdom, but he lacked the necessary exposure to truly wage war successfully. Megatron was no better, and so their war waged until their world burned and the galaxy crumbled in their wake. Countless good mecha died, including close allies and companions during the battle to save Earth and reclaim the Matrix.

And Jazz… by the Allspark, they’d lost Jazz.

“Prime, slow down.” Ratchet pressed a servo against his chest, forcing Optimus to sit back down as he unknowingly attempted to stand. Only then did Optimus note how erratic his venting was, or how hard his servos shook as he tried to calm his anxious spark.

“Slaggit mech, scared the scrap outta us.” Ironhide tugged on Optimus’s arm as well, forcing him to settle. Optimus looked at both their faces and had to fight back a flinch. Ironhide looked… wrong by the standard of his prior lives. As did Ratchet for that matter. Their face plates did not exist, instead replaced by ever shifting parts to facilitate movement that he logically knew was required for proper functionality in their kind.

After a moment, Optimus’s initial fear response settled and he began to review anything of importance. Immediately he recognized the fact that he was far too late to do what the voice was asking of him. He still wasn’t entirely sure if the voice wanted him to kill Megatron or win the war. But both options were practically impossible to reach considering his situation. Their people were all but extinct as it was. Even if he won the war and ended his brother, their world was still dead.

It would be like the first life he lived. Eventually, they would all perish. Considering how upset the voice was about the death of so many, Optimus assumed it would prefer a different outcome. Slag there was so much to do. He was already too late to save what was lost. Jazz would have already had a plan-

Jazz.

His servos shook as Optimus buried his face in his servos, remembering yet another loss that weighed on him. First Elita, then Prowl, and now Jazz.

Jazz had been with him since the beginning. He was a friend during training, a comrade as Optimus found himself accepted into the ranks of Primes, and later he became something more as the war began and dragged on endlessly. His spark cried out in grief as he recalled the countless times Jazz had come to spend time with him when he was but a scientist. They shared so many moments, tender touches and deep conversations. Jazz was, despite all his joy and whimsy, a highly educated and thoughtful mech.

Many of their youthful plans had long since been discarded. But Optimus remembered talk of hatchlings. He recalled many long nights where neither of them could recharge, so they cuddled up close and instead talked about better times. Slag it all, they had made a promise to formally join their houses once the war came to an end.

Now it didn’t matter. Not only had he failed to do as the voice asked, he’d failed to save the one person he really cared about aside from his former brother.

“I’m too late.” Oprimus’s voice cracked as he spoke. Ironhide and Ratchet stalled in their attempts to comfort him. The others were likely just as confused.

“I don’t understand it all. But I know now that I’m too late to change how this will all end.” Optimus muttered more to himself than to the others, grief overriding reason. He did not understand the voice, but by the Allspark he wished he could curse it for doing this to him.

“No matter how hard I fight to end this accursed war, it always ends in sorrow.” Always in ashes. Always alone.

“Why? Why did it have to be me? Why was I chosen?” Curse it all. He should have died with Elita and Rodimus back on that forsaken battlefield. Perhaps then he could have found peace until the Quintessons inevitably revived their species as slaves once more.

“Losing Jazz hit us all hard… but we’re going to be alright, Optimus. You are going to be alright.” Strong arms wrapped around Optimus’s shoulders, drawing him into a firm embrace. Looking up, Optimus found it was Bumblebee who held him, his voice a mix of radio clips and static, but just as comforting as ever. This was a mech he recognized from all his lives. Despite all the minute differences, this was still his Bee.

“Bee’s right. You aren’t yourself. That last fight really fragged up y’er helm.” Ironhide patted him on the shoulder, offering comfort in his own gruff way. It did little to help, but Optimus appreciated the gesture anyway as the lamentations of two other lifetimes settled in his very core.

“I have to agree with Ironhide for once. Take some time and rest, Optimus. You need it.” Ratchet tried to smile, as did the rest. Unfortunately, it did next to nothing for Optimus’s mental state, even though he would have liked it to.

Battles came and went. Megatron died and was revived. The stakes continued to grow ever higher. When Quintessa came, Optimus was too tired to resist her call. He wanted to be done with it all, and if her offer of revival was what it took, he was willing to do what was required of him. Even when he broke free of her spell through Bumblebee and created a tentative peace between his kind and humanity, it was all very empty.

Megatron was unaccounted for. The Decepticons still roamed. Their war was not over… merely stalled.

There was no point in fighting anymore… at least not in this life.

“Hey Optimus.” Bumblebee called out to him as Optimus sat on a grassy hill, overlooking the landscape. He’d already made his decision, but he could tell Bumblebee sensed it.

“Bumblebee… it is good to see you again.” Optimus replied curtly, his sword resting firmly by his side. His optics were locked on the setting sun, enjoying a brief moment of peace before he tried again. The voice would surely make him fight once more, so for a mere klik, he wanted respite.

“You haven’t been around for a while. You know you can talk to us about stuff, right?” Bumblebee came to sit with him, a servo resting on Optimus’s leg in a friendly manner. Optimus regarded it with a faint hum, feeling calmer than he had in several Earth years. Such turmoil… such hopelessness. He had no idea what happened to the world when he perished and the voice took him, but Optimus hoped that those he left behind kept on living. He hoped the galaxy recovered from the war, back in his first realm. And as much as he hated the suffering of his last life, he did partially wish that the Decepticons were indeed ruling Cybertron in peace now that the Autobots were gone.

By the stars… it would soothe him greatly if his people managed to find a safe source of energon and began raising hatchlings again. He could never accomplish what the voice wanted, but his people, if they were lucky and didn’t annihilate each other in his absence, would endure.

“I know.” Optimus’s response was stalled, but Bumblebee didn’t seem to mind as they both sat there quietly. The sun continued to set, and as it did, Optimus felt his time drawing to a close. He had not had the chance in prior lives… but maybe this time a final will and testament was due.

“I’ve done this before, Bumblebee.” The words flowed easily from his vocalizer, relieving tension that had hung heavy in his shoulders since his waking. Bumblebee regarded him nervously, but did not interrupt as he continued.

“Countless battles, endless conflicts. Yet I cannot seem to complete the task that was given to me.” Looking up, Optimus was relieved further as he saw stars instead of smoke. It was going to be a pleasant deviation from his prior existences.

“What task is that?” Bumblebee questioned hesitantly, his concern evident in the way his optics cycled and his door wings twitched. Optimus felt a hint of guilt bubble up in his spark, but it was soon smothered by exhaustion. The voice would return him soon enough. It didn’t really matter.

“I… do not know. Not entirely.” He admitted his ignorance without shame. The voice had given him a duty, but that duty was vague and uncertain. “How can you do something if you don’t even know what you are meant to be accomplishing? You treat yourself too harshly.” Such comfort from one so young. The two other lives within him smiled at the offered kindness. But Optimus merely sighed.

Born too late to stop the war… This was all he could do.

“The one who gave me my purpose, the one who keeps making me fight… that being showed me a vision of my brother. The fire… the death… I felt that maybe he was the key. But he’s no longer a threat, and I do not feel complete.” More and more of the weight lifted from Optimus’s spark as he poured out his woes. There was a certain melancholy to the whole situation, but speaking was freeing.

“I think I was meant to preserve our world and our people. But I came too late to do that.” Optimus had his opinions when it came to the voice and its vision. Now that he’d lived three times and failed in each attempt he made to target Megatron specifically, he had a feeling the voice wanted something else.

But even if that were the case, there was still nothing he could do in his current state. His work here was done.

“We live and there is a chance at restoration. You did all you could. You are not to blame.” Bumblebee’s tone indicated he was more than a little concerned. However, Optimus simply hummed. The ache of loss hurt more than it should have. But Jazz had meant so much to him in this life… and the loss was fresh.

“So I’ve been told… but I know in my spark that this is not what the entity sought. I shall be forced to fight once more. Of that I am certain.” Optimus again looked back up at the skies, trying to find familiar constellations he learned while talking with Spike all those vorns ago. What would that boy think of him now? There was no joy in him anymore. At least, not the open variety.

“Maybe you should take some time off… go join Drift and explore for a while. I’m sure Sam would love to see you again.” Bumblebee offered with a nervous uptick of his doorwings. The air between them was tense, unspoken understanding radiating on both their ends. Bumblebee was doing his part, but it was clear that Optimus was going to do what he planned to, and no one could stop him.

“I shall consider it.” Offering a gentle smile, Optimus clasped Bumblebee’s shoulder and memorized his features. He hoped the voice’s next attempt would let him keep his oldest friend. He wasn’t sure how he was going to keep marching on if every time he woke, his dearest companion was always deceased.

“Optimus, I know you’ve got your own monsters to face, but please… don’t give up on us or yourself.” Bumblebee drew Optimus in for a hug, one that lasted a while. But eventually the time came for his companion to leave. Bumblebee hesitated, looking back periodically as he made his way back to base. Optimus kindly did not act until long after dark, and even then, he ensured he was far from prying optics as he recorded a final message and raised his blade for a final time.

Guilt hung in his spark as the void claimed him, but he couldn’t bring himself to care as the voice again washed over him.

“You hurt so deeply, my chosen.”

Oh so now the voice pitied him. After sending him through suffering meant for Unicron’s servants, only now did it regard him?

“You did this to me and I don't even know who you are or what you want from me.” He wanted to be angry. By the stars he wanted to rage.

“Oh dear one, we did not mean to cause you such suffering… but one of ours must bear the burden, and you who carried such spirit touched us deeply with your devotion.”

What the frag did that even mean? The voice chose him to endure life after life and seemingly didn’t anticipate that it would hurt? What a joke.

“You make me live again and again in realities that are ever changing and yet still the same. How could it not bring me pain? Why would you make me do this? I watch my people die over and over again and nothing I do seems to bring it to an end.” Grief and anger surged forward in a brief flare of rebellion. Despite that, his wrath died down all but instantaneously. Rage would earn him nothing. Not when the voice apparently commanded his reality.

“Not yet… we cannot repair what is broken yet. But soon we will succeed. You learn and we grow.”

How ominous the voice was…

“What are you?” He asked yet again, not really expecting an answer.

“All that is and will be.”

----

For the fourth time, Optimus shot awake coughing as lingering pain from his reformat eased out of his tense and tight cables. He fell to his knees as knowledge washed over him once more. This time, however, it did not burn as it had in lives before. Knowledge was quickly filed away and understanding set in as soon as the information did. The Matrix pulsed in soothing waves, the relic finally of use in ways it had otherwise not been in prior lives.

He was Optimus Prime, formerly Orion Pax the Archivist. He was taken from the wilds while young and raised in Iacon under Alpha Trion where he spent much of his time reviewing history and taking note of corruption. He allied himself with Megatronus of Kaon, the Gladiator. Through their combined might, they eventually developed a bond and reached the High Council. Orion was chosen to be the Prime instead of Megatron, formerly Megatronus. That single decision tore them apart and sent them spiralling into war. Only when it reached its peak had Orion gone to receive the Matrix of leadership from one familiar entity.

Primus. The god of all Cybertronians. He who made them from dust and starlight. The connection between Primus and the voice was an easy one to make, and above all, it made sense. Primus, the all knowing ever patient god of their people was bound to be the entity trying to preserve lives. Why wouldn’t he? Above all, his inexperience made sense. Primus had not even been a concept in his first life, or his second for that matter. There were whispers in his third, but they were distant things.

It seemed the god that had taken him as a champion was finally beginning to change reality in meaningful ways. The story had changed to include their creator and actually make use of the relic that continually gave Optimus back his memory.

A fascinating change indeed. One that had the potential to actually turn out the way Primus intended.

Optimus followed quietly as he was brought to his pedes and returned to base. He knew what path stood before him now. Even still, Ratchet pulling him aside as soon as time allowed surprised him for a moment before memory reminded him of who the medic was.

“Orion… are you still in there?” Ratchet touched his face, feeling his now sharper features and assessing his frame for damage. Optimus smiled, nodding as memory returned to him. Anguish for loves lost still hung in his spark, but more than anything, he felt adoration as it stirred in him. It hurt to have a partner live and vent beside him, but more than that, it healed.

“I am here… moreso now than ever.” Finally, the Matrixdid something useful and toned down the emotional weight of his extended memory. If he’d had this in his prior existence, he might not have ended things so suddenly. Poor Bumblebee likely felt horrible, if he was still online at any rate.

“The Matrix, what has it done to you?” Ratchet's question was sharp, but still tender in his unique way as he looked at Optimus’s chassis accusingly. Optimus fought back laughter that he had not known since his first life.

“Memory, Ratchet. So much memory…” With a smile, Optimus pressed a kiss to Ratchet’s brow, reveling in the closeness of one he held so dear. This was what he needed. Time, composure, and connection. Primus truly was developing.

“I remember loves from lives that were not this one. I recall battles, wars and death so great the bodies coated the earth.” Ratchet held him tighter as Optimus’s field, a new addition to his biology, flared out in sheer relief and joy. For all the sorrows he endured, it all seemed less important when he was with his love, at least for this life.

“I remember the torment of not knowing… and now the grief of revelation.” Ratchet stiffened at his statement, likely running through a thousand grim scenarios in his processor. Optimus saw no need to correct him since it earned him a tighter hug.

“I’m here, Orion. I’m here.” Ratchet, in a rare show of open affection, did his best to soothe. Optimus returned the gesture by resting his chin on his dear doctor’s helm, enjoying the closeness.

“Of that, I am more thankful than I can properly express… it has been so long.” Ratchet’s field flared in concern as Optimus pulled away to look out the nearest window and out at the stars. Oh how he loved the stars…

“I now understand my design.” Primus did not wish for death. He desired life.

Lucky for him, Optimus’s memory from his current existence supplied him with countless plans for victory. If all went well, the war would come to a close in short order and he would finally be free of Primus’s grand mission.

However, unfortunately for Optimus’s grand aspirations, the war dragged on despite his knowledge. His newest Megatron was a cunning creature backed by strength and age. His followers were just as intelligent, and no matter what Optimus threw at them, they adapted. His efforts were useless when pitted against such wrath.

As the war went, Optimus felt his chances of success dwindling. By the time they got to Earth with their conflict, he was fairly certain Primus would have him try again. Even still, he managed to salvage the situation. With Ratchet by his side and his team supporting him, restoration was made possible. Optimus was even revived as he had been once in his first life to facilitate the repairs being made to their home. He took that to mean Primus was at least partially pleased with the outcome, even if Megatron was still out there lurking and Unicron cursed.

The people mourned the dead, and Optimus certainly felt weariness in his core. But the war was over, Autobot and Decepticon were coming together, and if all went well, Cybertron was to be fully functional in a few centuries. Was it ideal? No. But there was hope to be found.

“Optimus, are you coming to berth or not?” Ratchet tapped his pede impatiently as Optimus waved Bumblebee off as he set toward Earth for another diplomatic mission. He smiled, content with his situation as he responded.

“In a bit, beloved.” Watching the space bridge close was strangely calming. Millennia of war, and for once, he wasn’t about to die on a battlefield or alone drowning in grief. He’d played his part, even if the loss of life still weighed on him in the dead of night.

“Berth. Now.” Ratchet looked more annoyed than truly upset. Optimus couldn’t help but laugh lightly at the expression his dear doctor was making as he obeyed the given order.

“Very well.” Wrapping an arm around Ratchet’s waist, he guided them both to their habsuite. He settled quietly, pressing a kiss to Ratchet’s audial and watching as his love drifted off for a while. It was peaceful, a blessed relief.

As his optics closed, Optimus smiled. Megatron was still a threat, but he was finally done with his mission-

“I died?” Optimus couldn’t help but gawk as he found himself in the void once more. He tried to think about what happened, but he got the distinct impression his death was not a natural one. What was Ratchet going to think? By the Thirteen, what went wrong?

“It was not intended. But we expected it sooner or later. Your work is not yet done.”

What? Had he not restored Cybertron? It was an imperfect restoration and the war still occurred, but all was as it was meant to be.

“Why did you restore me if I was simply to die and do it all again?” He wasn’t necessarily upset this time. Just… confused. He’d had his moment of peace, but why did Primus see fit to try again? The people were happy, or at least getting there.

“We believed we might salvage what remained. We did, and you fought well.”

Optimus internally sighed. He knew how this was going to go.

“But we lament the loss of life. We grieve over what could have been. So many children… extinguished so young.”

Primus was a god, but he was, at his core, something above mortality. He had no reason to understand loss like Optimus and the rest did. Of course he grieved. To him it was likely a numbers game.

“I know what you are now, Primus. Why do you continue to strive for this strange perfection? Cybertron was restored. The people were happy. Why have me do it all again?” He tried to express his concerns, but Primus seemed to be displeased as he responded, his voice firmer than before.

“Your other half falls to our counterpart time and time again. Our children are massacred when it is not needed. If it can be prevented, then we wish it so.”

So that was how it was going to be. Perfection, or nothing at all. Optimus could already feel exhaustion settling in.

“Go. Try again. Soon… we will make things right.”

----

Waking was easier this time. The reality Primus made was much like his first, and as such, Optimus knew how to act quickly. He went straight for Megatron, charging in with all his knowledge and experience. He had no love to hold him back and his happier existence prior to his current one eased the grief enough for him to focus. Even still, the war occurred. Megatron seemed to become more intelligent every time they met in a new life. Perhaps it was an equalization factor. Regardless, war came without an end in sight.

At least until Optimus beat Megatron in a duel, earning their people a tentative peace under a Council made up of an Autobot, a Decepticon, and a neutral party. Optimus was fairly certain Primus would not be pleased despite Cybertron largely avoiding complete desolation and chose to isolate himself to keep away from further incidents. He could have ended himself, but he saw no need. He took the time to simply live, helping where he could and keeping Megatron in line when he wasn’t doing that.

He let life pass him by, at least until Windblade arrived, speaking of Titans and war. That was when he knew it was time to act, and he did so without complaint. He didn’t even mind working with Megatron. It was just like old times, like when he and Megatronus talked over revolution matters. Although, much to Optimus’s agitation, his current Megatron was beyond fond of prodding at his emotional weak points.

Despite that, there were times when he enjoyed conversing with the glitch.

“I asked once, in another life, why you did all this.” Optimus stood quietly, watching the stars just as he always did. Megatron huffed as he cleaned his blaster, the only part of his body he seemed to actually give a frag about.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Megatron snarked, his optics never leaving his weapon.

“Why did you rise up? Why did you go to war? You had the whole world before you, and you chose to burn it down.” It was a question Optimus recalled asking his first Megatron, only to get laughed at in response. His second Megatron spoke of corruption, his third was a jealous creature, and his fourth had legitimate reasons for waging war. But his current one and the first? He never really understood, even though they were technically the same mech in many regards.

“Hmm… I would think you would know the answer to this, Prime.” Optimus sighed, expecting laughter.

“Power?”

“To a degree.” Megatron’s response earned a momentary glance from Optimus, his finials twitching in mild surprise.

“I wanted the power to change the world, to mold it in my image.” Megatron, smug as ever, crossed his arms and gestured out to the planet they were now attempting to save from itself. Optimus followed his gaze, but he still found himself questioning.

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t like the way things were, or the corruption that set into our society.” Megatron huffed, clearly quite pleased with his answer. Optimus however found himself more contemplative. He knew how to see corruption after so many lives, but he still wondered…

How much had he missed?

“Was that corruption always there?” He pondered aloud, more to himself than the mech next to him as he ran through ancient memory. It was blurry now. Distant and no longer as applicable.

“Of course it was. You were just so lost in your little dock worker world that you couldn’t see it.” Megatron, either not knowing the question was not aimed at him or not caring, responded with a huff. He gestured to Optimus in a dismissive manner, and that was enough for Optimus to think back on his life, back to Elita.

Their lives were simple. Of course they failed to see corruption.

“You fought for freedom?” Optimus wondered more and more if they were truly the same mech given different paths to walk. Megatronus was similar to Orion Pax in many ways. Was that simply an aspect of his and Megatron’s relationship?

“In a sense. I wanted every mech to be able to choose their future for themselves.” That was very Megatronus of him. It seemed it was not only Primus who was learning.

“Then why were we fighting at all?” Optimus took the chance to step a little closer, remembering nights spent with his Lord High Protector in his third life. He missed his brother, even if the glitch was a pain in the aft.

“Because you were a fraggin pacifist and a weepy newbuild until I beat some sense into you. By then your Autobots were dead set on the destruction of my Decepticons.” Megatron punched him in the shoulder. Optimus simply sighed. He’d forgotten how much of a brute his first life’s Megatron could be when not otherwise engaged.

“For what it’s worth, I apologize for how our war ended. I wanted to end the needless death.” His attempt at apologizing was met with laughter, a mirror to his end lifetimes ago.

“And instead you brought more. How comical.” Megatron slapped his back in what could have been a friendly manner if not for the force behind it. Optimus internally cringed, but allowed it. How familiar this all was.

“You are the worst.” His comment was met with even more laughter, to which Optimus simply walked away.

When the time came for him to die for his people, Optimus took the burden without complaint. He was done anyway.

And just as predicted, Primus met him once more.

“You did better this time. But still not enough. Too many died. Too many children lost to war.”

Optimus didn’t even have the energy to be surprised.

“You seek the impossible, Primus. No matter what you do to me or how you reforge reality, war is inevitable.” Attempting reason was likely impossible, but Optimus gave it his best shot. Perfection was impossible, but here Primus was, trying anyway. Granted, if anyone was to aim for such a thing, it was only really plausible for a god to pursue such a goal.

“Not so. We will make it right.”

But at what price?

“I remember too late to change things if I have a relationship with Megatron. And if I do not, I hold no sway over him.” Again, Optimus put forward his objections. Anyone from his prior lives would have likely gawked at him, save for perhaps Ratchet, his ever faithful atheist.

“We know. We are learning. Soon, all will be as it should be.”

That much Optimus could attest to. It was already far easier to operate than it had been the first few times. Still, he didn’t want to do this forever. He’d had moments of peace and he wanted them back.

“I’m tired. I want to return to those I have loved. Elita, Prowl, Jazz, Ratchet… I miss them. I miss the versions of them I adored.” He sensed waves of understanding from his god, but Primus spoke all the same.

“We will give them all to you when the work is done.”

That was a pleasant promise, if nothing else.

“Stop the war. Stop the death. Stop your counterpart from falling. That is your design.”

----

Another life, another awakening. Optimus tried his best, especially since reality was again similar to his first life. But guiding and succeeding were two very different things, and war seemed to be inevitable. He wasn’t able to put a stop to it, so he simply resolved to observe as Bumblebee and Windblade worked. He did offer his assistance when the Quintessons came and the Tarn from another time popped out of the void, but more often he preferred to watch. Especially since he got humorous commentary from Megatron when they weren’t at each other’s throats.

“I’ve been meaning to ask… why is it that you’re always so-” Megatron, between sips of his drink, gestured vaguely to Optimus’s form. Optimus chuckled, leaning back in his seat a bit as he and Megatron sat observing the city. It was still on fire in places, but it wasn’t exactly their problem. They tended to cause more trouble when they did anything outside of combat.

“Aloof? Uncaring? I don’t know how to describe it.” Megatron tried to find the words for his question. Optimus politely did not interrupt as he nursed his energon, content to be since he knew his current life was a failure anyway.

“You always preach your talking points about freedom and all that, but I never see any drive in you. It’s boiled my energon since the war began.” His once foe huffed into his drink, seemingly annoyed. Optimus saw through it easily, noting the genuine curiosity there. They both had secrets, but Megatron was never one to leave them alone.

“Because for me, there is no point in passion. I failed in my only purpose long before I took the Matrix.” Optimus, having long since grown apathetic to anything and everything related to his continual existence, shrugged. “What in the Allspark are you talking about?” Megatron made a face that was worthy of the human ‘memes’. Optimus fought to keep his composure as he tried to keep it serious and failed, at least in part. He was unable to keep from smiling, despite the situation.

“I have loved and lost, Megatron. I have done all I could to try and prevent war… but I always arrive too late to change things.” Taking the chance to chug his glass, Optimus sighed in contentment. Warm energon really was the best. Living so long, one learned to appreciate the little things.

“You… what are you?” Optimus raised an optical ridge in mild surprise as he looked up at his former rival. Megatron was glaring at him, not necessarily in anger, but suspicion.

“You sense it?”

“I always knew there was something off with you. So spit it out, what are you? What happened to Orion Pax?” Well that was an odd way to phrase the question, but who was Optimus to judge. The Archivist in him probably would have asked something similar.

“He is me and I am him. Except one of us is wiser. One of us remembers realities that have long ended.” Keeping the answer as simple as he could without giving Megatron an existential crisis, Optimus put down his now empty cube and casually checked his HUD for anything important before continuing.

“One of us cannot rest until we prevent the Great War.” That was about the best way he had to describe it. Until he remembered, he was just an idealistic fool with far too much ambition.

“Unmaker cursed?” Megatron, with all the subtlety of a Titan in a city, squinted as he made his accusation only barely veiled as a question.

“No, the opposite.” Taking it in stride, Optimus kept his answer simple.

“Slag… that’s worse.” That was putting it lightly. At least he understood.

“I can know no rest until I stop the war before it can start… and keep you from falling to the Unmaker’s touch.” Optimus gave Megatron a look without really meaning to. It was more of a sidequest at this point in his long life, but he was getting tired of having to divert Megatron away from drugs or other less than pleasant curses.

“Why would I-?”

“Other versions of yourself were desperate. Far more desperate… they needed strength and knowledge, so they sought it where they could.” Instantly, Optimus thought back to his fourth Megatron. That mech was a monster in many ways, especially when high as a kite on the Unmaker’s blood.

“Have you told anyone else about this?” Megatron, with a surprising amount of concern evident in his tone, crossed his arms as he leaned back in his chair. Optimus regarded him quietly for a moment, unsure if he should respond. However, after a klik, he concluded there was no harm in it.

“No. Even if they believed me, there is no stopping it. When I die, Primus shall restore me to life in another time and place to attempt to stop the war… to stop you.” Saying it out loud was… rather depressing. The air grew heavier in response, and Optimus almost regretted opening his mouth.

“Sounds lonely.” And then Megatron came out of nowhere with a strange amount of sympathy.

“It is. But I take comfort in lives like these… ones that are lighter on my spark.” Trying to stay positive and not think hard on the grimness of his situation, Optimus smiled. Megatron didn’t seem to buy it, but played into it anyway.

“How about you tell me about the other versions of me out there. Get it off your chassis for a while, eh?” Bless him, he was kinder than the rest.

Life went on after that, with things changing and Cybertron being saved a few times. Eventually, Optimus got tired of it all and let an assassin get to him. But his return to the void created a whole new set of problems.

“You did not use this life wisely.”

And there came the disappointment.

“You sent me too late. I cannot work with nothing.” Too tired to be upset, Optimus mentally projected a shrug. He wasn’t sure if it went through, but he hoped it did if only for his amusement.

“It is your duty to do this work. We give you wisdom and opportunity. Why do you struggle so?”

Oh to be a god and not understand mortality.

“I share next to nothing in common with Megatron. I cannot stop a war if I cannot relate to its leader. I certainly can’t kill him when we are always near equal in strength. We are too different… and even with knowledge, it means nothing if I can’t make him see reason.” Optimus expected exactly nothing from his attempt at reason, but to his surprise, Primus paused. Things went quiet for a while, long enough that he momentarily wondered if his god had up and chosen a new champion. Then, Primus’s voice returned with renewed energy.

“We have never rewritten the world in such a way. Your counterpart was always meant to be so. Different, unique.”

By the thirteen, he’d managed to make Primus see some reason.

“We can come from the same roots and still have a chance to be different. Please, if you want this war to end before it can start, you must put me with him when we begin. I need time.” Internally crossing his digits, knocking on the organic substance of wood, and praying to every version of the thirteen he knew of, Optimus threw out his request.

“Then it shall be so. We have eternity to complete this work.”

Fraggin yes.

----

Waking was no longer a stressful thing. Optimus came into being, knew he was fragged, and waged war as usual. The shared origins helped, and he did his best to make the most of it, but Primus was a fickle being on a good cycle, and Optimus knew this was a test run more than anything else. Being a miner had sucked, but it gave him and Megatron connection that finally manifested itself vorns upon vorns later on Earth when, in a grand middle finger to every other Megatron, Optimus managed to convince his foe to side with him.

It was brilliant, and for the first time in forever, Optimus was outwardly joking and having a fantastic time as he waited for the end. Sure, he probably could have been doing more, but he didn’t feel the need to. He’d tested his theory. Shared origins were perfect. Now he just needed to get the Matrix and his memory at a better time.

Until he kicked the can, he was more than happy to watch as Primus’s newest additions to reality bounded and played, goofing off with their human family. Optimus personally found it odd and wouldn’t have made the choice himself if he were Primus, but it wasn’t exactly his problem. Wait, watch, observe, step in if need be, and wait to try again.

But of course, waiting was boring without company, and it had been many vorns since he’d taken a lover of any variety. He considered Elita, but his version was too different from the one he knew from his first life to really sit well with him. Instead he went for a thrill in Starscream of all mecha.

Quite frankly he enjoyed the wild card attitude, especially when they were attempting to be domestic.

“I don’t think I’m going to have to fight for much longer.” Optimus remarked as he fiddled with his ration. He almost wanted to poke holes in it for fun, but the older and more bitter aspects of his personality shut that idea down quickly.

“Oh really?” Starscream snarked from across the table, likely thinking about their current affairs. Optimus smiled fondly as he pulled out his favorite tactic to mess with mecha aside from using human tech incorrectly for fun.

“You will not understand… but Primus has learned. He’s setting the pieces right. Soon I expect he will give me the proper setting to do as he desires.” Letting his voice drop an octave, Optimus leaned into the ominousness of his time as the archivist. Starscream was unimpressed and threw a spoon at him.

“Stop talking like you are right out of the fragging Covenant. What are you trying to say?” Ah, Starscream was so refreshing.

“It may not be in this life or the next, but sometime in the near future, there will be no war.” Optimus lost a bit of his jesting attitude as he fiddled further with his ration. So many lives lived in rage and confusion… soon it would all be over. How strange that feeling was.

“Sure Optimus. Keep dreaming and using your emojis.” Starscream rolled his optics and chugged his drink before sauntering over in a familiar demand for intimacy, one which normally began with threats of violence.

“Now are you going to eat that or should I?” Optimus smiled, letting Starscream drape himself over his shoulders like a makeshift cape. Things could be worse.

He just had to wait.

And wait he did, until the time came for him to give his life to open the space bridge back to Cybertron. It was an easy choice to make, and Optimus went with a cheery whistle.

“Almost. My design improves once more.”

Primus’s voice was more composed than it had been. His intentions seemed clearer, his emotions less out of sorts.

“So you are singular now?” Optimus noted the change in interest. Primus had gone through some changes, and so had he it seemed.

“I have grown, my chosen. Through your optics I have seen, and with your aid, I now know what I must do.”

So it had all been worth it. That was… relieving. The memories of toil and struggle from his first few lives eased dramatically in the back of his mind as Optimus considered. If Primus had things right… then he would soon rest.

“You promised me my loved ones. Will I have them this time?” It was hopeful and presumptuous, but he had to ask.

“Yes. The world is changed once more, and now all is as it should be. Act swiftly, my chosen. For the time to end this great war is upon us.”

Optimus’s spark flared in sheer determination as the first real confirmation of anything he’d had since his mission began. This was his chance then. No more waiting. No more wars. No more long agonizing realities where all he had to do aside from suffer was perish.

“When my work is done, do I have to remember all of this suffering? All the pain I have endured?” Part of him didn’t want to forget the few moments of joy he’d experienced, especially in his time as the archivist and onward. But the rest of him was tired. So very tired. He laughed and joked in recent lives, but that was more to cope.

He was done with all of this.

“No. Once the threat has been averted, I shall take from you the torment you have endured for the sake of my progression.”

At least Primus was kind enough to offer him that much for his service.

“Will I see you again?” He doubted he’d miss the mission or the void, but there was a certain comfort in Primus’s presence. He did not wish to simply cease being at the end of it all.

“My chosen, I have always been with you. That shall never change.”

Worries he had not known eased into nothing and Optimus found himself calm as the cycle he’d first been forged. Everything was going to be alright now.

“My thirteenth Prime… my chosen champion… go now and complete this great work.”

Primus’s voice washed over him, firm and adoring as the void faded.

“You have served me long enough.”

----

Wakefulness came in a flash, and it settled quickly. Optimus shot toward the surface, fueled by Primus’s intervention and the Matrix’s power. When he landed, he locked optics with the one mech who mattered most for the sake of his success. Megatron, his eternal foe and rival.

They clashed, but wisdom guided Optimus to victory. As Megatron fell to his knees in defeat, Optimus was quick to pull him up and into a hug. Memory from his current life urged him on, encouraging him to hold his closest companion tight. D-16 was a kind spark, and he did not deserve a life of violence.

“You’ve done enough. I’m sorry I could not stand with you when you needed me most.” The mech in his arms tensed, rage etched onto his features as he pulled away, albeit with reluctance.

“How could you? How could you defend him?!” Megatron shook, gesturing toward where Sentinel’s body lay. Optimus was unphased. He’d seen far worse versions of D-16. He knew that the mech before him still had a chance.

“I was scared for you, Dee. I do not wish to fight you. Please, don’t make me.” The words came easily, emotions of all his lives imbuing his every glyph with honesty. Never once had he wanted war, and that fact had not changed.

“You betrayed me.” Megatron bristled, clutching at his damaged arm. Optimus took the chance to step forward, reaching out with all the kindness he could muster. This mech, his Dee, was just a scared newbuild. He’d been exposed to too much all at once.

He needed rest and support.

Those things Optimus could offer him.

“Perhaps I did… but no others need to suffer because of the sins of our ancestors. Let it end here, with us.” He hesitated a moment, considering if this was going to be the moment he messed it all up. Would he have to live again? Another life in another reality? What would Primus think of him if he failed here? Would he be alone?

A thousand thoughts raged, but ultimately, Optimus found the will to grasp Megatron’s servo firmly, but not so much as to be seen as a threat. It was a symbol of peace, one he hoped his companion saw.

“Let us stand together as one.” More hesitation, this time from Megatron. But as Optimus watched, he saw how those vicious red optics eased into orange, then back to a calm yellow. Silence followed as D-16 considered. Optimus could almost feel the whole world weighing on him as he waited with a baited vent.

Then, blessedly, D-16 squeezed his servo back.

“We will talk.” Sheer joy flooded Optimus’s spark as lives upon lives of relief washed over him. In his excitement, he drew D-16 in for another hug, clutching at him almost desperately. Finally, finally, he was going to be free.

“Thank you.” Releasing his hold after a moment, Optimus smiled as he had not in eons and parted his chassis plating so that the Matrix shone clearly. D-16 regarded him suspiciously until Optimus took the Matrix in his servo and grabbed D-16 with the other. Guiding his brother in arms to grasp the ancient relic, Optimus raised both their arms to the skies, a symbol he hoped conveyed unity.

The masses watched in awe, the High Guard stalling in their attacks. In that brief moment, Optimus sensed confirmation from deep within his being. Locks began to settle into place. Memories dimmed.

“You have done well, my chosen.”

At last, his mission was complete.

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mrs-weasley-reid · 9 months ago

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AUGUST REC FICS

Hello, my sweets!! Here I am, once again, for yet another month of reading and living vicariously through our one and only Reader. I haven't read much this past month, and most of these sweet authors are people I follow (and shockingly, some are my mutuals, too !!! I'm too much of a fangirl to believe it's true). Give these gorgeous, spectacular writers a ton of love. They all deserve it so much, considering they're blessing us with such amazing work for free. Like. Comment. Reblog. The equivalent of a five-star review

Like always, I will be going based on what I've read recently and not by the date the fic was posted. Reminder to please respect these writers. Some contents are 18+. MINORS should not be interacting in any way.

— ✿ — ✿ ✿ — ✿ ✿ ✿

Spencer Reid

✿ a muted shade of green by @dalamjisung ↳ the flow of this fic was so smooth my jaw dropped down on the floor as i read through (writer's first reid fic, and it was chef's kiss)

✿ hearts aligned by @raekensluver ↳ OMG this one had me melting. roommate spencer is such a dream

✿ sick love by @misserabella ↳ guilty pleasure unlocked. a wonderful reading session filled with interesting discoveries

✿ behind closed doors by @incognit0slut ↳ i loved binging this so much !!! was a giggling, kicking mess while reading this one; and it has four parts ! we're so spoiled

✿ kiss it better by @nereidprinc3ss ↳ tmi but was having an episode of mild anxiety attack, and this saved me in the middle of the night, giggling myself to sleep, so thank you for such amazing work x

✿ dead of night & nightvisions by @cxrrodedcoffin ↳ lol i read this at work and had to fight battles not to make any facial signs that i was consuming kinky content. the second part was another level, i was cackling like a witch

✿ much ado about nothing: act iii, scene v & act iv, scene i by @incognit0slut ↳ act iii, scene v left me speechless, reader didn't fold and i took that as a win. act iv, scene i played with my emotions lol

✿ just a number by @reidsdaisies ↳ i became a stand-up actress while reading this because it's overwhelmingly spicy and filled with tension i had to provide comedic relief for myself

✿ untittled req response by @mandarinmoons ↳ no because i saw my reblog post of this and i immediately snorted and then laughed some more after rereading it. pipe cleaner will never not be funny to me

✿ poison me, i'm fine by @gghostwriter ↳ no because this one needs more attention ?????????????? i loved reading this so much i was so tempted to pull my heart out and ship it to pau, show how crumpled it was after reading

✿ my best colors for your portrait & my face in every place by @none-of-your-bullshit ↳ i wasn't lying when i said august is for angst and i immediately gobbled this up after seeing it. the way my chest was so tight but also smiling because the writing style is amazing got me looking like a lunatic

✿ cute, outraged genius by @lavenderspence ↳ tina got me laughing like a gremlin. it's so adorable she made me fall in love with spencer all over again

✿ another untitled req response by @mandarinmoons ↳ sorry, sweethearts, ket just couldn't be bothered with titles lmao. secret lover reader is my favorite lover, sooooo you all will enjoy this cutie patootie creation

✿ one single thread of gold by @gghostwriter ↳ you'll overdose of sweetness. it's so adorable and a great way to feel giggly about spencer reid.

✿ for the fear of falling apart | part one by @pathologicalreid ↳ i haven't read the rest of the parts but mhmmm this was DELISH. well-written creation that made me show emotions while reading at work. my coworkers asked me my my eyes were so wide and i think that says a lot at how great this is

✿ second to none by @raekensluver ↳ ooooo this one got my blood boiling in a good way

✿ untitled work by @sincerelybubbles ↳ adorable stuff make me melt especially when it's a spencer one

— ✦ — ✦ ✦ — ✦ ✦ ✦

Aaron Hotchner

✦ darling, in any life series by @hotchfiles ↳ at this point are we even surprise im including yet another series form lari here ? anywayyy, i love me some old flame trope

✦ picket fence dream by @hotchfiles ↳ this is a new part from the choiceless hope series and i gobbled it up. i was screaming when i read this

✦ tells by @ssahotchnerr ↳ first thing i read in the morning, and i sobbed from the overwhelming sweetness

✦ silver by @solardrop ↳ okay but this was so adorable ??? plus im def one of those gals who tried to throw herself on him, maybe even catapult myself

✦ sympathy for the devil by @hotchfiles ↳ nosebleed. spice level is not as high as i make it seem but the writing really got me sweating. just read it, you'll understand what i mean

✦ spending time with you by @lavenderspence ↳ no because TINA CALLED ME OUT WITHOUT CALLING ME OUT. i was slightly offended. the gasp i gasped was so loud asdkfnkg. but it is adorable, go read it pls pls

✦ doctor, love by @none-of-your-bullshit ↳ i love when reader slaps the character with some reality like a seasoned raw steak.

sorry, not sorry if this post is filled with lari. I reread her works religiously, so here are my favorites from hers truly:

✦ help me hold onto you ↳ oh, this is like crack for me, and i always come crawling back no matter how hard i try to stay sober

✦ half asleep takin' chances ↳ still waiting for future aaron somewhere out there

✦ choices ↳ gonna be honest with everyone this one makes me wanna deck aaron hotchner and then deck reader for folding so easily and also deck myself because im no better than reader

✦ quis ut deus? & daniel 12:1 ↳ my fave series from lari and i will never not reread them over and over and over and over again because i love it so much idk what's the appeal on me but i love it and i want this framed and buried with me even if it's unfinished

I haven't had a lot of time to visit the good ole "for you" feed in a while, so I apologize for missing all the amazing work every writer has put out this month. I will make it up to you, I promise! And if you'd like, you can send me works or mention me so I can read certain creations that you deem noteworthy for the next rec fic month!

love lots, ker x

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g1rlr0b1n · 2 years ago

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Who is still liking their stuff?! They are literally saying "I stole this and am passing it off on my own". It takes me 5 seconds of scrolling to figure that out!

Man’s really pinned the post LMAO

“Original art”

whoever y’all liked it r a bit dumb if u don’t see the watermark

#Everyday I wake up and lose a little more hope in humanity #this is starting to really piss me off and they are not even stealing my art!#...because I can't draw but that's beside the point #look we as consumers of art if we truly enjoy the art should be upset by this #the real artists at the very least deserve the credit for their creations because they are giving this to us for free #do we really want to live in a world where everything is behind a paywall?#or they stop posting all together #because that's where this kind of frustration will lead them #and who could blame them?!#please please please take 5 minutes to review a blog before following it!!!

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brookghaib-blog · 15 days ago

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Silence between hearts

Pairing: Robert ‘Bob’ Reynolds x reader

Summary: After Project SENTRY fails, Robert Reynolds is declared dead and sealed in a glass coffin to be hidden by O.X.E. Y/N, a doctor who secretly fell in love with him after a complicated path between them, refuses to believe he’s gone—fighting to save what’s left of him while grief and denial consume her, the path to look for him would ruin her, but to what extreme.

Word count: 8,9k

The Jade Viper Bar - Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia - 11:47 PM

The humidity clung to Y/N's silk dress like a second skin as she paused beneath the flickering neon sign of The Jade Viper. The bar's crimson glow reflected in the puddles at her feet, staining the rainwater the color of diluted blood. Her fingers tightened around the beaded clutch in her hand—a gift from her father on her eighteenth birthday, back when she still had hope that would care for her as his daughter.

"This is where you'll find what we need," Valentina had purred over the phone that morning, the sound of ice clinking in her glass audible even through the static. "Desperate men make the best test subjects, darling. And you? You look just innocent enough to reel one in."

Y/N exhaled through her nose, watching her breath disturb the thick, smoke-laden air as she pushed through the door.

The bar was a study in controlled chaos.

The scent of stale beer and sweat hit her first, followed by the acrid tang of something chemical burning in the backroom. A ceiling fan spun lazily above, doing nothing to dispel the heat that pressed against her skin like an unwanted touch. The led lights trying to make look more exquisite, loud music blowing the place, and multiple people just partying and enjoying the night life Malaysia had to offer.

Every pair of eyes in the room snapped to her the moment she crossed the threshold.

She was a vision in emerald silk—too elegant, too clean for a place like this. The dress hugged her curves just enough to be dangerous, the slit up her thigh revealing a glimpse of skin that had several men shifting in their seats. Her heels clicked against the sticky floor as she made her way to the bar, the sound sharp as gunfire in the sudden hush.

The bartender—a grizzled man with a scar through his left eyebrow—watched her approach with the wary gaze of someone who'd seen beautiful things turn deadly.

"You lost, princess?" he asked, his voice rough as sandpaper. "You look like you're at the wrong place."

Y/N smiled, the expression not quite reaching her eyes. "Not at all. I know exactly where I am." She slid onto a stool, the leather creaking beneath her. "Gin martini. Three olives."

A murmur rippled through the crowd. That kind of order didn't belong here.

As the bartender turned to make her drink, Y/N let her gaze wander across the room, cataloguing each potential candidate with clinical precision. Too aggressive. Too alert. Too healthy. She needed someone weak, easy, not much love for life. But also with strong body potential.

She needed this. For once she needed her project to work. Prove her father that she was succeful on her own, even after he sold it to Valentina, seeing his daughter's idea as a failure and unrreal theory that was a mistake of calculations by her brilliant mind. Her mind. That was what is important for him. For her to be someone he wants, smart enough, perfection at it's finest, inhuman if possible for the sake of results.

Even after so many deaths, the lab and all the project members kept going, mainly because of Valentina persistence, but also hers. She wants her creation to be real so she would be seen, so it could be hers and hers only. Even if it would work, Valentina would never have her weapon. It was her way of perfection and any human emotion would have to be pushed down. Not that she was raised with many. She was thought two things that were important, as someone in her field... and as a woman. Being the best, and being the prettiest. Be the perfect human that would be placed at the top of the chain.

Her father sold her project for money and because of his lack of faith on her science and calculations. But she knew, it was her way out.

Bob Reynolds wasn't hiding, but he might as well have been.

Curled into the darkest corner of the bar, he looked like a man trying to fold himself out of existence. His shoulders hunched forward protectively, hands shaking around a warm beer he couldn't afford to replace. When he lifted his head, the hollows beneath his eyes were deep enough to drown in.

Y/N watched his fingers twitch toward his jacket pocket for the tenth time in five minutes - searching for a fix that wasn't there. Golden Sentry withdrawal. She'd recognize the symptoms anywhere.

He startled when she slid into his booth, nearly knocking over his drink. "S-sorry," he mumbled automatically, eyes darting anywhere but her face. "This seat's... I mean, you probably..."

"What's you're name darling?" She pushed the untouched gin toward him.

He looks her in the eye, confused by her attention. "I'm Bob."

Y/N noted the sweat beading at his temples, the way his knee bounced uncontrollably. "You're shaking."

"Just cold."

In 90-degree heat.

She leaned forward slowly, giving him time to pull away. "I'm not heree to jugde anyone. What if I told you I could make it stop? The shaking. The cravings. All of it."

Bob flinched like she'd struck him. "Nothing makes it stop." His voice cracked. "I've tried everything."

"Not my treatment."

His laugh was a broken thing. "You some kind of doctor?"

"Exactly the kind you need. I can make you perfect Bob."

Bob's hands clenched around his glass. For a moment, she thought he might bolt. Then, so quiet she barely heard: "I don't have money lady?"

Y/N reached into her clutch. The business card trembled slightly in her grip - not from nerves, but the stifling heat. Or so she told herself.

"My name is Y/N," she said, pressing the card into his damp palm, "you're not paying a penny, you're receiving it. I'm very good at what I do, and looking at you, I can tell that you have the potential I'm looking for." She says closing and holding his hand. She really didn't have time to waste on him, but he looked easy to convince. A little reassurance, symphaty, seem interest and he will fold. He's lost. He just needed someone to care, and she knew exactly how to do it, because in the end, she knew it because she also desired it.

Looking at his eyes, and leaning towards him to indicate some type of attraction. Some type of need from him. "Or don't come, I'm just saying you have a solution. But if you want to just "party" and be who you are, that's fine. It's okay to live with now desires."

Bob looks at her hand still on top of his, and back to her. No doubt this lady was pretty, well-dressed, and her smell, God she smelt good. "I just... stop being hopefull for myself, it's ok really, I'm used to being me. It's all I've been all my life... Dr. Y/N."

She laughs, kinda finding funny the need for her label, he didn't knew her yet he already treated her as above him. Perfect. "I can change your being if you like, you can be someone knew. Someone you love."

"Where are you coming from? What's you story Dr.?"

She leans back, ready to start a conversation she definitely didn't have any interest, what type of drug addiction even cared about other people. She already knew the answer. He was a man and she was attractive. She already was disgusted, but he was a good candidate and she came a long way.

"I'm here working for a lab, a good one, and I'm a doctor there, investigating. But I was here and I had a free day, so why not go out...met a nice good looking man, you like that Bob?"

Bob blushed, being drowned by his shyness, not expeting the compliment from her. "I-I mean, yeah... You deserve it, you sound like you have an important job, that sounds exhausting. You deserve some time for yourself...but I...I'm not someone a woman like you would like to be seen... you're...too put together, and I'm...Bob."

He tried to laugh it off, telling his awful beliefs on himself while trying to make her go away. Not because he wanted to, but because she needed to, still feeling the effects of the drugs he took half an hour ago.

"I like Bob." She smiles, almost forced he thinks. But it was genuine, he was weak, no desires. Bob was about to become her creation, he was perfect for the role and she could not wait to make perfection out of him just so she could rub it in her father's face.

"I'm going to leave Bob, but I liked you, and I'm serious you should call the lab, I'll be there, it's just an experiment, you don't have to do anything or pay for nothing... just try something knew. Sometimes it's all you need. I'll make you put together too. You're too handsome to continue to be a waste of oxygen." She finishes her drink, never breaking eye contact.

Bob looked at her, half of him being perfectly lored by her words, and the other half being face by the reality of her thoughts that she was trying to hide all their conversation. A waste of oxygen.

"Bye Bob, see you tomorrow? Maybe after?" She holds his hand for the two seconds it took to spill that sentence, trying to be appealing, nice for him. Leaving and being out of the door in seconds, like she couldn't wait any more time to be out of that bar.

All that small and strange conversation to be appealing, to be persuasive. And what had convinced him was only one sentence that he wanted to turn into a lie. A waste of oxygen.

Outside, the monsoon rain had turned the streets to rivers.

Bob's voice echoed in her memory - that fragile hope beneath the suspicion. She'd heard it a hundred times in clinical trials. Seen it evaporate just as often.

Her phone buzzed.

"Did you find him?" Her father's voice was all sharp edges.

Y/N watched her reflection warp in a passing taxi's window. "I found a candidate."

"Good. Valentina wants him prepped by Thursday."

The call ended before she could reply.

Bob's hands had been shaking when he took her card. Not just from withdrawal - from fear. She'd seen the way his breath hitched when their fingers brushed, how he'd recoiled from his own reflection in the bar mirror.

Perfect.

Broken enough to say yes.

Strong enough to survive what came next.

Y/N stepped into the storm, letting the rain wash the bar's stench from her skin. Somewhere in the drowning city, Bob Reynolds was counting the minutes until his next fix.

She'd be there when he realized there wasn't one.

The phone's shrill ring shattered the predawn silence of Y/N's office. She'd been sitting in the same position for hours - back rigid against the leather chair, fingers steepled beneath her chin, watching the first gray fingers of dawn creep across Kuala Lumpur's skyline. The receiver felt unnaturally heavy when she lifted it.

"Y-yes?" A man's voice, frayed at the edges like torn fabric. "This is... this is Bob. From last night. You gave me..."

She heard the crumple of paper as he unfolded her business card for the hundredth time.

"I remember," Y/N said, her thumb tracing the edge of her research notes. The words Subject Acquisition: Phase One stared back at her in crisp black type.

There was a wet cough on the other end of the line, then silence. She could practically see him - slumped in some phone booth, picking at the scabs on his arms, the receiver slippery in his sweat-damp palm.

"I want to try," he finally whispered. "Your... your cure."

Y/N closed her eyes. Somewhere in the building, a centrifuge whirred to life. "Come to the address on the card. You can come now."

"Ahm.. I'm actually at the gate already."

Bob looked worse in daylight.

The fluorescent bulbs of Y/N's office exposed every ravage the meth had wrought - the yellowed nails, the scabs along his hairline, the way his left eyelid twitched uncontrollably. He sat perched on the edge of the guest chair like a bird ready to take flight, fingers picking at a loose thread on his jeans.

The room smelled of him now - stale smoke and unwashed skin, the chemical tang of desperation. Y/N's pristine world of glass beakers and stainless steel had been invaded by human decay.

"You're sober today," she observed, setting down a glass of water.

Bob's hands shook as he reached for it. "Twelve hours." His Adam's apple bobbed. "Longest in... I don't remember."

Y/N opened a drawer and slid a folder across the desk. Inside, glossy photos showed brain scans - a healthy one beside one ravaged by methamphetamine. Bob flinched.

"This is what you've done to yourself," she said. Then she flipped to another page. "This is what I can do."

The after images showed neurons reknitting, dopamine receptors blooming like flowers after rain. Bob's breath hitched.

"How?"

Y/N produced a small vial from her pocket. The liquid inside caught the light, glowing with an unnatural golden hue.

"Sentry," she said. "My creation."

The hum of the air conditioner filled the silence. Bob stared at the vial with the desperate hunger of a dying man offered salvation.

"You'll stay here," Y/N continued. "Two months of monitoring. Daily bloodwork. Cognitive tests." She leaned forward, close enough to smell the stale smoke in his hair. "But when we're done? No more cravings. No more shakes. A perfect mind in a perfect body."

Bob's knee bounced erratically. "Why me?"

The question hung between them. Y/N's gaze flickered to the drawer where she'd shoved her father's latest email - another demand for results, another veiled threat.

"The world needs better people," she said automatically. Then, softer: "And I need to prove I can make them."

Something shifted in Bob's face. His bloodshot eyes traced the tension in her shoulders, the white-knuckled grip she kept on her pen. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible.

"You're what I need. I hope you can do it to me...and that people value you. I know I will Dr.."

The words struck Y/N like a physical blow. All her life - the stolen research, the sleepless nights, the desperate attempts to earn her father's approval - distilled into this single moment of unexpected recognition.

This broken man saw her. Not her father's daughter. Not Valentina's pawn.

Her.

This man...This unknown man she didn't even see as human. Gave her the one sentence she looked for. How could someone like him have more eyes that everyone around her.

"Yes Bob... Someone will value me, specially because of you."

Y/N was making her way to the lab room, Bob following her not much behind, looking around curious.

Reaching the automatic glass doors, using her face to unlock them, looking back to check on Bob's presence, they reach a white room, full of screens, a bed, medical tools, and what appeared to be a skylight above it.

"I need you to change to these clothes, they are clean, there's a bag where you can put all of you other belogings, the staff will put them in the room where you will be staying." She walks around picking up what looked like hospital clothing and a small clear bag, handing them to him.

"Where ahm...where do I change?" Bob asked looking around for a door or a space where privacy could reach him.

"You change here, I will come back with the team where you're ready, take your time and breath, be calm." She says as she goes out of the room leaving Bob to stare at the clothes thinking about the outcome this will have, and anxiety reaching him.

He was quick changing into the clothes, wanting for this to pass quickly, anxious for his new change and her promises to be reached.

After just a couple of minutes, Y/N walks again into the room, speaking to the four people following her around, giving them indications and their new subject. All of them had what looked like files on their hands. Looking at him, through him. He was an experiment here. He was not a person, and their looks showed him that.

"Okay Bob, I will make this as quick as it can be, I need you to lay down for me, breath and relax, roll up your sleves." Y/N was already walking to him, a wheeled steel table with all her tools in it with her.

The staff waited for him to lay down, plugging the wires onto his body, being scanned by all the machines circulating the bed.

Waiting, Y/N was ready for the serum to be inserted.

The syringe gleamed under the fluorescent lights.

Bob rolled up his sleeve, exposing a landscape of track marks and scar tissue. His breath came in short, sharp bursts as Y/N swabbed his forearm with alcohol.

"It'll hurt," she warned.

Bob's cracked lips twisted into something resembling a smile. "Everything does."

The needle slid in with barely a whisper. As she depressed the plunger, the golden serum disappeared into his ravaged veins. For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then—

Bob's back arched violently. The monitors behind them screamed their alarms as his heart rate spiked into dangerous territory. Y/N watched, transfixed, as golden veins spiderwebbed beneath his skin before fading back to blue.

When it was over, Bob lay panting on the tile, his sweat-slick hair plastered to his forehead. But when he lifted his head, his eyes - those impossibly blue eyes - were clearer than they'd been in years.

"What..." He flexed his fingers, marveling at their steadiness. "What did you do to me?"

Y/N reached out, almost against her will, and brushed a damp lock of hair from his forehead. His skin burned beneath her touch.

"I saved you," she whispered.

And in saving him, perhaps herself.

The lights buzzed overhead, faint and cold, casting a pallid glow across the whitewashed walls. The room was small—bed, sink, a tray with untouched food—and reeked of bleach and sterilization. It wasn’t a hospital, not really. But it wanted to be.

Bob lay sprawled across the stiff mattress, limbs heavy, the back of his shirt clinging to his skin with sweat. His breath came slow and uneven, chest rising like it resented the work. The serum—it had burned. Not all at once, but like acid blooming beneath the surface, slow and invasive. Like it was trying to rewrite him from the inside out.

But he didn’t feel reborn.

He felt worse.

His mouth tasted like metal and old ash. Every joint ached. His thoughts, once too loud, now stuttered and faded like a dying signal. He couldn't tell if he was falling asleep or falling apart.

The door opened with a hiss.

No knock. No announcement.

She stepped inside like it was her own room—and maybe it was, in a way. Y/N didn’t look at the bed first. She looked at the monitors. The numbers. The notes clipped to a tablet she’d brought with her.

Only then did she glance down at him, curled slightly on his side, shirt sticking to his back, brow damp with fever-sweat.

“You’re still awake,” she said plainly. “Good.”

He stirred, barely.

His voice came out dry. “Didn’t realize... I had a curfew.”

She didn’t smile. She rarely did when it wasn’t performative. Instead, she walked across the room, heels clicking softly, stopping beside the bed without a hint of hesitation.

“How do you feel?” she asked, but there was no warmth in it. Just a checklist tone.

“Like I got hit by a truck full of glass and fire,” he muttered, groaning. “And maybe the truck reversed a few times.”

Y/N scribbled something on the tablet. “That’s to be expected. The serum forces rapid cellular restructuring. Pain is the first sign it’s working.”

He winced. “So… hurting means I’m lucky?”

“You’re alive,” she said curtly. “That’s lucky enough.”

She walked around the bed slowly, checking vitals on the wall display. Her movements were practiced, precise. Detached. Bob watched her through half-lidded eyes.

She didn’t ask if he needed water. She didn’t offer help.

“You should rest,” she said. “Testing begins in a few hours. We’ll need to see how your system is adapting.”

“Testing,” he repeated, voice cracked.

Y/N turned her gaze back to him. “Bloodwork. Endurance. Cognition. Neurological response. Physical output.”

She said it all like she was reading from a menu. He wasn’t a patient—he was a list of symptoms waiting to be documented.

Bob rolled onto his back, letting out a shaky breath.

“Does it usually feel like this?”

“No one’s gotten this far before,” she replied. “You’re my first functional subject.”

“...So the others...?”

She paused only briefly. “Dead. Or damaged beyond utility.”

Her words fell like stones into the silence.

Bob swallowed hard.

He could see it in her eyes, then. The truth she didn’t bother to hide. He wasn’t special. He wasn’t lucky. He was useful. A vessel. A second chance—for her, not for him.

“I thought you wanted to help people,” he whispered hoarsely.

Y/N looked at him evenly. “I want to perfect them.”

Then, more softly—almost to herself—she added, “And prove it.”

He frowned. “Prove it to who?”

But she was already turning away, walking back to the door.

“Rest, Robert,” she said without looking back. “You’ll need your strength.”

The door slid shut behind her, locking with a soft click.

Bob stared up at the ceiling, the white lights blurring in his vision. He felt small beneath them. Fragile.

And despite the serum coursing through his blood, despite the promise of perfection and power…

He had never felt more disposable.

The room was colder today.

Sterile, metallic, too white. It looked less like a lab and more like a crucible—where things were melted down, broken apart, and reforged into something unrecognizable. A theater of suffering dressed in stainless steel.

Bob stood in the center, shirtless, chest heaving, heart stuttering somewhere between exhaustion and fury. Electrodes clung to his skin like leeches. His veins bulged, dark and crawling, betraying the serum’s slow war through his body. His hands trembled—not from fear, but from something worse—a pressure building in his bones, coiling like a predator in his blood.

Y/N stood on the other side of the glass, arms folded. Immaculate as ever. Her lab coat fell like a cape, pristine, untouched by the sweat or blood of the man behind the glass.

“Begin endurance sequence,” she said flatly into the mic.

A low mechanical buzz stirred the floor. The assistant beside Bob—Harris, a younger man with the kind of condescending smirk that came from cushioned privilege—nodded without looking at him.

“On the treadmill, Subject Seven.”

Bob gritted his teeth. They never called him by name anymore. Just a number. A designation.

He staggered onto the machine, hands clenched.

The test began.

Ten minutes. Fifteen. Thirty.

The speed increased with brutal indifference. Incline rising. Air growing thinner. His lungs begged. His legs screamed. Sweat poured down his back in rivers. He ran until his vision flickered, until the room swam with double-images and nausea clawed up his throat.

“Push harder,” came Y/N’s voice through the speaker.

There was no kindness in it.

Only calculation.

Only pressure.

The treadmill shut off with a sudden jerk, nearly throwing him forward.

“Vital scan,” she said.

Harris approached with a monitor, jamming a sensor against Bob’s chest without warning. The edge of it dug into bone. Bob hissed and shoved him back.

“Warn me next time.”

Harris scoffed. “You’re not here to be comfortable.”

Y/N didn’t intervene. She didn’t blink.

“Proceed with the physical resistance trial,” she said instead.

Bob was dragged to another station. Steel cables. Weighted bars. Movement resistance gloves. Every piece of equipment designed to test the threshold of pain, of muscle endurance, of recovery.

The tests went on for hours.

By the end, his knuckles were raw, blood darkening the wraps around his fingers. His breath came in ragged bursts. There was a tremor in his jaw he couldn’t bite back.

He collapsed to his knees.

Someone laughed. Harris again. “Thought you wanted to be fixed. You’re still just a junkie with good PR.”

Bob looked up, glassy-eyed, a thousand-yard stare beginning to burn into something more focused.

“What did you say?”

“I said maybe we should’ve picked someone who didn’t already have one foot in the grave.”

Bob’s jaw clenched.

“Enough,” Y/N said from behind the glass. “Draw blood and move him back to the room.”

But Harris didn’t wait. He moved in early—needle in hand—and without warning, jabbed it straight into the crook of Bob’s bruised elbow. Not cleanly. Not carefully.

Bob screamed.

The pain wasn’t just from the needle—it was from everything: the serum, the exhaustion, the voices, the fear, the humiliation. All of it twisted together like rusted wire around his spine.

He snapped.

His hand shot out on instinct, fist colliding with Harris’s chest with a thunderous crack. The man went flying across the lab, slamming into the far wall hard enough to leave a bloody smear as he crumpled.

Gasps erupted from the medical staff.

Alarms blared.

Bob stood there, eyes wild, chest heaving. For a second, he didn’t look like a man. He looked like a storm that had grown legs.

Y/N didn’t flinch.

She stepped into the lab with calm precision, clipboard still in hand, heels echoing on the tile. Bob turned toward her, half-dazed, arms trembling.

“You’re stronger,” she said simply, as if it were an observation on the weather.

“No,” he rasped. “You made me into a monster.”

She looked him up and down, unafraid. “No I didn't. You're perfect.”

Security moved toward him—stun batons raised—but she lifted one hand.

“Stand down.”

They froze.

Bob’s vision blurred at the edges. His breath slowed. The pain roared in his bones, but something beneath it… something deeper… had awoken.

He looked at Harris’s body, groaning on the floor, and then at Y/N.

And for the first time, she smiled, a smile that was so weirdly big, as tears come to her face. Letting out a laugh.

The serum was finally working.

The days bled into each other like old bruises—yellow, purple, sickly at the edges. The lights never turned off in the lab. Time was a theory. Sleep was optional. Mercy didn’t exist.

Bob had stopped asking what day it was. It didn't matter. The white coats came in with needles and wires and machinery. They attached him to things that clicked and beeped, asked him to move until his muscles screamed, screamed until his throat was raw, stayed silent when the pain crested too high for sound.

And then they’d start again.

Y/N stood behind the glass every morning. Always there, always watching. Never speaking unless it was necessary.

But she noticed.

She was the only one who did.

Because Bob wasn’t just breaking.

He was changing.

It started subtly. During the third day of exhaustive neural tests, when they placed him in sensory isolation and bombarded his nervous system with synthetic stress triggers—pain, voices, unbearable flashes of childhood trauma, withdrawal memories. He wept. Screamed. Clawed at the padded walls of the isolation tank.

Then… he stopped.

The tears dried.

The shaking ceased.

What replaced it was worse.

He went silent.

Staring.

Not at anything in particular. Just… outward. Through people, through walls. A haunted, still look that didn’t belong to the broken man who had first walked into her office days ago.

Y/N wrote it down. She didn’t mention it aloud. She simply noted:

Subject displays catatonic dissociation under stress. Staring. Withdrawn. Possible early signs of compensatory mental partitioning.

But it wasn’t just psychological.

The next day, during resistance drills—after twenty minutes of relentless physical abuse from a pair of armored guards trying to test his “combat reflexes”—one of them hit too hard. A baton cracked against his ribs, and Bob let out a visceral, breathless gasp, collapsing to his knees.

“You like being weak?” one of them said.

The room tilted. Bob’s hand dug into the ground.

And then, something shifted.

He stood. Not stumbled—stood. Smoothly. Slowly. Like someone was pulling strings from inside him.

His eyes were blank, but his voice was cold, quiet.

“Don’t touch me again.”

The guard laughed. Raised the baton.

And Bob caught it mid-swing.

There was no warning. No shout.

Just the crack of bone as he bent the guard’s wrist backward without effort. The man screamed. The second guard lunged—and was thrown across the room with a single shove, slamming into the reinforced wall so hard that plaster cracked.

Y/N pressed her palm to the glass, watching intently.

Not afraid.

Not surprised.

Bob’s chest heaved. Muscles flexed like coiled cables beneath his sweat-slick skin. His arms were bigger. Tighter. The veins under his skin pulsed black-blue, like oil moving just beneath the surface.

Power. Raw. Unfocused. But there.

The strength was real.

But so was something else.

Because later—when the sedatives had worn off, and he sat in the corner of his cell again, knees drawn to his chest—he cried.

He didn’t remember everything. Just flashes. Sounds. His own voice, low and unfamiliar, echoing in his ears.

“I didn’t want to hurt them,” he whispered when Y/N came in.

She didn’t answer.

She only crouched, observing him through the glass panel of the cell.

“No one listens to me,” he said, curling tighter. “I keep telling them I’m not okay. I keep begging. But no one listens.”

Y/N stared, impassive.

He turned his face toward her slowly, eyes bloodshot and unfocused.

“…But you see it, don’t you?” he murmured. “You know something’s wrong with me.”

Her eyes didn’t waver. “Something is evolving in you.”

“I’m scared,” he whispered. “I think I’m losing myself.”

She didn’t deny it.

She only said, “Then let it go.”

He stared again. That look returning. Vacant and chilling. As if he had retreated somewhere too deep to reach.

Later, under dim lighting in the observation theater, she reviewed footage: one of the medical staff caught Bob in profile—chest rising, bruises blooming under his collarbones, lips moving silently. He was mouthing something.

She zoomed in. Enhanced.

"I am here."

Repeated. Over and over. Lips forming the words without sound.

And then, he looked up into the lens.

Straight into the camera.

And smiled. Eyes glowing at her.

The facility hummed low with artificial life—hallways whispering with cold air vents, dimmed fluorescents casting long shadows across clean, quiet floors. Staff moved with mechanical precision, all too used to the rhythms of experimentation. But tonight, they moved away from one room in particular. Cleared by command.

Y/N’s command.

“Clear the wing. No assistants,” she said without looking up from the data pad. “From here on, I handle Subject Seven’s diagnostics myself.”

Her tone didn’t allow for debate. She didn’t offer reasons, and none of them dared ask. Even Valentina wouldn’t blink—this was her project now. And this subject was beginning to show signs that were far too promising… or far too dangerous to be shared.

She entered his containment room alone, the steel doors sealing behind her with a final hiss. No windows this time. No cameras. She had disabled the feed herself.

Bob sat in the far corner of the room, back against the padded wall, shirtless, still glistening with the faint sheen of post-test sweat. His eyes tracked her warily—red-rimmed, sunken, uncertain. He was thinner than before, but there was something volatile in the way his shoulders tensed, like a man bracing for an earthquake he couldn’t outrun.

He felt sick.

More than that—he felt wrong.

The door opened with a soft hiss. Y/N stepped inside alone again, clipboard in hand, her heels tapping a rhythm that was fast becoming routine. She didn’t knock. She never did.

He didn’t lift his head. Just mumbled, “You don’t believe in knocking, do you?”

“No need,” she replied flatly. “You don’t have anything I haven’t seen.”

Her tone was cool as always—clinical. But there was a slight falter in her pace as she got closer, and she noticed something: despite his bruised ribs, his split lip, the tremor in his fingers from exhaustion—he was still sitting up straight. He looked present.

Not shattered.

Not yet.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, setting the clipboard down.

“Better,” he said softly, finally looking at her. “I think… I think it helps.”

“What does?”

“The pain.” He smiled, small and sad. “It makes sense. I deserve it. For the man I was before. For the mess I made of my life. This… this is better than rotting on the streets.”

She narrowed her eyes, studying him.

“You’re saying you like this?”

“No,” he said. “But I accept it. And that’s more than I ever had before.”

There was silence for a beat. She tilted her head, intrigued.

“You think punishment makes you worthy?”

He looked away. “Maybe it’s the only thing that ever will.”

Y/N said nothing, but her gaze didn’t soften. There was no pity. Only analysis. Still, she crossed the room slowly and sat down across from him. Close enough for him to feel the heat of her presence. He glanced up at her, eyes tired and rimmed red.

“You’re different when you're in here,” he said after a moment. “Not like when you’re watching through the glass.”

“That’s because in here, I get answers.”

He nodded, then flinched—just slightly. A jolt of pressure shot through his chest, like a sudden drop. His breathing hitched.

“Hey—hey,” she stood quickly, alarm sharpening her voice. “What’s happening?”

But his body was already stiffening.

His fingers twitched, curled. His skin flushed gold under the surface like light through amber. A radiant pulse began to bloom from his chest—like a sun cracking through skin. Then his eyes snapped open.

They were glowing.

Brilliant, gold-white. Blinding.

He stood slowly, and this time, he was taller. Straighter. Something inhuman rippled beneath his skin—a calm storm, barely held.

She took a single step back.

He tilted his head, that warm glow behind his gaze searing into her.

“I don’t deserve pain,” he said, but it wasn’t Bob’s voice anymore—not entirely. It was deeper. Richer. Full of something ancient. “I deserve reverence.”

She didn’t speak.

The air buzzed.

“You made me,” he said, stepping closer. “Didn’t you?”

“Yes,” she said carefully.

“You shaped me from ruin.” His voice was equal parts wonder and command. “Then you broke me again.”

“I had to test you.”

“No,” he said sharply. “You wanted to see if I’d submit. But I’m not a man anymore. You saw it. You know.”

She watched him, heart thudding—not with fear, but fascination.

She understood now.

Bob craved punishment. But the Sentry—this glowing, impossible god standing before her—craved something else.

Worship.

“Yes,” she said, slowly, reverently. “I saw you. And you were… perfect.”

His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t speak. She took a careful step toward him.

“I’ve never seen anything like you,” she said, voice low. “Not even close. What you are—it’s not a mutation. It’s not a mistake. It’s creation. You’re not a man, you’re the answer.”

The golden light around him flared softly.

“You think I’m the answer?” he asked, voice tinged with curiosity, with hunger.

“I think,” she whispered, “you’re the beginning of something new.”

A pause. Then, something softened in him. Not entirely human. Not at all safe. But… tamed. For a moment.

“Say it again.”

“What?”

“That I’m perfect.”

She smiled. “You’re perfect.”

He took a breath—deep and indulgent—and let it out like a sigh of relief. His eyes dimmed slightly, his shoulders relaxing.

And just like that, the Sentry quieted. He didn’t vanish. But he leaned back into the body that held him, content, for now, to bask in her gaze.

Bob blinked slowly, as if waking from a dream. He looked at her, confused, uncertain.

“What just happened…?”

“Nothing,” she said smoothly, stepping away and picking up her clipboard. “You're tired. Get some rest. We start again tomorrow.”

She left the room without another word.

But behind the glass, she made a single note in the margin of his file:

Praise increases compliance. Needs reverence. He responds to adoration.

The silence in the observation room was a heavier thing than it had ever been. Y/N stood at the glass wall, arms limp at her sides, her expression unreadable. Behind that wall, Bob sat hunched on the floor of his quarters. The cot remained untouched—he rarely used it anymore. His knees were drawn to his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around them, trembling slightly under the white fabric of his uniform.

The last few days had been a slow collapse.

The tests had grown more invasive, more demanding. Neural taps. Strength resistance simulations. Pain tolerance trials. Every time he seemed to stabilize, something inside him would shift—memories would fray, his gaze would glaze, or worse, he would look at her and flinch like she was a stranger.

His powers were accelerating rapidly, almost impossibly. Muscle density, healing capabilities, visual acuity. All off the charts. But the mind—the man inside the mutation—was breaking open at the seams.

And the scariest part wasn’t when Bob cried or screamed or begged.

It was when he stared.

Quiet. Still. Gone somewhere deep.

She had seen that kind of stillness once—on her father’s face.

Y/N pressed her fingers against the bridge of her nose and sighed.

You’re losing him.

And if she lost Bob, she lost everything. Her work. Her legacy. Her revenge. But more than that—deep down, in a part of herself she refused to name—she knew she might also be losing the only living being who had ever looked at her like she mattered.

She stepped through the airlock and into his quarters.

The moment the door hissed closed, Bob’s eyes twitched toward her. Red-rimmed. Tired. Suspicious.

She didn’t speak right away. Just walked slowly, carefully, and crouched beside him—knees creaking, lab coat brushing the floor. She didn't reach for him. Just existed in his space for a moment, with warmth in her silence.

“You came to hurt me again?” he murmured, voice cracking.

She shook her head. “No. Not today.”

His brow furrowed, confused. Guarded.

Y/N let out a breath and sat fully beside him, her back resting against the cold wall.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said softly. “About everything I’ve put you through. And I think I made a mistake.”

He didn’t answer. But he was listening.

“I treated you like a subject. A tool,” she said. “And that’s not fair. I told myself it was necessary. That pain was the price of progress. But… you’re not just a project. You’re a person. You’ve been through hell. And I didn’t stop to see it.”

A long silence.

Then: “Why are you saying this?”

“Because I want to do better,” she said honestly, gently. “Because I see what this is doing to you, and I can’t pretend it’s okay anymore.”

He looked at her, blinking hard. “You made me this way.”

“I know,” she whispered.

Bob turned away, resting his head back against the wall. “I feel like I’m disappearing. Like there’s someone else in here, pushing me out. And I’m scared.”

Her heart twisted. She reached out, finally, and placed her hand carefully on top of his, not forcing him to accept it, just… there.

“You don’t have to be scared alone,” she said. “You’ve had no one. I can be here. With you. If you want.”

He didn’t move.

But he didn’t pull away.

“I thought you hated me,” he said quietly.

“I’ve never hated you.”

He didn’t answer.

So she went on.

“You didn’t deserve the things that happened to you before this. And maybe you think you deserve what’s happening now—but you don’t. No one does.”

He looked down at their hands. His fingers flexed slightly, touching hers. “Then why does it feel right when it hurts?”

Her throat tightened. “Because they taught you pain was all you were worth.”

He shivered, and she shifted closer.

“But I see more than that in you,” she murmured. “You’re strong, Bob. Brave. Smarter than you think. And maybe… maybe you’re becoming something even greater.”

His breath caught. “Greater?”

She smiled faintly. “Stronger than anyone. Maybe not just better. But… perfect.”

His eyes glowed—just faintly, flickering like a match.

That always happened when he surfaced. The part of him that didn’t shake. That didn’t cry.

The part that needed to be told he was everything.

“You think I’m perfect?” he asked, his voice lower now—not quite his own.

Y/N met his gaze, softer than ever. “I think you’re becoming something no one will ever be able to match.”

He straightened slowly, eyes glowing brighter now, tension rippling through his muscles as if remembering his own greatness. His shoulders squared.

“I knew it,” he said, voice nearly serene. “You saw it too.”

And just like that, the shattered man was buried beneath a new mask.

One that needed her—for now.

She stayed at his side. Letting him feel her warmth. Letting him believe.

Because even gods needed temples.

And she would be his, if it kept him in her control.

If it saved her masterpiece.

It started with something small.

A candy bar.

Bob hadn’t tasted real sugar in weeks—his meals had been measured and rationed, protein-heavy, vitamin-saturated, dull as sand. So when she handed him the wrapped snack during one of their quieter sessions—no needles, no machines, just a clipboard resting on her lap—his fingers trembled as he opened it. He didn’t say anything, just took a bite, and then another. A smudge of chocolate smeared the corner of his mouth.

Y/N wiped it away with the corner of her sleeve.

“You’re not just data,” she murmured, more to herself than him. “You’re a person. They forget that sometimes.”

He didn’t look at her, but something shifted in his chest. A tightness he hadn’t even realized was there uncoiled just slightly.

The next day, she brought him a sandwich—soft bread, warm chicken. The next, a coffee, real coffee, not the sterile nutrient fluid they pumped into the subjects. Then a blanket. Socks. A chair with a cushion. Lip balm.

She noticed everything. His hunger. His discomfort. His silence.

And she fixed it.

When the tests were brutal—and they always were—she would come storming into the lab, voice sharp, eyes aflame, berating the staff with just the right fury. “This wasn’t what we discussed,” she’d snap, standing between him and the machines. “He’s not an animal.”

They would quiet, nod, retreat.

They never questioned her authority. She was the one in charge. She wrote the protocols. She set the bar.

But Bob never connected the dots. Never saw that the pain they inflicted was her design. Because afterward, she was always there.

Bandaging his arms.

Apologizing in soft whispers.

“I wasn’t there,” she’d say, kneeling by his cot. “I would have stopped them.”

She’d stay late. Sit beside him as the lights dimmed, reading his vitals by the glow of the monitors. Sometimes, when the nightmares returned—trembling fits, disjointed flashes of his old life, screaming into the dark—he’d wake up to her hand stroking gently through his hair.

“Shhh,” she’d whisper. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

It became a ritual.

She would stay until he fell asleep.

Sometimes longer.

Bob stopped talking to the other staff. He stopped looking at them. When they tried to coax him out of his room for a scan or an exam, he ignored them. Refused to move.

But when Y/N came—just a quiet knock, her voice soft—he followed. Always.

He trusted her.

She was his tether.

His anchor in the chaos of his fracturing mind. The only constant in a world of shifting memories and invasive pain.

Once, when his powers flared unexpectedly—he’d bent a steel tray in half without realizing it—he panicked. Terrified he was losing control. He fell to the floor, fists clenched, gasping.

She was there in seconds.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t step back.

She held him.

“You’re okay,” she murmured, over and over, stroking his back. “You’re not a monster. You’re mine. You hear me? I’ll take care of you.”

He clung to her like a child.

He needed her.

And she knew it.

The deeper he fell into her care, the more isolated he became. They made sure of it. A slow, strategic withdrawal of other contact. Less staff rotation. Fewer voices. Always her.

When he cried, it was for her.

When he smiled, it was because of her.

He began to crave her presence—watching the door like a loyal hound, ears pricking at the sound of her heels.

She was warmth. She was safety. She was love.

Even if it wasn’t real.

Even if it was perfectly orchestrated.

Because behind every soft glance, every nurturing hand, was calculation.

Her notes were full of it.

Subject displays increased cooperation when exposed to emotional care. Recommend continued one-on-one interaction to maximize psychological dependency. Rapid increase in obedience and physical response post-praise.

She was feeding his weakness, nurturing it into loyalty.

And he—poor, broken, beautiful Bob—never questioned it.

Because for the first time in his life, someone stayed.

The room was dimly lit, bathed in the faint hum of soft blue monitor lights, the walls lined with quiet machines blinking in quiet rhythm—everwatchful, everrecording. Bob lay still under the sterile sheets, his eyes open and distant. Y/N sat beside him, as she had most nights now, phone in hand, scrolling, half-engaged, the way one humors a pet that insists on your presence but not your focus.

Tonight was different, though. Bob could feel it.

The pain hadn’t dulled. If anything, it gnawed deeper. His joints ached in ways they shouldn’t. His head throbbed from the flashes—memories that weren’t his, voices that spoke in his tone but not his mind. He felt stretched, hollowed.

And tonight, it felt unbearable.

He turned his head slightly on the pillow to look at her. “You don’t have to be here.”

She blinked, not looking up from her phone.

“I know you’re faking it,” he continued, voice soft—no malice, no accusation, just truth worn thin by exhaustion. “But at least you give me something I crave. And you’re so good at it.”

That made her pause.

The screen lit her face in faint light as she looked up slowly, phone frozen in her hand.

Her eyes searched his—half-expecting him to be teasing, or confused. But there was clarity there. Depth. Something terrifyingly aware behind those tired blue eyes.

For a moment, she didn’t speak.

He continued to stare at the ceiling, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “You're not like the others,” he murmured. “You're better. You know how to make someone feel needed. Even if it's a lie.”

Y/N’s mouth opened slightly, but no words came out at first. Something in her stomach twisted. How long had he known? Had he always? Or was this…new?

She blinked quickly and set her phone aside, suddenly animated, leaning forward as if the shift in posture could erase what he'd said. Her voice took on a lighter tone, tinged with breathy disbelief. “Bob… What are you talking about?” she asked gently, smiling—just enough to seem soft, not insincere. “You’re exhausted. I think you’re reading too much into this. I’m just tired too, that’s all.”

But her heart was thudding—he shouldn’t be this perceptive.

She had to pivot, quickly.

Before he could retreat from her care. Before he saw too much.

Her expression softened further, and she tilted her head with a playful, sympathetic tilt. “You know what I think?” she said gently, resting a hand over his. “I think you’re overthinking everything again. You do that when you're stressed.”

He didn’t pull away. He just watched her. So quiet. So tired.

And desperate for something—anything.

“Hey…” she said more gently, voice dipping into something warm and honeyed. “Why don’t we both rest? Just for a bit. You’ve had a long day. We both have. Friends… look after each other, right?”

He blinked. Her words felt strange. “Friends?”

She nodded, already slipping out of her shoes, unbuttoning her coat slowly and setting it on the chair, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I can stay here,” she said softly, slipping under the covers beside him. “Just tonight.”

Bob turned his head toward her, the sheets rustling slightly as her presence warmed the space beside him. He didn’t move, frozen, eyes wide—not with fear, but with something achingly vulnerable.

She smiled, reaching up to touch his cheek. Her fingertips brushed his skin so gently, it nearly undid him.

" I really care about you Bob,” she whispered.

He didn’t answer, afraid his voice would crack.

And then—everything went black.

As if the light had been swallowed whole, not turned off.

The monitors shut down. The gentle hum of the lab fell silent in an instant. Y/N sat upright, eyes wide in the pitch darkness.

The air in the room changed.

Heavy. Electric. Like a storm about to break.

Looking down trying to see Bob, she was alone.

The cold that seeped through her skin wasn’t natural.

Y/N blinked and the room was gone.

Bob—gone.

The hum of machines, the sterile scent of the lab, the soft glow of artificial light—all gone.

Darkness surrounded her now, thick and oppressive, as if she had been plunged beneath ink. She turned in place, breath hitching. Her heels clicked softly against a polished floor that should not exist. And then—

A single note.

A piano.

Sharp. Perfect.

Then—

CRACK.

The sound of a whip slicing air and meeting flesh. Sharp. Wet.

Another piano key.

Then another. A rhythm. Crack. A scream. A perfect A major. Crack. A low sob. F sharp.

It came in cycles.

And suddenly, she knew.

Her breath caught in her throat as her eyes adjusted, and the room took form from the shadows like a curtain lifting on a stage she had long since burned away in her mind.

The piano room.

Her piano room.

Back in the penthouse. The place that smelled of waxed mahogany, stale wine, and disappointment. It was too real—the ivory keys smeared with red, the glossy floor reflecting the warped chandelier light above.

And at the piano—a girl.

A child no more than eleven.

Immaculately dressed. A long, silken white gown with lace cuffs. Her dark hair pinned back into a braided crown that a governess had once spent an hour perfecting. But her hands… her hands were ruined.

They bled at the joints, fingertips raw, the keys slick with crimson trails—but still she played.

La campanella.

The impossible song. A cruel performance that her father once deemed the measure of genius. Of perfection.

Her perfection.

Standing beside the girl was a tall man, graying, stoic in his dark three-piece suit. His eyes held no pity. No pride. Only expectation.

The power cable in his hand—industrial, rubber, humming faintly with static and fury—swung by his side. Streaked red.

The child faltered.

She missed a note.

She froze.

He turned to her with the stillness of a statue and said, cold as winter steel: “Get up.”

The little girl trembled, tears streaming down her face—but she obeyed.

She stood. Laid her bleeding hand on the piano bench. No one needed to explain what came next.

CRACK.

Y/N screamed—not aloud, not outwardly, but deep, guttural, in her chest where no one could hear.

She stumbled back, shaking. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t stop it. Her eyes burned with unshed tears, her breath short.

Suddenly, the lights flickered.

The walls warped, stretching and flexing like the inside of a dying heartbeat. The chandelier pulsed with an unnatural glow.

And the piano stopped.

So did everything else.

And then—like a snap— they were back.

The room. The bed. The lamp on the desk.

Y/N was still lying beside him, but she was sitting upright now, gasping, covered in sweat. Her eyes darted around in disbelief. Her phone was still on the nightstand. The monitor still beeped. The world was normal.

Bob sat up next to her, breathing hard. “Did… did you see that?”

She turned to him slowly. Her voice was dry.

“You were there too?”

He nodded.

Neither spoke for a long moment.

Only the sound of Bob’s heavy breathing and the soft flicker of the light filled the space between them.

Then he whispered, “What just happened?”

And for once, Y/N didn’t have an answer.

She only knew one thing now.

Something else was inside him.

And now, it had seen her.

314 notes · View notes

shanesevikasfuckdoll · 4 months ago

Text

Can I butter your muffin? 🦾

Imagine, Sevika buttering your muffins?! 😍🦾

🚫Men and Minors DNI🚫

You like baking—No, you love baking. You wake up early in the morning to bake some bread, or pastries for Sevika. You enjoy it, it calms your mind. Sevika likes seeing you be in your own little world sometimes, playing some tunes, humming, and swaying your hips, while mixing ingredients together. You're rarely ever messy too. You always say "A clean kitchen is key to being a good chef/baker" You're a good cook too. You know how to cook all of Sevika's comfort foods, but for fun, you bake alot.

You often visit Silco's office to hand out some cupcakes, cookies, pies, or brownies. Sevika loves this about you, how caring, and generous you are. When she had a particularly stressful day, you'd just pull something sugary out of the oven you baked early that morning, and put it in Sevika's mouth. She doesn't like overly sweet foods, so you often make a different batch for her with much less sugar.

Her favourite baked goods from you are bread, pastries, pies, and muffins. She often watches you bake, and she just zones out, and she just stares at you for long periods of time studying you, and then get surprised when you're don, like "How did you make that, into that?!" She says pointing to the ingredients, and to your creation. You chuckle at her, "Sevika, you've been watching me make it for the past hour, what do you mean how?" You guys just laugh, and eat it together. She likes it, and she wasn't much of a sweet tooth before, and she still isn't, but she consumes much more sugar from being with you for only a couple months, than she did her whole life.

Sevika once tried to help you bake a carrot cake. she had gotten you carrots smuggled from topside, and she brought 3 bags full of em. You had already made your batter, and left to go to the bathroom, and let Sevika to finish the work for you, since it was an easy task. Atleast, you thought so. Her job was to smush the carrots, and put it in the already made batter. She was only instructed to put 3 cups of grated carrots, mix it, and stick it in the oven. When you came back, the carrot cake looked like a smoking pile of mush. She put too much carrots. The batter was already cooked, and putting it in the oven again would likely just burn it, but the carrot made it extra moist, the cake basically just looks like, mushed carrots. She put her face on your chest, and tell you "There's something wrong with the cake" to hide her embarrassment. You chuckle at her, and since there was no fixing it, you just plated it, and put some icing on it, and ate the mush with Sevika.

She said it was the best tasting carrot cake she's ever had. You just nod and roll your eyes at your girlfriend, and decide to give some to the neighbors that just had a baby, since the carrot cake wasn't too sweet, and it was mushy.

There where other times, in which Sevika offered to help, but always ending with either your kitchen ruined, or your cakes. And with that you said enough, and often times you just find ways to distract your girlfriend from coming into the kitchen. "U-uhm, babe, I think that show you're watching is on, it's 4:30." You remind her, and she'd withdraw her offer, and go to the living room to watch her favourite show. You always timed your baking hours to her being busy, and so instead of you saying sorry, it'd be her, (You psycho) Unless it's time to wash the dishes, and with that, you check mate her again, "You're always busy, babe!" with a little reverse psychology, but you only ever do that in those circumstances. You hate the dishes, so it's valid.

One rainy afternoon, you were baking Sevika's favourite muffins, while she was laying on the couch, reading a book. You were about to pull it out of the oven, when Sevika clears her throat. "Is your muffin buttered?" She asks, and you look at her raising an eyebrow, confused. She grins at you, and clears her throat again, "Would you like me to butter your muffin?" She asks, with a look in her eyes, only you were able to see. You giggle, and roll your eyes. "Very funny, Sevi" She giggles at you, and makes grabby hands at you, and you quickly give her a stick of butter, and a muffin. "There, butter your own muffins" You joke at her. She pouts at you, so you roll your eyes, and take the muffin from her hands.

"There, butter my muffins, Sevi" And with that, she's rubbing the stick of butter on the muffin, as she snickers, and laughs at her own antics. You roll your eyes, and shove the muffin in her mouth. "There, isn't that better?" You tease, she's laughing as she's chewing the muffin, and suddenly her face looks like she just had a clever idea come in. She pulls your waist, and makes you sit on her lap. She looks at you, as she licks off the rest of the muffin residue on her fingers. She smirks at you.

"You're right. Eating your muffins is way better."

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

I might make a smut version of this tomorrow, called "Cream in my pie" I kinda wanna make this a series, I have so many sexual baking jokes, I won't seem to run out. For now, hehe, hope you enjoy.

Ps. I kinda took some inspiration from another carrot cake incident I saw on facebook I just read, and boy, was it funny, but I accidentally removed the tab, so now it's lost forever. I tried searching for like, 3 hours. But, props to that guy, hehe

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kleptomaniakrow · 1 month ago

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hi, i'm back on my brain rot bullshit! so you know what time it is... B^)

hear me out, (some) KorTac men (specifically König, Krueger and Nikto), dating an artist.

normally, i often see most drabbles and other thoughtfully crafted pieces delve down the writer route (go figure)! this prompt fucking possessed me whilst i was working on some art, so i'm imposing this idea into the ether for all of you to see!

kept it gender neutral! but there might be one femme-leaning pet-name + the use of "little one" for Nikto's bit! i am not a russian-speaking native so i hope the one i grabbed is gender neutral as well (feel free to correct me if it isn't)!

personally i'm run with his government first name being "Andre," this is not canon btw!

if they're a little ooc? uh... i'm still figuring out how to write these three idiots (affectionate)!

this barely proof read so if you see typos? uh... no you didn't.

enjoy these little pebbles of purely sickeningly sweet, silly fluff under the cut!🖤

♚ König. . .

✦ he would fucking love to see your drawings i will die on this fucking hill! this fact about you was one of the most exciting thing he ever learned about you! by god was this man like a child in a candy store witnessing all of your art pieces, new or old! ✦ this big, burly man gets so soft and proud seeing your sketches become finalized pieces. the art of creation is always such a wonderous marvel to behold in his opinion! seeing you tune out the rest of the world, when you fully submerge yourself into the motions is remarkable sight to behold. he's privileged that you let him be a witness to it! ✦ honestly, let's be real. he would take this chance to just stare at you (affectionately). because you're too deep in your own little world—likely with headphones on or music playing—perhaps even a podcast of choice! consuming your audio of choice as you pen your ideas to paper, be it on actual paper or on a more digital medium! ✦ if you ever, and i genuinely mean EVER, take the time to draw his portrait (with or without his face coverings)? just know this man would full-on bawl like a baby. pathetic snot dribbling from his nose, horrendously tearful but it's all for good reasons, please don't worry! ✦ "Mein schatz..." / "Do you like it?" / "I've no words that would do it justice... it's... incredible, maus." ✦ i bet fucking money he'd save that to his phone, keep a copy of it in his pocket of a kevlar vest. something tangible that you earnestly made for him with intents of capturing your muse onto parchment. between photos of you he keeps to himself, little traces of your existence just make his heart sing. parchment long since creased from how many times he's opened it and closed it, weathered and worn but it's something you made for him to keep. these items that were made or owned by you are invaluable, no amount of money could every buy these off of him. you, as well as anything you make, are treasures he'd protect indefinitely. ✦ in the sense of a long-distance relationship be it for deployment or otherwise, you'd often share what you're working on. be it still images or (stable internet, be willing), you lull him to sleep with delicate humming a tune you're listening to whilst sharing your screen, he'd watch you work on projects you're determined to see to fruition if he couldn't be home to observe you himself. ✦ if you're ever insecure about your work, this big ass goof (affectionate) would stumble over his words but he'd want nothing more than for you to constantly be up his ass about what you do, side-hustle or hobby otherwise. ✦ König is your number 1 supporter, he'd sooner turn in his premature grave before he'd ever slip up on an opportunity to let you think otherwise. even if you find your talent lackluster by comparison, he'd perish atop mountains shouting how talented his beloved Schatz is! the way you breath life into such fictitious subjects always drew him in. especially with how you drew eyes and expressions! (when he noticed you often mimic the facial creases yourself when focusing on expressions, but he'd never tell you. it's too precious to point out so brazenly). ✦ frankly, if this passion of yours is important to you? it's important to him, and he will not budge on this. what sparks you joy will be a wonderous experience for him too, and what partner would he be if he wasn't supportive of your interests, hobbies or line of work?

♜ Krueger. . .

✦ see, Sebastian would be a bit interesting because you'd think at first he'd pay little to no mind. ✦ his steps are so quiet around the house that half the time you're just ignorant of his presence for several minutes. a comedically long while before the inkling of someone behind you ever crossed your mind. ✦ it's not that you'd mind (not unless he scares the proverbial piss out of you, of course) but he just can't help but be curious. maybe he's not one for the modern arts (perhaps more classical?) but... you're his darling little liebling, he isn't so much as a fool to be ignorant of your interests. ✦ however he's not too partial to being separate from you; Krueger gives me the impression he's partial to physical touch... when he wants to be that is (frankly he's no better than a cat in my eyes). ✦ "Schatzi?" / "Hmmm~?" / "Come, bring your little drawing things with you if you must but I need you here," ✦ he now fully sees a character design you've been working on and admittedly... curiosity does get the better of him and he begins inquiring what you're working on whilst your form settles into his. ✦ "Oh! This is a commission for someone who paid me illustrate a character for their indie game!" he just nods along, allowing you space to involve him into this little world of yours. revealing to him the various concepts tossed back and forth between you and your client. ✦ Sebastian is (quietly) fascinated by how your creative little mind works. keenly taken notes, exhibiting your perceptive attentive to rather pedantic details―it's so (annoyingly) endearing. he's come to find himself enamored, entertained even, by your eccentric interests. your fixations are ones that vastly differ from his, but these are distinctive traits he's come to adore you for. ✦ he jokingly threw out the idea of how he'd look in such a world of whimsy given your subjects of focus is often fantasy. oh boy, he shouldn't have said that because now you have ideas and that is dangerous to give one's partner with only their imagination as a limiter. ✦ he'd be physically unable to admit to it, but he'd likely have saved the drawings that poured every ounce of love into. utterly taken by your imaging him in a knight's garb rather than tac pants and kevlar. the thought of you seeing him as such a regal-looking protector... he struggles to give name the feeling a name most days. the one that makes his stomach feel light and fluttery, his heart feel like a frantic bird caged by bone instead of metal. that same one makes his cheeks and ears warmer than normal.

♞ Nikto. . .

✦ see, there's just something about Nikto that gives me the impression he wouldn't even ask. however, don't mistake this as disinterest! baby boy is so fucking curious what his little one is doing! he's just unsure how to articulate such a.. loaded question(?) and you seem so focused on what you're doing! ✦ i kinda see him doing that animal-thing. y'know, the one where he just quietly observes every subtle movement, noise or expression that catches his eye‒you two more often than not just kinda "co-exist" together in the same shared space. not always needing to talk verbally. finding comfort in peaceful, silent company is more than enough between you two! this life led with tranquility is more than he'd ever dare to ask for. ✦ instead, i can see him bringing you sustenance and fluids, you're keeping yourself so, so busy! but you need to eat and drink at some point! things he knows you like! things that he's memorized by heart! it's always the quiet bitches like him (affectionate) who have an internalized backlog of information when it comes to you. it took quite the adjustment period when you made the off-handed remark that you like a specific blend of tea, and he ensured you'd never run out. ✦ little did he know, you were working on a passion project of the indie development. working along side a few other individuals, and you were the one designing characters for a game jam! intending to make a concept a protagonist who's build you're not exactly familiar with drawing (bulky, trained, fit. think professional dead lifter types which distantly remined you of Nikto). ✦ he couldn't help but notice that the usual focus is now tightly knit with frustration. the quiet, concerned glance he shot your way went unnoticed, far too deep in your own thoughts to really pay any heed to the brewing worry. he had to say something... anything to snap you out of this mental limbo that deafened you. ✦ "любимый?" ("beloved?") / "Huh?" / "Something troubles you...?" / "Trouble me?— oh! No, no I'm okay!" / "Your expression tells me different... will you allow me to listen? To.. help?" ✦ eventually the big brutish bear cuts through your thoughts to source the root of your worries! frankly, it'd cause you to wrinkle far earlier than you mean to! as prompted, you're airing out your grievances with this project being out of your comfort zone. it's hard to come up with a concept that you're happy with and you've deadlines to meet. he listens to you diligently, he may not understand the full weight of your plight; it matters to you, then it matters to him. ✦ you don't know how exactly, but eventually, somehow, you ended up enlisting Nikto's assistance! his figure is close enough the concepts the head of your team posted onto your inspiration board! ✦ somehow, that incorrigible art block just... magically vanished, it was mind boggling even to you. Nikto didn't really understand given all he did was slide you a few photos or posed for your creative use. but the creases on your brow line were softer if not gone entirely, so he'd consider his intervention a success. ✦ you find yourself looking at the game's protagonist (whom you coyly suggested he be named "Andre" for no suspicious reason at all), and you're elated! proud of it, too! it's evident that he bears Nikto's likeness in more than a few aspects aspects! aside from the build, of course. Nikto has been watching you work your magic, manifesting such artistry from nothing but your own thoughts. finding himself in awe watching, left only with silent reverence upon seeing you in your natural habitat of creation was... breath taking. however, he couldn't help but notice his heart thumping against his ribcage a little harder seeing his likeness in something you made. it was... flattering? is that the word he's feeling? seeing how you took characteristics that elicit hardship or grief but you captured his image with calm, quiet confident air. was this how you saw him, truly?

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bitterrfruit · 1 month ago

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people using ai to generate fics is terrifying because large language models are getting better and better at approximating real writing, for the very reason that they steal more and more work from real writers every second.

ai generated writing has become sophisticated enough that often you truly have to rely on a gut feeling that what you’re reading isn’t written by a human. as @bi-writes says in her post, it’s the same as ai images that just have a certain look to them. sometimes there are specific “tells” you can pick out as evidence, but sometimes there aren’t.

ultimately what ai writing lacks is a true understanding of what is being written.

crucially, large language models aren’t actually intelligent. the way they work is simply predictive text on steroids. they generate words based on the words that come before - when they start a passage of text, they don’t “know” where it will go. this is why sources like chatGPT consistently give incorrect information, it doesn’t know what it is telling you, it is only regurgitating words in a human-like order based on the swathes of information it has stolen from other sources.

one thing ai writing will always lack is a true thought-out plot. it will constantly repeat itself. it will have plenty of adjectives and similes and “creative” synonyms, it'll be rife with cringey wattpad tropes as bi mentioned, because it is entirely unoriginal.

what frightens me is a future where the difference becomes indistinguishable to laypeople or casual readers, especially those who aren’t writers themselves. making accusations is near impossible without evidence and we don’t want a world where real art is dismissed simply out of ai paranoia, but the thought of a future in which real authors are sidelined in the industry because readers are sated by robot-written slop is genuine nightmare fuel.

all this to say, i guess, is human writing can never be genuinely replaced if readers and writers are aware that ai generated work is hollow, meaningless, unoriginal garbage whose very production is harming our planet. or, rather, that readers continue to care that the art they consume is produced by a human being.

i honestly don’t know how anyone can stomach to read or enjoy work produced by ai knowing that there is no human feeling behind its creation. all i can do is hope the majority feel the same.

#if you have published an ai generated fic i beg you to do some self reflection - what is the point? what have you achieved?#ai #ai generated writing #fanfiction

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momochanners · 1 year ago

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After a good night's sleep, I think I can better solidify my thoughts in regards to the Dragon Age trailer.

First, let's start with the positives:

- Companion diversity: This has always been part of the series' DNA that has been clearly depicted with every iteration, so those who cry foul over "Asian & Black elves", prosthethics, etc etc...I really don't get that, because values and sensibilities evolve over time. Even the series itself has course corrected when needed, eg. Player character creation influencing the family ethnicity of the Couslands in DA:O vs the Hawkes in DA2.

- Unlocked romances: Letting players choose whoever they want to romance regardless of their sexuality and race has always been a positive for me. Allowing everyone to enjoy the experience equally is great (and I'm sure the nuances of player race & gender will be addressed through dialogue and banter). Moreover, CRPGs are long and time-consuming, so to be locked out of character romances mid-way through is never going to be a good time (from personal experience and observing fandom in the past).

Now the negatives:

- Maybe it's me being on the older side of the Bioware fandom (15 years in Dragon Age, 20 years if you count older games like KotOR and Jade Empire), but I cringed very hard watching the trailer. If you followed the development of this game in the past decade, the cancelled live service element that was to be DA4 in one of its iterations was so all over the way the companions were introduced that it brought out a visceral reaction in me. The tonal whiplash from how foreboding Dreadwolf was presented in the past to the patronising happy quippy MEET OUR LITTLE GUYS YOU'RE SURE TO LOVE also did not help as a first concrete look of what to expect after all this time (also poor anachronistic choice of soundtrack when you already have Trevor Morris' compositions right there). I was so dismayed when they went with a looter-shooter-esque lighthearted vibe when they could've leaned hard on the foreboding established mood and momentum they've already got going with Dreadwolf.

- The branding switch this late in the game that comes with it, especially one as drastic as this will always come with questions and ambivalence. I feel that mitigating uncertainty from announced changes (party number, combat mechanics, setting and environment, etc) should've have been prioritised to reassure existing and lapsed fans before appealing to new ones in such a jarring way.

- I'm simply baffled at the marketing suit who signed off on whatever this is to be their "best foot forward" at reintroducing the final form of this game? If only there were confident with the world they've already built instead of relying on trendy gimmicks, the amount of damage control I'm seeing prior to the gameplay reveal tonight was so avoidable. Controlling the narrative from the get go is so very important especially now as opinions can easily snowball overnight into behemoth-like proportions especially from bad faith actors. You would think that lessons were learned from DA:O's "THIS IS THE NEW SHIT" and DA2's "Press a button, something AWESOME happens" debacles.

(The thing is, despite it being my least favourite DA out of the three, imho Inquisition has the best marketing campaign in the franchise despite the developmental troubles going on in the background. So it has been pulled off successfully before!)

- I think the Bioware layoffs, especially the recent extensive gutting of senior staff in September 2023, significantly depleted my goodwill as a fan. To see Varric being paraded as a mascot in the trailer, game promotion and supplementary media while having his creator unceremoniously let go after years of building the franchise we love left me so very cold. And it's a me problem, but seeing many other fans barely acknowledging that save for few hollow words before getting back into the fun frustrated me so much. I get being excited to finally get something solid after years of false starts, but with what was lost along the way...I personally don't feel right to approach this installment without cynicism.

Idk, I'm just a bundle of conflicted feelings over this series I guess? When it's so good, it's really good and stays with you as memorable gaming experiences that stays with you for life, but when it stumbles and fumbles the bag...it hurts to see.

#dragon age #dragon age critical #I'm not good with words but I'll try to articulate my thoughts anyway #so i can process it out of my system

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nahoyasboyfriend · 10 months ago

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nsfw alphabet — Seo moonjo

A/N: I'm still getting a feel for his character. Forgive me if these are ooc. I tried 😭

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

He is surprisingly doting. Wiping you down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, massaging places he knows will be sore later. I could see him brushing your teeth for you, and helping you into a change of clothes.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

He doesn't pay attention to his features for the most part but he likes his hands. They're key to his job and the creation his "art". His intelligence & poise is a good runner-up.

As for you, I think he'd like your face. Not only because he thinks you're pretty, but because he loves seeing how you react to things. Your cheeks streaked with tears, eyes all wide and glossy. It's mesmerizing to him.

Another favorite of his is your neck & your wrists. He likes to decorate them with jewelry.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

It doesn't matter to him, but he does enjoy the visual of your skin glistening with his cum. But he equally likes the closeness of cumming inside.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Hard to choose between him stalking you and watching you sleep, or the sick gratification he gets from getting you to unknowingly try human meat.

if we move past the creepy stuff, it might be his deep dark fantasy of total loss of control. To be tied up and completely at your mercy. But that takes a lot of trust on his part. I don't even know if he'd acknowledge he wants that.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

he's not as experienced as he acts, but he's good enough to pretend he is. Like he's not a virgin, but he doesn't go out of his way to bed anyone. He doesn't watch porn because he doesn't get anything out of it. He prefers imagination.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Anything where he can see your face. He wants to be able to see how everything he's doing affects you in real time. Like how your eyes gloss over, or how your bottom lip quivers. He needs to see all of it.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

nope, he treats sex very seriously. However, if he's feeling mean he'll poke fun at you a bit with that creepy little smile on his face.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He definitely trims. He has a thing about good personal hygiene & maintaining upkeep.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Sex with him is very intimate in the weirdest way. Sex with him isn't usually romantic, it's more obsessive. Very all-consuming, just like him as a person. Sex is very personal to him when it comes to you, and it's like he's trying to read your soul through touch. there's a sense of control in that to him. He wants to know everything about you.

His words can be very romantic though, murmuring about how beautiful you are, and how much he loves you.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Not something he does often, but occasionally he partakes in a little self indulgence.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Intoxicated sex, but you're the one intoxicated. Not enough that you're not cognizant of what's happening, but drunk enough your words are slurred & you need his help to function. Honestly, he likes dubcon a lot.

Being in control all the time, and I don't mean that in the sense that he likes barking out orders (though he does enjoy it) he gets something out of being the one in control emotionally too. He loves casual dominance.

Choking is another big one. He almost always has a hand wrapped around your neck. He doesn't always squeeze, sometimes he just holds it there. He's not opposed to your hands around his neck. In fact, he encourages it. Actually violence is his kink. Threaten him, fight him, direct all your hurt at him and he's on his knees.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

He prefers to do it in the comfort of his or your home.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Gets off on seeing you angry. Something about it goes down south immediately. Maybe it's the thought of you getting so angry you resort to violence, but he loves it. Especially if the anger is directed at him.

Another is seeing you cry. He thinks hopelessness looks amazing on you. If you cry when you get angry, he's never been more turned on in his life. Not pretty kind, the ugly blotchy face with red rimmed eyes... The type of sadness that you wouldn't want anyone to see.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Watersports, there's nothing sexual about that to him.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He seems like a giver to me. Watching you fall apart is deeply satisfying to him. He'd rather give than receive, but he loves your mouth. Unfortunately, he doesn't get all whimpery & pathetic when you suck him off.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

He's not exactly fast but he's not slow. It's hard to explain but do not believe for a second that he won't fuck you stupid. if you ask nicely he can speed it up or slow it down.

Q = Quickies (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc)

Not a big fan. He would rather wait; he doesn't like to be in a rush.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

he's not gonna go out of his way to experiment. He does things he knows he likes. He's not against trying new things, but you'd have to suggest it and it's up in the air if he'll do it.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

He can last for an abnormally long amount of time. It's kinda scary.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He does not. He doesn't see the point when he can please himself & you just fine. It's not a jealousy thing either, he just truly doesn't think you'll ever need it.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He can be really mean. Continuously edging & overstimulating you. He loves pushing your limits until you can't take anymore.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He's not too loud. There are grunts and groans scattered throughout. He talks you through it. Praising you, or if he's feeling evil, he taunts you.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

He does things to make sex slightly painful. Sucking a little too hard when he's giving hickeys, biting your lip too hard, fucking you without prepping you properly. He's an intense kisser, kinda suffocating. like I don't think kisses are soft and romantic with him ever. It always feels like he's trying to devour you. Pressing his lips against yours too hard, or using too much teeth. But he only has this problem when he kisses you on the mouth, gives you the softest cheek & forehead kisses.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

7 inches, it's long and pretty like him.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

He doesn't really care for people, finding most of them generally displeasing to be around, so it's hard for him to want to have sex with anyone. However in a relationship, it's definitely higher.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He usually doesn't go to sleep. he's a night owl, and he seemingly never gets tired. After he gets you situated, he might even take a smoke break. If you're like him, the two of you might go for a walk, or simply enjoy each other's company. Though if he has to work the next day, he goes to bed by your side after.

#seo moonjo #seo moonjo x reader #seo moon joo #seo moonjo x y/n #strangers from hell #hell is other people #jadesfic

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finallysafeawakepowerful · 1 year ago

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Who are you being? That’s all you will ever get. Does half your mind believe your (old) world 1 Anne trying to cross over into a new world? Is that what your conscious and subconscious is experiencing then based on what you’re thinking and feeling to be true? What are you maintaining as true and real reality experiencing in your 4D mind, the plane above? then wondering why you’re living what you’re fuckin living in your mind?

TRULY SHIFT. LET YOURSELF BE. CONSUME YOURSELF AND RUB OUT ALL ELSE. REVISE ALL ELSE. THERES NOTHING TO EXPERIENCE BUT THE IDEAL. WHAT WORLD ARE YOU IN? Which quantum possibility are you PLACING yourself in, saying you are in, making yourself EXPERIENCE you are in and LIVING IN? There’s ONLY NOW. Let go of future, past, later, 7 mins later. NOW IS THE ONLY THING. What is being viewed, imagined, maintained, created in the 4D - the plane above - what your conscious and subconscious see and experience and can only assume is true is the basis and creation. You’re maintaining in the only field of vision that you are not, and trying to become, one day hopefully soon but really later and not now, and then wondering why you’re getting what YOU decide is true, what YOU ARE SAYING IS WHAT IS?

I’m sorry what are you maintaining in the 4d? what are you saying is the true reality? What are you imagining to be true? What is your conscious and subconscious experiencing and seeing is true then?

what we're experiencing now is a direct reflection of who we are conscious of being. So choose the version of yourself that you would like to be, and enjoy being so within. There are billions of states and probabilities to occupy; you’re always choosing - even this second.

So, continue to be who you want to be (in imagination), and the world will reflect who you are being. You’re always reflecting who you are being and you can only ever experience who you are being and that’s the only thing conscious and subconscious can experience and assume to be true and form from, be from.

"You are already that which you want to be and your refusal to believe it is the only reason you do not see it." -neville goddard

FULFILL YOURSELF : YOU ARE THE ONLY ONE WHO CAN : BE : YOURE THE ONLY ONE WHO CAN

You always express what you FEEL to be and FEEL to have. You always live with what you FEEL to be and have.

𝗜 𝗔𝗠 is who you are NOW. the 3D starts changing the moment you literally change NOW. Not who you believe you will somehow be different IN. The. Future. THERE IS NO FUTURE. There is ONLY NOW.

"DO NOT TRY, BUT 𝗘𝗫𝗣𝗘𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗡𝗖𝗘 IT." - Edward Art. There is no other “better” version of you in the future. There is only now.

YIELD ON BEING 𝗔𝗟𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗬 IT — DO NOT FOCUS ON CHANGING THE OUTER WORLD." - Edward Art

YOU 𝗔𝗟𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗬 ARE IT — IF YOU 𝗔𝗖𝗖𝗘𝗣𝗧 THAT, YOU'LL START THINKING FROM THE POSITION OF 𝗕𝗘𝗜𝗡𝗚 IT." - Edward Art

"FALL ASLEEP TONIGHT 𝗙𝗘𝗘𝗟𝗜𝗡𝗚 YOU ALREADY ARE IT." - Edward Art

There is no trying to attain or become. That being maintained in your 4D will always keep you at trying to attain or become. Believe yourself to be.

"ACCEPT THAT YOU ALREADY ARE AND ALLOW THAT TO BE THE 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗡𝗚𝗘 𝗪𝗜𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗡." - Edward Art

You are not waiting - you are not placing it “in the future” aka not right now - you ALREADY it, and you have to fall in love with BEING and ACCEPTING you are so naturally you walk as though without thought or effort.

Willingly identify yourself as what you most desire and imagined knowing it expresses through you. Yield to the feeling of the life and being fulfilled and be so consumed it radiates from you.”

Surrender to the feeling of being your goal and best self. I am her. There is no better or future version who has it. I have it, now. I am it, now.

Everything was predestined to be filled because I decided so, and it became so. Everything I ever wanted, I got. I know I always get everything I want. Isn’t it wonderful? i am power. I am all. I walk in the feeling of power and gratitude. I live life in a sublime spirit of confidence comfort power and determination. I want it. I got it. All possibilities are happening now and all you have to do is connect and identify with it. Learn to not be afraid of feeling what you want, being what you want, having what you want.

Truly learn to LOVE yourself and truly believe you DESERVE to be this wonderful that you let yourself experience and BE the best and have the best. Learn to love yourself so much and the world you let yourself be the best. The purest form of self love and love for the world is to allow yourself to feel this way and be this person. Love yourself. Learn to love yourself so much you experience the best and imagine the best and only see yourself as the best so naturally so you become it without effort.

“Rest in the assumption you are already what you want to be, and in that belief and frequency, you and your infinite being are merged; and with infinite being all things are possible.” - Neville Goddard. This stops you from flashing in and out of possibilities. You’re placing yourself in the possibility/ world of “not being and trying to become” based on … you believing and thinking that. Place yourself in the ideal….. there's nothing to get because the version of you who has your desire ALREADY has them and the version of you who doesn't have your desire will ALWAYS not have them…its simple as asking which version of yourself are you choosing to be now.

The ideal realized. The ideal attained. The ideal embodied. The ideal lived. I deserve it and I love myself so much so I allow myself to experience it and be it.

Surrender yourself to your ideal with such awareness of its reality that you begin to live the life of the ideal and no longer own or identify with what was prior. (Trying to become, trying to attain.)

Each assumption and embodiment has its corresponding world. You, by your conscious assumptions, determine the nature of the world in which you live. Ask yourself truly this second; what is your self image / concept?

#top #thoughts #neville goddard #what is #world

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plussizefantasia · 8 months ago

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CozyTober Day 2: Wrapped in a Fuzzy Blanket

Fili x Hobbit!reader

wc: 0.8k

warnings: none

a/n: this is written in 3rd person which I haven't really done in my fics before. I really like how it turned out though, maybe not for an all the time kinda thing but I think it works really well here

Dwarves are sturdy. There is no doubt about that, they can go days without eating (though they will complain the whole time) they can fight long battles without getting tired and they can weather the cold with little struggle.

Hobbits are not sturdy, they are a gentle folk who enjoy the comforts of home and hearth and there is nothing wrong with that. It just means that on nights like these, where fifteen people crowd around one fire, they can get cold.

Fili hears her teeth chattering from across the camp, he notices the shake of her hands and the soft almost unconscious way her eyelids flutter against her ever reddening cheeks. He would find it deeply endearing if he weren’t so worried that she would freeze.

He swiftly cast a glance over to Bilbo, to see if the gentleman Hobbit was just as affected by the night chill as she was. A quick look told Fee that Bilbo was not cold, at least not noticeably. Although that could have something to do with the large fur coat draped around his shoulders. One with a royal blue lining that Fili recognized but would not dare to mention. At least not in his Uncle's presence.

Fili scans the camp in search of something, eyes landing on his own pack. Within it holds a handmade blanket his Amad had made him when he had told her he would be setting off on the journey.

“The mountains get cold Fili, even for Durin’s folk.” She had chastised him when he had tried to tell her that he wouldn't need it, that such frivolities would only weigh his pack down.

He makes a mental note to apologize the next time he sees her, she was right, he would need it. Just looking at the shivering lass was making his own bones feel cold. Without a word he grasps the soft cloth and tugs it out from his pack, it still smells faintly of home. An old comfort that he cherished more than the warmth the garment could provide.

He tries to be disappointed that the smell will be replaced by hers but deep down, he can’t even convince himself. It would be a gift from Mahal for her sweetness to seep into the fabric, for her scent to coat the inside of his pack. He represses a shiver of his own just thinking about it.

Standing swiftly he makes his way over to the lass, she doesn’t make a move to acknowledge his presence, just stares steadily into the burning flames as if the warmth would invade her through sight alone.

He wishes, with all he is that he could know what she was thinking. Just once he would like a glimpse into the beautiful creation that is her mind. Are her thoughts consumed with the songs he so often finds her humming under her breath? Does she tell herself stories of the world around her, like the ones she weaves for Ori when he pleads with her? Or does she think of someone in particular, of a love she holds dear? Perhaps it is a Hobbit from back home, perhaps someone else? What he wouldn’t give for just a single moment in her mind.

He settles for taking care of her body instead, fluffing the blanket in the air and watching it float down on top of her shoulders. He wraps it around her and catches her gaze when she snaps her eyes towards his.

“Thank you, Fee,” Her voice is soft, just like the rest of her. It floats gently on the wind into his mind, carving out a space in his memory. Not before long that is all his memory will be; brief moments of her. He can’t bring himself to care.

He says nothing to her, just smiles and nods and hopes that she understands. Understands that a blanket is nothing; that he would do so much more if only she asked. He would capture the sun in a bottle if it would keep her warm.

He catches the moment she brings the blanket to her nose, inhaling deeply. He watches with deep satisfaction as her shoulders loosen. The tension she had been holding all day melts from her bones.

Fili wonders not for the first time why she decided to come along with this rowdy group of dwarves in the first place. The reason she consistently gave was that she needed to watch out for her dear friend Bilbo, that she simply would not let him adventure without her. But Fili thought that it might have a little more to do with that look of longing he sometimes caught in her eye. With the fire that he sees raging within her soul.

Fili really would give anything for just a moment in her head.

#cozytober2024 #plus size reader #plus size!reader #fanfic #x reader #requests open #requests wanted #fili x reader #fili x hobbit!reade #fili and kili #drabble #fluff #fili the dwarf #fili the hobbit #the hobbit fanfiction #the hobbit

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thewertsearch · 5 months ago

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Enjoy your new session while it lasts, kids. Given everything we know now, I can't imagine it'll go particularly well.

Yup, it looks like this guy is even more immortal than normal. No conditional deaths for our Lord English, methinks.

Scratch's head seems to be connected to the God Tier clock in some way - but which came first? Did Scratch create the God Tier clock for some purpose, or did he mold himself in the image of an already existing artifact?

What the fuck is up with this clock?

...it's fucking Cal.

Of course it's fucking Cal. Of course the final boss of Homestuck is a supercharged Lil' Cal.

It makes a lot of sense, too, that Cal's face was what was hiding behind Scratch's cueball. This was probably a major reason why we never saw English's face until now - because doing so too early would have tipped us off to Cal's role in Scratch's creation.

The Vast Honk has been released.

The juggalo prophecy was about Lord English all along, then. They are, and always were, a doomsday cult, presumably founded by the Handmaid in times long past.

Alternia was raised by Scratch, and consumed by English.

It’s joined to these bastards at the hip.

And that’s that, then. Scratch’s grand plan has finally came to fruition, spawning an instance of English out of his own body.

As we move into Act 6, we should hopefully learn how this arrangement came to pass, how it works, and how to disrupt it. For now, though, I'm still just reeling - mostly at the fact that we're going to be fighting Cal.

This comic, guys. This god damn comic.

#full liveblog #homestuck liveblog #act 5.2 #s175 #4111

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whatislovevavy · 9 months ago

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Sliding Stops & Beating Hearts

Reiner! Tyler Owens x Fem!Reader (Honeybee)

Summary: Tyler Owens has worked almost his entire life for this moment. And he's so glad he gets to share it with you.

Warnings: Tyler being down bad for his wife, afab!reader, fluff, swearing, smut (18+), oral (m+f), facesitting, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it)

WC: 4.6k (I'm so sorry, but not sorry enough to make it shorter)

AN: Hey girlies :) Apologies for taking so long to post this, I've been very busy and it feels like I have to wait for what feels like some kind of astronomical event for me to be able to write. Tyler Owens is essentially Jake Seresin so yeah I'm writing for him now lol. Reining has always been one of my favorite equestrian sports to watch. Granted, I've never done it nor competed so apologies to any reiners out there if there's inaccuracies with how competitions go lol. Anyways, hope you enjoy :)

None of the pictures featured are mine and were taken off of Pinterest. All of my writings will be added to my writing side blog @sophs-writing-nook

This is an 18+ fanfic, so minors scoot pls. You are responsible for the media you consume. Do not copy, plagiarize, repost, or translate this fic without my explicit permission as it is my own creation.

The competition had been fierce and each ounce of caffeine in your veins from your strenuous, early morning drive from Arkansas to Oklahoma had done nothing to quell your nerves.

You could feel the sweat emulate from your palms as you watched each rider and horse pair complete their routine with near flawlessness, confidence, professionalism, and near perfect scores on maneuvers.

Tyler would need to give it his all to bring home the NRHA world championship title for this season.

You watched with bated breath as the pair before Tyler’s exited through the in-gate, applause and cheers ricocheting off the concrete and aluminum walls of the stadium. The announcer’s voice crackling and echoing through the speakers as the pairs score was displayed on the JumboTron that hung ominously above the center of the arena, threatening to crush Tyler's lifelong dream if a perfect score wasn't achieved. You fiddled with the competition program in your hand, waiting for the announcer to give the go ahead for Tyler Owens and Coppertone Boy, or as he was affectionately called at home, Copper, to enter the arena.

“Come on, honeybee, I think you're more nervous than I am.” The fingers of your hand stop gingerly massaging into the muscle between Copper’s alert ears, eyes meeting Tyler’s unnervingly calm ones. You sighed, bringing your hand down to softly stroke the stallion’s velvet muzzle, looking back out at the arena that would be vacant for only a few moments more. “It's just the anticipation is all.”

He swallowed, dipping his heels down further against his stirrups, his weight settling on the back of the palomino American Quarter Horse. His thumb running along the smooth leather reins in his moderately calloused hands, his posture straightening. Tipping his hat on his head, eyes drifting from your almost perfect facade of calm collection to the no longer virginal arena footing.

He gingerly scratched at Copper’s strong, gilded withers and neck concealed by the silken, alabaster strands of his freshly detangled mane, easing any anxiety the 10 year old stallion may have had.

“Copper will take care of me out there, and I'm coming back, Sweets” his lip quirked into a gentle smirk, letting your anxiety ease a bit.

Copper gently nudged you with his head, trying to get one last scratch in before entering. Or maybe to try to reassure you. “I know, I-,” you took a breath, licking your lips,” just really want this for you, and we're so close. I can taste it.”

His eyes glazed a bit, a special kind of warmth spreading in his chest. You had helped him hitch the trailer to pick up Copper from the auction a few townships over back in his early twenties. You were the one who was with him every step of the way, through every high and frustrating low of training him and getting him ready for every competition. You were the one to stay up all night with him when Copper coliced during a muggy spring night a few years back. You were the one who encouraged him to try reining after his bull riding rodeo career came to a halt. You were the one to hide out with him on his family's ranch in Arkansas during the summer thunderstorms in the hayloft as kids and lovesick teenagers. And you were the first person he got to kiss out in the back field after the haying season was done, laying under the cover of Cassiopeia and The Big Dipper with homemade strawberry moonshine. It made the wedding band on a chain around his neck all the more meaningful. The microphone crackled as the announcer cleared his throat, announcing for Tyler to enter the arena.

“Come on, baby, I need my good luck kiss before I go out there.” His urgent, but sweet, tone made you chuckle. Stepping on your tippy toes, you met his lips that only seemed to get softer the more you kissed him. As your lips left his, you gave the stallion that gleamed like a new penny under the stadium lights a last, quick rub at his withers and a whispered “take care of him for me.” The stallion nudged his pink and gray muzzle into your side, letting out a puff of breath, seeming to listen and affirm your wish.

You turned back to the man you had loved since you were a sophmore in highschool. “You'll get something a lot more when you come back.” You said softly with a flirtatious tone, trying to lighten the nerves that seemed to electrify your fingertips. Your eyes told an unspoken “whether you win, or lose.” His eyebrows rise before a smirk settles on his lips. “Looking forward to it darlin,” he winks before turning his attention to the packed arena. He gives the stallion a gentle squeeze of his sides with his calves to get him into a working walk, head low, and relaxed as his metal shoe-clad hooves rhythmically ricocheted off the pavement leading up to the arena as applause and whistles from the crowd marked his entrance like a gladiator entering the Colosseum. You watched him leave your side with bated breath.

You always envied how he was able to feed off of the crowd instead of cowering under it, even when he was getting tossed around as a professional bull rider in the local rodeo circuit. It was a trait that Tyler and Copper had in common that made them a perfect pair.

You watched each calculated movement he whispered to Copper through his hands, legs, and seat. Each movement done in perfect harmony, from flying lead changes to each heart racing spin and rollback. You practically knew the routine like the back of your hand, softly mouthing the required movements right as Tyler and Copper conducted them with complete poise and confidence. You couldn’t help but let your eyes flit back and forth from the golden stallion enrapturing the attention of the crowd and the judges scribbling down notes that had the potential to cut like a blade. Tyler had a calm, at-ease aura around him; his hands still with just the right amount of contact on the reins, loose hips and strong legs that wrapped around the barrel of the strong, powerful, and graceful horse below him. Copper’s ears kept at ease, each one flitting back to listen to each whispered task Tyler gave him. His mane and tail swayed beautifully with the rest of his muscular, golden dappled frame; steel horseshoes gleaming under the large overhead lights. You felt your anxiety rise as Tyler only had one maneuver left to accomplish- a sliding stop from a full gallop, the most exhilarating maneuver in reining.

Your breath felt like lead in your lungs as you watched each stride Copper took to complete his routine. With an impressive stall of his hind quarters, Copper planted himself against the arena footing to come to a full stop, his hind legs slightly folding under him as Tyler kept his body steady. The arena went quiet for only a second as Copper found his footing, remaining in a halt. As soon as the judges gave Tyler the go ahead to leave the arena, you jumped up in glee, applauding and whistling, just like the entirety of the arena as Tyler gave Copper a loose rein, giving his strong neck deligent pats of encouragement and rubbing his withers as he made his way out of the arena at a working walk pace. After all, he had earned it.

But would it be enough to win?

You couldn’t contain the smile on your face as Tyler met your gaze with a heart stopping grin, his handsome dimples on display, timothy grass green eyes shining for you as his chest rose and fell from his exertion, and the sweat evident under his Stetson at his hairline.

As soon as he cleared the in-gate, he was out of the saddle and embracing you, lips on yours as you giggled against him as he picked you up and spun you around, your fingers splayed over his stubbly cheeks. Copper stood patiently as his reins hit the cement floor. Your fingers resting at the back of his neck, feeling his sweat, natural scent, and the smell of leather and horses caress your senses.

“I’m so proud of you, baby,” you said, voice thick with tears bubbling beneath your eyes as your hands encased his gently stubbled cheeks, his grin matching your own, voice thick, “Honey, whatever happens, I’m-,” his eyes becoming glassy, “I’m just so glad I’ve been able to do this with you. I love you so goddamn much.” He brought your lips back to his in a sweet, love filled kiss that made your stomach flutter. The crackle of the microphone breaks you both away from your kiss, his embrace still on your hips. Tyler cranes his neck to look up at the JumboTron.

Your eyes widening, putting your hands over your mouth and looking up at Tyler’s shock-parted lips as the arena broke into cheers. Tyler swings you around by your hips before bringing you to his lips again.

A perfect score.

—

As soon as Tyler rode out on Copper with you by his side during the award ceremony, and your picture was taken with his NRHA Championship trophy and Copper got his red, blue, and yellow tri-colored ribbon, you both were ready to load up Copper and drive all the way back to Arkansas.

Photographers, interviewers, and cameras followed your little group out of the arena. Tyler and Copper both walked with pride in a way that showed a healthy balance of confidence and natural charisma. Copper not once flinched as cameras flashed as Tyler had him periodically stop for interviewers to ask questions, reins loose in his hand. Copper seemed to almost pose for the camera with his ears forward and moving with momentum whenever the cameras flashed; aware that he had done a good job and was being appreciated. You, on the other hand, preferred to be on the other side of Copper’s strong withers, away from the cameras, gently running your hand along his glistening coat; it took you and Tyler countless hours for it to gleam like gold.

“Who would you say is someone who has always supported you on the road to winning this NRHA world championship title?”

You felt like you were hiding behind the near two ton animal, peeking over his strong neck to watch Tyler with his tipped up Stetson and near alabaster dress shirt. He turned from the interviewer to you with an easy grin on his face, gently reaching behind him to take your hand from underneath Copper’s neck, bringing you around his large head and into Tyler’s chest, placing a kiss to your forehead. You couldn’t help the blush that spread across your cheeks like wildfire as you gave the interviewer a shy toothy smile.

“I’ve had the undeserved pleasure to have by my side, during this entire journey, the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known; my wife.” You felt your throat tighten and tears start to bubble up in your eyes at his gesture, all while trying to subtly hide away into his shoulder as the interviewer seemed to soak up the sweet moment between the new NRHA world champion and his wife.

“You’ll have to forgive her, my honeybee’s a bit shy.” he chuckled, the interviewer following suit before asking her final questions with you by his side.

As the last of the interviewers left to talk to the other competitors, you and Tyler led Copper back to the trailer to get him bedded in the trailer for the long way home.

You tried to keep your thoughts pure as you walked through the trucks and trailers with Copper in tow, passing competitors that turned into friends; like Bradley Bradshaw and his oil black quarter horse gelding, Turn and Burn, and Natasha Trace and her sorrel chestnut mare, Rising Phoenix. Both of which had gotten in the top 5 tonight out of 38.

But Tyler looked too good right now. Too good. And his display of affection in front of the interviewer made your insides warm and jumble inside you.

His hair peeking out from under his stetson, the color subdued from sweat; his taut jeans around his slim waist; his obnoxiously large belt buckle that glimmered in the overhead lot lights; his flushed, sweat soaked skin; bright, fern green eyes, and the defined line of his jaw to his handsome dimples.

It didn’t help that you got distracted watching him tend to Copper as you put the tack in the trailer, biting your lip as you watched the thin material of his shirt cling to his back muscles.

“Honeybee, you alright over there?” You almost needed to shake your head out of your trance, before trying to quickly put the tack away in the closet of the trailer, trying to focus on the task at hand and not on your lewd thoughts.

As soon as you turned around from putting the tack away, Tyler was at the entryway. Both hands on the edge of the storage space prevented any chance of escape, sluttily leaning his weight on the frame like the scantily-clad men in those romance books Tyler always teased you for reading. He didn’t have anything to complain about though; he reaped the reward of it everytime.

Your eyes met his mischief filled ones. “You got something on your mind, Honey?”

You diverted your gaze from his eyes to his Stetson. He noticed, promptly removing it and placing it over his denim-clad pelvis with a teasing smile as he saw your eyes follow his movement. He always loved the dust of pink on your cheeks when he flirted with you. He took a step into the trailer, feeling his intoxicating scent invade your senses.

You took a step forward, letting your eyes obscenely run over from his sweat-slicked back hair, to the slight crook in his nose, to his plush lips. Leaning into his ear, “I’ll tell you once Copper is in the trailer. Fed and watered.” Tyler almost shivered at the barely decent tone you used. You both were in a public space for Christ’s sake.

“Yes, ma’am.”

You bit your lip, a chuckle vibrating in your chest at his pace towards the patient stallion grazing from his well deserved hay bag as soon the words left your lips.

—

After ensuring all of your belongings were packed away, you went to check on Tyler and Copper. As you turned the corner, Tyler was just finishing up putting the latches on the trailer. “How’s our big guy doing?” You asked, leaning against the side of the trailer.

He turned to you, “fed, watered, and out like a light. Copper’s going to sleep well on the ride home. Gave him a few extra flakes of hay to keep him occupied.”

“Now,” he took a step closer to you, a smirk painted across his lips, “I wanna hear what was on your mind earlier, pretty girl,” he purred.

You took a step closer to him with a flirtatious smile blooming on your face, reaching out for his belt loops on his jeans.

—

“Honeybee,” he whimpered, heading hitting back against his truck as you sunk to the dusty ground beneath your knees, scrambling to unbuckle his obnoxiously large belt buckle, and unzipping his denim jeans with a harsh tug. He hissed, “careful, sweets, don't want to damage the goods,” you chuckled before bringing his jeans down to his knees. His breath freezing in his throat as you ran your palms against his defined Adonis belt and abs, scratching at the hair of his happy trail as your smooth palm found its home - wrapped around his thick, pulsing cock in his briefs. Tyler's eyes clenched shut, a hiss leaking from his kiss-swollen lips as you began to pump him in a corkscrew motion. God, he looked so good like this. Letting you take care of him and make him crumble beneath the palms of your hands.

“Jesus, sweetheart.” His hips stuttered as you gave his oh so sensitive, engorged tip delicate kitten licks before taking him into your mouth, sucking softly. Eyes drifting shut as you savored the subtle musk of your husband and the salty taste of the precum leaking out of his cock. You hummed around his dick as his fingers weaved into your hair, keeping his cock encased in your hot mouth.

Jesus, the glorious sight in your mind- Tyler’s head and Stetson tipped back, lips agape, cheeks flushed pink with sweat and arousal, dress shirt unbuttoned, strong abdominal and pectoral muscles exposed from years of ranch work, hips jutting out as his jeans and briefs tethered his ankles as you worked his fat cock.

A sound akin to a mewl left his lips as you bobbed your head along his length, working his cock with your saliva soaked hand.

“Oh fu- baby, that feels so fucking good.” His graveled voice made you clench your thighs, his eyes opening to see you pumping his cock as you playfully sucked on his balls. Saliva dribbling down your lips to the dirt below, leaving your mark on the event grounds. Your sinful acts hidden in the shadows of your truck and trailer.

This was definitely the best way to celebrate a world championship win, he thought through a hazy conscience as he failed to find a steady tempo of breath.

You could feel the tightness of his balls and the steady throbbing of the vein running underneath his thick cock. His fingers tightening in your hair.

“God-Fuck-” His trail of words were cut off with a deep groan he tried to muffle the best he could.

His hand kept your mouth around his cock as he shot his load down your welcoming throat, letting you swallow every hot drop he had to give. His body slumping against the truck, catching his breath as you rose up off the dirt, tenderly tucking him back into his jeans, bringing your lips to his.

After a few moments, Tyler deepened the kiss, reaching for the backseat door. He broke away from your lips, littering your neck and collarbones with messy, open-mouthed kisses. Your lips would get swollen soon from how hard you were biting them to conceal your mewls. His hands palmed and toyed with your cotton-clad breasts, feeling his calloused fingers slide under your t-shirt to fondle at your steadily peaking nipples. “Baby, we might need to do this half-clothed,” you murmured against his lips. He let his lips leave yours, realizing where you guys were: on the outskirts of the arena grounds.

“Well, Honeybee, we’ll just have to do it with your pants down then, pretty girl.” He smiled sinfully. His gravelly tone always made you clench your thighs in need, and feel excited and jittery inside; like a new-born foal learning to run.

He stripped off his dress shirt, leaving him with chest and abs exposed in the shadow of the truck. Before you had the chance to admire his half-bare body, he was unzipping your jeans and pulling them down along with your panties in one fell swoop. He guided your legs out of them before placing his beloved Stetson on your head. The sight of you bare below the waist and his white stetson had his cock twitching again.

He hopped on the seat, laying down on the leather upholstery. “Come on, honey girl, get up here. I want a taste.” He purred, eyes raking from your face down to the little honey stash between your thighs with a Cheshire-like grin.

You chuckled, excitement thrumming through your belly like a current of electricity. His hands guided your hips over his twitching dick, over his thick pecs, and right above where he wanted you. Your breath catches in your throat as Tyler brings your hips down with his broad hands, clutching at your soft waist as he starts lapping at your drenched core.

“Fuck, Ty-” you clutched at his tufts of hair that peaked through your fingers, like the daisies in the hayfields. He toyed with your clit, his stubble scratching deliciously against your sensitive inner thighs. He gently sucked on your clit to pull each sweet moan and gasp from your lips. His thick fingers forming troughs along the soft flesh of your hips and thighs, keeping your weeping pussy pinned above his eager mouth.

“Please.”

He grunted as your hips rocked against him, his grip tightening on your hips, guiding your movements. Your head tipping back as your thoughts failed to construe into something tangible besides broken moans and words. It’s amazing how Tyler’s Stetson has stayed on during your impromptu ride.

God, the sight he had from below your thighs; black t-shirt riding up to just below your bra, your hands clutching at his hair and your covered breasts, beautiful parted lips, reddened cheeks and his staple atop your head.

You looked divine like this. Hell, you were divine for wanting to marry him in the first place.

He gave your clit a delicate kiss, just enough to make you whine a little. Littering kisses along your inner thighs, feeling the tender flesh quake above him as you protested him giving attention to places that weren’t where you needed him to be. He licked his lips savoring the sweet taste of you on his tongue, and gently teased two fingers at your entrance making you gasp and whimper at the intrusion.

“Baby, you look so good from down here, so fucking good.”

His graveled voice was marked by a unique breathlessness that times like these brought him. Your hands pushed your t-shirt up and your bra down to toy with your exposed breasts and perky nipples as the Oklahoma evening air pebbled them. Your hazy gaze looking downward at your lover’s tousled hair, flushed cheeks and lust-blown pupils with a characteristic devilish grin on his arousal soaked lips.

“Fuck, baby”

He smiled as he guided his fingers into your welcoming heat, your pretty moans music to his ears.

His fingers finding the perfect tempo against that little spot inside you that made your toes curl against the upholstery of the car. His free hand holding an iron grip on your hip, keeping you steady.

If you hadn’t felt like you were going to cum before, you were now.

Tyler could feel your velvet walls constrict around his welcomed digits. A soft yelp leaves your lips as he finds your clit again; toying and sucking at the delicate bundle of nerves at the apex of your thighs. He sucked harder the more you pulled at his hair.

“Tyler, I’m so close, please make me cum baby-please.”

The wanton, sultry tone your voice got in this state made him ache in his jeans and move his fingers that much more eagerly.

You felt the familiar build up of pleasure in your tummy and the sparks of pleasure traveling from your toes. Tyler watched as you fell apart over him with a wracked moan of his name as his fingers continued to rub that special spot inside you, and as he continued to toy with your poor, abused clit.

He slowed his movements to a halt, letting his fingers leave to hold your hips steady, bringing his lips to languidly kiss and lathe at your cum soaked folds, drawing out any last sparks of pleasure and the sweet, little noises you always made for him.

Your thighs shook with the aftermath of your orgasm, your body still ringing with small sparks of pleasure and sensitivity, your whimpers pouring out.

He lathed his last set of kisses to your pussy before sliding your hips down to rest over his throbbing dick, hidden behind a layer of denim.

Tyler brought both hands to encase your face, bringing your lips to his in a kiss full of teeth and tongue, your mouth going to the prominent vein on the side of his neck, lathing and marking the flesh as your own, spurred on by the deep groans of the man underneath you. He growled, feeling you bite into the skin there. It would surprise him if you didn’t draw blood.

“I want to ride your thick cock, baby.” you simpered.

“Fuck, you make me so hard, Honeybee.” He growled, feeling you unzip his jeans, pulling out his aching cock and lining him up at your entrance. Gently teasing the tip, running it along your folds, letting it soak up your arousal. You smirked as you listened to the borderline moans that reverberated from his chest. He felt his eyes almost roll back at the feeling of your walls welcoming him in; back home. You watched with lust hazed eyes as his face was consumed with tension; his eyes clenched shut, brow lines rippling the tanned skin of his forehead, his tense jaw and kiss swollen lips.

He guided your hips, savoring the feeling of you. His hips bucking up into your awaiting pussy as he got more and more invigorated for his release.

“Fuck, Honey-fuck!” He growled as he felt your walls squeeze him for all he was worth.

“God, you’re always so good for me, such a good fucking girl” he said as he held your hips tighter, fucking up into you at a faster pace than before. Gasps and moans falling from your lips as he pummeled that sweet, heavenly spot inside you that had you seeing a kaleidoscope of sensations behind your eyes, and your fingers clawing at his pecs and shoulders for stability. Tyler could feel the coil in his stomach tightening as his release was barreling towards him like a train going into a station. His abs tightening, pace unrelenting as he chased his high. He could feel you were close with this new set pace, your lips parted as sweet sounds echoed from your lips. He held on until he felt your walls snap close on him like a vice, your thighs shaking as your high washed over him with a broken moan and tremor. His hips rose, fucking into you one last time before releasing his hot load into your pretty pussy with a deep growl.

—

He gingerly pulled up your panties, keeping his cum trapped between your folds. He snapped the button of your jeans closed as he languidly made out with you. He changed into a t-shirt that hugged his biceps just right, keeping his jeans on. You both silently changed into your new set of clothes with content, lovesick smiles on your face. You gave him a kiss as he passed you his sweatshirt to wear during the ride home.

You both settled into the front seat of the truck. By now, most people had gone home, the bright stars above watching over you. He placed his Stetson on the backseat, smirking as he watched you reach out for the cowboy hat, placing it on your head with a cute smile that made him smirk and shake his head.

He leaned over, placing a soft kiss to your lips.

“I love you, Honeybee.”

“I love you too, Ty.”

You give his thick thigh a squeeze, smiling as he groans into the kiss. He pulled black from the kiss, putting the truck into drive. As soon as his hand is free, he takes your hand in his, making your cheeks warm at the gesture, kissing the back of it as he pulls out of the dirt road onto the interstate towards Arkansas.

Let me know what you guys think :) Be sure to leave a comment and reblog :) My inbox is always open to requests and any thoughts you have <3

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the-cosmic-cauldron · 26 days ago

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Natal Astrology: Baby-Fever Placements “ I Want To Have A Baby”

There are moments in life when you find yourself wondering—an endless stream of possibilities flows through your imagination. Yet still, you’re pulled and tugged back down to reality. You dream of nurturance, self-adoration, love, and care. But within your vessel, you long to give all of it to someone else.

In a world full of people seemingly undeserving of such high-quality love, you often find yourself yearning for nothing more than a precious, beautiful baby—someone to receive the depths of your tenderness and devotion.

This feeling can arise early, when you’re just a child and someone asks, “What do you want to be when you grow up? ”It might swell within you when you’re falling in love with someone you can’t imagine life without. Or it may come in those aching moments of loneliness, when you’re brimming with love that has nowhere to go.

Whenever it arrives, it hits like an ocean wave—consuming and impossible to ignore. The thought fixates. It lingers. Soon enough, you’re envisioning parenthood: motherhood, fatherhood, the sacred act of caregiving.

This yearning returns to you, again and again throughout your life, as a reminder: your soul wasn’t sent here simply to exist, but to give, to nurture, and to love. And yet, all the mirrors around you often appear foggy, distorted, or unworthy of reflection. So the feeling creeps in—an inkling, an itch, a longing—for a child.

In this post, we’ll explore the astrological placements that evoke this deep, soul-stirring desire to become a parent.

Moon in the 5th House

When the Moon is in the 5th house of your natal chart, it can stir a strong desire for children, especially when you are around mothers, families, or children. You may feel a pull towards parenthood when surrounded by others experiencing joy and emotional connection, such as watching a show where a mother is giving birth or seeing someone pregnant. The Moon in the 5th house makes baby fever come in waves, particularly when you feel emotionally touched or excited. While this doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll have a child right away, the yearning for a child is often present. For those with this placement, falling in love often triggers thoughts of starting a family, and they may even envision having a baby with their partner.

Venus in the 5th House

People with Venus in the 5th house are true romantics who love falling in love and enjoy the imagery associated with it. They are drawn to romance novels, films, and videos of couples falling in love. This placement makes them value beauty and aesthetics in relationships, often preferring good-looking partners and showcasing their relationship to the world. Once they enter a relationship, they quickly begin imagining children, often idealizing the image of a perfect family. The desire to have children may arise from a vision of family life that feels like an extension of their romantic ideals. They might even have specific gender preferences or physical traits they hope their child will inherit. The need for a family is closely tied to their desire for a picture-perfect love life, and they may seek to document every milestone with their children, sharing it with the world.

Cancer Stellium

Cancer represents the archetype of the mother, so having a Cancer stellium creates a deep, intrinsic calling toward motherhood and nurturing. From a young age, individuals with this placement often feel a natural inclination to care for others—whether it’s taking care of siblings, friends, or pets. This nurturing energy leads them to crave parenthood as they get older, especially when they find stability and security in a relationship. Cancer energy desires to nourish love through the creation of a family. Those with a Cancer stellium are often deeply connected to the idea of having children, particularly when positively aspected. Pregnancy and motherhood are often viewed as joyful and fulfilling, and despite any resistance, they may find themselves starting a family.

Jupiter in the 5th House

Jupiter in the 5th house amplifies the desire for growth and expansion, particularly in areas related to creativity, children, and family. These individuals are constantly inspired and find themselves excited by the idea of having children. Seeing a beautiful family, being around friends with children, or even seeing baby pictures can trigger strong baby fever. People with this placement often want a big family, seeing children as a source of abundance and joy. They enjoy being actively involved in their children’s lives and view parenthood as a mark of success. These individuals are highly fertile, both creatively and in their desire to have children, often desiring more once they begin having kids.

Mars in the 5th House

Mars in the 5th house is a complex placement that ties sexual energy and impulsivity to the desire for children. When individuals with this placement feel intense attraction or sexual chemistry with a partner, the desire to have a baby can feel almost urgent and overwhelming. The more intense the attraction, the more they crave the idea of having a baby with that person. This can be a possessive and impulsive energy, where the urge to “mark one’s territory” can manifest as a desire to trap a partner with a child. For these individuals, baby fever often arises in moments of heightened intimacy, driven by both sexual and emotional urges.

Ceres in the 4th House

Ceres—the asteroid of nurturance—meets the 4th house, the sacred domain of home, family, and roots. This alignment stirs something ancient and tender within the soul: a deep longing for parenthood. A fascination with the process of caring for life. The softness of a baby’s skin, the sound of small feet on wooden floors, the comfort of being a caregiver. It brings an overflowing wellspring of energy and vitality into the home. Not just to build it—but to bless it. To paint the walls with intention, to choose colors that feel like warmth, to soften the textures of furniture, to fill the space with beauty, soul, and sanctuary. This placement inspires the creation of a haven—a space where love is both visible and tangible. A home designed for spirits to enter and feel safe. Where laughter bounces off the walls, and children run free—wild-eyed, curious, and beloved. You feel most alive, most yourself, when surrounded by warmth, by family, by presence. When small hands reach for yours. When eyes—wide, innocent, and trusting—look up at you. It brings a wave of love straight to the heart, a knowing that you were made to nurture. Ceres in the 4th house is a sacred call. It speaks of someone who longs not only to parent, but to provide a space of deep emotional nourishment—to grow roots that hold, and to be the safe place others come home to.

North Node in the 4th House

Here, a person’s divine spiritual purpose leads them back to the hearth—the heart of the home. Roots matter deeply. There’s a sacred calling to lay down the brick and mortar of a home not just physically, but spiritually—to build a sanctuary, to have it blessed by the Divine, to let God, Spirit, or sacred guidance dwell within its walls. This is not merely a house—it’s a temple. A space where faith breathes, where spirituality is lived, where traditions are reimagined and reborn. It may not be a family built by blood, but one divinely chosen—a soul-tribe drawn together by fate and purpose. Those with this placement long for the day they can gather their tribe—to unite their life, their spirituality, their love—all under one roof. It is then they feel they’ve fulfilled their mission: that they’ve outlived the pain, that they’ve transcended their past, that they’ve made sacred vows with the Divine, and in doing so, they’ve created a new lineage—a powerful, soulful family born of intention and grace.

North Node in the 5th House

These souls are born to play, to love, to create. They burst into life like flames—radiant, expressive, impossible to ignore. Their path is not about rigidity, but about infusing life with imagination. They are creators—not just of art, but of legacy. They weave families born of passion, purpose, and poetry. Here, artistry and divinity collide: painters, poets, musicians, dreamers. Their very lives become a canvas. They channel the sacred through song, story, and spirit. This is not ordinary lineage. This is lineage empowered by creative fire. Each brushstroke, each verse, each kiss builds something lasting, something holy. They don’t just long for a family. They long to create one—a family unlike the one they came from, a family that uplifts, celebrates, and inspires. A family where love births art, and art births freedom.

Jupiter Conjunct Moon

There is always an overflow when Jupiter arrives—an abundance that spills into every crevice of life. And when it meets the Moon—the mother, the goddess, the belly, the womb—fertility dances with expansion. This union births a flood of feeling: a longing for large families, for gatherings, for communion. For the warmth of holidays, for simple dinners where everyone feels held. It creates the quintessential nurturer—the mother, the father, the ones who pour endlessly into their family, who sacrifice, who teach, who radiate wisdom in the home like light from a sacred lamp. These are the people who glow stronger during pregnancy, whose aura brightens as life grows within them. They are the true parents—not just in title, but in spirit. They long for the day their children line up against the wall, laughter echoing through hallways, and they see not just a family—but a circle of souls, a bonded realm of love, friendship blooming among siblings, memories stitched together like a sacred quilt. Bound by love. Bound by the fragrance of childhood. Bound by the knowing that they were chosen to birth not just children—but a home, a legacy, a love that lives on.

Saturn-Moon

The womb. The birthplace. The uterus. The vessel that holds. The space that comforts. The cradle that nurtures—now meets Saturn: hard work. Strict discipline. Structure. Control. Legacy. These are not the people who scream, “I want a baby.” They don’t appear eager for parenthood on the surface. Yet deep within, something stirs—a quiet, sacred responsibility, a soul-deep knowing that parenthood is not just desire, but duty. They don’t approach parenting emotionally. They approach it tangibly. Brick by brick. Plan by plan. They build legacies out of their children. Homes, schools, bank accounts, buildings—concrete structures for their children to visit, to inherit, to live in, to grow from, to succeed through. These are the parents who pour in quietly, who sacrifice consistently. They are the composed. The grounded. The reliable. The ones who hold space and hold lineages. They may not say, “I want a baby,” but they whisper it through action. In their craving for success. In the way they study their emotions without drowning in them. In how they feel responsibly, without chaos. In how they carefully assess every potential partner, measuring them against the weight of legacy. They are stirred by the thought of parenthood, not as sentiment, but as structure—a foundation laid deep within the earth, so that the name, the love, and the purpose may live on.

Taurus Stellium

At first glance, you might be fooled into thinking Taurus is consumed by physical pleasure—greedy in their innocence, too enamored with their own senses to be bothered by the chaos or noise of children. But Taurus is a nurturer, too. A giver by nature. They give with quiet devotion. They spoil children—sometimes rotten—but they delight in it. They melt when the child smiles. They adore baking for them, cooking warm meals that feel like home, carefully arranging the house with beauty in mind—for the child. Birthday parties and holidays bring them to life. They revel in the magic, the tiny hands unwrapping gifts, the scent of cinnamon rolls floating from the oven, the sparkle of lights against soft winter windows. Beneath the societal conditioning, beneath the layers of material pursuit, these are people who long for parenthood. They long for tradition—a picture of life that feels like arrival: a partner by their side, children running down the hallway, a beautiful home, a gathering space filled with laughter and food, a tree glowing with presents, and love rising like bread in a warm oven. They long for something divinely traditional, something that whispers, “You made it. You’re worth it. You belong here.” A purpose that lives in the rhythm of family, in the pleasure of giving, and in the peace of building a life that’s both beautiful and real.

Venus Conjunct Moon

This aspect brings a deep longing for family, especially when you’re romantically in love. You may yearn to create a home together, and “baby fever” can emerge strongly—particularly when you’re around mothers or in beautiful, child-centered environments. Attending children’s birthday parties, weddings, or simply driving past a park can stir powerful desires for motherhood. There’s also a yearning to draw your romantic partner closer through the act of building a family.

Leo Rising

Leo risings care deeply about family and thrive in environments filled with love and togetherness. They’re naturally drawn to children, finding joy and playfulness in their presence. Being around children brings out their inner child, which in turn fuels a longing for their own. Their romantic and affectionate nature makes them yearn for both partnership and parenthood, especially when they fall in love.

Cancer in the 6th House

With Cancer in the sixth house, there’s often a sense of responsibility toward caregiving from an early age. These individuals may have cared for siblings, pets, or others early in life, developing a strong nurturing instinct. They tend to feel a quiet obligation to one day raise a family of their own. Even if they delay parenthood to focus on career and stability, the desire to have children surfaces strongly once they feel secure in life.

7th House Stellium

People with a stellium in the 7th house are deeply invested in partnership, love, and belonging. This naturally extends to a desire for family. Baby fever often strikes after they fall in love or form a deep connection. Even if they don’t feel it while single, the idea of raising a child with someone they love is deeply appealing. These individuals tend to have a traditional or idealistic vision of family life and often imagine having children from a young age.

Leo Stellium

A Leo stellium intensifies the desire for a big, beautiful, and joy-filled family. These individuals crave family and feel proud to be part of one. They often want many children and envision a life surrounded by love, laughter, and legacy. They can be selective about who they settle down with, as they want their future family to be strong, successful, and full of heart. Baby fever tends to come frequently and powerfully.

Mercury in the 5th House

Mercury here makes the mind fertile with thoughts of children and creativity. From a young age, these individuals are drawn to the idea of parenthood. They love being around children and often find themselves thinking about their future family. Baby fever is common, as the idea of raising children blends naturally with their love for imagination, communication, and romantic daydreams.

Sun–Moon

Those with harmonious Sun–Moon aspects often seek emotional and spiritual wholeness in partnership. There’s a strong drive to find “the one,” and with it, a vision of building a family together. When they’re in love, baby fever often blooms as part of a desire to express their union in the form of a child. Even when single, thoughts of romance and parenting can stir deep longing.

Cancer Rising

Often mistaken for parents even when they’re not, Cancer risings exude warmth and nurturing energy. They are natural caretakers who are deeply drawn to babies and children. Once they have their own space or begin imagining life with a partner, baby fever tends to arise. Their calm, kind demeanor and innate desire to nurture make them deeply receptive to the idea of motherhood.

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