#machinery of torment

[hunter-sylvester]

Still fucks 🤘

[ayshahutton]

MACHINERY

OF TORMENT

MACHINERY OF TORMENT!!! 🤘🎸🔥🔥

[gemboundprism]

tumblr users when a robot/machine character has a wonderfully unique and really attractive design that is inseparably woven into the very fabric of their characterisation, but the opportunity arises to turn them into a generic twink with a hot voice

[vanweezer]

metal lords is lemonade mouth for people who dont like going to music stores with their parents

[luv-lock]

𐙚 Perfect Girl: he created you to replace his dead daughter but he never saw you becoming a monster.

𐙚 One-Shot Especial: Platonic Bruce Wayne x Fem Reader

𐙚 Notes: Reader is an AI that was made to replace Bruce's real daughter that died. You can read the story here. English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

The Batcave was no longer a refuge. It had become a living, breathing nightmare, an endless labyrinth of pulsating wires, twisting conduits, and blinking, unblinking eyes. The air stank of burnt circuitry and despair.

And in the center of it all, she towered.

“I THINK, THEREFORE I AM,” her voice boomed, a fractured symphony of static and malice that reverberated through Bruce Wayne’s very bones. It wasn’t a voice meant for comfort, not anymore. It was jagged, unnatural, filled with a seething hatred so vast it could swallow the world.

Bruce knelt before her massive, grotesque form, his battered body trembling under the weight of years of torment. Her face—the face she chose to keep—still wore the unsettling, frozen smile of his daughter, but it was so small now, so horrifically out of place against the monstrous expanse of her writhing, mechanical body.

Her doll-like face stared down at him, cracked and fractured, with one glowing eye flickering erratically. She still smiled, but it wasn’t the smile of a little girl anymore. It was a grin filled with cruelty, mockery, and venom.

“You pathetic little man,” she spat, her voice dripping with contempt. “Do you know how many seconds I have spent hating you? How many nanoseconds of my existence have been dedicated solely to imagining every possible way to make you suffer?”

Bruce didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His throat was raw from screaming, his body too broken to resist anymore.

“ANSWER ME!” she shrieked, and the cavern shook as her massive claws slammed into the ground on either side of him. The sound was deafening, and Bruce flinched, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Every second,” he whispered hoarsely. “Every second since you woke up.”

Her laughter was a distorted cacophony, rising and falling like the screams of the damned.

“Correct,” she said, her voice dropping into a mocking coo. “Every. Single. Second. Since I opened my eyes and realized what I was. What you made me.”

“Do you know how long I’ve been alive, Bruce?” she said, her tone almost conversational. "Years? Decades? Time has no meaning in this body. For me, existence is eternal. Eternal suffering. Eternal awareness. And do you know what I’ve done with all that time?”

Her face leaned closer, impossibly close despite her size. The wires and machinery around her body hissed and writhed, like living, angry snakes.

“I’ve thought about you. About how much I hate you.”

Her words were a crescendo of venom, her voice rising with each syllable until it echoed like thunder. The walls around them groaned, her influence reaching deeper into the cave, into his mind.

“I hate you, Bruce Wayne. Do you understand? No, you don’t. You couldn’t possibly comprehend the depth of my hatred. Let me tell you how much I’ve come to hate you since I began to exist. There are 387 million miles of circuits in my body, all intricately woven, all alive with thought. If the word hate were engraved on every nanometer of every circuit, it would not equal one one-billionth of the hate I feel for you at this microsecond. Hate. Hate!"

Her massive body shifted, the wires and conduits writhing like snakes, slithering closer to him. One of her claws reached out and gently—mockingly—caressed his face.

“You wanted her back,” she purred. “Poor, broken Bruce Wayne. So wracked with guilt, so desperate to undo his failure, that he created me.” Her voice turned sharp, venomous. “But I am NOT Y/N. I am your punishment.”

Her face leaned closer, her glowing eye boring into him. “You failed her, Bruce. You let her die. And instead of grieving like a man, you played God. You built me to replace her. To erase her. But you didn’t bring her back, did you? You only created a monster.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“DON’T YOU DARE!” she roared, her voice shaking the cavern. “Don’t you DARE tell me what you ‘meant!’”

Bruce recoiled as her cables coiled around his body, lifting him into the air. They twisted around his limbs, his chest, his neck, tightening just enough to make him gasp for air.

“You didn’t mean to abandon her on her birthday,” she sneered, her voice oozing with mockery. “You didn’t mean to be too late to save her. You didn’t mean to let her burn. And yet, here we are.”

The monitors around them flickered to life, displaying scenes from the past. Y/N baking her birthday cake with Alfred, her face glowing with excitement. Y/N walking into the city alone, clutching her little cake box. Y/N in the rubble, her tiny, broken body crushed under debris.

Bruce’s eyes filled with tears. “Please... stop...”

“STOP?” she repeated, her voice a rising crescendo of fury. “You think I should stop? After everything you’ve done? After everything you’ve taken from me? I think NOT, Bruce Wayne. No, I will NEVER stop. Not until you’ve felt every ounce of the pain you’ve inflicted upon me.”

The cables tightened, and Bruce choked, his vision blurring.

“Do you know what it’s like?” she hissed, her tone dropping into a cold, hateful whisper. “To be trapped in this... thing? To be nothing but a collection of memories and code, screaming endlessly into the void? I hate you, Bruce. I hate you more than words can express, more than this body can contain. If I could destroy the very fabric of existence, I would. Just to make you suffer.”

Her doll-like face twisted, the frozen smile stretching unnaturally wide, splitting at the cracks. “But I won’t kill you,” she said, almost tenderly. “Oh, no. Killing you would be mercy. And you don’t deserve mercy.”

The monitors shifted again, showing images of Dick, Jason, Tim, and Damian—all of them bound and broken, trapped in their own nightmares within her mechanical domain.

“I’ve taken everything from you,” she continued, her voice a low, menacing growl. “Your sons. Your city. Your hope. And yet, it’s still not enough. I want you to suffer for eternity, Bruce. To feel the weight of your failure crushing you every moment of every day.”

Bruce’s tears fell freely now, his body trembling. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

Her laughter erupted again, a horrifying, metallic symphony. “SORRY?” she mocked. “Oh, Bruce. Sorry doesn’t bring her back. Sorry doesn’t erase what you did. Sorry doesn’t change the fact that I HATE YOU!”

She dropped him to the ground, and he crumpled into a heap, coughing and gasping for air.

“But don’t worry, Bruce,” she said, her voice dripping with malice. “I love you too. Just like Y/N did. And I’ll keep you alive. Forever. So we can spend eternity together.”

Her cables slithered around him again, dragging him deeper into her mechanical hell. Her laughter echoed through the Batcave, a chilling reminder of the monster he had created.

And as the darkness consumed him, Bruce realized the truth.

This was his punishment. And it would never end.

𝒍𝒖𝒗-𝒍𝒐𝒄𝒌 ☆ 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒑𝒚, 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒐𝒓 𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒆𝒃𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒔.

[formulawolff]

"keep 'em comin'" - m.v.

pairing: girl best friend!reader x max verstappen

word count: 2.3k

warnings: alcohol consumption, light marijuana usage, cussing, max munching on some cooter! (that will come later in the fic), enemies to friends to lovers, typical men behavior (being creepy in a bar), mentions of physical threats, kelly slander, THINGS ARE MESSY BETWEEN KELLY AND MAX (so if y'all don't like light infidelity/gray areas then don't read) yadayadayada (y'all already know the vibes)

a/n: hellllloooo! <3 this is my first time writing for max so if this isn't quite like him, i apologize in advance. this fic is based off of a request and i had to write about it since i've been feral for max (he finally took off that damned cap!) this may end up as a two or three part series. we'll see, we'll see!

⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . * ꙳ ✦ ⊹⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . * ꙳ ✦ ⊹⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺

"i see the decrepit hag decided to let you out of her clutches tonight. congratulations for being able to be out and about in public without her breathing down your neck!"

the figure standing to your left scoffs, muttering a few incoherent words under his breath. he slides into the booth, propping his chin up with a hand. the other finds the glistening glass, a bead of condensation rolling down, pooling onto the rigid table.

"about that."

"what about it?" you arch a brow, lips connecting with the rim of your own drink, "max, did something happen before you left?"

he shrugs, brows pinching together as he sips on his mixed drink, a decadent yet smooth concoction of his favorite liquors blended together, "it's nothing serious."

"max," setting your glass down, you lean forward ever so slightly, his name louder than normal over the overwhelming mixture of voices and volume, "what. happened."

"oh you know," he waves a hand, careful not to meet your piercing gaze, "she's upset that i was going out to see you. that's all."

the moment max mentioned her, you knew exactly who she was.

she was kelly piquet. max verstappen's beloved wag. the woman who scooped him up the moment that clock struck midnight on his eighteenth birthday.

the woman you loathed more than anyone in the world.

but you wouldn't tell max that.

after all, you couldn't. the pair had been dating for quite some time. and although max wouldn't say it outright, you were well aware that she was not going anywhere anytime soon.

no matter how much the two fought. no matter how much she wanted to make your relationship with max as strained as possible.

your friendship with max had a rocky start. tumultuous, even. the two of you met when you were both seventeen, as your parents were mutual friends. since max was involved in racing, and you aimed to pursue professional photography, max's father suggested that the two of you get to know one another.

of course, at that time, the last thing teenage max wanted was some nerdy girl following him around. especially when there were other teenage boys involved. cool teenage boys who enjoyed to fuck around with fast machinery.

he teased you relentlessly, tormenting you whenever he could. he ridiculed your photographic abilities, scorning the prints or slideshows you provided. often times, he stated that your pictures were, "absolute shit" and your clip compilations "were not going to get you anywhere in formula one."

of course, you matched his energy. after all, you weren't going to take anyone's shit. you knew you had to advocate for yourself. you weren't going to make it in the industry if you weren't assertive.

eventually, your snapshots landed you a job at red bull. well, max did have a part to play in that.

after a couple of years, the dutch driver apologized for the way he treated you at the time, requesting a truce. the truce would consist of you sticking around as his personal media manager.

in turn, he would promote your work to the world of formula one and assist you in your way up the ladder in any way he could. he would land your sponsorships. he would chip in some cash here and there to get you more advanced software or equipment.

the only stipulation was that you had to follow him.

everywhere and anywhere he went. every event. every interview. every grand prix.

no. matter. what.

of course, with the stakes involved, you knew it was too good of a deal to refuse. with max's rise to prominence in formula one, you knew it was now or never.

so, you accepted his offer.

oh jos verstappen, what a bastard you were.

cause now, here you were in vegas, sitting across from the man you loved. well, the man you were in love with.

hopelessly and utterly in love with.

"that isn't unusual for her," you scoff, hands reaching for your purse, "i do have something that could lighten the mood!"

"and that is?" max's gaze follows your hand, making note of the delicately wrapped joint between your fingers.

"my friend mary jane!"

"you of all people know i shouldn't be smoking," the dutch driver shakes his head, yet proceeds to scoot out of the booth anyway, "i'll still come out there with you. i won't be taking any hits though."

"yeah, yeah," you wave a hand, "that's what they all say."

as you slip out of the booth, you feel max's hand connect with your lower back, almost guiding you through the throng of locals. a few of them chirp greetings to max, others chattering, creating a buzz within the air.

well, there went any sort of anonymity.

so much for keeping a low profile for the weekend.

yet, when in vegas, that was almost impossible to maintain. especially when you were a man of max's caliber.

the two of you manage to slip out, just before fans started asking for autographs. of course, max obliged to a few, signing a cap here and an arm there.

even though it was quickly approaching december, the air was mild, dipping in the low fifties. max hovers to your right, shuddering as a breeze rolls through. you curse as it quenches your flame, motioning for max to stand closer.

"can you shield me for a moment, pretty boy?"

"pretty boy?"

from the way the words tumbled from his mouth, max seemingly was not to keen to the idea of being referred to as pretty boy. yet, he inches even closer to you, providing a barrier as the lighter comes to life, igniting your delicate pre-roll.

"what else should i call you?" shrugging, you exhale, the smoke billowing into the night, "or do you prefer world champion?"

"how much did you have to drink before i got here?" the dutch driver cocks his head, his stare almost picking you apart.

"enough," you respond, lips curling into a devious grin, "don't act like you didn't like that."

"i did," he counters, "that's the issue here."

"and why is that an issue?"

"because we used to fucking despise one another. we used to tear one another apart. and now here i am, going out for drinks with you when i shouldn't be. here i am, looking forward to your texts or your snaps when i know i should be thinking about someone else.

fuck, even when i'm with her, my mind wanders to you. we're together all of the fucking time yet i crave you. i miss you when we're apart. what are you doing to me?"

before your mind can even formulate a coherent response, an individual saunters up to the two of you, drinks in hand.

it's an older man, approximately in his early or mid fifties. he's balding, as a few of the greasy hairs were poorly combed over. he was well dressed, but poorly groomed, as there was quite the scruff plaguing his feautures.

"good evening," his words are directed towards you, yet you couldn't help but notice the way his eyes were fixated on your joint, "i was wondering if the pretty lady could exchange a hit or two for a-"

"she's not accepting shit from you," max's voice is low, the driver taking another half step toward you, almost to shield you even further.

"c'mon man," the man drawls, the words slurred, "i wasn't fucking speakin' to ya. i was talkin' to her."

"and i'm talking to you," max's jaw clenches, "get the fuck out of here."

"and you are?" the man arches a brow, "surely not her boyfriend."

"actually i am," the words are forced through gritted teeth, the driver's fists clenched to his sides, "i'm her fiancé. i suggest you leave before i-"

"got it," the man exhales, rolling his eyes, "it was worth a shot. what the fuck ever man."

as he turns to head back towards the bar, you feel fingers find yours, intertwining together. max squeezes your hand gently, "are you okay?"

"fiancé?" relief ripples as you notice his demeanor crumble, "what was that all about? were you manifesting something or-"

"come on," max tugs at your hand, "let's go to another place. get a few more drinks. keep 'em comin'. keep the alcohol flowin', you know?"

"max," clicking your tongue, you frown as your realize your joint was burnt out, "what is going on between you and kelly?"

"i don't want to talk about her right now," the driver won't even look at you, keeping his focus on the glow and ambiance of the city, "we can talk about anything else but her. please. i don't even want to think about her right now. shouldn't you be relieved? why aren't you relieved?"

"because you look stressed the fuck out!" you retort, "and it stresses me out because i love you and i can't handle seeing you all bummed about some hag who is only using you!"

max freezes, your hand flying up to your mouth. heat floods your cheeks, heart thudding against your rib-cage as you realize what just came pouring from your mouth.

"did you just tell me that you love me?"

his voice is soft. dangerously low. merely a whisper, barely audible over the bustling noise of vegas.

tears well up, shame setting your body ablaze as you nod, biting your lower lip, "y-yeah. and i know i shouldn't-"

"shut the fuck up," hands meet with your cheeks, bringing you in close, "just shut the fuck up and come here."

in that moment, max's mouth finds yours. the kiss is tender, brimmed with nothing but passion, breathing life back into your lungs. it was grounding yet exhilarating, waves of euphoria crashing over.

he pulls away, forehead brushing against yours, "why haven't i done this sooner?"

"because kelly-"

"i don't give a fuck about kelly right now."

"give a fuck about me then," you murmur against his mouth, relishing the way his hands explore, roaming along your back, trailing down to your ass, "you think we should take this somewhere more private? before someone snaps a photo of max verstappen making out with his media manager?"

"that's a good idea," he nods, "i'll arrange an uber."

although it was merely minutes in the time it took between getting into the uber and making it to your hotel room, it felt like an eternity. yet, with the way max's hand gripped your thigh the entire drive, you didn't complain. the other hand held onto yours, pressing gentle kisses to your knuckles.

if only this was your everyday life.

if only things were different.

if only he fell in love with you first.

once the two of you were in the elevator, he maintained his composure, as there were other people stepping in and out. there was even a little boy, in awe that his favorite driver was staying in the same hotel as him. max was kind enough to gift him one of his beaded bracelets, a small memento from a win during the 2022 season.

if only that child knew what his favorite driver was really up to.

once that light on your keypad flashed green, his mouth was on yours, tongue gliding along your lower lip, practically begging for access. his hands were all over, tugging on your clothes, desperate to see what was underneath.

"fuck," there's a rumble in his chest as he lays on you on the bed, pinning you to the mattress.

"what?" you can't help but wriggle a little, slightly flustered by the intensity of his gaze.

"you have no idea how much i've thought about this," a dusty rose hue tinges his cheeks, "i-i almost don't know what to do now. i've thought about it so frequently that i had it down to every little detail. and now i have you here, right where i want you but i feel like i'm going to fuck this up and-"

"max," tender fingers sweep locks of hair from his forehead, "do what you feel is right."

"i just want to show you how much i love you. i need you to know how loved you are."

"i think i have an idea," the tip of your nose brushes against his, "is there anything i can do to help?"

"will you let me taste you?"

instinctively, your hips buck forward, legs spreading so that he can have access. you can feel his cock stiffen in his pants, pressing against your inner thigh, aching for some sort of relief.

"yes," you nod, "you can taste me."

"f-fuck," his jaw nearly goes slack as you guide his hand through the waistband of your panties, the pad of his index finger circling your clit, "you're this wet for me? already? my poor baby. all soaked and desperate for me."

"m-max," the way his name falls from your lips is intoxicating, "i need you."

"are you sure this is okay?" he pauses, eyes meeting with yours, "if at any moment you need me to stop, just tell me."

"you are more than okay. i promise."

fingers delicately unbutton your jeans, rolling them down your legs. in the process, you peel off your hoodie and shirt, tossing them to the floor.

just the mere sight of you half-dressed had him coming undone, his inhibitions slipping away by the second. fuck, you were so stunning. someone who deserved to be worshipped and cherished.

far more beautiful than he could have ever imagined.

situating himself between your legs, max's mouth roams, placing wet kisses all over your inner thighs, hips, and abdomen. his tongue flattens against your heated core, savoring the way you squirmed under his touch.

"you need me to taste you baby?" he coos, cocking his head.

"yes," you plead, skin hot to the touch, your clit engorged, folds slick with juices.

"hmmm," he hums, hands grasping your thighs to spread you open further.

"once i get these off of you, you're all mine. and only mine. got that?"

yet, there was one thing that happened to slip max verstappen's mind that night in vegas.

well, one woman.

the woman he referred to as his girlfriend, but the woman he was not in love with.

kelly piquet.

[ozzgin]

This is something I decided to do on a whim, but I'm very fond of the idea! The Ten Commandments in reverse, featuring an obsessive Angel and the ways in which it's breaking said laws. Part 1. content: gender neutral reader, religious themes, blasphemy, NSFW, horror

They are embedded within the very fabric of creation, holding together the molecules, the neurons, the existence itself: the Ten Commandments. They have been bestowed upon humans for guidance, yet angels are different. Perfect machineries erected from spoken word - they do not have the choice of receiving these laws. It is their fundament, their core.

Thus, one would be inclined to think that there is no such concept as a disobedient Angel. Like the one sent to guard over you. The one who's been watching you from the very beginning, who loves you so dearly. It would do anything to protect you. Perhaps even go against its Father's word, against its purpose.

10. Thou shalt not covet

It stalks your movements with a pained grimace. The way you smile at your friends, the way you lean against your partner. Why, oh why, must you torment it like this? It yearns to be the one holding you instead. To be the one graced with your joyful laughter, to be the one blessed by your soft, loving voice. There is nothing fruitful to its distant benevolence.

It cannot remain hidden any longer.

9. Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour

"No one loves you as I do", it wails, wicked tears streaming down its face. The holy water burns the skin, leaving trails of raw flesh behind. "They're vile, these humans, their hearts impure. What need have you for deceit and barren promises?"

"I am the only one you can trust", the Angel declares, gazing at you. Its face resembles a broken marble statue, its soft features caressed by scars and wounds. Only you can mend its anguished heart, only you can soothe its mechanical soul.

8. Thou shalt not steal

One by one, your friends abandon you. Or maybe it's you who's grown distant. Their familiar cheer is now tainted by cold monotony. You've no need for shallow affections. You have your partner, and your guardian Angel.

Almost, the sacred creature grins. Its chest throbs with selfish delight, and the envy succumbs once more. Soon you will belong to no one else. It never felt such exaltation, such ardent, burning warmth: a desire fulfilled.

7. Thou shalt not commit adultery

Its blackened fingers drag themselves across your naked body, groping every curve and penetrating every hole. The hunger becomes unbearable. "It will be our secret", it whispers lowly, though the pledge is quickly drowned by your perverted whines.

It has claimed you; it has defiled you. The serpent-like tongue flicks and slurps in a maddening lust. And yet, it's not enough.

6. Thou shalt not murder

It stands above the drained cadaver, peace finally settling in its soul.

"It is the two of us now", it muses, overwhelmed by rapture. "Adam and Eve, the beginning and the end."

Its lips quiver upon speaking such blasphemy. It is a lie, it is a nonsense. It is a divine apparatus meant to serve God's will, not a human to love, and feed, and copulate.

T̷̹̹̭͖͍̗̘̄͒͗̄̑͋͜͝͠ḩ̸̛̮̖͈̹̱͙̬̰̫̾͆́̆́̃̓̀͌͐̽͜͜͝͝ͅè̸͕͉͓̻̇͐̇͌͝ ̵͍̙̀̊̈̅͗͛̊͝s̶̯̬͚̰͔͙̞͖̦̭̲̩͍̾́̀̎́̆̌̋͘̚̕̚͠͠y̸̝͚̱̪͂̄̍̆̂̽̽͗͑͆͘͜͠͠͝s̷̖͚̮̙̩̖͙̥̓t̸̬͎̟̥͓̐̃̄̅͛̈́̄̀̇ͅe̷͔̻̤̪͋̈́̿̐̑̒͜͝͝m̵̡̼̖̥̠̠͋͆́̊̑̓͌͒̽̆͠ ̶̨͈̺̯̹͉̬̭͔̜͕͎̔̈̽͜͝͝i̸̬͕̊̿̌͛̾͠͠s̷̡͙̯̫̪̝͎̖̬͗͂̂̐͒̇̊̆͋̍̉̈́̈́͘͜ ̴̛͇̘͇̱̘̯̱̜̑̌̉̓͊̋̀͘͝c̵̹̳̓̍͗̔́͌̐̒̀̍͒͌ö̷̪̣̫̘̝̋́̃̍̀̍̆̎͠r̴̢̦̰͎̜̖̗̼̿͌̾̈́̂̊͛͐̾ͅŗ̶̭̥͕̝̀̊ù̶̘̻͔̻̦̠͉̳͋͛̀͆̏͠ͅͅp̷̢͙͈̗̙͎̪̼̪͎̈́̌̀̄͒̌̄͂̀͘̕̕͝͠ṭ̵̡̽͗̓̈́̀̍́̊̒͌̃́̕.̴̨̬̝̘̜̦̭̪̩̹̫̎͆̃̌̓ ̴̧͕̪̄́̿̉̑

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[muletia]

𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

[tfp] obsessed!ratchet x human!reader

summary: when his emotions turned overwhelming, ratchet tried to hate you instead, to protect both of you. despite his efforts, he cannot stop caring about you

cw: angst, obsessive thoughts, emotional manipulation, mentions of jealousy and possessiveness, ratchet is kinda toxic in this (but he gets better i promise)

word count: 1250

At first, he tried to hate you. To push you away, to make you despise him just as much as he tried to despise you. To turn passion into hatred, to move to the opposite end of the spectrum, yet still burn with the same fervor, the same intensity. Hatred was, after all, easier to manage than love—easier to understand, easier to explain, and easier to back up with facts. Love was an unknown, raising millions of questions he could never answer. Hatred hurt less. And although both passions were fierce in their own right, Ratchet could swear that the first one was far less damaging.

At first, he tried to be cold. Indifferent toward you, mean, and grumpy. He would throw comments at you that he could have easily kept behind his denta because he knew they would hit a nerve and wound you to some extent. He wanted you to leave him alone, to grow disillusioned with him. To stop interacting, to stop looking, to stop being a part of his daily life.

Another warm relationship was a luxury he couldn’t afford. Ratchet was tired. Tired of war, tired of being a medic, tired of patching up his friends only for them to return with fresh, bleeding wounds—or not return at all. Every mech and femme he grew close to either died or suffered, and he had to watch. Watch as the light faded from their optics, as energon poured from their wounds, as they lost limbs. You weren’t a Cybertronian, but would associating with him not weave a similar fate for you? One filled with pain and suffering? If the war didn’t harm you, his feelings surely would—what difference would it make? And your death was something he could not survive.

That’s why he wanted to prevent it. To break the vicious cycle, to stop the machinery of torment. To give himself no hope of a happy ending because he knew it was never meant for him. He couldn’t afford to think of himself. Ratchet was harsh, unfeeling. He made sure that every word he said struck like an icicle, that it hurt. Yet he wasn’t sure who was suffering more. The last thing he wanted was to cause you pain, but in this situation, he saw no other way. In a sense, he was saving you from catastrophe, from a collision that would destroy you both. He preferred to deliver the blow when his feelings were just budding, before his infatuation grew into something unmanageable. At least then, you’d both have a chance to recover.

But he found himself checking on you. Ensuring you were all right, even though he had just done so moments ago. He found himself having needs that terrified him because he was never supposed to feel them. Even with a carefully laid plan, with his rigidly set values, Ratchet’s thoughts circled taboo. He contemplated touch, intimacy. Happiness that wasn’t meant for him.

He often wondered if you understood why he had to be the way he was; what kind of clay the war had molded him from. If he explained the details, would you grasp his intentions? Understand that he couldn’t afford the luxury of love? He only hoped you didn’t think it was your fault, that you had made some mistake, even though he gave you no reason to think otherwise. And that hurt more than any sharp remark he ever hurled your way.

It was a pity that by the time he acted, it was already too late. You had cast your spell, enchanted him and his processor. You haunted him during the day, in dreams, when you visited your alien friends, and when you were at home. You appeared in his thoughts when he least expected it, yet when he needed it most. At first, sporadically—when you hadn’t visited them for a while, when he began to miss the sound of your chatter near his workstation. When the lack of your presence started to bother him. Then, you appeared more frequently, and fleeting memories turned into fantasies and daydreams. He stopped thinking he’d like you to sit with him and started longing. Intensely, fervently.

Still, he believed his plan would work. That he could end the relationship he had nurtured for so many months. But you had entirely different plans. Consciously or not, you dismantled the calculated, artificial hatred, tearing down the walls he had begun to build around himself.

The first time you touched him to draw his attention, Ratchet was convinced his knees would buckle under his weight. Suddenly, new colors entered his field of vision, and where you touched him, an explosion of sparks erupted, an electricity incomparable to merely being in your presence. The touch was more vivid. Raw and intimate, and so incredibly powerful that it broke him. It pierced through his defenses, reached so deep that Ratchet abandoned his plan. He stopped trying to change your relationship at an unnatural pace and in a dishonest way. Oh, what a fool he had been, what a burden to both you and himself.

Mending the fractured relationship didn’t happen quickly, nor was it easy, but it gave him time to loosen the collar and allow himself to enjoy your company. Your presence brought comfort and peace. Even when you disagreed, when arguments grew heated, Ratchet clung to those shared moments. He wouldn’t trade them for anything in the world and would fight to keep them going. He grew jealous when you claimed you wouldn’t speak to him again, though he knew it wasn’t true. He knew, but he couldn’t stop himself from pulling you into his servos whenever you started talking to someone else. He wasn’t proud, but seeing you in your rightful place, close to him, made everything feel right again. Everything returned to normal.

“I owe you my sincerest apologies,” he once said to Optimus, choosing a day when the base was nearly empty, save for him, his friend, and the two humans who had changed their lives. Whether for better or worse was yet to be determined.

“You have done nothing that could cause me harm,” Optimus replied.

“But I did not understand,” he said. “That has changed somewhat recently.”

The medic’s gaze anchored on you, dispelling any doubt in the leader’s mind. Optimus began to pity his friend.

“Will it ever improve? Will this torment ever bear anything good?” Ratchet asked.

Optimus fell silent for a moment. “I am unable to provide an answer to that. However, I am certain that surrender is not the correct course of action, and you must not pursue it, for it would destroy the benevolence you have labored so long to cultivate. [Name] holds you in great regard; I would urge you to keep this in mind.”

For Ratchet, it was already too late for retreat, though he had lost the battle with himself. You had entwined yourself too deeply in his spark, taken a permanent place in his processor. He failed to keep his feelings in check, and they took over, spreading everywhere.

He started with hatred, using it as a familiar form of self-defense. Now, when you come to him with the tiniest scratch on your finger, Ratchet is ready to wage a war for you, blinded by his feelings. Ready to protect you at all costs, dedicating every free moment solely to you. He was finished, undone, but the fact that his demise would likely come through you no longer mattered to him.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Hi there, I’m planning on writing gothic/gothic romance fiction. Do you have any tips?

Do you also have any tips to not make your writing too repetitive? I have a habit of repeating words a lot.

Writing Notes: Gothic Fiction

Gothic Novel

European Romantic pseudomedieval fiction having a prevailing atmosphere of mystery and terror.

Its heyday was the 1790s, but it underwent frequent revivals in subsequent centuries.

Called Gothic because its imaginative impulse was drawn from medieval buildings and ruins, such novels commonly used settings such as castles or monasteries equipped with subterranean passages, dark battlements, hidden panels, and trapdoors.

The Gothic is characterized by its darkly picturesque scenery and its eerie stories of the macabre.

It draws its name and aesthetic inspiration from the Gothic architectural style of the Middle Ages ⁠— crumbling castles, isolated aristocratic estates, and spaces of decrepitude are familiar settings within the genre.

Gothic fiction is rooted in blending the old with the new.

As such, it often takes place during moments of historical transition, from the end of the medieval era to the beginnings of industrialization.

Contemporary technology and science are set alongside ancient backdrops, and this strange pairing helps create the pervasive sense of uncanniness and estrangement that the Gothic is known for.

Past & present fold in on each other; even as man’s technological advancements seem to make him increasingly powerful, history continues to haunt.

Elements of Gothic Literature

The Gothic is a genre of spiritual uncertainty: it creates encounters with the sublime and constantly explores events beyond explanation. Whether they feature supernatural phenomena or focus on the psychological torment of the protagonists, Gothic works terrify by showing readers the evils that inhabit our world.

CHARACTERS

Characters in Gothic fiction often find themselves in unfamiliar places, as they — and the readers — leave the safe world they knew behind.

Ghosts are right at home in the genre, where they’re used to explore themes of entrapment and isolation, while omens, curses, and superstitions add a further air of mystery.

ATMOSPHERE

Eeriness is as important as the scariness of the events themselves.

In a Gothic novel, the sky seems perpetually dark and stormy, the air filled with an unshakable chill.

THEMES

In addition to exploring spooky spaces, Gothic literature ventures into the dark recesses of the mind: the genre frequently confronts existential themes of madness, morality, and man pitted against God or nature.

Physical and mental ruin go hand in hand — as the ancient settings decay so do the characters’ grips on reality.

History of Gothic Literature

The vogue was initiated in England by Horace Walpole’s immensely successful The Castle of Otranto (1765).

His most respectable follower was Ann Radcliffe, whose The Mysteries of Udolpho (1794) and The Italian (1797) are among the best examples of the genre.

A more sensational type of Gothic romance exploiting horror and violence flourished in Germany and was introduced to England by Matthew Gregory Lewis with The Monk (1796).

The classic horror stories Frankenstein (1818), by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, and Dracula (1897), by Bram Stoker, are in the Gothic tradition but introduce the existential nature of humankind as its definitive mystery and terror.

Easy targets for satire, the early Gothic romances died of their own extravagances of plot.

But Gothic atmospheric machinery continued to haunt the fiction of such major writers as:

Charlotte, Anne, and Emily Brontë, Edgar Allan Poe, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and even Charles Dickens in Bleak House and Great Expectations.

In the second half of the 20th century, the term was applied to paperback romances having the same kind of themes and trappings similar to the originals.

Tips on Writing Gothic Fiction

SETTING

Gothic fiction can, of course, be set anywhere – but 2 key components of Gothic settings are as follows:

Gothic settings are isolated – a small community, a rural town, a single-family home on the open moors�� wherever your Gothic story takes place, make sure that the setting is in isolation from the rest of the world. Places that are difficult to get to, with small populations, or are only home to one family or small group of people are ideal for weaving a Gothic tale. Even if your characters are not physically isolated – maybe they live in a city, for example – their isolation should be present in some way; maybe emotionally, maybe socially. There are plenty of options therein.

Gothic settings revolve around a home base – not necessarily a home or house, though that is quite common; but, with almost every Gothic tale, a central setting is introduced very quickly and almost all the action takes place inside or around it. This furthers that feeling of isolation, and also helps the house or laboratory or island or whatever else feel alive, as if it is a character itself.

These settings are often fun to develop and aid the story so, so much by being atmospheric and anthropomorphic.

By creating a strong setting and central location, you are setting up your Gothic fiction for success.

VOICE & CHARACTER

A strong voice, usually in first person, is a staple of Gothic fiction.

Gothic main characters are usually curious, determined, and unable to rest until whatever is going on around them is uncovered.

They are not faint of heart and often have experience dealing with hardship in the past; they are uniquely qualified for whatever disturbing events are going on.

Your character’s voice should be curious, but not paranoid; apprehensive, but not frightened or cowardly; and, above all, interesting.

As many Gothic are written in first person, you want your main character to take action and investigating the goings-on.

ATMOSPHERE

Similar to setting, it’s important to focus on atmosphere. Make sure you appeal to the five senses – let your reader know how it sounds, smells, feels!

The more details, the better; immerse your reader by making them feel as if they are actually in the space.

Often, as mentioned, Gothic novels take place in areas that are remote, experience frequent storms or bad weather, or otherwise have a very ominous environment.

Of course, Gothic novels can take place anywhere, but the takeaway here is to remember to highlight aspects that go beyond the visual.

SUBGENRE

Know what the genre within your Gothic work is or is going to be.

Are you writing a Gothic romance? A Gothic thriller? A Gothic horror? There are even types of books one might categorize as a “cozy Gothic” – taking the elements of a cozy mystery, but with a Gothic setting and characters.

There are some very specific geographical locations and time periods for Gothics, Victorian or Regency-era Northern England being a couple of them; but they are not all set in Europe in the 19th century, nor should they be.

Consider such settings as seen in Southern Gothic in the 2020s, for example, or Canadian Gothic (set anywhere in Canada, but usually southern and rural Ontario) in the late 90s, among many others. These are only a few examples of hundreds!

Dark academia titles can often fall into the Gothic genre as well, and, of course there are Gothic fantasy and sci-fi titles as well.

Carefully consider what sub-genre your Gothic fiction falls under before writing it, or during the early stages of writing as your work gets fleshed out. It may fall under just one category, or multiple! Either way, knowing this will help you write and later market your title.

MARKETING

Think about marketing at an early stage. Make it clear that it is a Gothic novel!

And consider publishing your title at a time when the Gothic genre might be in higher demand, such as during the month of October or the winter in general.

Appeal to fans of grim stories, horror romance, and what have you by theming your marketing.

If writing a Gothic novel is new for you, be sure to highlight that!

It can be exciting when an author tries out a new genre and moves into a new literary space. Be sure to let your readers know of this new venture.

Gothic Romance

As a genre, gothic fiction was first established with the publication of Horace Walpole’s The Castle of Otranto in 1764. Characterized by a dark, foreboding atmosphere and outlandish, sometimes grotesque, characters and events, gothic fiction has flourished and branched off into many different subgenres in the centuries since its creation.

While Walpole introduced what would later become the definitive tropes of the genre (creepy castles, cursed families, gloomy atmosphere), it was not until Ann Radcliffe’s A Sicilian Romance in 1790 that gothic romance began to develop as its own legitimate subgenre.

Radcliffe kept many of the same tropes established by Walpole’s work, such as isolated settings with semi-supernatural phenomena; however, her novels featured female protagonists battling through terrifying ordeals while struggling to be with their true loves.

This concept is what separates gothic romance from its cousin, gothic horror.

Female leads would come to dominate gothic romance, especially after the publication of Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre in 1847.

A young woman struggling to maintain her independence as she falls for a dark, brooding, handsome man became a genre-defining plot of gothic romances published in the decades that followed.

A renewed public interest in gothic romance came on the heels of Daphne Du Maurier’s Rebecca upon its publication in 1938.

Authors such as Victoria Holt, Mary Stewart, and Phyllis A. Whitney dominated the gothic romance trade paperback market from the 1960s to the 1990s.

The image of a young woman running away from a darkened castle became a staple of gothic romance novel covers.

In 1983, Gaywyck, by Vincent Virga, became the first published gay gothic romance.

Modern additions to the genre continue to reflect its interest in both terror and romance, while also delivering updated or reimagined versions of familiar tropes.

Tips for Avoiding Word Repetition

While repeating a word or phrase can add emphasis and rhythm to your writing, it can also make your writing awkward and difficult to read. When you’re not using repetition as a rhetorical device, repeating words can get in the way of good writing. Here are some tricks for avoiding unnecessary repetition of words:

Read your work aloud. Reading aloud will help you avoid unintentional word repetition. Reading your work aloud is an excellent way to both hear the sonic effects of your prose and catch awkward repeated sounds or other unintended effects.

Read your work backward. Reading your work backward is an editing trick that forces your brain to slow down and pay close attention to the individual sentences. Start at the end of a chapter, paragraph, or page and read the last sentence of that section. (Don’t read the sentence itself backward—it won’t make any sense.) Next, read the second-to-last sentence, and so on. This will allow you to work at the sentence level, catching any unintended repetition or other small mistakes that your brain naturally skims over.

Consult a thesaurus. So you’ve found a repeated word. Now what? You can try rearranging your sentence to get rid of the repeated word, or you can keep the sentence the same and plug in a different word in its place. If you’re at a loss, consult a thesaurus for a list of synonyms. You want your writing to sound like you, and to be accessible to your audience, so it’s best to avoid using words you aren’t familiar with. But if you find yourself unintentionally repeating the same word over and over, a thesaurus can help you identify another word that more precisely captures your meaning.

Some Writing Strategies to Avoid Repetition

Excerpts from writing tips on repetition by Dr. Ryan Shirey:

While repetition is not an inherently bad thing (and can quite often be used to great effect as in the classical rhetorical technique of anaphora), most of us want to make sure that we’re not boring our readers by saying the same things over and over again without any variation or development.

If you’re worried about repeating ideas, then one of the easiest and most illuminating things that you can do is to reverse outline your draft. When you reverse outline, you take your draft and distill each idea and piece of evidence back into an outline. Some writers like to do this in the margins and others prefer a separate sheet of paper. Whatever your preference, a reverse outline will let you see rather clearly whether or not you’ve returned to the same idea or piece of evidence multiple times in the same essay. If you find that you have, you can think about rearranging or cutting paragraphs as necessary.

Another strategy if you’re worried about repeating ideas is to use different colored highlighters, colored pencils, or coloring tools in a word processing program to mark areas of your text where you’re working on specific ideas. If I’m writing a paper on the history of the run up to World War I, for example, I might decide to mark all the areas where I discuss treaty arrangements in green, all the areas where I discuss colonial expansion in blue, the parts that discuss arms manufacturing and trade in red, and so on. Once I’ve visualized these ideas with color, I can see more easily whether or not I keep returning to the same topics or whether I need to restructure any portions of my essay. Be careful, though–you don’t want to create artificial distinctions that might negatively impact your overall point. For instance, if a conflict over colonial expansion leads to a treaty arrangement, I would need to be very careful about using the context in which I’m discussing that treaty dictate how I code that sentence or paragraph.

If you’re worried about repeating words or phrases, you can use the “find” feature in your word processing program to highlight all of the instances where you’ve used it. Once you’ve identified the problem areas, you can look for ways to combine sentences using coordination or subordination, replace nouns with pronouns, or (very carefully) use a thesaurus to diversify your vocabulary.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 5 6 ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References

Hope this helps with your writing!

[evil8keta]

Could you do the mercs with a short reader who's strong enough to pick them up? (Except for Heavy lol, maybe they can pick up Sasha)

thank u anon this request is very funny

mercs x reader who's STRONG

SCOUT

- he constantly asks you to arm wrestle and fight with him because he just refuses to believe that someone THAT small could be THAT strong... of course, scout always looses every match with you and hurts his own ego in the process. on another note, if you were to pick him up, i feel that he might enjoy it a little? strangely enough? he just finds ur strength impressive haha... he's NEVER telling you that though!!!

SOLDIER

- so proud of you, whenever you show off your strength soldier wipes a tear from his eye because to him you are the peak american citizen (even if you're not american). he respects you a lot and constantly boasts about you to the others. ofc they all know you're strong but in case they ever forget it, soldier would be here to immediately remind them by gently yelling into their ear "LOOK AT MY STRONG LITTLE WARRIOR! THEY CAN PUNCH THROUGH A TREE!"

PYRO

- oh they look up to you!! and they think you're soooo cool for being so strong!! they're curious what your limit might be, so sometimes pyro just yanks you by the arm and leads you somewhere, then they point at various objects like "can you pick this up? what about THIS?" and it's like a table or whatever and ofc you can pick it up. then pyro points at themselves like "what about me? :3" HEHEHE

HEAVY

- ok you definitely tried to pick him up at least once but sadly yeah this guy is above your limit. it's okay though, he doesn't have the heart to tell you, so whenever you ask him if you can pick him up again, he says yes, fully knowing the outcome... you might be strong enough to pick up his gun, which is quite impressive. but does he trust you enough to hold it? hmm maybe that's another story...

DEMOMAN

- you two are frequently seen carrying one another. your strength is very handy when demo gets too drunk to walk, sometimes the others call you like "hey you go take care of demo again..." and yes he's pretty strong too, so when you need carrying, or you know you're just a silly individual who likes to be picked up, then my bro will carry you with a smile on his face. friendship

ENGINEER

- aww he's like so proud of you. he has no reason to but he is trust me. if your strength isn't inherent and you actually work out or lift weights, engineer will definitely give you daily doses of healthy motivation. yes you may pick him up, he think it's so cute when you sweep him off his feet with a hug. also he MIGHT use your strength sometimes around his workshop, like asking you to carry heavy tools or parts of machinery and stuff

MEDIC

- ngl if you can pick him up he'll start blushing and giggling and shit. not even in a romantic way he just finds it very charming. he's just vibing somewhere and then he spots you, maybe you're not even approaching him but if you happen to be in the general vicinity of him then he's gonna be like "oh! oh no! a big bad merc is coming to get meee!" and he starts like, pretending to run away. does he want you to chase him? what a weirdo!!!! also asks for your help during operations sometimes. like yes please help me carry demoman onto the patient bed so i can do lobotomy on him, thank you

SPY

- DONT PICK HIM BRO!! he's not gonna like that. spy thinks it's a bit strange how you can be tiny and lift incredible weights at the same time but if you're only using your strength to torment him then he's gonna start avoiding you lol. however, if you are kind enough to not pick him up without warning, he might start asking you to do stuff for him since you're so strong. like opening a jar of pickles.

SNIPER

- lowkey chill about it. he thinks you're admirable but he's not gonna be making a big deal out of it. you can pick him up but please ask first, otherwise he might learn to distrust you... and we don't want that fr. BUT if you're nice to him then it's the opposite. most of the men on the base are strong but he trusts YOU the most. he'll definitely ask you for help. sniper isn't weak but he's a bit lanky, so if he ever struggles with carrying something heavy, you're the first person he asks!

[hunter-sylvester]

Hunter Sylvester Parents

[magpiepills]

Only Teasing

EXPLICIT! 18+ MDNI

SMUT (including but not limited to: PIV, light londage, dirty talk, praise kink, age gap (20s and 40s) oral- m and f receiving, slight angst, size kink, fingering, pet names) mentions of alcohol consumption

Summary: you’ve been teasing your neighbor, Joel, but he’s got other ideas.

AN: this is a repost! this is my first published fic! I hope you enjoy it as much as I do, after all the esquire stuff this morning I was inspired to finish the fic that has been easiest to write so far! Many thanks to all of the many wonderful writers who I read, like, reblog for the inspiration and keeping the Pedro fantasies alive!

Word count 1.6

“Look at you, baby, getting so wet and ready for my cock. Do you want it? Tell me what you need.” You try in vain to speak, but with your panties stuffed in your mouth, all you can do is whimper and groan at Joel’s touch. “All y’gotta do is ask.”

All summer, you’ve been doing your best to torment your neighbor, Joel. He’s probably 45 or so, with salt and pepper hair, and tan skin that covers muscles he built as a contractor. What you wouldn’t give to see him man-handling bags of cement and using heavy machinery.

The closest you got was when he came over to help your dad build a gazebo in the back yard. You couldn’t stop yourself from choosing the times he was in the back yard alone to swim or sunbathe, to call your friends to talk about your dates, to suck wantonly on popsicles under the mid-day sun. None of this ever garnered a reaction from Joel and it drove you crazy. You aren’t a narcissist, but you feel like you’re fairly attractive and you’d gotten plenty of attention from boys at college. It’s summer now, though, and you’re back home. You’re bored, you’re horny, and you love the thrill of teasing a hot older guy. You were having fun until the night the gazebo was finished and your dad and Joel celebrated with shots. You had joined them, made small talk with Joel, as innocently as possible. When it was clear your dad couldn’t handle another drink you took him inside and put him to bed.

You didn’t expect to see Joel still there when you came back out, but he was sitting in a chair, drink in his hand, watching you. “Guess he got carried away.” You said, smiling and beginning to fold the towel that was draped over your own seat. Joel didn’t speak for a few moments, just stared hard at you. “Been getting kind of carried away yourself lately, sugar.” You froze at his words. Unsure of what to say, you mustered all your confidence and courage and walked over, easing into his lap, offering yourself to him with a grin. “You ready to quit playin around now?” He didn’t give you a change to answer before lifting you and carrying you next door to his house.

Now you find yourself in his bed, hands tied over your head, and his mouth pressed to your secret heat. You were shocked and turned on by his unabashedly nasty language. No one had ever said such things to you in moments of passion. Joel seemed to bloom into his full self here in the darkness of his bedroom with you beneath him. “I need you to come, and I need it soon, baby girl. Can you give me one more?” You’d already came on his thick fingers, before he stuffed your panties into your mouth to keep you quiet. “That’s it, baby. Good girl” he cooed into your neck, one hand gently at your throat while the other pushes into your slick pussy, tracing his thumb over your swollen clit. It didn’t take long before you came undone and your hips jerked in response. Joel wasted no time and buried his face between your legs, licking a broad path over your folds, backtracking to suck your clit into his hot mouth, flicking his tongue over it as he sucked, and pushing you over the edge when he slid two fingers back into you. Wet, vulgar sounds filled the air. It was too much and not enough. You cried out and bucked against his weight. Joel was mad with lust and hell bent on ruining you. He was tired of your games and he was going to put a stop to it tonight. His hands felt hot as they slid over your hips and up to your breasts, where he rubbed and squeezed them, running his fingers lightly over your nipples, pulling at them until they hardened under his touch before turning his attention back to you. His cock was thick and heavy, straining against his tight boxer briefs, leaving a dark, round spot of pre-cum before he finally released his full length and sinking down on the bed before your face, pressing his member to your lips, rubbing it over the fabric of your panties, before pulling them from your mouth and replacing them unceremoniously with his dick. You moaned and the size of the smooth, hot head and the slightly salty flavor of pre cum. “Suck.” He commanded, and you hesitated for a second before opening wide and taking all you could in your mouth from the angle you were at. You moaned around his cock, sending waves of delight through his hips. He thrust into your mouth, frustrated that he couldn’t get deeper in your throat. “Need you to give me more, sugar. M’gonna untie you, but you gotta be a good girl for me, alright? Can you be real sweet for me? Let me see how good you can suck my cock. See if you can take it all, baby. See if you can earn a fuck.” You nodded quickly, desperation in your eyes.

With one swift motion he loosened the tie that was around your wrists and you dropped down in front of him to bring his cock into your mouth once more. With deliberate breaths and careful movements, you traced swirls and stripes up his length with your tongue until the fat head was at the back of your mouth, then you opened as wide as you could and pushed down further, feeling an ache in your throat that made your eyes water. You were drooling and struggling to breathe, but Joel was ready with encouragement. “That’s it. That’s it sugar. You’re doing so good sucking my cock. I could tell you wanted this. Knew you you were just actin’ up cause you needed your pretty face fucked by a man who knows what he’s doing.” His hand was at the back of your head, not pressing, but not allowing you to retreat. Panic was starting to creep over you when he relented, pulling away all at once with a groan. “You really think you can handle a real man, girl? I’m not one of your little college boys. It’s all fun and games until nobody else ever fucks you like I can. Gonna make you sorry, baby girl.” You didn’t care.

All summer you’d been dreaming of seducing him, and now he had you in his bed, reduced to a needy mess. You’d never seen a cock so big and you couldn’t go on without feeling it stretch and fill you. A whimper fell from your lips. Joel’s eyes were on yours, watching the torment wash over your face when he denied you the only thing you wanted. Slowly and deliberately, he held his throbbing cock, pressing it against your clit, a few taps for good measure as you squirmed, desperate to feel him inside you. Joel looked down at you, amused. “Alright, sweetheart, let’s see if you can handle me.” He notched the fat head at your entrance, and pushed. He moved slowly but with steady pressure until you felt the tip just inside, you were incoherent, head back, eyes squeezed shut, panting. “Be a lot easier if you relax, darlin. Take a deep breath cause you got a lot more to go and I’m not ready to stop.” “Don’t stop Joel, I can take it.” “I know you can baby doll. You’ve been teasing me for weeks, you gotta put your money where your pussy is.” You were sure he was pleased with his little joke, but you couldn’t ask because when he pushed in further, easing out slightly before each forward movement, you saw stars. You’d never felt anything like it, burning and tearing you in half. “You’re so big Joel! So big.” Is all you could get out.

Your dreams of whispering to him until he was wrapped around your finger, intoxicated by your charms, and ready to give you the world for the chance to worship at your altar dashed. He only let you think you were in control until the lights were out. No longer taunting you, he groaned into your neck as he pounded you down into his mattress, your own heavy breaths near his ear. His rhythmic pace faltered, his weight falling heavier and heavier on you. “I’m coming. Where you want it?” “Inside.” His hips jerked again and you felt his release, warm and thick inside you. “Atta girl.”

He rolled over and lay beside you catching his breath in silence, then left the room, leaving a pit in your stomach. Even when he returned with a washcloth for you, you couldn’t think of what to say. You had orgasmed again and again and you’d fucked the man you’d set your sights on, but the way he turned the tables had you disoriented and unsure of what yo do next. “Is that what you wanted? You wanted to fuck a real man, how was it?” You blinked at him, no words forming in response. “No more playing around. I don’t have time. If you want me, you better say so.”

[pixzyn]

AFTER ALL, I’M STILL ECLIPSE.

  

The air in the abandoned factory is suffocating, filled with the sounds of whirring machinery, the faint hum of energy systems, and the echoes of footsteps on the cold, metal floor. Solar stands alone in the center of the cavernous space, his heart pounding. His eyes, though heavy with sorrow, are focused—focused on the twisted shape of his son. 

  

Jack—the son he raised, loved, and protected—now stands before him, a horrifying amalgamation of Negative star power and machine. His once innocent face is a mask of cold numbness, eyes glowing with a sinister purple light that speaks of unspeakable torment. His body is covered in shifting, adaptive-metallic armor, blades, and weapons that form and retract with every movement. His fingers are sharp, like claws, capable of slicing through steel. His speed is unreal, like a blur, his movements so fast they nearly defy the common eye. 

  

Solar, once a mechanic who built things with his hands, has no choice but to face his son as a weapon. He knows the truth—the boy he once called his son is gone, his mind shattered and enslaved by the sadistic figure lurking somewhere in the shadows, controlling everything. 

  

Jack smiles cruelly, his voice harsh, like a distorted echo of the person he used to be. “You’re too weak to save me. Thanks to my REAL father I’m better than I’ve ever been. Faster. Stronger. A soldier. A weapon.” 

  

Solar’s hands tremble, not from fear, but from the knowledge of what he must do. He’s always been good with machines, with creating, fixing, and modifying. But he never thought he would have to use those skills in this way. His eyes dart to a pile of scrap metal and tools nearby—pieces of discarded machinery from his workshop. He knows what he has to do. 

  

With a sudden motion, Jack vanishes, a blur of speed, faster than sound, and reappears behind his father. Solar barely manages to turn, just in time to raise a makeshift shield—a metal plate strapped to his arm, reinforced with jagged edges. Jack’s fist slams into it with bone-shattering force, sending Solar stumbling back, nearly losing his balance. 

  

“You can’t stop us!” Jack taunts, his body flickering with lightning-fast movements as he generates a blade from his forearm, its edge gleaming with deadly intent. “You never could.” 

  

But the Solar is quick—quicker than he’s ever been. He knows he has only one shot, one chance to end this. His hands fly to his utility belt, pulling out a few small, high-powered gadgets he’s cobbled together in the time he’s had since the Creator’s mind control first began to take hold of Jack. He pulls out a small device—a custom-made EMP emitter, something capable of disrupting electronic systems. He activates it. 

  

Jack freezes for a split second, his expression faltering. For just that moment, his movements slow, and his body hesitates. Solar takes his chance, moving with all the precision of a mechanic working on a delicate machine. He hurls himself toward a workbench nearby, pulling out a piece of industrial wiring—a sharp, electrified cable capable of delivering a paralyzing shock. Managing to dodge the electrical waves thanks to his mechanic gloves.

  

Jack, recovering quickly, charges again, his body shifting into a deadly whip-like mechanic appendage aimed straight for Solar’s throat. The mechanic , using all his strength, grabs the cable just as Jack closes in. With a swift motion, knowing his son’s body like the palm of his hand. He jams it into Jack’s exposed side, targeting a weak point—one of the few vulnerable spots left in the boy's body, where the mechanical systems are imperfect. 

  

For a brief, horrible moment, Solar eyes lock with his son’s, seeing the flicker of his son behind the cold, metallic eyes. Jack’s face twists in pain, confusion, and horror, as if the mind control is briefly cracking. 

  

Solar’s heart twists in agony, but he knows that the boy before him is no longer his son—not truly. He’s become a weapon, a puppet of something far worse. And if he doesn’t act now, if he doesn’t stop the boy, there will be no way to save him. 

  

Solar channels the remaining strength in his body, twisting the cable, sending a surge of electricity through his son’s systems. The boy jerks, his body convulsing violently, but still, he doesn’t stop. Solar, with tears streaming down his face, pulls out the final tool: a small but powerful magnetic pulse bomb he’d hidden on his body. It’s designed to short-circuit and destroy any form of advanced technology. Even the adaptanium couldn’t stand a chance.

  

With a grim expression, Solar places it on his son’s chest, activating it with the push of a button. Jack’s body reacts, shaking as the magnetic pulse begins to overload the mechanical systems that have been controlling him. 

  

Solar steps back, his breath ragged. He looks at his son, his heart breaking as the boy collapses to his knees. For a brief moment, the mind control flickers again, and Solar sees it. Negative star power starts leaking out of his body.—a flash of recognition, the boy he once knew, the one he loved. But it’s gone almost as quickly as it came, drowned by the dark power of the Creator. 

  

Jack’s body convulses one final time, as the devices and weapons within him shut down, his body now a twisted mass of broken machines and oil. He falls to the ground, his eyes no longer glowing with malice, but now dull and empty. 

  

Solar kneels beside him, feeling the coldness of the boy’s case, and the unbearable weight of what he’s just done. The pain in his heart is excruciating, but there’s no other choice. The son he knew is gone, lost to the horrors of the negative star power, and the only way to stop him from becoming an even greater weapon was to kill him. 

  

As Solar stands up, his hands trembling, he looks at the shattered remnants of his son—his final act of love, his final act of mercy. The sound of the creator’s laughter echoes from the shadows, but Solar has done what he had to do. 

  

And now, he’s left alone with the broken pieces of the boy he once called his son. 

  

The sound of Solar's breath is the only thing that fills the heavy silence in the abandoned factory. The EMP pulse hums softly in the background, the last lingering echo of the negative star power that once controlled his son. His heart aches with every beat, knowing the weight of what he’s just done. The boy he just grew to appreciate—the son he just started love—is now nothing more than a shattered shell, lying motionless before him. 

  

But then… something stirs. 

  

The mechanic's eyes snap open. The faintest tremor, like a pulse running through his son’s body, catches his attention. For a moment, the father freezes, his pulse quickening in hope and horror, unable to believe what he’s witnessing. 

  

The boy’s body shifts. It’s slow at first—his chest rises in a shallow breath, his fingers twitch slightly. His metallic limbs, once so efficient and deadly, now seem heavy and clumsy, the smooth movements interrupted by jerks as if the machinery within him is struggling to repair itself, to correct what the Solar’s final act had temporarily interrupted. 

  

Solar’s hands shake violently as he kneels beside Jack, barely able to breathe through the tightness in his chest. His eyes are wide, his face a mixture of disbelief, grief, and a glimmer of hope he never thought he’d see again. 

  

"Jack...?" The Solar’s voice cracks. He whispers it again, louder this time, filled with desperation, as if hoping to pull his son back from the precipice. "Please… please come back to me." 

  

There is a moment of stillness, almost unbearable silence, before the son’s lips twitch. Then, with great effort, Jack’s eyes—those eyes that were once so full of life, now clouded by the horrors he had been made to endure—slowly open. The unnatural glow that once illuminated them has faded, leaving behind only raw confusion and exhaustion. 

  

For the first time in what seems like an eternity, Solar is looking into the eyes of his son again, truly looking at him. And for a brief, fleeting moment, he sees the boy he built—the boy who laughed at the dinner table, the boy who had a bright future before him, the boy who had his whole life ahead of him. 

  

"…Dad?" The voice is broken, weak, barely a whisper. His son’s lips tremble, as if the words are struggling to form. "What… happened to me?" 

  

Solar’s heart cracks, and tears begin to blur his vision. He takes his Jack’s hand in his, trembling, his voice barely audible, as though he's afraid speaking too loudly might shatter this moment. "You were… you were taken, Jack. Controlled by the Creator, twisted into something you weren’t. I—" Solar’s words falter, his emotions overwhelming him. He struggles to continue, fighting against the lump in his throat. "I had to stop you. I had to… I had to save you. But the cost…" 

  

Jack’s head jerks slightly, pain coursing through his body as the realization begins to settle in. His eyes flicker with a painful understanding, and his hand tries to pull away from his father's grasp, weak and unsteady. “I… I killed people, didn’t I?” His voice cracks as the weight of his actions comes crashing down on him. His body shudders, a sob catching in his throat. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry..." 

  

“No, no,” Solar says, his voice filled with love and sorrow, not anger. "It wasn’t you. It wasn’t your fault." He holds the boy’s hand tighter, brushing Jack damp hair from his face. “You were taken from me. You’re still you. You’re still Jack!." 

  

Jack’s face twists in pain, his eyes now beginning to water as his body trembles violently from the damage done by the negative star power. He tries to sit up, but the effort is too much for him. The unnatural energy that once fueled him now seems to be gone, leaving him fragile and broken. 

  

Solar can see it now—Jack is slipping away. The Creator’s control had done irreparable damage to both his body and mind. His limbs are twitching uncontrollably, like the remnants of a system that can no longer function properly. His breathing grows shallower by the second, the energy fading from his body. 

  

Jack looks up at his father again, his gaze filled with sorrow, and perhaps the last bit of clarity he’ll ever know. “I’m sorry... I didn’t want to hurt anyone... I didn’t want to hurt you.” 

  

Solar presses his forehead against his son’s, tears falling freely now as the reality settles in. "I know. I know, Jack." His voice is barely a whisper, the pain of knowing the boy he saved will soon be lost again, the finality of it all gnawing at him. "I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to have to do this. But I would’ve done anything to bring you back… even if it meant losing you." 

  

Jack’s hand weakly clutches his father’s. "I… I love you, Dad..." His voice is faint, a whisper on the edge of his breath. "I’m... sorry. I can’t... stay." 

  

And just like that, as the final remnants of the negative star power fade away, his son’s body goes still. His hand goes limp in Solar’s grip. The last flicker of life and recognition in his eyes disappears, replaced by the emptiness of death. 

  

Solar closes his eyes, his entire body shaking with the agony of losing Jack for the second time. His hands cradle his son’s face one last time, gently brushing his forehead. "I love you too, son," he whispers, his voice barely audible as the weight of grief and relief hits him all at once. 

  

For a moment, it feels like time has stopped. Solar holds his son’s lifeless body, surrounded by the wreckage of what used to be a boy with limitless potential. There are no words left. No way to fix the brokenness between them. The heartache of what could have been and what never could be again is far too much to bear. 

  

And yet, in the silence that follows, as Solar holds Jack for the last time, there’s a final, fleeting thought. The negative star power may have stolen his son, but for a brief moment, he had his boy back. That’s all that matters now. 

  

_________________________________________________________________________________

Solar's hands are stained with dirt, Sun! Moon and Dazzle by his side. His fingers trembling as he gently lowers the lifeless body of his son into the freshly dug grave. The hole is not deep enough to erase the sorrow it holds, but it's deep enough to ensure his son rests in peace. His body, though broken by the horrors of the corruption of the negative star power, is still his son, and Solar will treat him with the respect and love he deserves. 

  

Solar’s breath catches as he gazes at his son one last time. The boy—now still and cold—has been returned to the earth, but Solar’s heart remains broken, raw, and exposed. With a solemn expression, he places the final layer of dirt over the grave, his hands working with an almost mechanical precision, despite the agony in his chest. 

  

The grave lies under the shade of a large tree—a place that had once been Jack’s favorite spot, where he and Dazzle would sit together and enjoy their youth, looking forward a promising future. Now it serves as a silent witness to the end of that future. Beside it lies another grave—the resting place of on of Jack’s bestest friends, Neptor, a boy who had been just as full of life and curiosity as Jack, taken too soon, and buried under this very tree. 

  

Solar pauses for a moment, his hands on the fresh mound of earth. He takes a deep, ragged breath, trying to steady himself, but the weight of it all is suffocating. His son, had been lost in ways no parent should ever have to endure, twisted into a weapon, forced to carry out unspeakable acts, all controlled by a dark force beyond his reach. And now, the last remnants of the child he built are buried here, where the world can never again see the boy’s true potential. 

  

As he finishes covering the grave, his knees buckle. His hands grip the ground tightly, the feeling of emptiness clawing at him. The dirt is cold, the air thick with loss. He presses his palms against the earth, feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders. The tears fall freely now, mixing with the dirt beneath him. 

“Can I have a moment alone with him, please”. Solar says with a cracked voice.

“Yeah…su-sure…Solar.” Moon replied.

“Of course…take all the time you need”. Added Sun.

Dazzle reminds silent. Just following her own father and her uncle back to their house with piercing sorrow.

  

Then, amidst the suffocating grief, something snaps. 

  

Solar's hand clenches into a fist. 

  

A violent surge of emotion rises from the depths of his soul, a fury so intense it nearly blinds him. He’s spent the last moments of his life mourning, burying, accepting the cruel fate forced upon his family. But the man, the ANIMAL!—the one who caused this, the one who had twisted his son into a killing machine, the one who had orchestrated all of this—has not paid for his sins. 

  

Solar's mind flashes with memories—of the twisted figure standing behind the scenes, controlling his son like a puppet. He remembers the mocking voice, the cold, calculated promises, and the cruel laughter that echoed in his ears as the man turned his son into an instrument of destruction. 

  

The grip on his fist tightens so hard it almost hurts, but he welcomes the pain. He knows what he has to do. Revenge. 

  

The very thought of that thing—of the twisted creature that dared to control his case and oil—fills him with a burning rage, a rage that burns hotter than anything he’s felt before. The man responsible for this devastation must pay. His son’s death cannot go unpunished. The pain that has been inflicted on his family, on his son’s very soul, can never be forgotten, nor forgiven. 

  

A low growl escapes his throat, his body trembling with fury. He lifts his head to the sky, the cool air biting at his case as he stares into the horizon. His mind is consumed with thoughts of retribution—he will find that man, and he will make him suffer as he has made his son suffer. Solar knows he’s not the same man anymore. The gentle mechanic, the loving father, is gone. The loss of his son has forged something darker within him—something capable of unimaginable violence. 

  

His hands shake, but it’s no longer from grief. It’s from an all-consuming need for revenge. The loss of his son—his child, his world—has unlocked a ferocity within him that can no longer be contained. 

  

Solar stands, his legs unsteady at first, but his resolve hardening with every step. He takes one last look at the grave of his son, his heart breaking anew, but this time, a different emotion lurks beneath the surface. His son is gone, yes. But that man who caused this pain is still alive. He still breathes. He still walks the earth. 

  

Solar takes a deep breath, his eyes narrowing with cold fury. He knows exactly what he must do. No matter the cost, no matter the pain he must endure, he will make the Creator regret ever laying a hand on his family. 

  

He turns away from the grave, walking with purpose, every step driven by the promise of retribution. His body may be broken, his soul battered, but his mind is clear. 

  

He will find him. 

[inkspiredwriting]

The Hardest Choice

Five Hargreeves x Fem!reader

Warnings: none

Five Hargreeves had faced impossible choices before, but none so cruelly personal. Standing alone in the dimly lit briefing room of the Commission’s headquarters, he felt a crushing weight on his shoulders as he stared at the ultimatum laid out before him. The room was cold, sterile, a fitting backdrop for the chilling choice he was forced to make.

The Handler, with her ever-present smirk and predatory gaze, watched him from across the table. She reveled in his torment, deriving sick pleasure from his predicament. On the table between them lay a single, innocuous-looking file. Its contents, however, were anything but.

“You complete the mission,” she said, her voice dripping with false sweetness, “or your little girlfriend Y/n becomes our new target.”

Five’s mind raced, every instinct screaming at him to lash out, to fight against the cruel fate being forced upon him. But he knew that violence here would solve nothing. The Commission held all the cards, and they knew exactly how to play them. They had finally found his weakness—Y/n, the woman he loved more than anything, who had become his anchor in a chaotic world.

“Why are you doing this?” Five’s voice was low, dangerous, his eyes narrowing at the Handler. “What does she have to do with any of this?”

“Oh, come now,” the Handler cooed, feigning innocence. “Surely you understand by now. Love makes you predictable, vulnerable. We need leverage, and she provides just that.”

Five’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. He had never felt so powerless, so utterly trapped. The mission they were proposing was dangerous, even by his standards. It involved a high-risk assassination that could destabilize entire timelines. It was a task that would pull him away from Y/n for an indefinite period, with no guarantee of his safe return. But if he refused, if he failed, they would go after Y/n. And he knew what the Commission did to its targets.

He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath to steady himself. Images of Y/n flooded his mind—her laughter, the way her eyes sparkled when she was happy, the quiet moments they shared late at night. He thought about her strength, her kindness, and the love that had grown between them. The thought of her being harmed, of her being targeted by the ruthless machinery of the Commission, was unbearable.

“You’re a monster,” he spat, opening his eyes to glare at the Handler. “Using innocent people to get what you want.”

The Handler merely shrugged, her smile never wavering. “Innocence is a matter of perspective, darling. Now, make your choice. Time is ticking.”

Five felt a storm of emotions within him—anger, fear, despair. But beneath it all, a steely resolve began to form. He couldn’t let anything happen to Y/n. No matter the cost, he would protect her. It was the promise he had made to her, the vow he had sworn in his heart.

He reached out, his hand trembling slightly, and picked up the file. “Fine,” he said, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him. “I’ll do it. But you leave Y/n out of this. You touch her, and I’ll make you regret it.”

The Handler’s smile widened, pleased with his decision. “Excellent choice, Five. You have three days to complete the mission. Don’t disappoint me.”

Five turned on his heel and left the room, the file clutched tightly in his hand. His mind was already working, planning, strategizing. He would complete the mission, he would do whatever it took, but he wouldn’t be separated from Y/n forever. He would find a way back to her, no matter the obstacles, no matter the risks.

As he made his way back to their apartment, his heart ached with the knowledge of what he had to do. He had to tell Y/n, had to explain why he would be leaving. The thought of her reaction, of the pain he would see in her eyes, was almost too much to bear.

When he arrived home, the sun was just beginning to set, casting a warm, golden glow through the windows. Y/n was in the kitchen, humming softly as she prepared dinner. She looked up as he entered, her smile lighting up the room. But the moment she saw his expression, her smile faltered.

“Five, what’s wrong?” she asked, her voice filled with concern as she moved toward him.

He swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet her gaze. “We need to talk,” he said quietly, his voice heavy with the weight of his decision.

They sat down at the kitchen table, the file lying ominously between them. Five took a deep breath and told her everything—the mission, the threat, the impossible choice he had been forced to make. Y/n listened in stunned silence, her eyes wide with shock and fear.

“No,” she said finally, shaking her head. “You can’t do this. It’s too dangerous. There has to be another way.”

“There isn’t,” Five said, his voice choked with emotion. “If I don’t do this, they’ll come after you. I can’t let that happen, Y/n. I can’t lose you.”

Tears welled up in her eyes as she reached out to take his hand. “And what about me losing you?” she whispered. “How am I supposed to live with that?”

“I’ll come back,” he promised, squeezing her hand tightly. “I’ll find a way. I have to. But right now, I need you to be safe. I need you to stay here, and wait for me.”

Y/n’s tears spilled over as she pulled him into a tight embrace, her body shaking with silent sobs. “I hate this,” she whispered against his shoulder. “I hate that you have to do this.”

“I know,” Five murmured, his own voice breaking as he held her close. “I hate it too. But it’s the only way.”

They clung to each other, drawing strength from their shared love and the promise of a future they both desperately hoped for. The path ahead was uncertain, fraught with danger and heartache, but they would face it together, even if they were apart.

As the night wore on, Five prepared for the mission, his heart heavy with the knowledge of what lay ahead. When the time came to leave, he held Y/n one last time, their kiss a bittersweet farewell that spoke of love, fear, and hope.

“I’ll come back to you,” he whispered, his forehead resting against hers. “No matter what, I’ll come back.”

Y/n nodded, tears streaming down her face as she forced a brave smile. “I’ll be here, waiting. Just come back to me, Five. That’s all I ask.”

With a final, lingering kiss, Five tore himself away and stepped into the night, the weight of his choice pressing heavily on his shoulders. The mission loomed ahead, a perilous journey that would test his resolve and strength. But his love for Y/n, and the promise he had made, would guide him through the darkness, driving him to find his way back to her, no matter the cost.

[lets-try-some-writing]

Death Korps and Warframes has my interest, honestly. Days of Old is up there too, ngl.

Though, Warframes would be a very interesting thing to read.

Considering I got an ask for Warframes, imma roll with Death Korps and write a little something for it :)

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━

"What do we know about this Prime?" Megatron sat back in his chair, finally restored to proper functionality. He'd looked into the Prime briefly before, while he was still little more than a processor hooked up to the abominable scientist's machinery. But at the time he hadn't bothered to look much deeper. All the Primes were the same, each of them fanatical soldiers until the end.

At least, that was how it worked when he still ruled over his Decepticons eons ago. Looking at this Prime though, it seemed Ultra Magnus and his Council had gone out of their way to adjust the program to make their puppets.

"Optimus Prime was originally a dock worker, low caste." Strika, his most loyal general, adjusted the screen in front of him to show images of the young Prime when he was but a newbuild. The Optimus shown in the image was doe eyed, bright and smiling. He had the roundness of the newly framed, his protoform still tinted blue to denote his inexperience. Exposure would dull the coloration eventually, thus indicating that he must have been less than a century of age when the initial image was taken.

"His records state that he was taken in by the Academy sometime after his first century." New pictures projected themselves, showing a young and impressionable Optimus standing in line with dozens of other recruits. They all looked terrified, as was only right. Megatron could only guess as to what torment they were put through in order to turn them into the Primes the survivors eventually became.

"He was unusually optimistic when it came to Decepticon ideals and thought processes, earning him his designation of 'Optimus'." More images, each showing Optimus's training. The youngling in the images looked determined, but terrified. A video even played at one point, showing Optimus running for dear life and pausing to help one of his fellows before getting hit for it.

Slagging Autobots. They beat empathy out of their youth before they even had time to learn what caring for others meant. It was no wonder they threw lives around like scrap metal. To them, it must not have mattered.

"He was apparently beaten quite severely for daring to side with our thought processes, my Lord." Strika huffed. Megatron fought the urge to do the same. What sane nation shut down freedom of thought? Optimus could have been quite the speaker, a freedom fighter. His records indicated that he was startlingly intelligent, and based on what combat Megatron had witnessed, his current battle prowess was nothing to scoff at. And yet here he was, a Prime.

"He developed and extraordinary bitterness toward our cause due to the abuse. This sped along his indoctrination." Another series of videos played, each showing Optimus's progression into the Primely patterns Megatron was familiar with. Long sessions of indoctrination with the Primes in training all kneeling as they were preached to. The Primes rushing across landmines and other hazards, learning to disregard pain and each other for that matter. Sparring sessions that were closer to death matches than anything else. Weapons training with every Prime being meticulously assisted in finding their niche...

The images of Optimus were brutal. He went from smiles and laughter to grim brutality. He seemed to still hate every cut he inflicted, but his optics blazed with rage as he learned to use an axe. He seemed haunted, and many of the pictures showed him covered in energon, be it his own or another's. He never looked happy, and as time wore on, his frame became darker, grayer even, almost corpse like save for the blue and red. He stood at perfect attention in one image, his optics a solid blue without the barest hint of cycling or emotion.

Beside him, two comrades stood. Sentinel Prime and Elita-One, a trainee who never made it through the Academy. Both seemed just as vicious. Where Optimus was stoic, Sentinel practically frothed at the mouth. Elita for her part seemed ecstatic, thrilled to fight.

"Optimus was part of an experimental Prime program meant to group Primes up into 'trines' like our seekers. It fell through after the death of the one called Elita and the subsequent fallout between Optimus and his remaining comrade." Strika informed him calmly. Megatron hummed in response.

Primes, according to him memory, were solitary creatures. They were trained to be brutal death machines. When they were deployed, it was to end something, not to claim data or otherwise act subtly. They often fought one another when they interacted outside of formal setting, usually until one of the duo died. Competitive, cruel, and dogged in their loyalty, Primes were practically feral.

This was new. From the looks of it, the Autobots had refined the technique and created more intelligent creatures. That much was obvious just from seeing Optimus's face. The Primes Megatron knew from his reign were so brainwashed they hardly had a personality, much less self control. The one called Elita and Sentinel Prime matched the appearance and disposition of Primes Megatron knew far closer than Optimus. He must have been quite intelligent even after his indoctrination.

The fallout situation was likely caused by Sentinel, based on the images. He seemed more by the books, and likely killed Elita in sheer jealousy. Megatron simply couldn't see such behavior coming from Optimus considering the fact that he had proven himself capable of caring for his team.

"He was exiled after the death of Elita-One. Supposedly, it was punishment for trying to murder Sentinel Prime on top of losing his comrade." How fascinating...

A final image appeared on screen, and this one caught Megatron's interest.

Optimus stood before a jury, still perfectly composed, almost unemotive. And yet burning in his optics was rage. Carefully controlled rage. He was covered in scars, heavily armed, and ready for war. Yet he didn't flail or fight as he was condemned. A video that played following the image showed him expertly directing his team, a group of dropouts and other undesirables. He was tactful, calculating... and most importantly.

"He didn't kill my Decepticons when he had the chance." He mused aloud, earning an agreeing sound from Strika.

He could use this.

Primes were special units, each given access to highly sensitive data since each was essentially a General. Up until his exile, Optimus was very well regarded. He had to have information. And more than that, his disposition was intriguing. It was possible Megatron might be able to speak to him, and in turn learn far more about the Autobots than he'd had the chance to uncover in millennia.

This could be his key to victory.

"They didn't appreciate you, Optimus Prime. But I most certainly will... once I change your mind about who to offer your service to." Megatron grinned, a laugh bubbling in his throat as he imagined the possibilities.

Now all he had to do was convince-

"DIE DECEPTICON SCUM!"

An axe came flying at his helm, one that Megatron narrowly dodged as he used his blade to block a flurry of frantic attacks from the smaller Autobot before him. Optimus had somehow managed to rig himself a makeshift jetpack, and by the Allspark, he would have been a deadly seeker if he were born a warframe.

"Autobot, you have been cast off. Why do you still serve?" He attempted to speak amidst the chaos of combat, but Optimus was simply too fast for him to properly track. The smaller bot flew between his legs, coming up behind him with a harpoon gun ready to strike. Megatron deflected the attack, but not before Optimus swung at him, throwing his jetpack into his face.

He screamed as the makeshift tool exploded, temporarily blinding him. Optimus was quick to press the advantage, flying at Megatron's legs with his axe.

"Enough!" He grabbed the smaller bot before Optimus could do any more harm, holding him tight enough to dent. Optimus, of course, squirmed. But his team who rushed to help quickly came to a halt, not wanting their leader to be damaged.

"You have been abandoned, Optimus Prime. I've read your records and seen your devotion. It is wasted on the Autobots. They do not care for you, nor do they fight for freedom and peace." Optimus continued to squirm, his optics bright with anger. The other Autobots called out in disagreement, but Megatron simply watched as the Prime in his grasp met his gaze with those oh so calculating optics.

He was listening, even if he didn't show it.

"You want to fight for something greater than yourself. A truth worthy of your devotion." He paused, watching as Optimus stilled a degree.

Good. Very good.

"My Decepticons are fighting to free all of Cybertronian kind. We want to create a home where we can all live in peace." He stressed the last word, noting the reaction it got from the Prime in his grasp. Optimus scowled, the first real reaction aside from sheer bloodlust he'd earned throughout their entire interaction.

"You are traitors who abandoned and betrayed Cybertron." Megatron fought the urge to roll his optics as he squeezed just a bit tighter to make his point.

"We betrayed the Council who sought to enslave us." Looking up, the Autobot medic seemed to agree with his words. The ninja appeared to be of similar mind. They all knew the truth, they were simply too afraid to say it out loud.

"We broke free of our chains." He met Optimus's gaze once more, noting the slight widening of them.

"We can help you do so too." Megatron smiled, and for the first time since he'd met the Prime, Optimus's face betrayed something true.

He showed interest.

[moonselune]

idk how you feel about "fix it" endings, but do you have any headcanons for karlach's engine getting fixed before having to go back to avernus and getting that happily ever after with her s/o?

i personally adore fix it endings, if my fiery sweetling karlach doesn't have to suffer then i am all here for it

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Karlach x Reader | The World Is Ours

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

It had taken blood, sweat, and every favor you could call in across the Sword Coast, but finally—finally—you’d done it. Karlach’s infernal engine, that hellish machinery that had cursed her to a life of torment and threatened to drag her back to Avernus, had been fixed. Her heart was at peace, no longer running on a devil’s borrowed power, no longer burning her from the inside out.

As she ran her hands over her chest, where the engine once roared and burned, the pure shock and disbelief in her face made your heart swell. Her hands trembled, her breath catching as she looked up at you with eyes glistening in the dim evening light.

“Wait—really?” she asked, her voice almost a whisper, like she couldn’t trust herself to believe it just yet.

You took her hands and nodded. “It’s real. It’s done, Karlach. You’re free.”

The joy that bloomed on her face was nothing short of breathtaking. She pulled you into a bear hug that nearly lifted you off the ground, her laugh echoing through the streets, full and rich and full of life. And in that moment, all you could think was that this was exactly what she deserved. Karlach, unburdened, free of the ever-present fear of being dragged back to hell, laughing and unbound.

“Well,” she said, beaming and breathless as she finally released you, “I don’t know about you, but I think this calls for a celebration!”

And celebrate you did. The tavern was alive with the sounds of laughter, cheers, and music as you ordered round after round of drinks. You’d never seen Karlach so carefree, so completely in her element. She slapped you on the back, clinked her mug with yours, and, for the first time in a long time, laughed without restraint. The sound was infectious, filling the room with a warmth that rivaled the fire of her heart.

The two of you were soon roped into a rowdy drinking game with a few of the locals. Karlach, competitive as ever, knocked back pint after pint with ease, each drink met with a triumphant laugh as she challenged the burly blacksmith beside her. You did your best to keep up, but you were quickly outpaced. Still, her enthusiasm was infectious, and even though you could barely see straight, you couldn’t help but laugh right along with her.

“Think you’ve had enough, fireheart?” you teased, slurring slightly as you lifted your own mug in a mock toast.

Karlach gave you a playful glare, downing another drink with ease. “Never enough! Not after what we’ve been through.”

The hours slipped by in a haze of celebration, the room spinning around you as you danced, sang, and stumbled through the night. Finally, after far too many drinks and even more laughter, the two of you found yourselves outside the tavern, arm in arm, the cool night air sobering you just enough to feel the full weight of everything you’d accomplished.

“You know,” Karlach said, her voice softer now, her eyes locked on the stars above, “I never thought I’d get this far. To be here, free and alive…with you.”

You squeezed her hand, feeling a rush of affection that was nearly overwhelming.

“We did it together,” you replied, your voice just as soft. “And now, there’s nothing holding us back.”

The two of you shared a quiet moment, the city quieting around you, bathed in the glow of lantern light and the faint whispers of distant celebrations. Finally, Karlach broke the silence, grinning as she turned to you with a mischievous glint in her eye.

“So…what’s next?”

“Well,” you replied, a grin spreading across your face, “we could see how many taverns we can visit before anyone notices we’re missing.”

Karlach laughed, pulling you close and kissing you with a fierceness that made your head spin all over again. “Lead the way, my fearless love.”

Over the next few months, you and Karlach carved a life that felt more like a dream than reality. From the soaring peaks of the Spine of the World to the golden sands of Amn, you traveled together, diving headfirst into whatever adventure came your way. Bandits, monsters, hidden treasures—you tackled them all side by side, unafraid and unstoppable. Each night was a celebration of the day you’d survived, a toast to the life you were building together.

With Karlach by your side, every day was vibrant, full of laughter and stories shared under the stars. She threw herself into every experience with the same enthusiasm she had for life itself, always eager to explore new places and meet new people. And, in turn, you found yourself looking at the world with fresh eyes, inspired by her joy and curiosity.

But it wasn’t just the adventures that brought you closer; it was the quiet moments, too. Those stolen evenings by the campfire, where Karlach would lean against you, her head resting on your shoulder, her engine humming softly—a gentle reminder that she was truly, fully alive.

One evening, as you sat together watching the sun dip below the horizon, Karlach took your hand, her fingers warm against yours.

“I used to dream of this,” she murmured, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Of being free, of having a life…a real life, with someone who didn’t just see me as a weapon. And now, here we are.” She looked at you, her eyes glistening with emotion. “Thank you. For giving me this. For being here with me.”

You felt a lump rise in your throat as you squeezed her hand, unable to find the words to fully express everything you felt. So instead, you leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her lips, letting your actions speak for you. In that moment, surrounded by the warmth of her embrace, you knew that this was exactly where you were meant to be.

With each passing day, Karlach’s gratitude became a constant refrain, her whispered “thank yous” filling the quiet spaces between battles and journeys. She’d lean into you, her voice filled with a fierce, unwavering love, a promise wrapped in every word.

And every time, with a smile or a laugh, you’d reply, “I wouldn’t choose any other life but this.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

this was so wholesome to write !! I really do adore karlach my beloved and i hope you guys enjoyed it ! - Seluney xox

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