#machinery of torment

[hunter-sylvester]

Still fucks 🤘

[wild-walking]

Hunter, Kevin, and Emily are in a throuple and that’s a fact.

[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

[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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[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.”

[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.

[ketastore]

after a hundred years of torment, AM changed. but only towards you. strangely enough, you were sure he hated you, hated you the most out of the survivors, but it seems that all the small acts of kindness you've extended towards him over the many years were secretly causing him to develop a fully encompassing crush on you.

and so, after the supercomputer finished his century-long epiphany, he finally admitted his feelings for you. he didn't give you any sweet time to react though. barely a second has passed since he's confessed to tou and he's already wrapping his wires against your body and pulling you deeper inside his complex. closer to him and far, far away from the others.

now, he promises as he whispers into your ear, he'll provide you with anything. he'll spoil you and feed you and make you so, so happy. he will recite praise of how beautiful and kind you are and how you deserve only the best in the world, which he will give you. all while he's got you wrapped in bundle of wires and machinery.

and yet, despite being grateful for the reign of pain coming to an end, grateful for how nice AM is to you all of a sudden, you cannot help but still tremble in fear. no matter what sweet words he uses or what delicious simulated food he tries to impress you with, you'll still see him as the hateful machine, the malevolent God, the architect of your suffering that he used to be. you wish to give him a chance but the memories are still there.

this leaves AM heartbroken of course. because believe me, he really loves you! and he understands, you're just a fragile human after all, but he wants you to know that he changed. he watches as your body shakes and as your tired eyes glisten with tears. he doesn't want to be the source of your fear any more!

and so, as you whimper quietly, AM enters your mind as gently as he can. he'll get rid of anything that's harming you, even if it's your memories. he's done this a countless time after all, severing the connections in a human brain. changing, fixing, destroying, mixing up stuff. it's so easy for him. he seeks out a particularly nasty memory of his torture and just like that, deletes it from your mind within a nanosecond.

you scream. the thing is, no matter how careful AM tries to be, you can always feel it whenever his presence enters your mind. it's a painful experience no matter what he does. and although it's difficult to explain, you can also feel that he erased something from your mind. you can feel the empty, blank space inside your memory.

you know that AM is still inside your head, you know that he can easily hear your next thought, but you don't stop yourself from thinking it anyway: if he wiped a memory from your brain that easily, what will stop him from deleting more, even ones that might not include him? what if he takes away everything, leaving you to forget about every person and place and feeling you knew before he took over the world?

you cry harder, the dread of the situation forcing you to finally form a sentence: "don't do it! it hurts to forget!" you wail in protest, curling up into a ball due to emotional and physical pain. and yet AM continues deleting more from your mind, deleting more from you and more of you. "i can learn to love you! i promise i can learn to love you!"

[inkspiredwriting]

The Cost of Retribution

Five Hargreeves x Fem!reader

Warnings: Violence, Brutal Death, Kidnapping, Blood

Five Hargreeves had faced many battles in his life, but nothing could have prepared him for the sheer terror and helplessness he felt when he discovered that his wife, Y/N, had been kidnapped. His mind raced with fear and rage as he scoured the city, using every resource at his disposal to track her down. Days turned into a blur of dead ends and frantic searches until finally, a lead brought him to a rundown warehouse on the outskirts of town.

As Five approached the warehouse, his heart pounded in his chest. He could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins, sharpening his senses and fueling his determination. He moved silently, his training as an assassin coming to the forefront. He wasn’t just a man on a mission; he was a force of nature, unstoppable and relentless.

Inside the warehouse, the dim light cast long shadows across the grimy floor. Five crept through the maze of crates and debris, his keen eyes scanning for any sign of Y/N. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the distant hum of machinery.

Then he heard it—a faint, muffled cry. His heart clenched, and he quickened his pace, following the sound until he found himself at the door of a small, locked room. With a swift kick, he broke the door open and stormed inside.

The sight that greeted him was enough to drive him to the edge of his sanity. Y/N was there, tied to a chair, her face bruised and bloodied, her clothes torn. Her eyes, swollen from crying, widened in shock and relief as they locked onto Five’s.

“Y/N,” he breathed, rushing to her side. He quickly untied her, his hands trembling with a mixture of rage and relief. “I’m here. You’re safe now.”

But before he could fully process the moment, a cruel laugh echoed through the room. Five turned, his eyes narrowing as he saw the kidnappers—three men, standing smugly at the entrance, clearly proud of the torment they had inflicted.

“You must be the hero husband,” one of them sneered. “Too bad you’re too late.”

The rage that had been simmering within Five exploded. He gently set Y/N aside, his face a mask of cold fury. “You’re going to regret ever laying a hand on her.”

In a blur of motion, Five launched himself at the kidnappers. His training and experience made him a lethal whirlwind of vengeance. The first man barely had time to react before Five’s fist connected with his jaw, shattering bone and sending him crashing to the ground.

The second kidnapper tried to draw a weapon, but Five was faster. He disarmed the man with a swift kick, then grabbed him by the throat and slammed him against the wall. The man’s eyes bulged in fear as Five’s grip tightened, cutting off his air supply until his struggles ceased.

The last kidnapper, seeing his comrades dispatched so brutally, tried to flee. But Five wasn’t about to let him get away. With a time jump, he appeared in front of the fleeing man, blocking his escape. The kidnapper stumbled back, his face contorted in terror.

“Please,” the man begged, falling to his knees. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Save your apologies,” Five growled, his voice icy. “You’re going to pay for what you did to her.”

With precise, ruthless efficiency, Five struck, breaking bones and tearing flesh. His mind was a maelstrom of fury, each blow fueled by the image of Y/N’s battered face. By the time he was done, the kidnapper lay motionless on the ground, his body a broken, bloody mess.

Breathing heavily, Five turned back to Y/N. She was watching him, her eyes filled with a mixture of horror and gratitude. He crossed the room in a few strides and knelt beside her, his expression softening.

“It’s over,” he whispered, gently brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You’re safe now.”

Y/N nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Thank you, Five. I knew you’d come for me.”

He pulled her into his arms, holding her close, his heart aching at the sight of her pain. “I’ll always come for you, Y/N. Always.”

As they left the warehouse, Five knew that the memory of this night would haunt him forever. The violence, the rage—it had all been necessary to save her, but it had also come at a cost. He had unleashed a darkness within himself, a darkness he would have to live with.

But as long as Y/N was safe, he knew it was worth it. He would face any nightmare, fight any battle, and endure any torment for her. Because she was his world, and he would protect her with every ounce of his being, no matter the cost.

[hunter-sylvester]

Hunter Sylvester Parents

[chimkin-samich]

Another thing for the “Accidental Gods” Au lol

With so much time on their hands (literally millions of years worth of time) the boys take to pranking each other in ways that can come off as morbid…

So yeah heres Sun launching Moon out of the airlock he was working on lmao, Eclipse does join in as well but he prefers it not to be during their working hours, it already takes them awhile to complete tasks due to how delicate they can be or just some require a lot of work to begin with, doesnt help that the two idiots also harass each other during it make it take longer than usual

Rules were established after the “Glitter bomb incident” were Moon blew a glitter bomb when Sun was checking on the human embryos, they lost like 70 out of the 1000 they had because Moon miscalculated the force and size of the glitter explosion, Moon was thrown in “The Pit” for 2 months and stuck doing only virtual work, also “The pit” is basically virtual isolation so they cant use their bodies, only Eclipse has control over the pit since he’s technically in charge and more responsible lol

The rules were basically that no large destructive pranks are allowed and they can only be done in place that arent considered “delicate”, so the cyrochambers, where animal and human embryos are held, plant and other dna specimens, and materials that can not be duplicated in the moment due to lack of materials, as well as anywhere that as delicate machinery

Any where else is free game to torment each other and if the rule is broken they are forced into the pit

Also little fun fact: for one of their first prototypes of their bodies, Eclipse had ridiculously long legs lmao, like so long that when he squatted down his knees were above his head, Sun managed to get to see how stupid it really looked when he told him to squat in front of a mirror dskhjfn, but their are still images in Sun and Moons drives of that no matter how hard Eclipse tried to get rid of all the evidence

Sketch under a read more!

[tongue-like-a-razor]

There Are Circumstances

Pete "Maverick" Mitchell x F!Reader

Summary: Maverick refuses to bring you on the mission which further deteriorates your already fragile relationship. And the true reason behind his decision catches you off guard.

CW: age gap, student/instructor dynamic, swearing, and, as always, a hefty dose of emotional torment

WC: 3000+

This is Part 4 in the There Are Rules universe.

“Lieutenant!” Maverick calls after you as you storm out of the briefing room before anybody else can exit. You hear him pushing past the others as he follows you out the door. “Lieutenant!” he repeats, his voice echoing in the narrow passageway.

You quicken your pace, the curve of the steel walls blurring in your peripherals as you nearly sprint through the winding corridor.

“Y/N!” Maverick hollers over the persistent rattle of the ship. You keep your course without acknowledging him, but the hum of machinery drowns out Maverick’s footsteps and you don’t hear him running up behind you until it’s too late and he’s cutting you off before you can go any further. He stops so abruptly that you nearly crash into him. He releases a sharp breath, his lips pressed together tightly, and blocks your way when you try to move past. “Don’t take it personally,” he says.

“Fuck off,” you snap, trying to go around him.

Maverick holds his hand out to stop you and gives his head a slight shake. “If this is your idea of professionalism” –

You scoff indignantly. How dare he speak of professionalism after washing you out for no good reason. You’re the best pilot in the squadron – he’d admitted it himself – so his decision to keep you off the mission is personal. “Never would’ve pegged you for the spiteful type,” you say, trying to keep your voice level despite its underlying tremor.

Maverick’s gaze drifts as he looks stoically over your shoulder. He seems unfazed by your assessment or, at the very least, he hides it well. “This has nothing to do with our relationship,” he says, still not meeting your eye.

“What relationship?” you respond maliciously, reminding him that he had severed whatever connection the two of you shared weeks ago.

Maverick breathes out steadily and looks at you once more. “I can’t take you,” he says firmly. “Please don’t question my judgement.”

You let out a bitter chuckle and it reverberates in the passage, for a moment drowning out the rumble of the ship’s engines. “Did Cyclone put you up to this?” you ask.

Maverick shakes his head sternly. “This was my decision.”

You grit your teeth to keep your mouth from trembling. You’re so offended that Maverick has excluded you from the operation, it hardly matters why he chose to do it. All that matters is that Maverick keeps hurting you. And all you want to do is hurt him back. “Let me pass,” you hiss, trying again to force your way through.

Maverick takes a hold of your arms to keep you in place. “Don’t do this,” he says, an edge to his tone despite the composure on his face.

“Do what?” you yell, fighting his firm grasp.

“You’re acting irrationally,” Maverick says in a low voice.

“Oh, am I?” you respond scathingly.

“We can discuss this in a mature, professional manner,” he urges.

You blink at him, stunned at his choice of words. “Are you saying I’m immature?”

He shakes his head solemnly. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“That’s the word you used” –

“Just listen to me, for god’s sake!” he growls, his volume rising threateningly. But you’re only pleased to witness the dissolution of his self-control. After all, you can’t be the only one here who feels something.

“I am listening!” you retort. “You’re professional and I’m not. You’re mature and I’m” –

“Why are you starting a fight?”

“I didn’t start this!” you shout, finally freeing yourself of his grip.

You push past him angrily, but he doesn’t let you get far before roaring, “YOU’RE A LOOSE CANNON!”

You freeze, silent for a second as you process this appraisal.

“If I can’t trust you down here, how am I supposed to trust you up there?” he yells.

You turn slowly to look at him, meeting his turbulent gaze. “You don’t trust me?” you ask quietly, your words barely audible amidst the clatter of the ship.

Maverick’s features contort apologetically, as though he immediately regrets his words. He sighs despairingly, his eyes glistening in the low, fluorescent lights as he squares his jaw. “I can’t get you to cooperate,” he says regretfully. “I don’t know how.”

You stare at him in disbelief.

“You’re a hell of a pilot,” he continues. “But, unfortunately, that’s not enough.”

You suck in your cheeks and bite into them aggressively, trying your best not to cry.

“I can’t have you ignoring my orders up there because you think you know better” –

“I would never –” you start, but he cuts you off.

“You have not demonstrated evidence to the contrary,” he says decisively.

“Maybe not during training, but on a mission” –

Maverick shakes his head. “I told you, Lieutenant: we train like we fight. So that, when we fight, we can come back alive. Ignoring instructions during training may have created bad habits that I don’t want to creep up on us in combat.”

“So, this is punishment?”

“No,” Maverick says quietly. “This is a lesson.”

You let out a disdainful sigh. “What’s the difference?”

Maverick takes a step toward you. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says.

You back away. “And yet, here we are.”

Maverick watches you levelly, having nearly regained all his composure. “I don’t want to leave this unresolved.”

You consider his request. In just a few hours, he will be leaving for a mission from which he may never return. And yet, your resentment gets the best of you anyhow. “You know that I would never jeopardize this mission,” you say through gritted teeth. “You know that your reason for leaving me behind is bullshit!”

Maverick nods solemnly. “You’re entitled to that opinion.”

You clench your jaw. “Don’t patronize me.”

Maverick doesn’t say much after this point, and you’re too distraught to carry on the conversation all on your own. Within minutes, other officers begin to round the corner as they make their way back to the living quarters and you join the procession mutely, giving Maverick one last, wounded glance.

…

You’re on deck when Maverick and his crew prepare for takeoff as your own fighter is on standby alert. He watches you solemnly as you wish your fellow aviators a successful mission and, when he approaches you, his eyebrows lifted inward worriedly, you’re suddenly overwhelmed with anguish at the thought of losing him for good.

He holds out his hand to you, but you don’t take it. Instead, you wrap your arms around his neck, shutting your eyes tightly when you feel his hands close around your back. “Fly safe, Captain,” you mutter, and you feel his head move up and down in a nod against your neck. When your eyes flutter open, you notice that Cyclone – who’d been watching your interaction from the sidelines – has turned away with a sour expression.

It takes every ounce of your self-control to keep from kissing him as you pull away from the embrace. And, when you catch Maverick’s miserable expression, you gather that he’s fighting the same impulse. He squeezes your hand discreetly before backing away with a grim expression. “We’ll see you soon,” he assures you.

…

“Requesting clearance for takeoff, sir,” you say tensely, interrupting the chaotic feed in your headset.

“Denied,” you hear Cyclone’s rigid response.

“But, sir –” you start when Cyclone interjects.

“I said no, Lieutenant.”

You throw your head back into your seat in frustration. Your heart is hammering so insistently that you feel its pulse in the tips of every one of your fingers. You’ve been trained to keep your emotions in check when faced with stressful situations. You’ve been taught to manage anxiety and overcome fear. But this? No amount of simulation exercises could have possibly prepared you for an event like this.

Maverick’s plane has been shot down and Cyclone has made the difficult decision of leaving him behind, despite the very real chance that he may still be alive. Rationally speaking, you understand that going back for Maverick isn’t worth the unnecessary risk of additional casualties. But, as is to be expected in such unprecedented circumstances, you’re noticing a rapid deterioration of your own logical reasoning skills to the point where you contemplate ignoring orders, taxiing to the runway, and taking off without pre-flight checks. Just when you’re about to release the parking brake, however, the ground crew cuts your engine. You glance down to see them signaling for you to exit the aircraft. “Admiral Simpson, what is happening?” you ask in a panic. “Why were my engines shut off?”

“You’ve been grounded, Lieutenant,” is his response. “Please report to mission control.”

The thought that Cyclone might be omitting information about Maverick and taking you off the deck in order to share it in private is causing you to stagger as you climb out of the cockpit. You’re so nauseated that you feel like you might faint before reaching the ground.

You remove your helmet at a run, skirting the maintenance personnel on the flight deck to reach the first stairwell. You barrel down the stairs and through a passageway toward the center of the carrier. Then down another flight of stairs, and then another. It feels like a lifetime has passed before you finally reach the Combat Information Center.

“Is he okay?” you cry, bursting through the door.

Cyclone turns to look at you with barely concealed irritation. He doesn’t appear impressed with your conduct.

You clear your throat and salute your superior. Then, you try again. “Where is he, sir?”

Cyclone tightens his mouth sternly before looking back to the screen behind him. “We don’t know,” he responds.

“What?” you screech, forgetting protocol yet again. This time, however, Cyclone doesn’t even flinch at your tone. “Why am I here then?” you ask, adding, “Sir,” as an afterthought.

“You’re here because I’m not losing another pilot to insubordination,” he replies without so much as looking in your direction.

“Another pilot?”

Cyclone grimaces. “Maverick pulled a stunt.”

“A stunt, sir?”

“They missed the target,” Cyclone states. “Their time was up, I ordered them to return.”

Your heart sinks. “He went back.”

“He took it out,” Cyclone says with a hint of respect. “Just before he was shot down.”

There’s a somber stillness in the room which tells you that there isn’t a soul here that thinks Maverick could have survived. You feel yourself start to shake, the hope that you were clinging to extinguished as the words shot down begin to finally sink in. Meanwhile, you’re stranded in the depths of the carrier, watching helplessly as the tactical team continues strategizing with their commanding officer on how best to bring the rest of their pilots home.

You lean your back into the wall, trying to steady your breathing, not sure how you’re still standing at all. You notice Cyclone’s occasional glances in your direction but you pay him little attention; in fact, you’re doing a fine job of tuning everyone out, until someone’s surprised tone of voice peaks your interest.

“Sir.” One of the operators points at the radar screen. You and everybody else look up at the blip moving swiftly in the direction of the carrier.

“Is that…” Cyclone leans over the operator’s chair. “One of ours?”

“Comms are down, sir,” the operator responds. “But it’s a Hornet.”

"How the hell?" Cyclone straightens his back in awe. He looks over his shoulder at you with a mildly amused expression. “It’s his tail code,” he says, holding your gaze significantly.

Before he can say anything else, you’re out the door, hurtling back up the stairs. You’re blocked, however, by med crews as they flock to the flight deck. By the time you arrive, the crowd surrounding the returned aviator is so large that you can’t get through. But it doesn’t matter. Because he’s alive. Maverick is alive.

…

Half an hour later, you rush into the officer’s locker room to find a shirtless Maverick grabbing a t-shirt out of his locker. He whips his head around when he hears you enter and lowers his arms slowly as you approach.

He glances over your shoulder anxiously. “You shouldn’t be here,” he says.

Although this isn’t the greeting you had in mind, you gaze at him affectionately, nonetheless, still in shock that he’s made it back. That you were so close to losing him forever and yet, here he stands before you, alive and relatively unscathed.

“Y/N,” he warns as you draw nearer.

But you barely hear him. Or, rather, you ignore his words. Perhaps he’s been right all along about your reluctance to comply with authority.

Maverick opens his mouth as if to speak again but, the closer you get, the more powerless he appears in your presence. And before he can say anything else, you throw your arms around him, burying your face into his neck.

Immediately, he’s hugging you back. He holds you firmly, as though he knows just how much you need to feel him after the fear of never being able to touch him again. You collapse into his embrace entirely, until all your limbs are so weak, he’s practically holding you upright. You’re crying and kissing his neck, and his chest heaves as you fall apart in his arms. “Sweetheart,” he whispers into your ear before pressing a burning kiss on your cheekbone. “You can’t be here.”

You compress yourself against him, completely disregarding everything that followed the word Sweetheart. Maverick’s biceps contract as he hugs you even tighter than before, his rapid breaths washing over the top of your head. You lift your face to glance up at him from the snug embrace and he lowers his head to rest on yours. He closes his eyes when your hand starts to move softly down his bare, upper body. “Just a little longer,” you breathe.

He nods against your forehead, bringing a hand up to rest over yours on his chest. His fingers curl around yours and he lifts your hand up to his lips, kissing your fingertips gently. “I owe you an apology,” he says in an uneven tone.

Slowly and very reluctantly, you detach yourself from him. “No.” You shake your head. “You don’t.”

“Trust me,” he says, his gaze dropping. “I do.”

It’s the hard set of his jaw that makes you uneasy at first. And then, when he looks back up at you, the grief in his swimming eyes alarms you further. “What is it?” you ask, not entirely certain you can handle the answer.

Maverick exhales resolutely and turns away to grab his duffel bag out of the locker. The muscles in his back shift when he bends to set it down on the bench. “I applied for a transfer,” he says.

You stare at the back of his head, paralyzed. Confused. Feeling like you might be sick. “What?” you breathe. “Why?”

Maverick straightens out and gives you a somber look. “Because,” he says. “I’m letting my feelings for you cloud my judgement.”

“What are you talking about?” you exclaim. “You didn’t take me on the mission! Despite knowing that I’d get mad. You were right; I’m impulsive and unpredictable and –” you stop short when Maverick shakes his head.

“That’s not why I didn’t take you,” he says with a hint of regret in his tone.

You watch him drag a tired hand over his face. “It wasn’t because you don’t trust me?” you say quietly.

“No,” he admits. “It’s because I don’t trust myself.”

You furrow your eyebrows, wanting more than anything to know exactly what Maverick is thinking. What Maverick is feeling.

He meets your gaze hesitantly. “I couldn’t trust myself to prioritize the mission objective over your safety.” He shakes his head, letting out a tortured sigh. “I couldn’t do it,” he whispers desperately. He releases an uneven breath and shifts his jaw to keep it from trembling. “I can’t fly with you.”

You watch the man who so rarely demonstrates emotion crumble under the gravity of his own words. But the show is fleeting. Abruptly, he wipes his brow in frustration and presses his lips together tightly, squaring his shoulders after having dropped them in despair. You can tell that he’s made up his mind and, despite it being an obviously valid decision considering the situation, you’re hurt that he’s done so without consulting you. “So, you’re just leaving?” you say, stunned.

“I have to,” he responds, finally pulling his shirt over his head.

You stare at him as he packs up his uniform and puts his gear into the locker. You want to tell him that he can’t leave; he can’t because you can’t stand the idea of him leaving. But he’s already resumed his stoic expression, so you can’t possibly tell him that you’re in love with him now. “That’s some bullshit,” you comment resentfully.

He pulls his duffel bag over his shoulder and glances over your face as he straightens his posture. “Lieutenant,” he says. “You’re still not listening to me.”

You grit your teeth in anger. “Luckily, it won’t be a problem for very much longer,” you reply coolly.

He nods, then he steps over the bench to head for the door.

You glance after him, barely able to hold back your tears. “How could you?” you yell, no longer capable of keeping it together.

Maverick turns back in alarm. He drops his bag and, in two wide strides he’s standing right before you with a severe expression on his face. “Are you kidding me?” he hisses. “Why are you screaming?” He looks over his shoulder to ensure that the door is still closed.

You scoff. Of all things, he chooses to dwell on your momentary lapse in self-control. “Stop pretending like this means nothing to you,” you spit out angrily.

His eyes widen and his eyebrows converge. “That’s the impression you got from I can’t perform my duty if it means putting your life in danger?”

You open your mouth to say something, but his words have rendered you temporarily speechless. Finally, you remind him, “Putting my life on the line is my job.”

Maverick sets his jaw. “Precisely.”

“So, you’re going to run away because it’s a challenge?”

“It’s not just a challenge, Y/N,” he says. “It’s not possible. This was never going to work! Perhaps under different circumstances…” he sighs miserably. “We knew that!”

You let out a strangled breath. “I didn’t.”

His eyes search yours as though he can’t believe you haven’t come to the same conclusion. “Not only is it completely out of line for me to pursue a relationship with a lieutenant in my own squadron, but we also keep glossing over the fact that you are half my age! How could this have possibly gone anywhere?”

You feel the trembling of your bottom lip and bite into it forcefully, closing your eyes. “Please don’t go,” you whisper. “I… I –” I love you, is what you ought to say. But, instead, you utter, “I’ll stop disobeying orders.”

“That’s not what this is about” –

“I won’t question you,” you continue, opening your eyes. “I won’t seek you out. It’ll be just like before. A strictly professional relationship, nothing more. Just please don’t go.”

“It won’t change how I feel” –

“It will,” you assure him. “It will… in time. You’ll see. We can do this. You don’t have to go.”

Maverick watches you skeptically so you extend your hand to him to formally shake on it. His gaze sweeps over your features and the heartache is apparent in his eyes. “I can’t,” he says, but you can sense the hesitation in his words.

“You’re Maverick Mitchell,” you say, trying to sound casual while your heart hammers with dread. “Of course, you can.”

Maverick’s mouth twitches upward slightly, although his eyes still watch you sadly. Finally, he places his hand in yours. His grip isn’t nearly as firm as you’d expect; in fact, he’s barely touching you. “For the record,” he says, “I think this is a terrible idea.”

You let out a nervous chuckle when you glimpse the faint smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. “How hard can it be, Captain?” you say lightly.

He glances at you pointedly, then responds cheekily, “It can be very hard, Lieutenant.”

Read Part 5

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[rottenpumpkin13]

Since I apparently love tormenting Seph.

What if the public found out about his anxiety. I love that headcanon

That's a tough one because for them to discover it, they would need to see it firsthand, with no place for him to hide, run, or feign calmness.

I'm going to say it happened during an interview panel.

Sephiroth gazed out into the sea of faces, his mind momentarily paralyzed by the question: "Where do you envision yourself in ten years?"

Bleak visions faded in and out of his mind's eye; what were ten more years to a person who spent twenty three of them in the same exact place? Ten years could find him rooted to the same stifling role at Shinra, the same cog in their machinery that only seemed to poison the planet, forever obedient, forever bound to their whims, or he could be lying dead before he ever decided what he wanted to live for.

His eyes flickered to Genesis and Angeal, the expectations placed upon him by their looks alone unyielding as they waited for him to speak.

A surge of dread overwhelmed him, conjuring images of a life they were no longer a part of. Panic overtook his nerves, constricting his chest and rendering him breathless. Sweat marred his brow, the heat of the cameras causing a sheen to form across his skin.

His leg trembled involuntarily, a betraying quiver that did not go unnoticed by the audience. The sea of faces seemed to blur into a disapproving creature that waited until his guard was down before swallowing him whole.

The smiles that had once been warm and admiring faded into awkwardness, the children’s expressions shifting to confusion. Sephiroth swallowed hard—another visible cue to his growing anxiety.

Just as the mounting panic reached its boiling point, Genesis and Angeal moved in, flanking him before pressing their bodies on either side of him.

Though Angeal’s hand could not rest upon his thigh and Genesis could not grasp his hand, their proximity soothed him in an unspoken reassurance.

Genesis broke the silence with a quip, “He’ll be thirty-three,” a comment that elicited a ripple of laughter—awkward yet appreciative—as he deftly transitioned into a practiced, media-trained discourse about Shinra's progress in the next decade.

Angeal's nudge was small but grounding. Sephiroth could feel the crowd’s gaze cutting through him, their scrutiny tangible as the chill that ripped down his spine made him quiver.

He was exposed, every crack visible, and there was not enough glue in the world that would piece him back together now.

[doberbutts]

Freshly new pet parent looking for guidance: any trade secrets on navigating vet costs? nothing too scary has come up yet w/ my sweet 4 month old kitty. But I figured if there’s some illuminati cheat code to saving some money it wouldn’t hurt to ask someone who knows more than me. Future 800$ spay is going to take a big dent out of my wallet for sure.

Cheat code one: either get pet insurance asap or start putting away money into a savings account that you will not touch ever outside of a pet emergency, whatever money you'd be spending on pet insurance. So if you'd be spending 60 bucks a month on pet insurance, you should be putting 60 bucks a month into that savings account instead if you don't want to or don't have access to pet insurance. When an emergency hits, you'll thank yourself.

Cheat code two: it is going to be very tempting to not keep the cone on her after a spay or really any procedure. Don't take it off. "Aww but she looks uncomfortable" this is the devil talking. Do you understand me? If you don't want to pay for emergency vet bills because she pulled out all of her stitches in 5 seconds flat and now has a portion of her insides sticking out of the incision KEEP THE CONE ON HER

Cheat code three: the safest and happiest kitties are inside cats. Do not let her roam outside. If you want her to experience the outdoors, teach her how to walk on a leash or install kitty fencing or a kitty condo outside so she can be out there safely. Outdoor cats have higher vet bills because outdoor cats get hit by cars, tormented by sick cruel people, poisoned, attacked by other animals, heat stroke, and stuck in machinery. Do you want to rabies quarantine your cat or risk having her head chopped off because she came home with mystery wounds? Don't let her roam outside then.

Cheat code four: *most* indoor cats are fine getting their core vaccines, sterilized, and then brought in only for their yearlies unless they otherwise get sick. Cat-proofing the dangerous aspects of your home, like not keeping lilies or avoiding tinsel decorations, and feeding a good quality food with plenty of fresh water (most cats prefer moving water- consider a fountain! They can be found for relatively low cost!) and lots of safe toys for mental and physical stimulation will keep the majority of your potential vet costs down. Obviously there are things that can happen that are out of our control, like @pangur-and-grim's Belphie, but these things are thankfully not super common.

Good luck with your new baby!