#punishing gray raven fics

[unhappy-last-resort]

Delusions (Yandere Simon x GN Reader)

Warnings: smut, worship of the readers body and reader in general, creampie, GN reader, short

A/N: Just a drabble because I was thinking of Simon as one does late night. I'm also waiting for server reset in PGR so I can decide if I wanna pull on the light trails banner or not.

Apologies for any grammar/spelling issues and what not, it's almost 2AM for me

Your soft pants filled his bedroom, your chest rising and falling with each breath, his arms holding your hips flush to his.

Nothing could compare to this moment. You were absolutely divine, a gift from the gods, a blessing to humanity bestowed by the stars, and you, despite being so far beyond him that he could only watch your star trail in awe, you chose him. You chose him over the numerous, beautiful and heroic constructs and humans who stood by your side.

It made him shudder, his eyes almost rolling at the thought. How could anyone not desire you? Who wouldn't lust after such an incredible hero? Just look at yourself. The way you move your body underneath him, the stretch marks along your thighs, your swollen lips parted in ecstasy, your glossy eyes, your mesmerizing voice as you moan so sweetly for him.

He couldn't help but kiss every inch of you he could, studying you like a piece of art. He kissed each scar he could see, admiring them. Perhaps others might find your scars to be blemishes that needed to be hidden, or fixed, but to him they were breathtaking. Not necessarily because he thought the scars were beautiful, but because they gave him insights into you and your story. You don't talk much about your past, not that there was reason to, but still, he longed to know you more intimately than you knew yourself. If only you'd open yourself to him, if only he could climb to your stardom and share the burden with you.

Perhaps if he lulled you to orgasm enough times you would be relaxed enough to let him know you more. He kissed your neck and whispered his admiration of you into your skin as he gently fucked you, holding you closely to him, becoming so engrossed your moans and cries that he nearly forgets his own pleasure.

He could stay like this forever, listening to you whisper his name as you grind against him. He holds your face gently, drinking in your expressions. Each cry you make resonating in his heart and rippling through his mind, overshadowing every other thought and sensation until only you existed.

He would never stop chasing after you, never stop longing for your attention and recognition, he would never stop desiring a level of intimacy that would only belong to you two. He needed your acknowledgement of his efforts and devotion, he needed to hear you say you loved him just as much as he loved you, maybe even more. He needed you to love him back, he needed your attention, he needed you to look at him as something more than a friend. His desires driving him to push in and out of you faster and faster until you writhed and trembled, until his hips stuttered and the tight cord drawn in his stomach snapped as he babbled your name like it was his salvation.

As his hips slow down, you wrap your arms around him and bestow him a kiss filled with so much love he feels himself melt into your body like it was made to hold him.

"Simon..." You whisper breathlessly and his breath is caught in his throat. Your hand cups his cheek and leans into it, kissing down along your wrist reverently.

You watch him lovingly, letting him worship you. Your eyes meet and his heart soars, you look so bewitching like this the sight burns itself into his brain. Slowly, your lips part and he desperately waits for what you're about to say, hoping that you'll tell him those three words he longs to hear. He watches every slight movement you make, enraptured as he watches you swallow, debating whether you should say what's on your mind or not and he gives your hand a slight squeeze of encouragement.

That seems to give you the push you need as you focus on him again and his heart pounds in his chest as he leans in closer to you, needing to hear every word you're about to say.

"Simon, I-"

.

.

.

.

He wakes up, his hair sticking to his skin and the sheets unbearably hot. Simon stares at the ceiling, seeing nothing but blurry shapes as he contemplates what just happened. Humiliation crushes his chest as the stickiness in his hand makes him realize that it was just an intense fantasy and nothing more. He feels like a teenager helplessly pining after a crush and it almost makes him cry.

It was foolish for him to ever think that you could be his, that you'd ever spare him more than a cursory glance and a few words. You may have never said it out loud, but he knows he's beneath you. Someone your caliber would never look his way, but he can't help but keep chasing after that hope, after that dream that one day, one day you might look at him with something more than friendly comradery.

...He should stop entertaining such ridiculous and inappropriate thoughts about you and wash his hands, probably change his sheets too. If you saw him like this, you would be appalled. Shocked that a fellow soldier could be so...so unprofessional. He's already embarrassed himself a few times in front of you, he needs to be better. He needs to improve.

You'll never give him the attention he desires, so he must do what he can to earn it and treat what little you give him with the utmost care and respect.

He needs you, he needs your love and acknowledgement and he'll do whatever it takes to get it. Even if that means sacrificing everything he has.

[glassessence]

(ΦωΦ) PGR requests! PGR requests! Can I please have some cute dating headcanons with Lee? Or even like, just a cute and soft oneshot with Lee?

It's completely 100% up to you what scenario they're in if you go with the oneshot~. (*´∀｀*)

Hello! I'm alive (and back). Life has been insane and no, it's not under control but I'm back nonetheless (to fulfil ancient fic requests that people have probably forgotten about and no longer care for but no matter; we persevere.)

I'm an angst writer through and through, but I tried my best to do cute and soft. I'm sorry if it's not what you were looking for, but I hope you can derive some enjoyment from it regardless.

Also, I really am sorry that it's literally a hundred years too late. I just suck LOL

a moment of peace   |   lee 

"One day the war will end. I want people to remember that there was more."

In the wake of a catastrophic injury, Lee helps the Commandant remember what they're fighting for: a life, a dream. A hope for the future that once was.

You grunted with effort, levering yourself awkwardly from the comforts of your bed. It had been six weeks since the accident. Lucia and Liv continued to refer to it as ‘The Incident’ and adamantly dodged questions from other teams. Anyone talking to them would think you’d died. In fact, you were pretty sure Kamui thought you had.

Three weeks ago, it’d been amusing. You’d even encouraged it. But now, as the second month of your handicap loomed on the horizon, all you felt was angry. You were sick of being sick, tired of being tired. Those who had seen the planet, who’d borne witness to the ruinous beauty of a broken earth, could never be contented to stay. And while you were idling away in the sterile comforts of Babylonia, the Punishing advanced below. 

Frustrated, you shifted in the wheelchair, punching the cushion behind you into submission. The contraption was uncomfortable, no matter how many curses or how much violence you inflicted upon it. Liv liked to say that it was as stubborn as you, but even her gentility couldn’t ease your latest black mood. It was hard to sit still while your comrades fought and bled; hard to watch progress find Constructs in leaps and bounds while it found you in stumbling steps. There was no doubt that you were recovering, but it was slow. Every day a step farther. Every night a little easier. Now, more than ever, you were reminded of your mortal fragility. A brave heart did not equate to a strong mind. And a strong mind did not mean a strong body. 

It’s bad, Asimov had said. A wheelchair for now and well, maybe forever. You’ll have some time. Use it to come to terms.

Somehow, perhaps through sheer stubbornness, you’d managed to avoid that dire fate. You would walk again and one day return to the maws of the Punishing. To be crunched up and spat out again? Such dark thoughts permeated your mind often. You couldn’t help it. You were as much a soldier as anyone, but these last weeks had reminded you of just how hard it was. The hurt and aches, the tears and fractures that had never been given the chance to heal. And in the dead of night, away from prying eyes, the terrible, consuming pain. It was hard to forget the wreck of your body in the aftermath: the limp dangle of your legs in Lee’s arms, the blood that poured out of you like a swollen river, bones and flesh unmade into fragments of dust and meat.

But harder still was watching your Ravens grounded and flightless, as trapped on Babylonia as you. Harder still was noting the prolonged absence of Strike Hawk and the rising tensions between Vera and Lee. Every sympathetic eye in the hallways made you sick. 

That was what had driven you to explore Babylonia. For all that it wasn’t earth, it was something. A home for some, even if it would never be for you. Sighing, you swiped away the holographic puzzle you’d been working on. These wheels aren’t going to turn themselves…

“Maybe I can threaten Asimov again,” you muttered under your breath, hands already reaching for the spokes of your wheels. “Maybe if I commit to being a nuisance…”

“If that’s your plan, you’ll have to do better than pouting over puzzles.”

Lee stepped around the corner, pristine in his palette of black and blue. Your breath caught. He was vivid against the stark corridors, a bold stroke in the emptiness, so painfully beautiful that it hurt not to stare. Every line of him was sharp and calculated, placed just so by an artist’s loving hand. But there was no talent in the world that could capture the pale fire of his eyes. Those haunting, expressive eyes that bared his soul when words could not. 

A blond brow arched. “Is there something on my face?”

“No,” you muttered grumpily, feeling your mood lift despite yourself. “Go away. I’m contemplating going legless.”

“Then you’d better get to it. Once Asimov hears, you’ll lose more than just your legs.”

You shot him an unholy glare. “Are you here for a reason?”

“Yes,” Lee said, apparently content to leave it at that. He studied your furrowed brow and the purple shadows beneath your eyes. “Have you been sleeping?”

“No. I do nothing but sit around all day. It’s terribly restful.”

“I think that’s the point.”

“No need to rub it in.”

He sighed, “Only you would miss going to war. No wonder Vera likes you.”

“She likes me the way a cat likes a rat,” you countered. “I’m only interesting until she gets hungry. Or bored.” Lee was silent, but you could hear his reproach all the same. “What? Cynicism is healthy, you know.”

“And when did you become a pessimist, Commandant?”

“Since I started throwing a tantrum,” you said primly, meeting his unflinching gaze with solemnity. As you’d hoped, Lee’s lips quirked. It was only the slightest twitch, hardly more than a trick of the light, but your heart fluttered all the same. He was perfect as a Construct, the very pinnacle of human beauty, but when he smiled — when his cheeks dimpled on the left — you could see beyond that inhuman magnificence to the soul beneath: Morian. The boy you’d never truly known, but somehow always had. 

Buoyed by your success, you added, “Though I prefer the term venting.”

Lee was unconvinced. “You mean being unreasonable?”

“That’s never stopped you before.”

A soft exhale stirred the air above your head. You imagined the phantom brush of it against your skin. “You’re impossible,” Lee said, moving behind you to grab the handles of your wheelchair. “Watch your hands.” 

Without another word, he slid you forward, gliding through halls of recreational rooms. You craned your neck to peer into one. Swaths of blue light danced on the walls, pierced irregularly by spears of gold and white. Somewhere in the distance, close enough to be a dream, rumbled the soft, lonely call of whale song. 

Aching, you looked away. Babylonia may pretend at heaven, but there was some things that could never be captured. The thunder of waves breaking against your feet. The tug of wind against the anchors of your being. And the clouds, tender and bruised in a sky that stretched forever.

Still, you’d seen more in the past month than you had in all your years of service. Human kindnesses and human virtues; small hopes and big dreams. Love, that singular bastion of hope at the end of the world, gathered so strongly in a single place that you could feel it in the air. Against all odds, humanity had taken this empty husk and given it a soul, one filled with the very best of man. Was it the body or the soul that made a home? Every day you spent here had watered the seeds of doubt: that life could go on, and neither humans nor the Earth truly needed each other. So then what were you fighting for?

Perhaps, you thought as Lee wheeled you around an unfamiliar corner, it’s time to let go.

A frosted glass door appeared before you. Beyond lay a blurry landscape of greens and browns, like those abstract paintings Ayla had once shown you. Babylonia had gardens of course, but they were mostly fake — structures of steel and plastic that imitated life. Waging war left little time for tending plants. It was sensible, economical even, but part of you had always mourned the loss. 

But now... Your breaths were short as Lee swiped his access card.

The red eye blinked blue.

Bright notes of birdsong greeted you, carried on the wings of a warm summer wind. Jasmine and lavender perfumed the air. Above you was the percussive rustle of leaves, thin branches dancing in their places; beneath, vibrant and alive, was a verdant green sea, stretching as far as the eye could see. Pathways meandered into the sunscape like great snakes, arching gracefully through copses of bushes laden with berries like glistening jewels. Trees towered overhead. You recognised the statuesque trunks of oaks and redwood, but also the elegant silhouettes of aspens and birch, and far in the distance, the bowed boughs of weeping willow. “This is…”

Lee wheeled you forward. The door clicked shut, locking you in, away from the aseptic and cold, away from the hungry maw of space into a remembered world. He was quiet as gravel crunched underfoot. For a while, there was only the sound of wonder. Your silent breaths and roaming eyes. The thundering beat of your heart and the awakening song in your soul. Then came the comfort of companionship. His staccato steps and your legato tread. The murmur of young leaves. Birds, singing unseen in notes that dipped and weaved.

You basked in the sensations. Never had you experienced anything like this. Not even on Earth — a tranquility so complete it seemed a dream. Gravel gave way to the hush of soil. Somewhere in the distance, you heard the gurgle of water, falling and falling, splashing into a pool that would not dry. Sunlight kissed your skin and you were surprised at the sting. Ultraviolet light, you realised with a jolt. How much energy does that cost?

“What is this?” you asked quietly, tilting your head to find Lee looking at you. There was an unreadable expression in his eyes. “Is this… is this real?”

For a moment, he said nothing, his lambent gaze full of feelings you couldn’t follow. You watched him as you always did. You had always been able to parse him, to lean on a connection you shared not even with Liv or Lucia, but he had retreated from you. What was it about this garden that pained him so?

“Lee?”

You reached out, fingers soft against his mechanical palm. Though he didn’t look at you, his fingers found their way into the gaps between your own. Hands braided, threaded together as if it was always meant to be. He had never touched you so intimately before, but it didn’t feel strange.

“It’s real,” he said at last, blue eyes fixed on the spread of green before you. “All of this is real. In a few months, it’ll finally be ready.”

You gave his hand a squeeze. “Ready for what?”

His eyes cleared like the sky after rain. In them, you recognised what you’d always known: love. So much love carried by those tired blue eyes. Wherever he had gone, Lee had come back, and he’d come bearing a hidden part of his soul, ready to be shared with you at last. “For humans,” he said. “For the children who have never known this.” He gestured around, encompassing the world with a wave of his hand. “This will remind them. Connect them with their history. They should feel things, while they still can.”

His hands closed around yours. The tips of his fingers dug into your skin, but you didn’t move. His pain was your own; you would bear it with pride.

“How long has this been happening?” you asked. “How long... I mean, how did you even grow these trees?”

“I brought seeds from Earth. Whenever we were sent on a mission, I’d retrieve some. It took years, and it was started way before me, but Hassan wanted—”

“Yeah,” you said gently, turning from him to face the garden once more. “Something for us to leave behind.”

Lee said nothing, but you could feel his conviction in the press of his palm against yours. “I believe in us. In you. One day the war will end. When that time comes, a decade or a thousand years from now, I want people to remember that there was more. That living once meant tranquility and beauty, not just blood. Not just violence.”

You nodded. His words struck a chord within you, his ideas a skeletal echo of your own secret thoughts. Alone in the dark, you had wondered of your legacy. When the fight was won and fabled peace found at last, what would the people think? Would you be a hero who reclaimed the Earth or a villain who had destroyed the very thing it sought to possess? 

“Not just violence,” you echoed. Sometimes it feels like that’s all we are.

Lee knelt by your side. His eyes met your own. “Commandant, I—” 

Something wet plinked against your forehead. You glanced up. The light receded with alarming speed, leaving a trail of pregnant clouds in its wake. Wind whipped through the branches, threatening to rip the very leaves from their homes. Birds scattered to unseen havens. Within moments, the garden was a roiling landscape of adverse weather. Rain poured down in an endless torrent, stirred by vicious gales to tempestuous rage. 

“What’s happening?” You had to yell to be heard above the howling storm. Lee had risen and was moving for the handles of your wheelchair.

“It’s the weather program!” he explained. “It’s supposed to emulate real-world meteorological conditions. Probably needs a little work!” 

You laughed, a full-bellied thing—the first in a long, long time. “You think?”

“I told them to keep it on spring. This… isn’t quite what I had in mind.” Your wheels churned in the soil that had become mud. Lee grunted behind you, but the chair stubbornly refused to move. With a huff of frustration, he gave up and circled around to face you. “Let’s get out of here.”

Leaning in, he dipped one arm beneath your legs and wrapped the other around your back. Your cheeks warmed despite the lashing wind. “Wait, what—”

“Hold on, Commandant.” His breath was warm, his lips so close that they brushed against the shell of your ear. Lee lifted you from the chair like a treasure. You could feel the steady beat of his heart as he cradled you against his chest. Somehow, your arms had found their way around his neck. Water plastered his hair to his forehead and dripped into his eyes, but he didn’t let go. His eyes, when they met yours, were as clear as a summer sky. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Are you?”

“I will be,” he said grumpily. “Once we get out of this tempest.”

You chuckled; something about his aggrieved tone was just so Lee that you couldn’t help it. “I like this!” you said above the storm. The rising wind and rain, the biting cold against the warm press of Lee, the hint of him in every blade of grass and velvet petal—you loved all of it. This place was a wild heart in the carefully planned rhythm of Babylonia. A sliver of the Earth captured in a truer way than you had ever known possible. “I love this!”

You whooped like a child, laughing as you opened your mouth to the taste of fresh water on your tongue. Your joy was infectious and soon Lee was laughing too, his soft giggles calling to more of your own. With water sluicing down your faces, with wind-chilled skin and soft-centred hearts, Lee carried you across the mud and slick, his steps confident and sure. You held on as tightly as you could, your fingers making divots into the smooth skin of his neck, his arms. There was a feeling between you with no name. An understanding so deep that it needed no voice. 

You gazed out at the wonder before you. It truly was a miracle. Real trees and real grass. Real flowers that would wither and die and live again. Life and hope, you thought as the doors hissed open. A moment of peace.

They slid shut, sealing the wild beauty of the garden from you once more. You could still feel the rain slicking your skin, running down your face to pool like crystals on the pristine ground.  You looked up at Lee with liquid eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked breathlessly. “Why did you labour alone?”

“Because,” he said. “It’s a gift.”

A gift. But you knew Lee, knew him like you knew your own soul, and you heard all the things he did not say. It was a gift, but it was also a dream. A promise, and a hope. It was all the things that existed in the quiet spaces between heartbeats, unseen and unheard, but known all the same.

And shared, sometimes, in the tender feelings between two soldiers wondering, and silently wishing for more.

“Come on,” Lee said after a moment. “You’ll catch a cold. I’ll come back for the chair later.”

You smiled as his footsteps rang out in the empty corridor. Swaying in his arms with the smell of petrichor still in your veins, you felt something ignite in your chest. It was small and fragile, easily buried amid the chaos of war, but you knew where to find it again. Tucked away behind a frosted glass door, there was a piece of Lee that would always be ready to remind you of what you were fighting for.

Not just violence.

For life. And for hope.

—

“Thanks for that. I owe you one.”

Murray watched happily as Morian cradled his Commandant close. He’d asked the technician to cut the audio, but there was no mistaking the depth of feeling between them. His brother was far too awkward for any declarations of love, but he hoped he’d at least given him a chance, an opportunity to express those feelings he so obviously harboured for his leader. Knowing Morian though, he’d probably squandered it, but well, a man could dream. 

The tech shot Murray a disgruntled glare. “Anything else? I have better things to do than meddle in Construct affairs.”

He sighed in mock sympathy. “More’s the pity. I love meddling in people’s lives.”

“This is why nobody likes you, Murray. Lee’s going to scold me enough as it is.” 

“I had enough of that as a kid. I’ve done my time.” With a casual wave of his hand, he left the scowling technician to his muttered insults and his bribe. Murray walked down the corridors feeling lighter than he had in weeks. Morian—Lee now—had sacrificed his life for Murray. Though he couldn’t quite do the same, he wasn’t helpless. He wasn’t the weak, younger brother that needed protecting anymore. 

It’s my turn now, brother. I may not be able to return your heart, but I hope I can give it back to you all the same.

[sabotsen]

Afterglow

Pairing: Noan x (gn!) Commandant / Reader

Notes: Set shortly after Noan’s affection story 6; word count 1.3k

Warnings: Subtle possessiveness

A fluke. 

Fate disguised as a coincidence. 

Isn’t that how it always goes in hero stories? 

A chance encounter that alters the alignment of stars and rewrites destiny for the better, with hope woven into every word and touch. 

But this is not a hero’s story, and fate has never been kind to him. 

It is not a moment of joy, with warm smiles and gentle laughter in the company of friends. It is not a moment of anticipation, spirits soaring high before the oncoming fight. This moment — quiet and peaceful — has been won only after the blood of comrades has stained your hands beyond recognition and their corpses paved the way to the top of this hill upon which you weather every storm. 

But even so…

Despite it all, he is grateful. 

How could he not be, with your head on his shoulder? 

Your breathing is slow and steady, his cloak a poor cushion against the hard, unyielding metal of his frame. Yet now and then, you drowsily nuzzle against his shoulder and almost seem to burrow into the worn folds of the fabric before settling once more against him. It’s enough to trigger an itch in his wires, a slow rolling brushfire that sweeps across him — quiet, without flare or noise. More than once he has brushed the hair from your eyes, his fingers curling as they trace a path from behind your ear down along the curve of your jaw. 

Still you do not wake. 

Not when he calls your name or when his touch drifts across your cheek like butterfly wings, a ghost of a touch too delicate to truly be missed. Just how much have you been pushing yourself lately? It hasn’t even been three days since you returned from a month long mission down on the surface and already the shadows beneath your eyes are just as concerningly dark as the first night he kidnapped you to this blind spot in Zone Z. Do you always throw yourself so recklessly into the fray, heedless of your health? 

How does Gray Raven stand it, watching you tear yourself apart like this piece by piece? How does Simon hold his tongue every time your paths cross, despite the endless worries that flow over like rain behind the closed doors of Dark Ares? 

You nuzzle against his shoulder again, a faint furrow in your brow as the blanket draped around your shoulders slides away. Noan cannot help the small smile that pulls at his lips as he adjusts the blanket and dutifully ensures you are properly bundled. His hands hover near your cheek, an itch in his fingertips to brush against your brow and coax that furrow away. 

You trust him — foolishly, kindly — and he still cannot wrap his head around why. It’s such a heavy thing — your trust — and he has long since known cold, metallic hands cannot grasp delicate things forever. 

Would that wake you? 

Would it cross a line somewhere, somehow? 

He settles for lightly brushing the hair from your face, touch far too light and mindful, before his hand drifts down to your hands resting in your lap. Slowly, with all the careful movements of a child reaching for something forbidden in the middle of the night, he cradles your hand in his. Immediately, your warmth sinks into him, gradual and welcoming. 

Your head on his shoulder, your hand cradled in his — a fragile peace lay nestled against him. 

It feels like Spring.

It feels like home.

Delicate, like a folded paper crane. Even the slightest moment could tear and rend everything asunder. The smallest bit of rain could eat away the body. Carefully, so carefully must he act — every word and action mindful and calculating. He can’t lose this — this friend, this trust, this warmth. 

Slowly, he laces your fingers in his, marveling at the softness of your skin against the hard edges of him. You stir in your sleep, fingers curling around his hand and weakly returning his grip. 

“Commandant.” 

Your title is a whisper upon his lips, gentle like flower petals. 

“You’re scowling again.” 

His free hand brushes against your cheek, thumb tenderly swiping just under your eyes as if to wipe away tears. Beneath his light touches, you seem to relax, the faint traces of tension fading from your expression. He feels the subtle shift of your weight as you lean upon him further, like a bird burrowing into a corner of the nest. 

Warmth seeps into him, sinking beneath cold metal and bleeding beyond colored wires. Down, down, down it travels — to a vast white expanse within him, where only snow thrives. It seeps in, like springtime rain, and melts the unending snow. Noan gently tilts his head, lips brushing against the top of yours as he soaks up every bit of your warmth like a sunflower desperate for the sun. 

The empty bridge framed by the black expanse of the stars are the only witness to this moment of weakness. He knows when the timer runs out, this will all be over. He will return you to your Gray Ravens, likely carrying you upon his back much like he did before. He will return to the cafe and slip that shackle back on his wrist once more. 

“Shall we run away again?” You had asked just hours prior, the playful smile on your lips marred only by the exhaustion you could not hide. 

He didn’t tell you the response he suppressed — suffocated, really — that you need only say when and he would answer your call without fail. He did not tell you how he hid a blanket in the library on the impossible chance he could sneak you away to Zone Z again. He did not speak of the joy that flared in his chest, bright and blooming, to hear your request. 

He had merely held out his shackled wrist to you, a small smile on his lips as he had replied, “You really shouldn’t make a habit of getting kidnapped by an infamous bad guy unless you want to be lectured for hours.”

Your laughter as you disarmed his tracker still rings in his ears. A precious sound — what would it take to make you laugh more often? How often do you laugh around your Ravens? 

Noan closes his eyes as his thumb brushes over the back of your hand in his as he curls himself around you. If only there were still softer parts to him left, maybe he could be of more comfort. You’re still sleeping so soundly, but it can’t be comfortable to use him as a pillow like this. The blanket he brought couldn’t be enough — it’s not, not to him. He has to do more, be more. 

Next time, then. 

The thought freezes Noan, barely suppressing the flinch that would have squeezed your hand — he could have hurt you. Next time? Will there be a next time? Would it be alright to hope for that? To trust in that? 

Noan calls your name softly, devoid of any titles. Caution laces his tone but it is no less gentle. 

Still you do not wake. 

Soon, this peace will end and his time will run out. You will return to the frontlines and he will return to his shackles, worn weary by painful tests and experiments under watchful eyes that neither trust nor care for him. 

“It would be nice,” he murmurs into your hair, “if you called upon me like this again.” 

Silence settles and the stars in the instance still frame the otherwise dark and empty room. Noan quietly tugs the blanket tighter around you and curls himself that much closer to you, every bit a child clutching a jar of fireflies for comfort. 

The feeling of you cradled in his arms — a paper crane, a firefly — 

This is enough for now…. 

[mangotheguy]

Overloaded Beneath the Vigil

AO3 link

Ships: Commandant/Lee, Commandant & Lee (Lee's and Commandant's relationship is up to interpretation.)

Tags: gn!reader, sfw, Lee:Hyperreal, Canon Compliant, Light Angst, M.I.N.D overload, Sensory Overload, Duty, Caretaking, Sleep Deprivation, Overworking, Reader-Insert, Y/N

Summary:

The Commandant fell asleep in his office again, only to be found by Lee: Hyperreal. As Lee carefully carries them to their room, he battles his own inner turmoil.

Notes:

First time posting. I've been really into Lee lately, especially after exploring his affection stories. I haven't finished the main story yet, so sorry for any inaccuracies! I based everything on his voicelines, secrets, etc.

Lee sighed. This was a common sight for him, but nonetheless a little disappointing. Was this their way of revenge on him? To make him worry by showing off that humans can also stay up for three days straight like he does?

“Commandant. I brought the documents you req–” Lee wanted to finish his sentence but was interrupted by what he saw in Y/N's office. They were asleep at their desk.

But he brushed his worries aside and walked towards their desk, placing a few papers on top of the other stacks of documents.

Lee thought that their desk was always riddled with those. “Annoying. Let them rest sometimes,” he muttered unconsciously under his breath.

He looked up at the Commandant again. His expression softened, and he leaned his head on the side of the desk. There's no hurry, he thought. With his left hand, he reached out to Y/N's hair, fiddling with it. He curled it around his fingers, analyzing how it felt and moved between his digits. A gentle smile wore on his face as he enjoyed this quiet moment. When he was about to reach out and caress the Commandant's cheek, he was startled and froze.

Lee stood behind the desk, next to the Commandant's chair, which had now become their bed. With a sigh, he crouched down next to them, but instead of his usual gentle nagging, he just stared at Y/N. He was getting sick of them overworking constantly again. His gaze shifted to the ground. Why isn't their paperwork automated at this point? We have damn constructs, yet more paperwork. Nonsense.

Lee huffed, annoyed.

“Lee… ” said the leader softly. Were they awake?

Lee stood up. He recognized that he was acting strangely and tried to recover by doing his usual routine. “Commandant..? Commandant! Are you awake?” he said very softly.

“Nghh,” only grumbling could be heard from Y/N as they shifted in their sleep.

Lee placed his hand on Y/N's back: “Commandant..?” No response. Thank god, they were still sleeping. Lee became flushed and facepalmed, screaming at himself from the inside.

“Ugh. What's wrong with me?” Lee whispered to himself. He'd never done that before. Usually, he'd quickly scoop up the Commandant and get them to bed. Tonight was an exception he didn't anticipate. Maybe he needed to recompile some of his system.

After chewing himself out, Lee lifted Y/N up bridal style. He noted how light they were compared to a few months ago. Or maybe he had just become stronger? “Either way, they should gain some weight,” Lee said to himself.

On his way to Y/N's room, he took great care to avoid any witnesses. Every night he'd keep hacking into the camera system, unnoticed. Mostly because he didn't want rumors spreading about Gray Raven's great leader. But in the back of his mind, he knew that was the perfect excuse to be more… selfish. Only he would see Y/N sleepy and vulnerable like this. Although he knew other constructs, especially Lucia and Liv, knew about this bad habit of theirs, he was the one by their side every night. It was his moment. “Everyone has their eyes on you, Commandant… ” Lee whispered as he pressed his forehead against theirs. “Just let me have this.”

Lee's M.I.N.D started to deviate. A potential M.I.N.D overload was imminent. “Shit,” cursed Lee, and he quietly placed the Commandant on the ground, leaning against the floor. He sat next to them, letting them rest on his shoulder while he waited to be overloaded for a few seconds. For some reason, he kept having these issues, especially in front of the Commandant, which he felt embarrassed about. He thought that performing multiple highly precise calculations at the same time was one of the only ways to get a M.I.N.D overload, but that wasn't the case anymore. At times, he couldn't convince himself anymore that this wouldn't cause any data errors or affect his daily work.

“Urgh…” Lee groaned, his M.I.N.D spontaneously overloading. He held his head between his hands, leaning his arms against his knees. They usually lasted only a few seconds, but every time those few seconds were excruciating. And this time he didn't have a conscious leader to rely on. “Rely… on? Urgh,” Lee groaned again, cursing his newfound weakness. He had been relying on others more, but he didn't want anyone to know about this, especially his Commandant. But their mere presence made these moments ever so slightly more bearable. Every time a M.I.N.D overload happened and they were there, he'd gain more conviction. He would keep the Commandant safe, no matter how painful these moments were.

Lee closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. “Ahh…” Relief. Finally. He pinched the space between his eyes, readjusting his focal length. As he came to, Y/N was still resting on his shoulder. “Hah. You could probably sleep through anything, Commandant,” Lee laughed. As if on instinct, Y/N curled up and readjusted their sleeping position. Seeing this, Lee fought back his inner voice's reactions to the sight. He felt guilty for seeing this side of Y/N. Lee gave up on checking the security cameras. He convinced himself that overchecking the cams was the cause of his M.I.N.D overload. If there were any witnesses, so be it. He leaned his head against Y/N's and closed his eyes.

“If I no longer see you here at this time one day, I'm sure it'll take me a long time to get used to it…” he confessed. To whom? Who knows. Best not to ruminate on it.

A strange feeling of comfort enveloped him as he embraced the idea that his time with them is limited. No matter how many philosophical books he read about time, everyone agreed that there's no escaping it. Life is followed by death. Destruction creates energy. “Miracles” come at a high price. If miracles did exist, he would gladly become the price for them. For they are priceless to him.

When Lee had fully accepted the stillness around the two of them, he had made a full recovery and could finish his task of tucking the Commandant into bed.

As he laid down the blanket, he stared at them a while longer. His excuse being that he was guarding them just in case they were followed. After making sure Y/N's breathing and status seemed stable, Lee leaned by the bedroom door. He closed his eyes and crossed his arms, staying like that for the rest of the night. Thirty minutes before Y/N's alarm went off, Lee left the room.

When the Commandant entered the kitchen that morning, they were greeted by Lee.

“Morning. You awake? I made too much coffee, so you can have some.” It was a blatant lie, and they both knew it. Nonetheless, Y/N chuckled as Lee lowered his head to hide his slightly flushed face. He didn't need to lie to them about such a small thing, but old habits die hard.

They enjoyed the rest of their breakfast together. The Commandant ate some breakfast as Lee gave them a briefing on tomorrow’s mission. He couldn't help but notice them spacing out instead of listening to him.

Notes:

He said jokingly: “Why do you keep staring at me? Do I have the mission brief on my face?”

Thanks for reading! Please leave your thoughts in the comments.

[punishing-eden]

Short-Fic

Lee (Palefire/Entropy)

Tags: comfort fic, short

══════════════════

"You know, if you don't get much sleep, your hair is going to fall out."

Lee approached you, looking down at you sitting on the stairway. Your face was hidden in your arms resting on your knees.

Usually, you would answer Lee whenever he speaks to you. Yet, this time, you simply don't feel like it. You just want to be alone for a while.

"..." Lee continued to stare at you. Your lack of answer made him feel awkward. You are not known to reply with silence when he asks about your well being. Not knowing what was going on in your mind, the construct only looked at you.

"Are you working late again?" he asked. This time his tone was a little softer. You still didn't answer back.

"You are feeling unwell?"

"..."

Your silence got Lee a little worried, he knew you were not ill; he gave you a body scan, but he knew you must be upset about something.

"...[Y/N], if you need something..." He said, and went to join you, sitting on the steps next to you, "I will be sitting right here."

You didn't answer.

"I am not going anywhere..." Lee added.

True to his word, Lee stayed by your side, silently offering company with his presence. He figured there was nothing he could say that would magically make you feel better. However, he knows how to be your support, just like how he does during your missions together.

Staying by your side, is what he does best.

[northerngoshawk]

bleeding heart

Rating: T

Word Count: 13.2k

Summary:

She never thought a mechanical heart could bleed. Not until she held your broken body in her arms. - spoilers for CH31: Shaper's Ripples

She never thought a mechanical heart could bleed.

Technically, Constructs could bleed—they had vital fluid after all, something about making sure their body closely mirrored the human body for M.I.N.D. reasons—but even then, Constructs couldn’t bleed like humans could. There was never a risk for death when a Construct bled out, only a momentary shutdown that required rebooting.

And just as Constructs didn’t need vital fluid, they didn’t have a heart either. In place of something made of a beating warmth were cold mechanical gears churning quietly within each Construct’s chest, gears that would not forever silence a Construct even if they were pierced through. It would hurt—Lucia would know, she’d felt it before—but it would never cause enough harm to kill.

But, she supposed, if vital fluid was the blood of a Construct, perhaps those gears thrumming in her chest could be considered the heart of a Construct too (perhaps Lee would disagree, perhaps not, he was always better at this sort of thing anyways). And the heart of a Construct couldn’t pump vital fluid through their veins, not like a human’s heart.

So she never thought a mechanical heart could bleed.

Not until she held your broken body in her arms.

read more on ao3

[teecupangel]

hello i love your pgr x ac au so much... i'm having brainworms about it even as i'm working on some projects so i have to let it out here GOD - are ezio, altair, and connor the only constructs? what about the other assassins? - what's up with the templars? - what weapons would those three guys use? i'm mostly imagining them with the hidden blades (obviously) with the idea that it's a little like bambi's mantis blades but they also have swords here ran out of ideas BUT if something else pops up i will probably end up dropping it into your askbox... so sorry for the dump pgr's one of my favorite games and seeing it with ac awakened something in my brain

Hahahaha, honestly, I wasn’t expecting a lot of people to enjoy it considering PGR isn’t all that well known but I’m glad to know that the story resonated with a lot of you guys.

And, to be honest, I started getting an idea for a PGR x AC crossover because I was playing PGR and all I can think of is that Desmond would have made a good commandant (he'd definitely act more like a dad to Gray Raven, that's for sure). I’m a fan of Cerberus and I can totally see him being the tired dad of the chaotic trio with Murray taking care of the politics (and relaxing) XD

But then another idea came to mind and that’s how we got Inheritance Among the Stars hahahaha

I did say there are no real plans to make a sequel at the moment but I can answer your questions with what I’ve thought about

Are there other AC characters who have turned into Constructs?

If this was a purely an AC story in the world of PGR, yes. We’ve already seen Rebecca and Clay as Constructs (+ Lucy) and I’m thinking of Evie, Jacob and Arno as another Construct team (maybe with Jayadeep as their commandant) with Evie being the Attacker, Jacob being a Tank and Arno being an Amplifier (and the leader). Another idea I have is that Kassandra being a Uniframe/Transcendant of some kind. Shay though is an Ascendant (or maybe he’s a Transcendant, it depends on what is up with the Templars XD)

What is up with Templars?

(Shrug) They’re off doing what they do best. Scheme XD

I will say this: there are Templars in the World’s Government and they are quite interested in Project Animus.

What weapons would those three guys use?

Oh yes. I definitely thought of their hidden blades to be quite similar to Bambi’s mantis blade but they only use their hidden blade when they know it would be a killing blow. Their other weapons though are:

Altaïr – sword that looks a lot like the Sword of Altaïr, Altaïr relies on speed to deal lots of damage in a short amount of time. Mechanic-wise, he’s similar to Alpha Crimson Weave as he has two styles of fighting, one has him using his sword as normal and the other has him using his sword while sheathed.

Ezio – a crossbow that shoots off paralyzing shots and a hidden gun that he would use for emergency. He can summon funnels ala Wanshi Lucid Dreamer that shoots where he aims or can create barriers as long as they’re grouped together.

Ratonhnhaké:ton – a tomahawk that would always return to him if he wills it. Unlike the other two, the closest to my idea of his Construct body is Lamia Lost Lullaby. His usual form is similar to how he usually looks but he has another form where he takes on different forms depending on what color the orb he pinged last (doesn’t have to be 3 orbs pinged) before transforming. Red is his eagle form which he can fly for a brief short of time (like Loki), blue is his wolf form (his attacks would be similar to 21 Feral), and yellow is his bear form (I’m kinda thinking his moveset is similar to Karerina Scire)

Hahahaha, feel free to add more if you want. I felt the need to answer your ask because there were a lot of notes I had that I didn’t include because I thought they would be too deep into PGR mechanics XD

[commandantexekial]

are there any pgr fans who ship leeliv on here

[koukouture]

If someone (who is not a bot) interacts with this post I’ll write Hassen smut

[naomikazumi]

I recommend this pgr fics. I love them.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/41821917#main

[starryficsfinishwen]

the Halloween fic I've been writing for a few days now will unfortunately be moved (⁠ ⁠；⁠∀⁠；⁠) partly because I've been busy with real life responsibilities.

I also didn't want to spoil this but: not only that, I'm currently writing/planning something not only one, but TWO books (is that the right term? LOL).

why don't we play a guessing game? (⁠ ⁠╹⁠▽⁠╹⁠ ⁠)

hint: from PGR, one of my favorite constructs, blonde hair, one of y'all chosen husbando.

another hint, related to him:

he who moves up and down, straight

leaves no room for mistake

he who swore fealty to his royalties

as long as there are no casualties

he who roams the battlefield fearlessly

protecting who he holds dearly

When I'm done planning this and starting the initial drafts, I'll defo share it soon.

goodluck guessing :>

[unhappy-last-resort]

The Puppet In A Forest (Yandere Roland x GN Reader)

Warnings: forced kissing, bone breaking, drugging, implied minor surgery performed without readers consent, tracking

A/N: I apologize for any stiff writing or grammar mistakes. This was literally just supposed to be this short little 1 AM thing for his birthday and it fucking spiraled into this

Status: edited

You wade through crystal waters, fireflies twinkling around you like little stars in the night and comforting you ever so slightly, the quiet chirping of crickets in the distance is calming enough to make you almost forget there was an ongoing war outside this place, but unfortunately not enough to make you forget why you're here. The letters you received six hours ago have led you to an rural town in the outskirts of Kowloong, to a pond with bamboo growing in its edges.

You suck in a breath and steady your grip on your gun. You really shouldn't be here, not for the reasons you're weaving through towering rods of bamboo, anyway. Your heart tussles with itself, one part saying that you should turn back, the other telling you to push forward. Meeting an Ascendant isn't just dangerous to your prestigious position as Gray Ravens commandant, but also physically.

You're going to the coordinates you found inside the Russian dolls Roland sent you and the thought that it's just a trap has never once left your mind. Roland is a trickster, murderer, manipulator, and an actor, there is absolutely no reason you shouldn't have forwarded those letters to Hassen and Nikola, no reason for you to be here alone, and no reason for you to feel a painful tug in your heart when you read the last line of his second letter.

"I'll be waiting for you and gladly accept whatever you have for me, whether it's a bullet, a restraint, or an Activation Date gift."

In your uncertainty, you've prepared all three, your gun loaded and drawn at any potential danger, the restraints dangling off your hip, and a small box of chocolates sitting securely in your bag. It's unconventional for a birthday gift, but you don't have time to look, or make something more appropriate and frankly, there's no reason for you to put more effort in. You're enemies, not friends, and you don't owe anything to him.

You keep moving, the mud of the ponds floor squishing beneath your thigh high boots, the water beneath you littered with fallen leaves from the bamboo above you. Gradually, the bamboo starts to thin out, easing you into a small empty space. There's a rock sitting in the center, bathed by the moonlight as fireflies dance around it.

You can't see anyone, or a sign that anyone was here to begin with, although it's not like you'd find much in a shallow pond at night. You carefully feel out the ground ahead of you before stepping forward, it's easy to fall for the illusion of ground beneath you and end up much more wet than you intended and it'd be much harder to explain your little trip to your team if you came back dripping wet.

You reach the center of the clearing and look around. No one's here, it's just you. The water sloshes and ripples with every movement you make, announcing your presence to the surrounding silence...was it always this quiet?

Plunk.

You whip around, gun pointed in the direction of the sound as you glare into the dark, as if the very darkness itself would somehow lift to reveal what hides inside it. You stay like that for half a minute, ears and eyes straining for movement, but there is none. No more noises, just silence. It's only now do you realize that the fireflies that were here have disappeared, as if they'd been scared off by something, but what could scare a bunch of bugs?

You look around again, re-observing your surroundings. You look down and see these tiny little black dots in the water, confused you reach down and scoop one up in your palm and bring it close to your face.

It's an insect, it looks like a firefly. Your eyebrows furrow and you check your terminal, scanning the air quality...nothing. Punishing levels are low, and nowhere near fatal for a human, and there are no other toxins present in the air. You rack your brains, trying to think of anything that might cause a bunch of bugs to just die like this, but you come up with nothing.

You inspect the bug again, as if there's anything else a simple big would be hiding-

Wait.

There are tiny, inconspicuous little ball joints on each of its legs, and a very thin seam where the body connects to its abdomen, which on closer inspection is just an LED light trapped in a casing. It's mechanical. It's a fake. You've been surrounded by hundreds of mechanical bugs since you came to the clearing, maybe since you first stepped foot near the pond.

You drop it from your hand, it's body making a small plink sound as it falls into the water. You sigh and look up, only to find yourself caught in the gaze of a pair of eyes.

A figure clad in black and white with grey hair stands as still as a statue. His hair is undone and pulled forward, his long locks falling over his shoulders, his eyes glow like jewels in the moonlight, the cool tones of his outfit making his eyes stand out even more.

"Prefiero un minuto contigo a una eternidad sin ti." He whispers, the silence around us making even the quietest whispers apparent. "I never thought you would come. Hah...I thought I'd made myself a fool again."

You sigh through your nose, your grip on your gun is tight, but pointed at the water. In your shock you hadn't pointed it at him, your mind still trying to fathom how many fake fireflies there were and what else around you was an illusion that, you hadn't thought of giving yourself a defensive position. And getting into one now may escalate things.

"You're always a fool." You mutter ruefully, keeping your eyes on his. "Why would you think your enemy would respond to you?"

A grin stretches across his face, growing wider until he bursts into a chuckle. "Well, you did, didn't you? Besides," He pauses, smile dropping into a deadpan. "I did say I wanted to get you out, no matter what. Didn't I?"

"What would you have done if the letters hadn't worked, then?"

Another chuckle. "Oh, wouldn't my little rabbit like to know? Tell you what, if you can win my game, I'll tell you."

Roland starts moving towards you, he moves silently, so much so that if you hadn't seen the water moving you would have thought he was a ghost or a figment of imagination. It was like he was one with the space around him, seamlessly fitting in as if he belonged there- as if he was always there.

You breath, feeling more anxious by the moment as Roland closes in at a steady pace. "What game?"

"It's just a simple question, if you answer correctly you win, if you don't..." He smiles again.

"...What happens if I lose?"

"Hmm....I get to take a present from you." He stops at arms reach from you, smile still plastered on his face and an undeniable glee glinting in his eyes.

"I already brought you one though." His eyes widened in surprise, his smile faltering for a moment.

"You really brought me a gift? Here I was expecting you to restrain me and bring me back to Babylonia."

You watch him for a moment before reaching a hand into the bag at your hip, Roland's eyes flickering from your hand to your face, the flurry of emotions behind them tells you he's as desperate as he is distrusting of you right now. Slowly, you pull out the chocolates and hand it to him.

"Aww, do you really have to be so stiff?" He chuckles, tilting his head slightly, it felt half mocking, half curious as he graciously took the box from you and gingerly opens it.

"Oh my, this is quite a romantic gift. Could it be the Gray Raven Commandant is harboring feelings for an Ascendant?" He muses, feigning shock.

You roll your eyes and attempt to snatch the box out of his hand. "I can always take it back."

He leans back, looking almost offended, keeping the chocolates out of your reach. "Of course not! Anything from you is treated with the utmost care."

"But this is the first time you're getting something from me?"

He smiles, popping a chocolate in his mouth before tucking the box away in his coat. "Well now, should we start the game?"

"You didn't answer my question."

"Is this place real, or an illusion?" He stares at you, smile still on his face as the question hangs in the silence.

"...What?"

"Is it real, or an illusion?"

His expression is indiscernible, emotions hidden behind the thick curtain of a jester's smile. The silence of the area you're in is deafening, the previous chirps of crickets had long gone, leaving you and Roland in a pool of knee deep water, sprinkled with mechanical bugs on its surface.

As much as those things may have been fake, you were certain the rest couldn't be. The lake, the bamboo, those things had to be real. The amount of materials required to do something isn't something Roland would have access to, not to mention the time required.

"It's real."

He looks pleased, too pleased for your liking. "Is that your final answer?"

You hesitate. Are you wrong? Or is that just what he wants you to think? Indecision rips at your mind, your thoughts circling each other over and over, never getting any closer to an answer. Is he playing a trick, or are you overthinking? But he looked so happy when you said it was real, so you must've gotten it wrong, right?

"Uh...No!" You fumble, almost out of desperation. Your answer swings like a pendulum in your mind.

"No?" He drawls, putting a hand to his chin as he watches you.

"No...it's fake." You breath.

Roland raises a brow. "Are you sure?"

You suck in a breath, if you take it back again, you'll just be stuck in a never ending loop of second guessing yourself. "Yes."

Roland laughs and it makes you flinch, it feels especially loud in your ears for some reason. "Alea jacta est. Congratulations, my dear little puppet."

He announces with all his usual bravado as he closes the distance between you two. Alarmed you move back only for his hand to grip your wrist, rendering your hand with the gun useless. You pull at your arm as hard as you can, but you only succeed in earning a chuckle from him.

He pulls you close and before you can realize what's going on you feel lips press against yours in a greedy, pawing kiss. His teeth nip at your bottom lips, his tongue swiping over and attempting to push through your lips. You resist, refusing to open your mouth and using all your strength to break yourself free.

"Quit struggling." Roland grunts and twists your wrist unnaturally, a snap sounding up your arm and you open your mouth to scream, only for it to never make it out into the world and being swallowed by Roland instead.

His tongue explores every inch of your mouth with a fervor that speaks of an untold longing and desperation, an insatiable need that quickly overwhelms you with the pain in your wrist.

You feel drowsy, the edges of your vision blurring as continues his forced affection. You try to fight it, but you can't, your vision fading on a string of saliva between you and eyes of amber and ruby aglow like flames.

You gasp, your heart pounding as you stare at the wooden beams above you. It takes you a moment to realize you're in the abandoned tea house, the one you and your team decided to camp in.

You sit up slowly, your sleeping bag rustling quietly as you move. Your head hurts and you feel woozy just from sitting up, it takes you a moment to realize one of your wrists is bandaged, although it doesn't feel like it was done well despite it appearing to be wrapped properly.

You groan, how did you end up hurting your wrist again? Everything feels so foggy in your head that you can't remember.

"Hey Command- what the hell?" A captain dashes over to you, you vaguely remember his name being Casper.

Ah, that's right. You were sent on a mission to Kowloong to help assist a team that had gone for artifact retrieval. The battle ended a while ago and your team agreed to wait until day break to return to Babylonia.

Casper looks flustered, gently bringing your arm up to inspect your cast.

"Hey, Didi! Get Mao and have him dress a wound the Commandant got!" He yells to the door before turning back to you. "How did you do this? You should've asked one of us to help you if you didn't know how to wrap your injury."

You consider saying something, but instead you give a half-hearted smile and apologize. You don't want to cause them more grief than you likely already have.

An airy chuckle dances in the wind as the transport craft from Babylonia lifts off with its passengers. Pointlessly, Roland waves it goodbye as if you could see it- not like you'd appreciate it even if you did. Maybe you'd even hate him by now, if you hadn't before.

Still, like a fool he clung to the hope that you'd be someone he could count on. No, that's not quite right. Something he could own, a person he could claim for himself and not share with others.

As much as the temptation to whisk you away as you rested unconscious in his arms was deliciously enticing, he would be a fool to think he could protect you from Babylonia's lackeys, let alone in this old frame. Without a doubt the best of the best would come from you and he had difficulty enough with just Gray Raven, and that Kamui fellow and his original have been a pain too. The only way he'd be able to do that now would be to go to Der Meister himself and he made his skin crawl. He would never trust the likes of him with Luna, or you.

For now, he'll just have to settle with knowing where you are. He did his best to make sure everything was sterile when he made the incision, although he was still worried that it might get infected...Oh well, even if it did and that tracker got discovered, there are still others among your things, so it won't be that big of a deal.

"La vie est une fleur dont l'amour est le miel. 'Til we meet again, my dear."

[narastories]

there is a performer who wants you on the stage a little longer

Again, if you're not a Punishing: Gray Raven fan: don't worry about this.

Unless you are curious and/or concerned about my sanity seeing the tags, of course, I welcome questions in that case lol

For PGR fans this is just your run-of-the-mill, soft, mildly poetic Commandant/Construct fic, but I'm a little concerned that it might come across as highly weird for anyone else ^^" Fandom: 战双帕弥什 | Punishing: Gray Raven Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Relationships: Commandant/Roland (Punishing: Gray Raven) Characters: Roland (Punishing: Gray Raven), Commandant (Punishing: Gray Raven), Reader Tags: Present Tense, POV Third Person, (1st Chapter), POV Second Person, (2nd Chapter), POV Alternating, ambigously gendered Commandant, with they/them pronouns, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Waking from Coma, spoilers up until the beginning of Chapter 17, and Roland's affection story, I wrote it for myself but you can read it too, The Author Regrets Everything, Game Logic, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence Summary:

In Evernight Beat, Roland had a hand in the events that led to the Commandant's injury. Let's say, he doesn't feel very good about that.

Read on AO3

Listen to my random audio moodboard

[sabotsen]

PGR Soulmate AU

Pairings: Lee x Skk; Chrome x Skk; Roland x Skk; Noan x Skk

Summary: Although they lost their soulmate mark when flesh and blood was replaced with metal and wires, proof that it once existed is right there — branded upon your skin.

Notes: Skk set as reader. General pining and yearning that goes with soulmate au trope. Markings are intricate and unique geometrical patterns matched only with your soulmate. They can vary in size but are often small and their location upon the body varies. Mates will have the same pattern in the same location. 

Lee

When he still had flesh and bone, his mark was located on his inner wrist — the geometric pattern sprawled over his median nerve like a caution sign. Morian was always careful with it, opting to hide it beneath bandages and wrist wraps most of the time. He hid it not out of superstition that scratching it would transfer to his partner nor did he do it out of preference to keep prying eyes off of it. No, Morian buried his mark simply out of guilt — if it had been located anywhere else on his body he would have left it well enough alone. But his mark manifested too close to his hands. Though he wears gloves on the job as a necessity, he always goes the extra mile to wrap up his left wrist as well. Just the thought of blood staining his skin there leaves a bitter taste in his mouth — coppery and rotten. Morian doesn’t imagine he will ever meet his soulmate, but still he can’t help but protect this single innocent thing mistakenly branded upon his skin. For years, as he worked in the filth and the dark, he kept that patch of his skin free of bloodstains. Perhaps it was all for naught, or perhaps it never mattered to begin with, as the first and last time blood trailed down his wrist and traced the pattern of his marking was when they broke his body down piece by piece and gave his heart to his brother. That was the last he saw of that pattern for a long, long time. 

Lee sees it by happenstance one day, not long after he joins the Gray Ravens. Even back then, you had a habit of getting injured when no one was looking. It had been a scouting mission, something simple and routine. Easy. Slowly, cautious step by step, he was adjusting to his new team, even if he still felt unsettled by your effortless kindness and patience. He wasn’t sure what to make of it back then, as all he knew at the time was false niceties with strings attached (he knows better now, but sometimes he wishes you would be selfish for once). They had paused in the ruins of a dilapidated mall while Liv ran a few more scans of the area; Lucia stood guard at the entrance to the small store corner they claimed, and Lee was running his own calculations to add information for Liv’s search. You, however, were rummaging around in the debris, quiet as a thief until you sliced your palm on warped metal. Your hiss of pain immediately caught the attention of all three of them. Liv and Lee were closest to you and leapt to your side with their weapons raised, while Lucia was quick to fall back within reach. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” you had said, “Just a scratch.” 

“This isn’t the time to be playing around,” Lee had hissed, “You have no idea what’s buried under the trash here.” 

“Please be careful, Commandant,” Liv had fretted as soon as she saw the blood seeping through your glove.  

“Sorry,” your sheepish smile, even back then, didn’t have an ounce of remorse. “That little girl said she lost her stuffed rabbit around here when they fled. I was hoping to find it.” 

Meaningless, Lee remembers thinking as he watched Liv pull the glove from your left hand and carefully clean the wound. Lee had watched idly — glaring, really, hoping his scowl would discourage you from future pointless endeavors — as Liv worked. It was only when she finished bandaging the wound and cleaning the blood from your hand entirely that he caught sight of it. You had raised your hand up slightly, fingers flexing as you tested the bandage. But that small movement caused the sleeve of your uniform to slide just an inch further down your arm and bare your wrist in full display. Branded on your skin was a geometric pattern Lee had not seen in years. 

Lee still remembers the way his own wrist itched and burned at the sight — as if that mark still lingered, etched somehow into the metal of him. If you had noticed how quiet he had fallen after that, how his lips pressed into a line so thin they paled, you never commented on it. Your mark was not spoken of, as if it wasn’t branded across your skin in plain sight, and the day continued on as if it were any other. 

Despite the long time that has since passed, Lee's eyes always linger on your mark when you're not looking. Most days he can catch a glimpse of it, flashing over the rim of your sleeve or from beneath the bottom of your glove. Even now, his breath catches at the sight every time, like a fisher’s hook snagged in his lungs he stumbles and shudders. Like a fool, he can’t help but search for it still and the nights that draw to a close without him catching even a glimpse of your mark are the longest and loneliest by far. There’s a fear — irrational though it is, he cannot shake himself of it — a worry that one day your mark will be erased. Just like his was. 

Now and then, to quiet his fears and that bitter taste that builds at the back of his throat, he finds ways to brush against your mark. His fingers graze it like a ghost’s kiss, barely noticeable, whenever he tries to pull you away from overworking, when he brings you something to drink while working, when he "adjusts" your uniform because the Commandant of the Gray Ravens cannot be disheveled like this. If you notice the way his fingertips always brush against your left inner wrist when he adjusts the cuff links of your uniform or plucks invisible threads from your sleeve, you do not comment on it. Nor do you say anything when his fears grow too large after he settles into his Hyperreal frame — bloodied and burdened with memories he cannot recall — and he places his fingers upon your wrist to press against the vein to take your vitals despite you both knowing the touch is unnecessary. 

He never once asks you what you thought about your soulmate marking. You have never asked about his. You are simply patient, as you always are — waiting for him to arrive at an answer he is ready to share. Sometimes he wonders what you think is on his mind when his caution falters and you catch him staring at your mark. He doesn’t regret giving his heart to Murray — not for one second. There is simply a part of him that mourns for the loss of that unique pattern once branded upon his skin. There is simply an ache left in the geometric shape of where it once was that metal has since erased. 

Lee can no longer prove to you what he once had, but he vows over and over again — a promise, an oath sworn upon a bloodied path paved with sacrifice built high like Babel’s Tower — he will remain by your side until the end of Time. 

Chrome

More often than not, Chrome finds himself thankful his frame coatings predominately have high collars. When he was younger — when he answered to Langston, his soulmate marking splayed across the curve where his neck and right shoulder met. Even back then, he wore high collars so hiding his mark was never an issue. As a Smith, it was something unneeded so it was never spoken of. Out of sight and banned from mention within that cold mansion, it became something private and delicate he would trace in the late nights when his burdens threatened to drown him in black waters. It was a comfort, a small thread of hope that someone somewhere out there would understand and accept him no matter what — even if he never managed to fully measure up to be a proper “Smith”. Even if he faltered and stumbled, even if he couldn’t understand or failed to bear the weight of all those expectations forced upon him — someone out there would understand. That mark was proof that to someone out there, he would still be enough. 

For a long time, Chrome was able to put the loss of his marking out of his mind. Out of sight, out of mind, as they say. He was busy enough wrestling a foothold for himself as a construct with all the criticism and blockades built from the expectations of people who never stepped foot on the battlefield; there simply wasn’t time to worry about romantic fantasies he was forced to bury alongside his flesh. 

The first time Chrome catches sight of your marking is also the first time you bridge the distance to him. He has always made it a point to maintain a measured distance from you, despite your warm greetings and kindness. Old habits die hard and he knows all too well how tongue wag in the wake of careless actions. The last thing he ever wanted was to cause you trouble of any sort. Yet such worries never seem to cross your mind — not back and certainly not now. That day had been an ordinary one, much like any other spend on Babylonia. Chrome had managed to catch you on your way back from the training grounds and asked if you had a moment later to review a report he forwarded to your terminal. 

“Sure,” you had smiled and easily closed the distance in the hallway to stand before him as you adjusted the towel around your neck. “Lee’s fixing mine, though. I uh… broke it a little.” 

Chrome had chuckled despite himself, failing to stop the gentle tease that tumbled from his lips, “How did you manage that?”

“That piece of blackmail is for Lee to know.” You had then pointed to the terminal in his hands, “But we can use yours.” Effortlessly, as if he was an old friend, you erased the distance even further and stood by his side, just a breath from his elbow. 

Chrome still recalls the way his thoughts seemed to stumble to a halt and fumble to start again as you leaned over, gaze downcast to the terminal in his hands as you asked if he could pull it up. He moved on almost autopilot, though his expression remained carefully collected (he had been trained enough not to let his mask slip for long). It was only after he pulled up the report and he was sure your attention remained glued to the screen that he allowed his gaze to wander. It started at your hand, where it curled in thought against your lips as you read, then it lingered over your features — you still have a habit of furrowing your brow whenever you read reports and he can’t help but find it adorable even now. His gaze traveled, following the curve of your jaw and down your neck until —- 

Chrome felt his heart sink through the metal of his ribs and pool to a bloodied, agonized mess at his feet. There, framed by the curve of your casual shirt and in full view as the towel shifted across your shoulders was a mark he knew achingly well. He could have traced its geometric pattern with his eyes closed despite the years since it last branded his own skin. But you raised your attention back up to him and he swallowed back the blood on his lips. He had smiled and spoke of the data outlined as if he wasn’t trembling, shivering to pick up the pieces of something he had never given himself time to grieve the loss of. Chrome bid you farewell in the hallway as if it were any other day, a polite yet gentle smile on his lips as he hid the trembling in his fingertips. 

Chrome makes a firm point not to mention or speak of your mark whenever he sees it. Gratefully, or perhaps woefully, it is in a place where he does not see it often. Your uniform is high collared and you have a tendency to overwork yourself so he does not often see you in more casual clothing that allows him to glance at the bare curve of your neck. There are times, however, he does manage to catch a glimpse of that mark. In those rare moments his self control slips and he can't help but reach out and brush against it, he always finds a way to justify it.  “You had something on you, Commandant, " he would say, as if brushing off dust from your collar. His touch is always gentle, a faint brush ghosting against your skin. If you notice the tremble of his fingertips, you never mention it. 

When the nights get too long, he sits for hours upon hours in the dark of his room, metal fingers digging into metal of his shoulder as if etching the pattern upon his frame might change something, anything. But he never dares to leave behind any traces of what he once had. It’s gone. What has been lost can never be returned and he could never prove to you or to the many, many voices of people too high and powerful that it had once been upon his flesh before it was taken from him. 

Chrome tries to find comfort, despite the pain that lances through him. The fact that he can even see your marking is a sign of trust; it is only in these quiet, unguarded moments you share with him that he fully sees it splayed across your skin. It is a gift, something to be cherished, just as he had quietly cherished those stolen moments as Langston, tracing that pattern again and again. Chrome is careful — so, so careful not to allow his gaze to linger overlong on your mark as your head bows to read the text off his terminal as you sit beside him. But something wounded, neglected and lonely, still writhes and wails in his chest — mourning the loss of something that will never return — and yet you sit pressed against him, his mark branded on your skin. 

Roland

Roland never thought much of his soulmate mark when he had it. He was too preoccupied with the camera, the audience, his role, his lines — there was no time to think of it, really. The pattern lay beneath his collar bone, as if unraveling at the crown of his heart. For the most part, it was easy enough to hide beneath his costumes and outfits, and with the camera rolling almost continuously, rare and few were the moments his mark ever saw the light of day. 

Even when he lost his mark, he never paused to think much of it. No, no, no, his thoughts were focused on the blue of his blood that oozed from metal joints. When he followed in the footsteps of Luna, it was all but wiped from his memory. 

Fate is a cruel Mistress, one Roland has never quite been able to outrun even after Mandhasti Real Park. It’s by a happenstance — by fate — that he catches sight of something he thought burned and lost beneath the ash and rubble. His chain blade managed to arc a trail of crimson across your front, damaging your exoskeleton and inflicting a rather nasty wound across your sternum just beneath your collar bone. It’s then that he sees it, as the blood oozes from the wound and you glare at him over the muzzle of your gun — that damningly familiar mark. Oh, what a twist! What irony! What a disgusting farce! Roland’s lips twist into a smirk but there’s something bitter about it. Something fragile and hopeless. 

“What a lovely mark you have there, Commandant. Such a shame I’ve seen it before.” His words are cruel, barbed and sharp — a blade turned inward just as much as it is outward. 

A flash of despair crosses your features, visceral and wounded, before you’re able to hide it behind a mask and the muzzle of your gun.  “What did you do to them?”

What did he…? Oh. Oh, of course you would think that. Something bitter coils in his chest and it falls from his lips in cruel laughter. If this is the role you would cast upon him then so be it. He sneers at you, “Come now, you can’t expect me to remember all the humans I’ve killed?” His sneer twists, cruel and fragile, “Though I suppose they must have been entertaining at least for me to remember their mark.” 

The sound that tears from your throat is a wounded, angry, and hopeless thing. It reverberates in the hollow cavity of his chest and rattles every nut and bolt holding him together as you lunge at him. For a moment, he hears Hermano’s echoing wail. 

Since then, Roland finds himself tracing the mark upon the metal of his chest in his own vital fluid. But the blue hue of his artificial blood sickens him — dredges up old memories and echoes with the voice of Hermano.  He never leaves it on him for long, but even after he wipes the blood away, he still sees Hermano in his reflection, metallic hands cradling the mark on his chest as if to shield it. Roland begins to avoid mirrors when he is foolish enough to indulge in this hopeless fancy. He never allows himself to indulge often or long, incapable of tolerating the bitterness that lingers on his tongue whenever he does. The bloodied mark wipes away so easily off the metal of him. As if it never existed, as if that pattern had never been a part of his flesh back when his blood still ran crimson. Isn't it funny how easily he is removed from the stage, how effortlessly he loses the role of yours?

Noan

Life on the train was hard enough without having to worry about a soulmate lost, somewhere out there in the cruel world. Although Noan cherished his mark in a way few others on the train did, he did not dare to spend too much time or attention on it. His mark used to curve over his ribs on his left side, sprawled like a bandage over a dire wound aimed at his heart. If he stopped to think about it, perhaps that placement, too, was a warning of his fate. 

It was only a glimpse, but Noan has always been too attentive and sharp for his own good. He caught sight of your marking one day while dropping by to visit the Gray Raven lounge. He had knocked and announced himself through the door, a small parcel in his hands from himself and Simon — who was too busy buried in paperwork to join him. He heard your voice welcome him in, warm and gentle as always, but as he opened the door he heard the rushed voice of Liv, “Commandant, wait.” 

He was greeted to the sight of you sitting on a small stool, your shirt rolled up and pulled over your shoulders to expose your back and you hunched forward. Liv stood behind you, carefully placing a compress on a nasty bruise blooming hues of violet and yellow across the expanse of your back. Noan had stopped dead in his tacks, worry rising to the surface faster than the twinge of embarrassment he felt seeing so much of your bare skin. “Are you alright, Commandant?” 

You had laughed, a smile on your face as you nodded. “Just a small accident, nothing to worry over.” 

“There’s plenty to worry about,” Liv had said before Noan could, voice firm. She took a moment to check one last time before she allowed you to sit up and helped you roll your shirt back down.

The movement caught his attention, though he dared not linger on why, and for just a brief moment he caught a glimpse of a familiar pattern splayed across your ribs. The memory rushed through him, merciless and unforgiving — like iron nails pierced into his lungs, forming a railway for things he has no right to feel. Noan tastes iron on his tongue as he smiles softly at you and converses about anything and nothing at all while the memory burns a hole through the snow to sear the delicate flesh of his heart.  

Since that day, Noan fills his sketchbook with drawings of the mark — both where it lies on your skin and where it used to lie on his. There's an ache, a chill that lodges in the metal cavity of his chest. Just another thing lost in the snow. 

He doesn't realize it at first but he keeps rubbing where his soulmate mark used to be when he still had skin and bones. His thoughts get too loud, his memories too close and too cold — his fingers drift to his left side and rub, rub, rub along the metal of his ribs. Tracing and grasping for proof that was stripped from him as he was remade into cold metal and wires.

Your hand gently touches his as you reach across the cafe counter, stilling his unconscious movement. Your voice is gentle, so gentle and your touch is warm, warm, warm. "Are you hurt anywhere?"

A thousand words bubble up from his weeping heart and claw up his throat. But it dies on his tongue, and all he can muster in answer is a quiet, "No, I'm just missing something, is all."

The smile you give is too kind, too bright, too gentle. "What is it? I'll help you look.” 

The laugh that spills from his lips is a helpless sound, fractured and resigned. "No need. It... doesn't exist anymore.”

[empty-fantasies]

pov: you’re witnessing me, a wanshi main, watch pgr cn’s fourth anniversary stream and receive new s rank wanshi crumbs

[axetivev]

~🌘 Nightmares!

Damian Wayne & M!Reader

(Slight?) Bruce Wayne x M!Reader

~ Summary:Damian was having a nightmare. He'd usually brush it off and try to do something—anything to forget those dreams. But tonight, something rather unexpected happened.

~ Warnings:Fluff

~ Words: 624

~ Note:Yahoo! It's my first time posting something on Tumblr, I barely know what I am doing— but regardless. I hope you enjoy this fic! :3

FYI, I do these fandoms;

PGR (Punishing: Gray Raven)

HSR (Honkai Star Rail)

AK (Arknights)

DCU (Majority about Batfam lol)

PROSEKA (Project Sekai) !!

You can find me on :

Twitter : AxetiveV

AO3 : Axetive

Being Bruce Wayne’s husband could be quite one of a challenge. Other than the media would go nuts and paparazzi Y/N Wayne, asking him questions. He also has to worry about the super-villains in Gotham targeting him knowing he was the husband of the richest man in Gotham. And much other.

But there’s one thing that Y/N often struggled with; dealing with Bruce’s kids. Well, everyone was easy to deal with. Expect… Damian Wayne. Who often sees him as a competitor to his mother, and would often try to kill the poor second father to him, from Dick to Duke everyone was a piece of cake to deal with but not Damian. But this night, perhaps. Changed.

Y/N was alone, reading a book in the shared bed where he and Bruce would spend the night while wearing one of Bruce’s clothes. But of course, Bruce being Batman would go for patrols on the night streets. Y/N was fine about this but not for Damian, as stubborn as he was, asking to join but since he have school. Bruce refuses. Which leaves Damian in his room, everyone thought he was asleep. But in the middle of the night—Unsure by time. The door of the shared bedroom opened, with Damian and Titus standing beside the boy who was carrying a pillow with weary eyes which worried his papa.

“Is everything alright, Dami?” Y/N closed his book with a worried expression. As Damian shook his head.

“…Pa…Papa. Would I disturb you if I… needed comfort?”

Y/N blinked to the boy’s statement, but he simply smiled. Sitting to the edge of the bed, he gently patted the other side of the bed. Damian then made his way to sit next to his second father, followed by Titus who stood on the ground firm. Y/N then gently guided the boy to rest his head against his lap. Once he was settled, with a slow and delicate movement. His hand brushed over the boy’s hair while keeping their silence between them. It wasn’t the silence of seriousness. It was simply a silence of calmness, a quiet moment between father and son. Something Damian barely had with Bruce.

Damian was born to be a weapon (other than Cass), to be an assassin who was just cold and firm and barely showed humanity. But the moment he met Bruce—Alfred and his older siblings, followed by Y/N, Damian’s stoic demeanor melted as they showered him with love he always deserved. Burying his emotions wasn’t the answer. He hated the fact he could show vulnerability, but for this night? He just let it go. The feeling of Y/N's hand brushing his hair and him while saying sweet whispers and affection words was enough to let Damian fall and continued his slumber.

As the clock continued to tick, and Damian finally fell asleep once more. Y/N sighed with relief, he adjusted their position. Letting the sleeping Damian rest beside him, as he tugged the boy. Before soon, tiredness followed Y/N his eyes were heavy. He hugged Damian, smiling to himself. As for Titus, was curling close to Damian.

Soon, Bruce came back after patrol with weary eyes while casually still in his suit. He yawned the moment the Dark Knight opened the door to the bedroom. His eyes widened seeing the sight behold in his very own eyes; the love of his life, Titus, and his biological son. Who was “hating” Y/N’s presence in the Manor. Hugging each other like a mother who hugged her son who has a nightmare. This sight made Bruce smile, soon, he joined two of them, Bruce big spooning against Y/N. The four sleep like one happy family.

Alfred? He was taking a picture of the wholesome scene.