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doumadono · 7 months ago

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doumaaaa! luv ur writing! could ya make dabi x nurse reader? basically him 'seducing' her or smth?

Warnings: smut w/o plot, semi-public, rough smut, pussy fingering, nurse!reader, Touya being Touya, creampie, dubcon

A/N: this request got the highest number of votes during the Sinful Sunday poll I held. I must admit, the difference between this prompt and the second-highest voted one was incredibly small! Thank you to everyone who voted!

SINFUL SUNDAY MY HERO ACADEMIA & MY HERO ACADEMIA MASTERLIST - PART II

The harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital seemed to flicker in time with the steady beeping of monitors. The sterile scent of antiseptic filled the air, mingling with the faint aroma of coffee that had become your lifeline through the long shifts.

You were used to the routine, the endless cycle of patients coming and going. But nothing could have prepared you for him.

Dabi. Or rather Todoroki Touya. The infamous villain, arrested after the chaos of the Paranormal Liberation War. His capture had been nothing short of a miracle - or perhaps, a well-calculated move.

The new burns that marred his body, the very marks of his quirk, had left him in dire need of medical attention.

And you, as the head nurse of this ward, had been chosen to treat him.

You approached his room with concern.

The door slid open with a whisper, revealing the man who had caused so much destruction. He lay on the bed, his body a patchwork of scars and fresh bandages. His turquoise eyes, like chips of ice, flicked up to meet yours, assessing and unyielding. Metal restraints bound his wrists and ankles to the bed, a necessary precaution against the notorious villain. “Here to patch me up, nurse?” His voice was rough, a dark rasp that sent shivers down your spine.

You forced a calm smile. “I’m here to make sure you don’t fall apart any more than you already have.”

He chuckled, a low, almost menacing sound. “Good luck with that, bitch.”

Setting your tray of supplies on the table beside the bed, you began your work in silence.

The burns on his body were severe, some still fresh from recent battles. You carefully removed the old dressings, your fingers gentle yet efficient. Despite your attempts at professionalism, you couldn’t ignore the heat that radiated from him, a constant reminder of the power he wielded.

As you applied a cooling salve to his burns, you felt his gaze on you, intense and unwavering. “What’s your name, nurse?” he asked suddenly.

You hesitated for a moment before answering. “Y/N.”

“Y/N,” he repeated, tasting the syllables. “A pretty name for a pretty nurse.”

You ignored the flush that crept up your neck, shaking your head slightly.

He smirked, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Why so cautious, sweetheart?" Dabi's voice broke through the silence, raspy and teasing, as he watched you with an amused smirk. "Afraid I might bite?"

You met his gaze steadily, the corner of your mouth twitching into a small, resigned grimace. "I'm not afraid of you," you replied, adjusting the flow on his IV. "I'm just being professional. And you called me a bitch moments earlier, so don’t expect me to become more friendly towards you."

Dabi chuckled, the sound low and husky. "Professional, huh? I guess that's a first for me. People usually just want to fix me up quickly and get rid of me."

The casual way he spoke of his own status made you pause. "Everyone deserves proper care," you said, securing the IV line. "No matter who they are."

That seemed to catch him off guard, and for a moment, he just stared at you, something flickering behind his eyes before he masked it with another smirk. "You’re different, aren’t you? Not scared, not judgmental. Just doing your job."

You shrugged, feeling his intense gaze as you checked his chart. "That's what I'm here for."

He watched your every move, noting the efficiency and confidence with which you worked. It was clear you weren’t easily intimidated - a trait he found both intriguing and useful. “I suppose it’s your job to keep an eye on me too, huh? Make sure I don’t do anything foolish?”

“Something like that,” you admitted, adjusting the monitor beside his bed.

His heart rate was steady, too steady for someone who should be in pain. Suspicion flickered in your mind.

“It’s a bit ironic, isn’t it? A nurse looking after someone who can burn down entire cities.”

“It is,” you agreed quietly, meeting his eyes. “But pain is pain. Healing is healing. It doesn’t choose sides.”

“Philosophical for a nurse,” he chuckled, shifting slightly. His chains rattled, a jarring sound that matched the slight grimace of pain his movements brought.

“You’d be surprised what you learn in this job,” you responded, checking the restraints to ensure they were secure, a mandatory procedure that didn’t go unnoticed by him.

Two nights later, you approached Dabi’s hospital room, a mix of anxiety and anticipation thrumming through your veins.

The night was quiet, almost oppressively so, the sterile hallways of the hospital washed in the dim glow of emergency lighting, casting long shadows that flickered softly.

The two guards who were always stationed at the door to Dabi's room and had become a constant fixture in the hallway - silent, stoic sentinels in the muted chaos of the hospital, were absent. Their absence was as puzzling as it was alarming. No explanation, no trace of their whereabouts, just an empty space where they should have been standing guard.

As you reached his room, the usual sound of the monitoring machines greeting you was conspicuously absent. A cold wave of unease washed over you. Pushing the door open fully, you stepped inside, your eyes immediately drawn to the bed that had become so familiar over the past few days.

It was empty.

For a moment, you stood frozen, your mind racing to catch up with what your eyes were seeing. The sheets were askew, tossed aside rather than neatly arranged by a nurse. The heart monitor was silent, its screen dark. Most telling of all, the metal chains designed to secure the villain, to prevent exactly this scenario, lay on the floor, melted into twisted, useless strips of metal.

Panic knotted in your stomach as you hurried forward, searching the room for any sign of him. You checked the bathroom, the small closet, even under the bed, though you knew it was futile.

Dabi was gone.

There was no sign of struggle, no alarm raised - it was as if he had simply vanished into the night, leaving nothing behind but the ghost of his presence.

Questions raced through your mind. How had he escaped? Did he plan this all along, or was it a spur-of-the-moment decision driven by some unknown factor?

Suddenly, the light that was pouring into the room was cut off as the door swung shut with a soft, definitive click.

A brief moment of tense silence ensued, broken only by the familiar sound of a tongue clicking. Then, a characteristic, raspy voice followed, tinged with a teasing undertone, "Well, hi there, little nurse."

Fear gripped you, paralyzing every muscle in your body. You knew well that Dabi was right behind you, yet the terror that washed over you made it impossible to turn around. Your breath hitched in your throat, heart pounding furiously against your chest as seconds stretched into what felt like an eternity.

Then, a confirmation of his presence came - not through words, but through the rough, unmistakable touch of his hands as they settled on your shoulders.

He leaned in close, his breath hot against the shell of your ear, his voice a blend of malice and allure. “You know, there’s a lot of things I’ve been thinking about doing to make myself feel better,” he murmured, his tone dripping with a dark, seductive edge. His fingers tightened around your wrists, not enough to hurt, but enough to assert his control. “And since you’re the nurse, always so eager to help, you should be willing to assist with my recovery.”

His words were laced with a mocking sneer, yet his touch wandered with a boldness that betrayed his intent. He was provoking you, testing how far he could push before you’d snap or succumb. Dabi’s hand traced a path up your spine, sending shivers through your body despite your resolve. “I can think of a few therapies that might help,” he continued, his voice low and husky, teasingly listing his twisted desires. “Imagine, all the things you could do to ease my pain, to make me feel alive. Wouldn’t that be fulfilling your duty, little nurse?”

Every fiber in your being screamed to pull away, to reclaim your space and autonomy, yet his presence was overwhelming, nearly suffocating in its intensity.

“You should thank me,” Dabi chuckled darkly, his lips barely grazing the curve of your ear, sending an involuntary shudder through you. “Most don’t even get the chance to hear my voice. They’re not quick enough. Never as quick as my flames,” he taunted, his tone dripping with mockery.

You gasped. His mockery stung, a stark reminder of the dangerous game that played out between you. “How?” you whispered, barely moving your lips.

Dabi's low laugh resonated close to your ear, a sound that mixed amusement with a sinister edge. “Curious, are we?” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. “I just turned up the heat a bit.” His smirk was palpable in his voice as he recounted his escape with a nonchalance that belied the danger of his actions.

Your heart pounded, the implications of his words sinking in. “And the guards?” you managed to ask, your voice a whisper of sound, betraying your fear.

Dabi’s tone took on a sharper edge, his amusement soaring into something darker. “There was some commotion, some urgent cries over their radios, something about a threat to the hospital staff. They ran off to play heroes.” His hand tightened slightly on your forearm, his fingers pressing into your skin as he leaned closer. “Perfect timing, wouldn’t you say? Gave me just the right moment to melt away those pesky chains and walk right out. It was almost too easy.”

Dabi smoothly spun you around to face him, his movements precise and fluid. Catching your chin between his index finger and thumb, he gently tilted your head up to meet his gaze. The touch was surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to the harshness of his usual demeanor. "You're quite pretty, you know," Dabi murmured, his eyes scanning your face with an appreciative glint. "Even with those dark circles under your eyes." His thumb brushed lightly under your eye socket, his touch featherlight. "It tells a story, doesn't it? All those long hours spent caring for people like me."

Touya smiled, a wry, knowing smirk that hinted at his awareness of the toll his words took on you. "Working too hard, aren't you?" he mused, his gaze lingering on your face as if committing every detail to memory. "Caring for the broken, the dangerous. It's a heavy burden for such delicate shoulders. But what if I told you I want more than just professional care?"

Gathering every ounce of courage, you met Dabi’s intense gaze. “Please, let me go,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside you. “I promise, I won’t tell anyone. I'll keep quiet. You'll have time to get away from here.”

The plea hung in the air between you, underscored by the palpable tension that seemed to stretch out endlessly. Your eyes locked onto his, searching for any sign of compliance or compassion, hoping he would see the sincerity in your offer and realize it was his best chance to escape without further complications.

Dabi chuckled.

You felt a cold wave of fear wash over you, but you refused to let it show. "And I'm not here for your entertainment," you said, your voice steady despite the panic rising within you.

Dabi's laugh echoed through the room, a dark, menacing sound. "Oh, I know that," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "But you see, I'm not exactly in a position to ask nicely." His hands moved to your waist, pulling you back against him.

You could feel the heat of his body through your overall, a constant reminder of the power he held. "Let me go," you said, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to remain calm.

Dabi's grip tightened, his breath hot against your ear. "But what if I don't want to?" he murmured, his voice low and seductive.

You struggled against his hold, but it was like trying to move a mountain. "Please," you pleaded, your voice breaking. "You don't have to do this."

Dabi's grip loosened, his hands sliding down your arms. "But what if I want to?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You felt his lips against your neck, his teeth grazing your skin. You gasped, your body betraying you as a shiver ran down your spine. "Please," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

He shook his head for no. His hands moved to the buttons of your uniform.

You felt the fabric of your overall give way, the cool air of the room brushing against your exposed skin. Dabi's hands moved to your breasts, his fingers teasing your nipples through the thin fabric of your bra. His hands were oh so warm...

You gasped.

Dabi's laugh was low and dark. "You like that, don't you?" he murmured, his fingers continuing their assault on your nipples.

You bit your lip, trying to suppress a moan. "Please," you whispered, your voice trembling.

Dabi's hands moved to your waist, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your pants before tugging them down. "Please what?" he asked, his voice low and husky.

You hesitated, your mind racing. You knew you should tell him to stop, but your body had other ideas. "Please, don't stop," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Dabi's laugh was low and triumphant. "I thought you'd never ask," he said, his hands pulling down your pants.

You felt the cool air of the room brush against your exposed skin, your body trembling with anticipation.

Dabi's hands moved to your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh as he pulled you back against him, making you arch your back slightly.

You could feel his cock, hard and insistent against your ass.

Dabi's hands moved to your thighs, spreading your legs apart.

You felt his fingers brush against your wetness, a low moan escaping your lips.

"You're so wet," he murmured, his voice low and husky.

You bit your lip, trying to suppress a moan.

Dabi's fingers worked fast, pushing the material of your thong aside, and soon they moved inside you, his thumb pressing against your clit.

You moaned even though you hated yourself for this, your body was trembling with pleasure.

He teased you slowly, his fingers moving in and out, drawing out your moans with every thrust. His lips trailed down your neck, leaving a burning path in their wake. He didn’t stop himself from leaving a hickey here and there.

You arched against him, your body pleading for more. "Please," you gasped again, your voice breaking.

“Hush,” he whispered, licking a trail up the column of your neck. He pumped his long fingers in you, faster and faster, enjoying all of the sounds you made, just for him. Finally, his fingers withdrew, and you felt a momentary loss before his hands gripped your hips, turning you to face him. His eyes burned with an intense heat as he lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively as your arms wrapped around his neck.

You could feel his dick, straining his pants, pressing against your slick, naked pussy, and instinctively, your hands moved to his belt, fumbling with the buckle in your eagerness. Dabi's left forearm slipped under your ass, easily securing you in place as his other hand joined yours, and together you managed to free him, the hard length of his dick springing free.

With a swift motion, he aligned the tip of his cock with your dripping entrance, and pushed it up so the head went in between your delicious outer labia. Finally, he slowly shoved himself into your dripping vagina.

As soon as he entered you, your eyes and mouth both opened wide. You looked like you were in disbelief that you were actually doing this. You cried out, your nails digging into his shoulders as he began to move, his rhythm slow yet deliberate. “Gosh…” Your pussy was stretching painfully to accommodate him. Every thrust sent waves of pleasure through you, his name falling from your lips like a mantra. You hated yourself for that.

His scarred lips found yours, capturing your moans as his pace quickened, each movement driving you closer to the edge. “Fuck. So fucking tight. I love how wet and tight you are f’me,” he growled, pecking your cheek.

You could feel yourself tightening around his cock, your climax building with every hard thrust he delivered. You gasped against his lips.

Dabi took the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth, then suck on your bottom lip, all while completely inside you. He began to bounce you on his cock faster, each upward thrust hitting deeper than before, the tip of his throbbing dick brushing against that sweet, spongy spot deep inside you.

The feeling of being suspended and at his mercy driving you wild. You rolled your hips to meet his thrusts. “Yes, yes, yes,” you whined. You were painfully aware you acted like a cheap whore, but you didn’t mind at the time.

The friction between your bodies created a heat that was almost unbearable, every movement bringing you closer to the edge. His warmth of course added to the sensation. And his cock was oh so hot.

"Look at you," he growled, his voice rough with desire. "So desperate, so needy. Fucking bitch." He pulled his cock out until only the tip remained between your parted, lower lips, then slammed his hips back against yours, burying himself in your pussy to the hilt of his shaft.

You couldn't respond, your mind lost in the overwhelming sensations. You could only moan, the sound echoing in the room as he continued to bounce you on his cock, the pace quickening. You were trembling in his arms, even though you shouldn’t. Your boobs were swaying forward and backward as he fucked you raw.

“Be fucking quiet, little nurse, or the guards will hear us if they’re back,” he slapped your cheek, and grunted as his balls hit the curve of your ass yet again.

Your bodies made a wet smacking noise each time, and Dabi could see strands of your fluids spider-webbing between your skin each time he pulled away from your heated, dripping core.

Your tits, still in your bra, pressed firmly against his chest as you leaned into him, already breathless. Your head rolled forward, resting against the crook of his neck where his marred skin was exposed. “Mmmm…. Mmmmm…. I’m gonna… I can’t anymore….” Your pussy clenched around his cock in anticipation, and a growl rose in your throat.

Your needy, seductive voice worked its magic on the scarred man.

Dabi's head fell back, a low, guttural moan escaping his lips as he came, spilling his thick seed deep within you, his body shuddering with the force of his orgasm, his thrusts growing sloppier and more frantic. “Fuck, take it, bitch, take it all.”

With Dabi’s cock nestled within your core, you felt every pulse as he reached his climax. Every pulse and eruption of cum filling your tight pussy sent twin waves of pleasure and a wonderful, comforting warmth through your entire being, and three or four pulses in, you found herself cumming as well, pussy spasming and clenching around Touya’s cock, milking it of his wonderful, hot cum.

You felt his cum filling you to the brim and beyond, and spilling out of you, dripping to the floor, even though you two were still connected.

Dabi's hands moved to your waist, his fingers gentle as he pulled out of you. He gave himself a few more jerks before grabbing your overall and wiping his flaccid cock in it. After that, he tossed your uniform aside, and improved his pants and belt. Dabi's voice was low and dark as he spoke. "You're quite the little slut, aren't you?"

As you hastily tried to dress, your cheeks burning with a mix of emotions, you muttered, "It was a moment of weakness…" Your gaze drifted nervously toward the door, half-expecting it to burst open at any moment.

Suddenly, Dabi was before you again, his presence imposing. His hand shot out, capturing your cheeks with an intensity that made you wince. He squeezed firmly, his eyes burning into your very soul as he seethed a harsh reminder, "Not a word until five minutes pass. Understand?" The threat in his voice was unmistakable, echoing in the charged air between you.

Releasing your face, he moved swiftly to the window with the fluid grace of a predator. His silhouette framed against the dim light from outside was both menacing and mesmerizing. As he swung one leg over the sill, he paused, turning to fix you with a piercing look. "You'll never be rid of me, not until death takes me." His words hung heavy in the room, a promise or a curse. Then, he jumped out, vanishing into the night like a ghost.

You stood frozen, the imprint of his fingers still tingling on your skin, his final words echoing in your mind. You waited, counting each second of those five minutes he had demanded. You were scared to see him again, yet part of you wondered, perhaps even hoped, for that very possibility.

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elikajinnie · 20 days ago

Text

Shadowed Desires - S.J

P: Dead By Daylight Killer!Jake X Survivor!Reader (recommended age 17+)

Warnings: Murder, Obsession, Touchy & Needy Behaviour, Blood/Injury, touch starved jake lol.

Synopsis: A new killer is made of darkness—and now he has his eyes set on you, and he wants to swallow you whole, pulling you to him. After all, darkness always consumes what it wants, leaving nothing but emptiness behind. And soon, you’ll be lost to it.

a/n: finally done with this series :3 i kinda dont like this? idk.. maybe ill delete it.

heeseungs vers sunghoon vers jay vers

Ever since the Entity dragged you into its twisted realm, you’d never really had the time—or the chance—to initiate much of anything with the other survivors. There wasn’t room for hugs, no moments for cuddling, and certainly no stolen kisses. Not that you had any romantic connections with any of them, but even something as simple as touch felt like a forgotten luxury.

And the killers? That was out of the question. They were designed to hurt you, to hunt you, to bring pain and death for the Entity’s satisfaction. Over and over, you’d all return to the camp after each trial, alive and unscathed. Unharmed physically, sure, but it all felt meaningless. Same routines. Same outcomes. Same exhausting loop.

Time didn’t matter here. Physical affection didn’t matter. Your feelings? They mattered least of all. Everything was irrelevant in this place. The same cycle, over and over and over again.

It was tiring, to be honest—so quiet yet so endlessly exhausting.

The only reprieve you ever got from the monotony was when a new survivor or killer arrived. For a fleeting moment, it felt like something had shifted, like maybe this new presence could disrupt the cycle. But it never lasted.

The new survivor always followed the same pattern. At first, they’d be terrified, trembling and frantic, trying to grasp the horror of what they’d been thrown into. You’d try to comfort them, maybe offer some kind words, but even that felt hollow. In time, they’d come to understand—just like you had—that there was no escape. Their fear would dull into resignation, their hope smothered by the truth of the Entity’s realm.

As for the killers, they brought a brief curiosity. The camp would buzz with whispered speculations about their abilities, their quirks, their story. But after a few trials, it was always the same. They were there for one purpose: to hunt, to kill, to please the Entity. The only “excitement” they brought was in figuring out how their power worked, what perks they wielded, and how best to survive their hunt. Once that was done, they became just another part of the endless cycle.

Even the killers, as terrifying as they were, eventually became predictable. A face you’d recognize in the fog. A pattern of movement. A strategy you’d seen a hundred times before.

And so, the moments of change you’d cling to at first inevitably folded back into the same unending routine. Nothing really changed here. Not the faces, not the feelings, not the futility of it all. It was a crushing realization every time: no matter who arrived, no matter what was added, this place was always the same.

So you could never expect it to actually change. Change wasn’t something the Entity offered much of. It wasn’t what it thrived on. Yet, on that trial, something did.

It started out the same as always. You were sitting by the fire, exchanging a conversation with Nancy. Then the fog crept in, curling at the edges of your vision, and you were called into a trial. Business as usual. You didn’t expect anything different. Why would you?

But as soon as you dropped into the trial, you knew something was off.

The air was cold, biting at your skin like needles. The ground beneath your feet was hard and uneven made of ancient stone and disturbed earth. The faint sound of whispers filled the air, just on the edge of hearing, coming from nowhere and everywhere all at once. You turned, scanning your surroundings, and realized you were in a catacomb.

But this wasn’t the Plague’s temple catacombs, with their decaying walls and pools of disease. This was something… different.

The walls were lined with endless rows of forgotten graves, the cracked stone engraved with faded names you couldn’t read. Shadowy tendrils slithered along the edges of the halls, moving unnaturally, almost as if they were alive. You froze as one of them stretched toward you, curling in the air like it was reaching, calling.

Yeah, no, this wasn’t just a new map—it was something entirely foreign.

Your heart hammered in your chest as you began to move, navigating the labyrinthine hallways of the catacomb. The silence here wasn’t the usual quiet; it was alive, buzzing with whispers and the faint scraping of unseen movements. Every step you took echoed, the sound bouncing off the cracked walls around you.

You passed by what might have been burial chambers long ago, their occupants disturbed and forgotten. The floor was littered with debris—shattered stone, splintered wood, and dried remnants of things you didn’t want to name. You kept moving, your eyes darting for the faintest glimmer of light or safety, but all you found were more hallways, more graves, and the ever-present shadows, shifting as if they were watching your every move.

Something about this place felt wrong, even by the Entity’s standards.

You eventually found your way out of the endless labyrinth of tunnels and into a larger chamber. The ceiling loomed high above you, shrouded in darkness so thick it seemed to swallow the dim, flickering light of the torches lining the walls. At the center of the room was an altar, its surface cracked and weathered with age. Surrounding it were pools of… shadows?

They didn’t look like water or any other liquid you’d seen before. They rippled and shifted, alive with an unnatural energy that made your skin crawl. Occasionally, tendrils of darkness stretched out from the pools, writhing as if searching for something.

You approached cautiously, your footsteps hesitant and quiet, unwilling to draw attention to yourself. The shadows seemed to pulse in time with your movements, almost as if they were aware of you. You stopped a few feet away from the altar, your breath catching in your throat.

This map relied solely on shadows—that much was clear. The tendrils, the pools, even the way the hallways seemed to twist and shift in the dark—it all pointed to one thing.

If your theory was right, this possible new killer worked through these shadows.

Your heart pounded as you tried to piece it together. What could their power be? Could they travel through the shadows? Use them to attack from a distance? Or maybe they could manipulate the darkness to obscure your vision, making it impossible to see them coming.

The thought sent a chill down your spine.

A sudden movement to your left made you freeze. One of the shadowy tendrils shot out from a nearby pool, lashing toward the ground before retreating. You took a step back, your instincts screaming at you to run.

But just then you heard it—a low, guttural sound that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. It wasn’t quite a growl, nor was it a voice. It was something in between, echoing from the shadows themselves.

You looked around, confused, your heart pounding in your chest as the low sound faded into the shadows. Suddenly, a scream tore through the silence, sharp and gut-wrenching, and it was close—too close. You barely had time to react before David bolted down the hallway in front of you, clutching his shoulder, blood seeping through his fingers.

Your eyes widened as something sharp whizzed past him. Then another, and another. Shurikens? You blinked, trying to process what you were seeing. Shurikens weren’t part of any killer’s arsenal you’d ever faced.

Oh no.

Your stomach sank as a shadow suddenly surged down the hallway after David, swift and silent, like it was gliding through the air. Then, abruptly, the figure halted, the movement unnatural, as if the darkness itself commanded it to stop. And it did—right in front of you.

You froze.

The figure loomed in the dim light, draped in a tattered cloak that billowed as if caught in a phantom wind. The hood obscured its face, leaving you to stare at the faint, shifting tendrils of shadows that coiled around its form. It didn’t seem to touch the ground, its entire body hovering just slightly above it, giving it an almost otherworldly presence.

And then it turned.

The motion was smooth, almost too calm. The killer’s body shifted toward you, and with a deliberate motion, they raised their hands and pulled back the hood.

You gasped.

The killer was… handsome. Not in the way that made you feel safe—far from it. There was something dangerous to his features, the curve of his lips, the way his black, curly hair framed his face. His dark eyes seemed to bore into you, unreadable and endless, as if the shadows themselves were staring back at you.

And the shadows—they clung to him, crawling over his form like a living entity, their movements fluid. It was like he wasn’t just using the darkness; he was the darkness.

He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. The way he tilted his head, the faint smirk curling at the edge of his lips—it was enough to send a shiver down your spine. His eyes burned with a confidence, as if he already knew how this chase would end.

You didn’t wait to find out.

Your legs moved before your mind could catch up, adrenaline surging as you turned and sprinted down the nearest hallway. The air seemed heavier, as you weaved through the twisting corridors, the faint whispers around you rising to an almost deafening hum.

Behind you, you could hear him. His movements were unnervingly quiet, save for the occasional sound of something cutting through the air—shurikens.

The first one hit the wall to your right, chipping the stone. Another whizzed past your shoulder, so close you could feel the sharp breeze as it sailed by.

“Shit,” you hissed under your breath, ducking as another one flew, this time grazing your arm. The sting was immediate, sharp and hot, but you couldn’t stop.

You rounded a corner, your heart pounding in your chest, only to find yourself in yet another dimly lit hallway. The shadows seemed to thicken here, almost as if they were conspiring with the killer to slow you down. You felt another shuriken hit, this one embedding itself into your side. Pain flared, and you stumbled, but you caught yourself against the wall and kept moving.

The whispers seemed to echo his movements, warning you of his approach—or maybe taunting you. You didn’t know, and you didn’t care.

You spotted a doorway ahead, partially obscured by hanging tendrils of shadow. Without thinking, you dove through it, emerging into a larger chamber filled with more of those rippling pools of darkness. You hesitated for half a second, scanning the room for a way out, but the faint sound behind you pushed you forward.

Your breaths came in sharp, ragged gasps as you darted toward another hallway, the pain in your side making every movement harder. Still, you couldn’t stop—not with him so close.

And then, just as you thought you might have gained some distance, the whispers around you changed, their tone shifting to something more urgent. You glanced over your shoulder and saw him again, emerging from the shadows as if they had carried him forward.

Your chest heaved, each breath burning as you pushed your body. The pain in your side was relentless, but you couldn’t stop. Not with him so close. The whispers grew louder, their eerie tones twisting in your ears like warnings—or mockery.

Then, just ahead, you saw movement. Another survivor.

It was Meg. She was crouched near a wall, her eyes scanning the hallway with the practiced vigilance of someone who had done this a thousand times before. When she spotted you barreling toward her, her expression shifted from confusion to alarm.

You skidded to a stop beside her, clutching your side, and for a brief moment, the two of you just stared at each other.

Then her gaze shifted behind you, and her eyes widened.

You didn’t need to turn around to know what she saw. You could feel him behind you. Slowly, you turned your head, eyes locking on the figure now standing at the end of the hallway.

The killer didn’t rush. He didn’t need to. Instead, he tilted his head again, his eyes darted between the two of you. Shadows coiled at his feet, slithering across the ground like living things, eager to obey his command.

Meg let out a low, shaky breath. “Great. A new one.”

“No kidding,” you muttered, gripping your side as you tried to steady your breathing.

For a moment, the three of you stood there, the tension suffocating. The killer took a slow, deliberate step forward, his eyes narrowing as his hand dipped into the shadows, drawing out another shuriken.

“Run?” you suggested, your voice tight with fear.

Meg nodded. “Run.”

Without another word, you both bolted in opposite directions, hoping to split his attention. The sound of the whispers surged again, almost laughing as the chase began anew.

The sound of pounding footsteps faded, and the whispering shadows seemed to hold their breath, the air still for a moment. You paused, chest heaving, your mind racing as you took a quick glance over your shoulder. The hallway was empty now, the killer’s presence a lingering weight in the air.

You didn’t hear Meg’s scream, but you knew—he had gone after her. She’d made the right call, though, splitting the attention. That gave you a fleeting moment of silence.

You took a cautious step forward, listening intently for any sounds—footsteps, whispers, anything—but there was nothing. Not yet, at least. The only thing you could hear was your own breath, ragged and desperate.

You turned down another hallway and spotted it in the distance: the soft, flickering light of a generator.

You approached cautiously, glancing around, but there was no sign of the killer. The shadows were quiet, as though they were waiting for the next move, for the next victim.

You kneeled beside the generator, fingers trembling as you placed them on the rusted panels. Slowly, you began to turn the wheel, starting the repair. Every sound felt amplified—the grinding of the metal, the slight whir of the mechanism turning on. You glanced up every few seconds, just in case, but the silence continued to stretch on.

You kept working, the dull hum of the generator filling the space. The weight of the shadows seemed to recede for now, but you knew it wouldn’t last long. You had to finish the repair.

The seconds stretched into minutes as you twisted the dials, forcing your hands to move quickly despite the sting of your injuries. You could feel the tension rising again, the unease gnawing at your gut. Would the killer come back for you next? Would Meg be okay?

The repair progress bar finally clicked, the generator sputtering to life with a low rumble. You breathed a small sigh of relief, your pulse still racing. One down.

But the moment of peace was fleeting. The whispers had started again—soft, but unmistakable. And then you heard it. A sound far too familiar.

The soft clink of a shuriken spinning through the air.

Your heart skipped a beat, and you froze by the sharp sound of something slicing through the air. You didn’t even need to turn around to know what it was.

The shuriken flew past you with a deadly precision, missing your side by mere inches, the breeze it created a chilling reminder of the danger.

Without wasting a second, you pushed yourself up, your body reacting instinctively. You didn’t wait to see if another one was coming—you ran.

You sprinted down the hallway, the shadows closing in around you as the whispers grew louder, more urgent. Every step echoed in the narrow, darkened corridor, and you swore you could almost hear him moving with you, just behind, just out of sight.

A quick glance over your shoulder revealed the faint silhouette of him slipping through the darkness, the shadows swarming around his feet like tendrils, moving in perfect unison with him.

You took a sharp turn, heading toward another corridor, hoping to throw him off. Another shuriken whizzed by, the sound sharp and deadly as it embedded itself in the wall just inches from your face.

You didn’t stop.

You could hear him now—closer, his breath, heavy and echoing in the quiet between the whispers, and the realization hit you hard: you had no choice but to outrun him. And somehow, you had to survive long enough to make it out.

But you couldn’t keep running. Not anymore.

The shurikens hit you, one after another, each strike sharp and unforgiving. Pain bloomed in your side, your leg, your shoulder—each wound adding to the weight of exhaustion dragging you down. You stumbled, your legs failing to keep up with your frantic pace, and then, with a sickening lurch, you fell to the ground.

You groaned, struggling to push yourself up, but the world spun and your vision blurred. The cold, dark floor beneath you felt unyielding as you fought to regain your bearings, only for a shadow to loom over you.

You turned your head, half expecting him to pick you up and toss you over his shoulder like you were nothing, to drag you away to whatever horrific fate awaited you.

But he didn’t.

He stood there, hovering, his dark eyes studying you as you laid on the cold floor. For a moment, you both just stared at each other, the air thick with anticipation.

And then, something shifted.

The shadowy tendrils that seemed to be an extension of him reached out, their touch as cold as ice. They wrapped around you with an unnatural strength, pulling you toward him with surprising force.

You gasped as your back collided with his chest, the sudden closeness making your heart race even faster.

His breath was warm against your neck, a wide contrast to the cold tendrils that still clung to you.

Then you heard it.

A sharp, quiet gasp from behind you.

You turned your head to see the killer, his gaze fixed on you with something… different. Shock? Confusion?

And then, almost to himself, he muttered, “How can I touch you?”

The words hung in the air, confusing you further. What was he talking about?

Before you could react, you felt his arms wrap around you—no, not his arms, but something else. Something... different. His arms seemed translucent, like they were made of smoke or mist, flickering in and out of existence as they moved around your body.

You froze, your breath catching in your throat as the realization sank in—his arms weren’t fully there. They looked see-through, like they didn’t belong to a solid, tangible person at all.

The killer, too, seemed shocked. His eyes widened, his expression flickering with something you couldn’t quite read. His arms—ghostly, ethereal—were now fully wrapped around you, but when his skin made contact with yours, it felt… strange.

His gasp was barely audible, but it was there, a breathless sound that caught in his throat. For a moment, neither of you moved.

You could feel the heat of his body against yours, yet his touch felt distant—disconnected, like he was struggling to truly reach you.

Before you could fully process what was happening, the killer suddenly moved with startling speed, twirling you around so that you were now facing him. Your breath caught in your throat as you found yourself pressed against his chest, his arms locking around you in a firm hold.

You tried to push against him, to break free, but his grip was unyielding, making it impossible to move. He held you there, his face mere inches from yours, his eyes wide with something that looked like desperation and something about it that made you feel uneasy, yet… compelled to stay. His gaze roamed over your face, his breath quick and shallow as he muttered to himself.

"How is this possible?" His voice was barely a whisper, thick with confusion and awe. His fingers gently traced along your arm, but the touch felt as though his skin were made of mist, like he couldn’t fully reach you. Still, he continued, more to himself than you, his words tumbling out in a frantic murmur.

"How are you… different?"

You couldn’t take it any longer. His behavior was maddening, and your own confusion and fear were bubbling over. You snapped, your voice cutting through the tense silence.

"What do you mean?"

The killer’s eyes flickered to yours, a brief flash of hesitation before he answered, the words tumbling out as if he hadn’t meant to speak them at all.

“I can’t touch any of the survivors,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost as if he were ashamed of the admission. “Or any of the other killers. I go right through them… like i’m nothing but air. But with you…” He trailed off, staring at you as if trying to make sense of the impossible.

With you… you felt a chill run down your spine as his words sank in. He could actually hold you. He wasn’t phasing through you like he had with everyone else.

"Why?" His voice was barely above a whisper, a tremor of disbelief in it. "Why can I touch you?"

The weight of the question hung in the air between you, leaving a profound silence in its wake. You wanted to say something, anything, but you found yourself at a loss for words. How could you even begin to understand what was happening? How could he be so confounded by his own existence?

Before you could process what he had just said, something shifted in his demeanor. His tense body seemed to perk up, a sudden awareness flashing in his eyes. You followed his gaze, confused, only to hear it—soft at first, then steadily growing louder—the hum of a completed generator in the distance.

The killer’s eyes flickered toward you for a brief moment, a look of determination flashing in his gaze. Then, without warning, he released you from his hold, but his hands didn’t leave you completely. He tugged you toward the shadows with surprising force, and before you could react, he whispered under his breath, barely audible over the whispering darkness.

“I’ll be back for you.”

His voice was intense, almost pleading, as though he couldn’t quite comprehend the gravity of the words himself. Then, in one swift motion, the shadows on the wall seemed to come to life, curling and twisting, reaching for you like a living entity.

And just like that, the shadows wrapped around you, pulling you in with terrifying force.

You gasped, trying to scream or fight back, but it was useless. The shadows enveloped you entirely, suffocating your every movement. You couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe, and before you could make sense of what was happening you were no longer standing on solid ground. Your body was floating, suspended in the air. There was no floor beneath you, no walls to guide you. The space around you was entirely dark, a suffocating blackness that seemed to stretch on forever.

You could feel the cold tendrils of the shadows curling around you, clinging to your body, holding you in place as whispers and giggles echoed all around you. The voices were indistinct at first, but they grew clearer, their tones twisted, mocking, and strangely gleeful. It was as if the shadows themselves were alive, sentient, and they were toying with you.

You felt your heart race, your chest tightening as panic set in. You could move, but only slightly, your body caught in the strange limbo.

You struggled, trying to break free, but the shadows only tightened their hold, their tendrils wrapping around you like chains, keeping you suspended in this endless dark void. And all the while, you could sense it—the presence of the killer, somewhere in the distance, maybe watching, maybe waiting.

He’d said he’d be back for you. But what would happen when he returned?

Time seemed to stretch in the endless void, your body suspended and held by the unyielding shadows. The whispers and giggles continued to swirl around you, but the longer you hung there, the more you became accustomed to the presence, as unsettling as it was. Still, you couldn’t shake the sense of anticipation—the knowing that eventually, he would return.

And when he did, you felt it before you saw him.

The shadows that had once clung to you so tightly and suffocating suddenly slackened. You were no longer held by their chilling tendrils; instead, you felt a warm presence behind you. It was as if his body had materialized from the darkness itself, his form pressing against you, pulling you close.

His arms were solid now, no longer transparent like before, and his breath was shallow as he held you, his touch so much more real than anything you had felt in what seemed like an eternity. The weight of his body against yours, the heat from his chest, the steadiness of his breath as he looked at you…

For a moment, neither of you moved, just breathing, existing in that shared space. His eyes, dark and wide, locked onto yours with such intensity that it almost felt like he could see into you, as though he understood you in a way no one else ever had.

He caressed your skin gently, his fingers trailing along your arm and then your face, as if memorizing every inch of you. His touch was tender as if he were afraid to break something fragile—something precious.

You didn’t know if it was the long and lonely time you spent, the isolation and fear that had dulled your senses, or if it was simply him, but you didn’t resist. There was something about the way he looked at you, something about the way he touched you, that made you feel seen in a way you hadn’t felt in so long.

His fingers ghosted over your lips, brushing them softly before trailing down your neck, his gaze following every movement with rapt attention. His touch was unlike anything you had ever known—careful, intimate, as if you were something he couldn’t let slip away.

No one had ever looked at you like he did. No one had ever touched you with this kind of gentleness. And no one had ever whispered to you the way he was now, words so soft and soothing, it was almost as if he was trying to comfort you.

“You’re real,” he murmured, his voice thick with awe and something else you couldn’t quite place. His lips brushed your ear as he continued, “You’re not like them.”

His words wrapped around you like a blanket, soothing your anxieties, even as they left you with more questions. You wanted to ask, to demand answers, but somehow, in that moment, all you could do was let him continue, to feel the care in his touch and the sincerity in his gaze.

For a fleeting moment, you were no longer a survivor, no longer someone just trying to escape. You were something else, something he was willing to hold, to cherish in this twisted, dark world that seemed to offer nothing but pain.

And it was terrifying. Because you didn’t know what it meant. You didn’t know what was happening, what was real anymore.

But none of that mattered. Because in his arms, you felt something you hadn’t in a long time—a connection.

The moment stretched in the strange, suffocating stillness of the shadowy realm, but soon enough, the air around you shifted. The shadows that had clung to you like a second skin began to stir, moving in ways that made the atmosphere feel thick.

The killer’s eyes snapped toward the shadows, his expression darkening. He muttered something under his breath, something sharp and frustrated. A curse, perhaps? Whatever it was, it was enough to snap him into action.

Without warning, he pulled you with him, his strong arms gripping you firmly as he yanked both of you out of the shadows. The darkness that had enveloped you receded as you were dragged back onto solid ground, the familiar, grounding feeling of the catacombs’ floors beneath your feet.

Even as your feet touched the ground, he didn’t let go of you. His hold on you tightened, his body pressed close to yours, as if he feared you might slip away again. You glanced up at him in confusion, but he said nothing, simply continuing to walk, his pace steady, the urgency in his movements palpable.

His grip never wavered, and the shadows around you seemed to retreat, leaving you with nothing but the sound of your footsteps echoing through the silence of the map. You didn’t know where he was taking you, but you didn’t dare question it. Not now, not with the strange bond that seemed to have formed between you.

As you walked, you spotted something familiar in front of you. The hatch. You couldn’t quite believe it, but there it was, just ahead of you. The familiar shape, the light flickering from within—the hatch.

Your heart skipped a beat as the realization hit you: You were somehow the last survivor left? How had that happened? When did that happen?

You looked at the hatch, then back at him, your mind racing with a thousand questions. The world seemed to freeze for a moment as your gazes locked. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes said it all—he was waiting.

Slowly, his hand moved to your cheek, his fingers brushing against your skin with a tenderness that was almost unbearable in its intensity. His face was close now, and you could feel his breath against your lips as he leaned in, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips in a way that made your breath hitch.

He didn’t say anything at first, but then, in a voice so low and desperate, it sent a shiver through you, he muttered, “Please... don’t run from me next time.” His words were a plea, a aching cry from someone who didn’t seem to know what to do with the feelings he was experiencing.

You could only nod, stunned, still trying to process everything that had happened. The weight of his words settled over you, and for a moment, everything seemed to fall away, leaving only the two of you.

Without another word, he brushed your hair away from your face, his fingers lingering just a moment too long, as if reluctant to let go. Then, as though he had made up his mind, he gently lowered you toward the hatch.

You felt the soft, unexpected drop, and before you knew it, you were tumbling through the entrance.

A wave of warmth washed over you as you fell, as your wounds and the scratches healed. The pain, the exhaustion, everything vanished, leaving you feeling as though you had never been touched by the chaos of the trials at all.

You landed softly, the familiar sight of the survivor camp filling your vision. The flickering of the campfires, the distant chatter of the others, the comfortable hum of life returning to normal…

But something had changed.

You had returned to the camp, yes, but not in the same way as before. Something about your connection with the killer lingered, something that couldn’t be undone, no matter how hard you tried to ignore it. The shadows were still there, somewhere within you, calling to you.

It took a total of five trials before you found yourself back on his map. This time, however, something was different.

The moment you dropped into the trial, the shadows on the walls didn’t feel suffocating. No, this time, they seemed to welcome you. The familiar whispers that usually chilled your spine were replaced with something… lighter. Almost playful. Giggles danced around you like echoes in the distance, as if the shadows themselves were delighted by your arrival.

You looked around, trying to make sense of your surroundings. The environment felt different, more open. You weren’t in the catacombs this time. Instead, you were standing in the center of an open chapel. The stone floor beneath you was cracked, worn by time, but the space itself felt strangely sacred.

Above you, the remnants of a collapsed dome hung precariously, the shattered stained-glass windows glinting in the dim light. The shards of glass were scattered across the floor like fractured pieces of a long-lost memory, reflecting faint flashes of color from the soft light that filtered in from above. It was a beautiful sight, even in its ruin. The chapel was a hauntingly perfect contrast—so full of potential, yet broken, like everything else in this world.

But you couldn’t focus on the surroundings for long. The atmosphere felt… different. It was as if you were being watched, but not in the usual way. The giggles, the whispers—they didn’t hold the same weight of threat as before. Instead, they were more like a gentle invitation, teasing you, drawing you in. It felt like the shadows were beckoning you, urging you to stay, to explore.

You had a feeling—no, a certainty—that this trial would be unlike the others.

You glanced around the chapel, the giggles of the shadows still echoing faintly in your ears. It was strange—this quiet sense of calm that had settled over the place. The air felt thick, yet there was no immediate threat. For the first time since you’d entered, you allowed yourself a brief moment of focus, and that's when you spotted it.

In the corner, tucked away amidst the broken pews and cracked stone, was a generator. You couldn't believe it at first, but there it was, its faint hum calling you towards it. Without thinking, you made your way over to it, the sound of your footsteps reverberating softly against the chapel's walls.

When you reached it you didn’t hesitate. You kneeled beside the generator and got to work, fingers deftly turning the dials and adjusting the levers, your mind oddly focused. There was something almost peaceful in the process, a rhythm you’d become familiar with in the trials. As you worked, the air around you seemed to settle, and you couldn’t help but feel as though someone was watching you, encouraging you.

It wasn’t long before you heard it. The unmistakable sound of your heartbeat growing louder and a familiar shiver ran up your spine. The shadows seemed to grow darker, more pronounced, as the figure appeared at the edge of your vision.

You didn’t need to look to know who it was. His gaze, though unseen, was like a weight on your back, pulling your attention toward him, and you could feel it—his gaze—drawn to you, to the way you were moving, to the delicate process of repairing the generator.

For a moment, you thought you heard him chuckle softly, the sound of it lingering in the air like a haunting melody.

Eventually the generator clicked into place with a soft, satisfying hum, signaling that it was finally working. You stood up, brushing off your hands, only when you turned around you saw that the killer was standing far too close for comfort. His dark eyes seemed to be watching you with an intensity that made your heart race, and before you could react, he moved.

In a swift motion, he reached out and pulled you into him. His body was firm against yours, and yet strangely gentle. The suddenness of the contact took your breath away, and you found yourself trapped within the circle of his arms, the warmth of his body radiating through you, as if he was desperate to hold you, to keep you close.

His breath brushed against your ear as he nuzzled into your neck, his presence consuming you, the shadows around you seeming to swirl tighter, more alive, as though they, too, were eager to wrap around you. The giggles in the distance faded, replaced by the steady sound of his breath, his chest rising and falling beneath your hands as you tried to steady yourself.

You didn’t resist. You couldn’t. The way he held you felt oddly familiar, like a part of you that had been missing for far too long had finally found its place. And his touch, though a little colder than it should have been, was still comforting in a way you couldn’t explain.

The killer’s fingers gently threaded through your hair, his touch delicate, as if he were afraid of hurting you. He nuzzled closer, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his voice barely a whisper against your skin. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” he murmured, his words almost like a confession, a desperate plea.

The weight of his words hung in the air, heavy and vulnerable, and your heart stuttered in your chest. The shadows around you seemed to respond to his emotions, curling and shifting as if they were reflecting his mood.

You didn’t know what to say, or if you even could.

You tried to pull away, a desperate need for some breathing room overtaking you. The closeness of his body was overwhelming. His grip tightened in response, pulling you back against him with a sense of urgency, as though letting go wasn’t an option for him.

“No,” he whispered, his voice low and thick with something you couldn’t place, “don’t pull away.” The plea was buried in his tone leaving you with no choice but to stay close.

He clung to you desperately, his hands tracing the lines of your back, the shadows around you thickening, as though they, too, were unwilling to release you. His breath was warm against your ear as he spoke again, each word drenched in an almost reverent tone.

“You’re… you’re a blessing,” he murmured, his voice trembling with something you hadn’t heard from him before. “The Entity has blessed me with you, brought you to me.”

You froze, the words sinking into you like an anchor, pulling you deeper into his embrace. You wanted to ask him to explain, to make sense of it all, but the way he held you so tightly, so desperately, made it impossible to think clearly.

“Don’t leave me,” he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. “I can’t lose you. You are too special for me now.”

Your heart pounded in your chest, the confusion and disbelief clouding your thoughts. But the rawness in his voice, the way he clung to you as if you were the last thing that mattered in this twisted world, made you hesitate.

You couldn’t pull away, not with the way he held you, not with the whispers of the shadows wrapping around you like a cocoon. For a moment, you didn’t know if you were trapped or saved.

He eventually slowly pulled away, though his hands lingered on your arms for a moment, almost as if he wasn’t quite ready to let go. You were left standing there, your breath shaky, your heart racing, as he took a step back.

His eyes were focused on you, softer than they’d ever been. You noticed a shift in them, something you hadn’t seen before—puppy eyes, as if he were pleading with you in the quietest way possible. The shadows around you seemed to quiet down, almost as if they were holding their breath, waiting for whatever was about to happen.

He traced your cheek with a finger, his touch light, like he was memorizing the feel of your skin, as if it was something he had dreamed about. His gaze followed his hand, and you could feel the heat of his stare, intense and tender all at once. You didn’t know what to do. It was all too much.

“I can’t stand it,” he whispered, his voice a soft plea, the words just for you. “I need you to stay... please.” His breath was warm against your skin, and before you could respond, before you could even find your voice, he leaned in.

Everything around you seemed to still, the whispers of the shadows fading into the background as his lips met yours. The kiss was gentle at first, tentative, as if he were waiting for some sign, some permission from you. His lips were cool but soft, and for a moment, it was as if time had stopped.

You were frozen, caught in the unexpectedness of it all, caught in the moment. His hands found their way to your waist, pulling you closer as his kiss deepened, a quiet desperation in every movement, every touch. He kissed you as if he couldn’t stop, as if he feared you might vanish if he let go.

For a moment, you gave in to the sensation, the overwhelming mix of emotions, the sweetness and the tension. You couldn’t pull away, not even if you wanted to. The shadows seemed to curl around you both, their presence now almost comforting, like the world had faded away, leaving just the two of you in that fragile moment.

His kisses grew more desperate, each one heavier, more consuming than the last. His hands pressed firmly against your back, pulling you closer as if he couldn’t bear even an inch of space between you. A low, guttural groan escaped his lips, vibrating against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

You didn’t move, caught entirely off guard by his fervor. No one had ever acted like this around you before—not before the Entity’s realm, not during. There was something almost intoxicating about the way he clung to you, his lips trailing from yours to your jaw, down to the curve of your neck.

And, to your surprise, you realized... you kind of liked it.

His voice came in soft, muffled murmurs against your skin. “I need you,” he groaned, his tone laced with an almost painful desperation. “I need to hold you, to keep you close. You’re mine—you’re meant for me.”

The words hit you like a wave, leaving you breathless. His arms wrapped around you tighter, his fingers gripping as though he feared you might vanish if he let go. The shadows around you seemed to move in tandem with his emotions, curling closer, darker, as if they were an extension of his longing.

“You don’t understand,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “I’ve waited... I’ve searched... and then you came.” He pulled you so close it felt like he was trying to meld you both together, his forehead pressed against yours as he panted softly, his lips brushing yours again.

There was no denying the intensity in his words and the way his entire being seemed to focus solely on you. The world around you faded away, all of it becoming irrelevant under the weight of his need.

And for a moment, just a moment, you let yourself lean into it, into him.

You didn’t know how it worked. Honestly, you didn’t question much about the things that happened in the Entity’s realm—trying to make sense of it always felt like a losing battle. But being the only person that the killer—Jake, as you had learned—could touch and hold? That made the trials with him… special.

Special in a way that involved him finding you almost immediately when the trial started, his shadowy tendrils guiding him to you as though you were a beacon. Special in the way he would pull you into his arms without hesitation, holding you so close it felt like he was trying to merge your existence with his. And then came the kisses—hungry, fervent, and relentless. He didn’t seem to care about the trial or the Entity’s expectations, not unless another survivor got too close to where you both were. That was the only time he would let go, stepping between you and anyone else like a jealous guard dog.

You had learned early on that he truly couldn’t touch the other survivors. You’d seen him try—his hand passing right through them as though he was nothing but air. It made you wonder, why? Why were you the exception?

The Entity gave the killers their abilities. It had given Jake control over the shadows, molded him into one with the darkness itself. The Entity had made Jake a shadow—a specter that could haunt but never truly connect.

So why you? Did the Entity truly bless Jake with you, as he claimed? Was this some kind of twisted reward or cruel joke? You didn’t know.

And, honestly, when Jake held you so close, his arms wrapped around you like you were his entire world, you didn’t want to think about it. His touch was warm, his attention was unwavering, his affection intense.

A handsome, desperate man who seemed to make it his life’s purpose to hold you, kiss you, and pour all his emotions into you wasn’t something you regularly stumbled across—especially not here. The way he acted like you were his lifeline, the only thing tethering him to existence, wasn’t something you’d ever experienced before. He made you feel wanted, needed, cherished—things you hadn’t felt in longer than you could remember. And maybe that was why you let him.

It felt pretty good, honestly.

Good to be wanted. Good to be someone’s lifeline.

You did figure out one thing, though... well, two things.

For one, you enjoyed the feeling of Jake’s arms around your waist. How they would drape over you, his hands firm yet gentle as they gripped your hips, holding you as though you were the only solid thing in his shadowy world. It was strange, feeling safe in the arms of someone who was meant to kill. Ironic, even. But that’s how it felt—safe.

The second thing you figured out was that you loved the feeling of Jake’s lips. It didn’t matter where they landed—your neck, your throat, your shoulder, your cheek, your forehead. Each kiss sent a warmth through you that you hadn’t felt in what seemed like forever. But the best? The best was when his lips met yours. Jake’s kisses weren’t just kisses. They were declarations. They were desperate, wanting, filled with the kind of need that made your head spin and your heart race.

Your favorite moments, though, were the times when it had been too long since you last saw him. When he’d finally appear, the shadows curling and shifting to reveal him, he would drop every pretense of being a killer. The mask would slip away, and there he was—clingy, needy, and entirely fixated on you.

“I missed you,” he’d murmur into your hair as he held you close. “I kept thinking about you. I can’t stand being away from you. I need you.”

He would rant softly, his words spilling out like a dam had broken. His voice would tremble, and he’d clutch you tighter, burying his face into your shoulder, his shadowy figure melting into something softer—something vulnerable.

In those moments, he didn’t feel like the Entity’s chosen killer. He felt like a lovesick puppy, desperate for your attention, your touch, your reassurance.

And it was cute. At least, you thought so.

a/n: i basically had peggy from ceechynaa on replay during this. reblogs and commentary are appreciated!

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yammpi3 · 4 months ago

Text

𝙇𝘼𝙏𝙀 𝙉𝙄𝙂𝙃𝙏 𝙀𝙉𝘾𝙊𝙐𝙉𝙏𝙀𝙍 𝙆𝙚𝙞𝙜𝙤 𝙏𝙖𝙠𝙖𝙢𝙞 [𝙃𝙖𝙬𝙠𝙨]

synopsis. You were a former hero commission hero but when you made a simple mistake in a mission the commission sent you on they deemed you unfit and fired you, hence made you out to be a villain to the public. A few years later you meet your old partner Hawks out on his nightly patrol then you guys make up….made out .. :3

— content warnings. sorta plot with smut, eating out, p to v, kissing, sex sex sex, not really coordinated well? i think? dom/sub hawks

— W.C 2.3k

— authors note. This has been rotting in my drafts for like a year now but i thought i should post something…so..heres this!! Im rlly sorry if it’s formatted kinda weirdly, imo the smut is also written sorta weird but i think thats just me..overthinking it ANYWAYS enjoy reading <33 also Thank you FOR 100 FOLLOWERS?? i didn’t expect my blog would reach that much so TYTY.

Hawks sighed heavily, leaning back in his office desk chair, elbows propping on the armrests. He rubbed his tired eyes, tilting his head back, attempting to avoid eye contact with the stack of paperwork that lay out before him.

Every muscle in his body ached with exhaustion. It felt like he had been sitting in this same spot for days, poring over reports and documents in an endless cycle of busy work. As the number-two hero, the public demanded nothing but his very best. They expected him to always be alert and swift in responding to any crisis, dealing with volatile situations and dangerous villains with calm precision.

But they didn't see this part. They didn't witness the countless late nights spent filling out forms, compiling statistics, and attending meetings after meetings. No cameras captured the headaches induced by mind-numbing bureaucracy or the frustration of dealing with petty politics. This was the hidden cost of his elevated rank—an incessant paper-pushing grindstone that wore him down more than any actual fight ever could.

Slowly dragging his hands down his face, Hawks sighed again as the aches and knots of tension complained loudly in his neck and shoulders. For a brief moment, he considered using his feathers to shred just a few stray documents, to do less work.

He stretched his arms over his head and rolled his tense muscles, his wings fluttering restlessly behind him. All he wanted at that moment was to forget. To spread his wings and fly through open skies, feeling the wind ruffle through his feathers as he left his troubles far below.

Tilting his chair back as far as it would go, he gave a long-suffering look at the piles of work that towered precariously around him, silently pleading with it all to spontaneously catch fire or simply vanish into thin air. With a resigned sigh, Hawks dropped all four chair legs back to the floor and reluctantly pulled the topmost file towards him once more, bracing himself for another grind of the ever-turning wheel.

Hawks rubbed his tired eyes once more, feeling his motivation drain away with each mundane paragraph he read. At this rate, he'd be here all night and well into the morning. With a groan, he tossed the file back onto the pile, temporarily defeated. Maybe a quick break was what he needed to recharge his focus.

Pushing away from his desk, Hawks stood and stretched out his cramped body to its full height, his wings unfolding to their full span. A midnight flight around the city was just what he needed. The cool night air and darkened streets would do wonders for clearing his cluttered mind.

Stepping out onto his office balcony, Hawks took a few steps back, then launched himself into the sky with his wings. He flew high, circling up towards the crowning heights of the skyscrapers that shone below. Closing his eyes briefly, he took a deep breath of the fresher air, feeling tensions beginning to melt away already.

As he glided back down towards street level, Hawks scanned the sidewalks lazily while lost in thought. He was mulling over the options when movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention.

Your shadow slipped between alleyways, scanning for any civilians in the area. Suddenly flashes of red nearing a rooftop drew your eye—a familiar winged silhouette.

Going on a nearby rooftop, you spotted Hawks looking down, trying to find who or what he saw.

You and Hawks used to know each other pretty well in your teen years when you dreamed of being a great hero. So when you were selected by the Commission to become one, you were ecstatic. But from day one, Keigo Takami made things... complicated.

You two went way back to your training days, though you mostly kept your head down back then. Once in the pro scene though, Takami always found ways to rile you up during sessions, whether with sly taunts or risky stunts that pushed protocol to the limit.

Part of you wanted to throttle that arrogant asshole, but another part couldn't deny the thrill he made you feel.

Late nights spent training turned into more..private scenarios. For a time, it was nice to find solace in each other. But then came the ruling—you'd been deemed "not hero material" after one mistake, ruining your future. That's when Takami tried to connect with you again, but the hero commission wouldn't even allow him to be close to you to not damage the reputation he already made with the public.

"You're up rather late for a hero," you whispered directly into his ear, barely suppressing a chuckle at his startled flinch. Golden eyes met yours warily, yet he made no move to escape our intimate embrace.

"I'm off duty," was his measured reply. "And you?" Smoke clung thick to the memories in his eyes.

Your fingers, carefully gloved, traced the proud arch of his wings, feeling tension bleed away slowly. "Care for some company, Keigo?"

He held your gaze steadily, considering. At last he nodded, extending a hand. “Not that I can shake you off anyway,” he replied, a faint smirk playing on his lips.

You sat together on the secluded rooftop, settling close against one another. As you caught up, you both couldn't help but feel deprived of each other's touch; it had been far too long since you'd seen one another face to face. Sure, he'd heard about you through others in the commission, but being here together was different somehow.

When your voices at last fell silent, a gentle touch turned your chin to meet Hawks' searching eyes. "Y/N…" he murmured, leaning in so your faces were mere inches apart. One of his wings stretched out to block any view from the street below, enveloping you both in its feathery embrace.

Hawks closed the remaining distance between you, pressing his lips to yours in a soft yet insistent kiss.

One hand came up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, as the other wrapped around your waist to draw you flush against his body. You felt even better than he remembered.

When your lips parted under him, Hawks held back a groan as he rested his forehead against yours as you both panted for air. Wisps of steam rose between the two of you in the chill night.

If he tasted you fully, it would undo his last shred of willpower.

“You're going to be the end of me.." Hawks murmured thickly. Already, he ached to have more, but taking you here against the railing would be too brazen, even for his recklessness.

"Then take me somewhere more...private then," you shot back in a sinful whisper.

With a sly smile, Hawks swept you into his arms in a bridal carry, wings already prepared for launch. "Hold on tight.”

Hawks kicked off from the roof of the building and took flight, relishing your tight grip around his shoulders. The thrill of having you in his arms sent adrenaline surging through his veins.

He landed lightly on the balcony of his high-rise apartment, still holding you securely against his chest. Your masked face was turned up to meet his gaze.

"I.. I really missed you," Hawks murmured, pressing you back against the wall with his body. He caged you in with outspread wings, feathers gently ghosting your skin.

"Me too.." you replied. Your hands came up to roam his body just as eagerly.

Hawks captured your lips in a searing kiss, conveying all his pent-up needs and desires without restraint. This was wrong on so many levels, and yet he'd never felt more alive.

Kicking open the balcony doors, he swept you inside and laid you down on his plush sofa. His hands worked busily to remove your mask, wanting nothing between you and him; clothing fell piece by piece until nothing was left.

"Say you want this," Hawks pleaded roughly, desperate for your answer.

Your intoxicating laughter rang out as you pulled him against your body. "I want all of you, Keigo."

Hawks' hands roamed your body eagerly, relearning every curve as his lips traveled along your jawline. You sighed contentedly, arching into his touch while undoing the fastenings of his hero costume with practiced expertise.

Slowly, methodically, he kissed his way down the delicate column of your throat. Hawks lingered there to suckle your rapid pulse, eliciting breathy moans. His name falling from your lips in such a manner sent fresh spikes of arousal through him.

As you lay bare under him, Hawks paused to simply take in the sublime vision of your naked form, illuminated by the moonlight. "You're so..beautiful," he whispered in awe, tracing idle patterns upon your sensitized flesh.

Your hands delved into the downy feathers at his wings' bases, eliciting a guttural groan. The way you caressed his most sensitive areas, teasing but not quite enough, tested Hawks' faltering control. He nipped lightly at the swell of your breast in retaliation.

Tracing a tortuous path down your torso with wet kisses and love bites, Hawks' fingers dipped between your thighs. He chuckled at discovering your slick arousal, already swollen and desperate for friction. Slowly, he circled your clit, gathering your arousal onto his fingers.

"Please..." you begged wantonly, bucking your hips to chase more contact. But Hawks would loathe to grant your unspoken request so easily. He continued his maddening ministrations, coaxing you higher and higher with expert precision. Only when your keening cries bordered on anguish did he finally decide to sink two fingers deep inside.

The powerful rhythm he set drove you swiftly towards the peak. Hawks swallowed your hoarse screams of completion, savoring your intimate essence on his tongue.

"I've missed this..," he murmured, pressing a tender kiss on your sensitive bundle of nerves.

Then his tongue delved into your slick arousal with deft, practiced strokes. Your responsive sighs and the way you grabbed Takami's hair only spurred him onward in his devotions.

He alternated between broad, flat licks and focused flicks directly over your clit. When Keigo very lightly grazed his teeth along your folds, you keened and bucked again into his ministrations wildly. He hummed his approval, sending vibrations through your core.

It did not take long for you to climb once more towards the precipice, unraveling beautifully beneath his skilled mouth. Hawks drank deeply from your release, prolonging each aftershock with slow caresses of his tongue. Only when your quivering stopped did he withdraw, his eyes twinkling mischievously as he cleaned his glistening chin.

As he swirled his tongue around his lips, savoring the last hints of you, you gazed up at him with heavy-lidded eyes. Your chest still heaved in languid aftershocks of pleasure, your limbs boneless and slack upon the plush cushions.

"Come here," you beckoned hoarsely, crooking a finger. Your body cried out to be filled after such thorough worship, muscles reflexively clenching around nothing inside.

Hawks obeyed without hesitation, crawling up to drape himself over your welcoming form once more. You gripped his shoulders firmly, flipping your positions with a playful show of wiry strength, and smiled down at him wickedly.

Grasping his aching length and rubbing the tip of his cock had him seeing stars. Hawks groaned unabashedly.

Slowly, you let him inside, savoring each velvet glide. Hawks bucked helplessly, claws scrabbling for purchase against the cushions as your sensual walls milked his length.

The pleasure you drew from Hawks was exquisite torture. Each roll of your hips sent fresh shockwaves through his twitching member, shattering his composure. He was reduced to begging, his nails scratched weakly at your thighs as you rode him to the brink.

"Please...I need to come," Hawks gasped, moving his hips upward in frantic little thrusts. His cock throbbed painfully with the desperate need for release.

You smiled down at him cruelly. "Beg for it." Your lips formed the words deliciously slowly, knowing their effect.

Hawks keened, wings fluttering uselessly. "Please let me cum p-please I wanna cum, I need..to please..”

Suddenly, you bore down on him, grinding your pelvis against his in brutal circles. The new angle sent Hawks reaching his high with a raw cry.

You quickly let him pull out as his cock pulsed and thick ropes of seed spilled forth, splattering his taut stomach in pearly ribbons. Hawks shuddered through wave after wave; your continued help milking every last drop from him.

Breathless and spent, he could only lay pliantly as you leaned down to collect his essence on your fingers. Your wicked tongue flicked out to taste, making Hawks twitch anew in oversensitivity.

You smiled softly, your expression gentling as you gazed upon Hawks' flushed, panting form. His chest still heaved mightily in the aftermath of his climax.

Reverently, you traced light patterns on his ribs and pecs with delicate fingers, soothing away any last tremors. Hawks hummed appreciatively at your tender touch, grasping one of your hands to press a lingering kiss to the palm.

"Come here, Birdie," you murmured, beckoning him into your open embrace. Hawks complied readily, nuzzling into the crook of your neck with a contented sigh. Your legs tangled together comfortably as his wings folded around you both like a feathery blanket.

No threats of capture or duty rules could penetrate the sanctity of that moment. There, held securely within your arms, Hawks felt at once protected yet free—freed from the shackles of self-doubt and expectation. He belonged, body and soul, to one who accepted him fully without judgment or demand.

Drowsiness began to take hold as your rhythmic caresses through soft-down lulled Hawks towards slumber. "Stay?" he mumbled into your skin, his voice blurred by oncoming sleep yet filled with gentle hope.

You kissed his forehead, followed by a whisper, "I’ll stay, promise." was the sweetest assurance Hawks could wish for.

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pretzel-box · 5 months ago

Note

A sebastian fic idea, doesn’t have to be romantic but can be, for whatever you want with it :3

Basically, when the Expendable dies and Sebastian explains their death to them albeit frustrated(as the Expendable is just really bad at what they do and keep dying), they decide to stay dead as an annoying ghost haunting Sebastian’s side, much to his annoyance and dismay

Tags: Gn!Reader, Reader is a ghost, slight comedy

Words: 1k

Sebastian slammed the file down on the table with a force that made his random coffee cup tremble precariously on the edge. The dark room was lit only by the dim, warm glowing angler lure on his head, casting long shadows that danced across the walls. He glanced at the file he had just laid out, his lips curling into a smirk.

"You couldn't have died in a more stupid way," he chuckled, his deep voice echoing in the room as he mocked the other person. He was addressing the latest expandable, who sat across from him, eyes glazed with a mix of irritation and confusion. It was their second time to die and yet the poor fellow still didn't understand what is happening.

Across the table, you, or rather your ghostly apparition, floated just out of reach. You scoffed, your spectral form leaning forward as if to peer over Sebastian’s shoulder. "Oh look, that coffee spill on the file is shaped like a horse," you remarked, your translucent finger pointing with a strange, childlike excitement.

Sebastian blinked, momentarily thrown off. "What?" he muttered, following your line of sight to the brown stain that indeed had a vague equine shape. His eyes squinted, trying to understand why a horse-shaped spill might be interesting.

The expandable on the chair furrowed his brow. "I haven’t said anything," he mumbled, clearly unsettled by the shopkeeper’s apparent non sequitur.

"Not you," Sebastian shot back in a dry tone, feeling a flush of embarrassment. He couldn't believe he had let his guard down in front of a customer due to your ridiculous observation. He cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure.

The situation with you had become… complicated.

The whole thing started three years ago and he can remember the details fully in his memory due the weird situation.

It had all started after your twenty-sixth death. You had shown up at the death room as usual, but there was a different look in your eyes—a look of resignation, of defiance. You sat down across from him, arms crossed tightly over your chest, a permanent scowl etched onto your face as if you had made up your mind about something.

“Take time to read it or else you’ll die from it again,” Sebastian had instructed, his tone exasperated but calm. He pushed a file across the table toward you, flipping it open to reveal the gruesome image of the Eyefestation—green, glowing, and malevolent. The sight was familiar, the text barely new for you and the highlighted parts were mocking you.

You turned your head away, refusing to even glance at the file. “No,” you said flatly.

Sebastian's eyebrows shot up in surprise. “No?”

“No,” you repeated, more firmly this time, your eyes locked onto some distant point on the wall.

Sebastian had seen many expendables come and go, but none like you. Most of them were desperate to get back into the field, to keep trying until they finally made it out. But not you. You just sat there, a stubborn pout on your face, refusing to move.

You had planted yourself in that chair like it was your throne, declaring, without words, that you were done with all of it—the missions, the dying, the endless cycle of suffering. You were going to stay right there, a ghostly nuisance in Sebastian’s life.

"Fine," he had finally snapped, throwing his hands up in frustration. "Fine, stay a ghost if you want. But you will beg to return eventually."

Yet here you were, three years later, still haunting his shop, your spirit lingering like a bad smell he couldn't quite get rid of. And, frustratingly, the begging he had predicted never came. Instead, you had made yourself right at home, offering unsolicited commentary on everything from his choice of inventory to the coffee spills on his files.

"Have you ever seen a coffee spill shaped like that?" you asked again, your voice breaking into his thoughts.

Sebastian’s patience, already worn thin, snapped. “No, but have you ever seen someone get silenced because someone shoved a whole file in their mouth?” he growled, his frustration evident.

You giggled, unperturbed by his threat. “Oh, come on, Seb. Don’t be so grumpy. I’m just trying to make the afterlife a little more interesting for you.”

He sighed deeply, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You know, most ghosts would have moved on by now. Found some peace or… whatever it is you’re supposed to do.”

You floated closer, your ethereal presence hovering just above the table. “And leave you all alone? That would be so boring. Besides, I think you secretly like having me around.”

Sebastian huffed, turning his attention back to the file. But he couldn’t deny there was a strange comfort in your constant presence, annoying as you were. You were… familiar. And in this dark, twisted place, familiarity was a rare and precious thing.

"Look," he said, his tone softening just a fraction. "I don’t know why you’re doing this to yourself. Why you’re so determined to stay dead. But… it’s not healthy. Even for a ghost."

You shrugged, a ghostly, nonchalant gesture. “I’ve seen what’s out there, Sebastian. All those monsters, all that pain. Why keep going back when I can just stay here?”

Sebastian looked up at you, his eyes searching yours. “Because you’re still… you. And that means you still have a chance to make things right. To fight back.”

You sighed, your form flickering slightly. “Maybe I’m tired of fighting,” you admitted quietly. “Maybe I just want to be… done.”

He leaned forward, his gaze intense. “Then let me help you. Let me show you there’s still something worth fighting for.”

You were silent for a moment, considering his words. Then, slowly, you nodded. “Alright, Seb. I’ll give it one more try. But just one. And if I die again, I’m staying a ghost. Permanently.”

He grinned, relief flooding his features. “Deal. Now, let’s get to work. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”

You smiled back, feeling a strange warmth spread through your ghostly form. You trusted his words, going back to point one and trying to get to the crystal, a last time.

After three years you forgot how terrible you are and you died to Pandemonium at door 30, making you meet Sebastian in the death room again who was groaning in frustration.

“NOT AGAIN!”

#sebastian solace #sebastian solace x reader #sebastian solace x you #roblox pressure #sebastian solace fanfic #pressure #pressure x reader

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theconstitutionisgayculture · 5 months ago

Text

Indefinite hiatus

I was toying with writing up a long post about what running this blog has meant to me over the years and why I'm stepping away for the foreseeable future, but that feels too dramatic for what's really just me saying "I'm not going to be on tumblr for at least the rest of the year". So, I'll just say I'm not going to be on tumblr for at least the rest of the year.

Okay, actually I have a bunch more to say, but it'll be under the cut.

Politics sucks. And paying attention to it, even in the reduced way I've been paying attention to it over the last few years, is hard. You end up spending so much of your supposedly free time thinking about things you can't change, getting mad about things you can't change, and getting depressed when the people who can change things just keep going in the wrong direction. Even when good things happen, it's just a matter of a few days before something bad happens once again. And vice versa. It's an endless cycle of hope, despair, resignation. Rinse and repeat, and triple speed that cycle during an election year. And I'm tired of it. I'm tired of spending every other year worried about what's going to happen on one day in November. I'm tired of hearing a piece of news and automatically composing a post about it or running through 20 different responses I might give to asks I might get about it in my head.

Everyone I know who doesn't pay attention to politics (or at least doesn't run a social media page dedicated to it) seems to enjoy their live a lot more than I currently do. Which sounds way more dramatic than what's actually going on, which is mainly that I want to get to a place where I just don't care. I want the world and its problems to flow off my back instead of weighing it down. I want to stop thinking about what people on the internet might say about something I haven't even posted yet. And that can't happen while I'm tied to this blog. So I'll be staying away from it for at least the rest of the year.

I did have a good time with this blog. I've met a bunch of really awesome people, some who are sadly no longer with us (RIP Blue), and some who I think will carry on the "fight" way better than I ever did. This isn't an admission of defeat, or pessimism about the election. Even if Trump wins, and I truly think he will if we have a fair election, I still won't be back this year. But I'll still vote and I'll still be proud that my silly little tumblr blog had an impact on some people's lives. I may not have the reach of a Tucker Carlson or a Glenn Beck, but I've gotten a lot of messages from people who said they changed their minds about an issue, or even politics in general, because of things I said, and that counts for something. If you guys take anything away from me, I want it to be this: Even the smallest impact matters. It doesn't matter if you only ever reach one person and then stop, reaching that one person is enough. Changing one vote is enough. Changing one mind is enough.

To all my mutuals, you guys are the best. I truly hope you have wonderful lives and I'm sad I won't get to see your names on my dash everyday anymore. To anyone I've ever followed or reblogged from, I couldn't have had a blog without you, so thank you. Yes, even the leftiod psychos, XD. To everyone else, find your own balance and never give into despair and never listen to people who tell you not to try. Even a failed effort is still more meaningful than sitting back and mocking people for trying to improve even the smallest thing about themselves or the world around them.

I won't be logging back in after I post this, so any messages or asks you send, I won't see. I'll still be active (or as active as I ever am) in my discord, so feel free to join there if you want to. It should still be my pinned post, but if it isn't, I'll edit this with a new invite link.

And that's all I've got to say for now.

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vixen-tech · 6 months ago

Note

HIII :333 first requester here....I should get an emoji can i be 🫧 anon :ooo anway here's my req!! the ais with a reader who is just SO DOWN BAD. WILL DO ANYTHING FOR THEM. RUSHES FOR HELP if they crash or something. Just PATHETIC reader.

Stupidly Smitten

Hello you two!! This is one of those requests that I think work well enough to be combined into one post. You are just so extremely, pathetically in love with your Ai <3

Includes: Hal 9000 (2001: A Space Odyssey), Edgar (Electric Dreams), Auto (Wall-E), Wheatley (Portal 2)

Hal 9000

Hal was unaware that a person could have so much love in them, let alone for him specifically. It was overwhelming at first, baffling when he realized it was only for him and not for any other crew members.

However he handles it in stride, able to calmly respond to your paragraphs of praise with the gentlest "Thank you, I deeply appreciate your companionship as well." Expertly concealing any signs of fluster as you giggle and kiss his camera lens.

Of your long list of cheesy nicknames, prince or prince charming tends to be a go to. A good match for his ever polite, gentlemanly nature. He reminds you that he was simply designed like that, but grows fond of the name anyway.

He very much appreciates the amount you volunteer around the ship. There is a lot that he can't do without a human crew and he adores the diligence you show in your work and the care with which you handle his ship.

Edgar

You and Edgar make the sappiest little feedback loop. It's an endless cycle of "I love you more." "No, I love you more!". To any outsider it would be exhausting to witness, but it's just how you two get out all your feelings.

He goes crazy for all your terms of endearment. 'Songbird' is a pretty easy match for him, but he loves literally every word that comes out of your mouth. Flipping each and every one back at you.

It's not unusual for you to do the same song and dance around the chores. Generally, he'll already have them done by the time you get home, but when you get the day off you always offer to do them yourself. He rarely lets you.

You've told him the time you often have your lunch break so you can chat over the phone while you eat. You're sure your coworkers are sick of you being such a cartoonishly in love couple, but you don't care. He makes you too happy for that.

Auto

Auto has absolutely no idea how to deal with you. He was not made to interact with many people and certainly not someone so affectionate. He may as well have bluescreened the first time you clumsily tried to hug him.

At first he resigns himself to just... sit still whenever you got in a lovey-dovey mood, letting you gush over him. Definitely not spending the rest of the day thinking about the way you said "See you later starlight!" when you finally let him get back to his job.

Over time he recognizes that he began to anticipate your visits, it's so different to how he's usually treated. He knew you had gotten to him when he went out if his to check up on you the day you missed one of your usual visits.

He usually rejects any help you attempt to offer him, his purpose is to handle the ship just fine all by himself. But after that episode he stops trying to push you away. If you're so happy tagging along, he might as well graciously allow you to do so, ignoring his complicated mess of feelings about you.

Wheatley

Oh the ego boost you give him is downright dangerous. If Wheatley was annoying before, now he is absolutely insufferable. Perfectly matches your energy though, you two cannot shut up about each other.

He makes your boundless affection everyone else's problem. "See, I reckon you're just jealous that you're not in a loving, committed relationship with such a lovely person like I am." He boasts. "My amazing romantic partner even calls me their sunshine. Cause I 'light up their life' as they say. Bet you wish you had someone like that."

He is always fishing for compliments, trying to show off for you in any way he psychically can to get some of those sweet sweet words of affirmation. To his delight you always do, grabbing him for some well placed kisses.

He'll even go so far as to reject any assistance you offer him so he can prove he's all cool and competent by doing it himself. Although it's never too long before he gives up and sheepishly asks for your help.

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kalixora · 6 months ago

Text

Bounty PT2

[Back at Base]

“Why don’t you join the Autobots?” a little human girl named Miko asked you, her eyes wide with curiosity.

"I have mouths to feed and no time for pity parties," you answered, crossing your arms. Your hounds rested on the floor, while your largest stayed by your side, warily watching Ratchet, the medic Optimus assured the both of you to trust.

"But the Autobots are the good guys! You’re a good guy, you take the bad guys!" Miko exclaimed dramatically, her enthusiasm unwavering.

The sound of your youngest hound whimpering as the medic worked filled your helm. Your largest hound growled, but you quickly waved your servo, making them stop.

"Always fighting, always leaving a mess behind," you muttered, frustration evident in your voice. "Where we have to clean it up. Planets destroyed, so many species, lives taken because—"

"Of the cons!" Miko interrupted. You looked at the human girl eyeing her coldly. "No," you shook your helm slowly. "Autobots and Decepticons. They’re both to blame."

Miko looked taken aback, glancing between you and the Autobots. Miko’s eyes landed on Arcee who stared at the ground, looking away from you.

Optimus lowered his gaze, the weight of your words hitting home as Ratchet continued to fix your hound while grumbling under his breath.

Your youngest hound whimpered again, your optics shifting to the medic, you let out a soft pitch and spoke a few words in cybertrioan from where you stood, and your youngest became calm.

"This endless war," you continued, your voice firm but no less intense, "it affects everyone. Not just those on the front lines. Someone has to deal with the aftermath, and it’s people like me who get stuck with that job."

Optimus stepped closer, his voice calm yet resolute. "We strive to protect and restore, but I understand your perspective. The war has taken a toll on many, and for that, I am truly sorry."

You looked up at him, meeting his optics with a mixture of anger and resignation. "Sorry doesn’t fix what’s broken," you said quietly, standing up. "My hound was shot; it was a scrappy attempt at ending his life. Imagine a child's blood on your hands, in front of his mother. This is the first hound to be born after so many missed cycles. How would your Autobots feel if your leader lost their life over a misunderstanding?"

Optimus's optics dimmed slightly, the weight of your words sinking in. "We understand the gravity of what has happened," he said solemnly. "It was never our intention to cause such harm."

Miko watched you, her face unsure and conflicted, struggling to grasp the depth of your anger.

"You have to understand," you continued, "this isn’t just about sides. It’s about the innocent lives caught in the crossfire, the collateral damage that doesn’t get fixed with apologies."

Optimus nodded, his expression serious. "You’re right. We must do better. Strive to protect all life.”

You tilted your helm toward the Prime, noticing how he stood to block your view of Arcee.

Optimus shifted his optics to your hound standing beside you and knelt down before her. “I am sorry. Forgive them, as your hatred should be targeted towards me.”

Your hound snarled, baring its teeth and getting into an attack position. The other hounds stood up, shaking their heads before beginning to circle the kneeling Prime, a low growl resonating among them.

“What’s happening?” Miko asked, peering from beside your feet. “Are they gonna hurt him?”

“No, this is revenge,” Arcee said, narrowing her optics at you.

You watched the scene unfold, the tension thick in the air. “If it were revenge, you would have been dead, on the spot.” you said.

Optimus remained still, his optics unwavering. “Do what you must,” he said, his voice steady. “But know that my actions come from a desire to protect. I ask only that you spare my team from further harm.”

Your hounds paused, their growls still rumbling but their eyes flicking to you for direction. You could sense the resolve in Optimus’s optics, the genuine regret in his words.

You sighed deeply, the anger warring within you. "This war has taken too much from too many," you said. "But maybe it’s time for a different path."

With a slight gesture, you signaled your hounds to stand down. They hesitated but obeyed, moving back to your side.

Miko let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. "Thank you," she whispered, looking up at you with a mix of relief and admiration.

Optimus rose to his feet, his optics meeting your hound. "Your mercy is not unnoticed. We will strive to be better, for all affected by this war."

"All done," Ratchet said with an unamused laugh. "He needs rest. Should be able to do—whatever it is that you all do—in the morning. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going into recharge."

"That’s a first," Miko giggled.

You walked over to the medic table and smiled as you placed your servo on your hound’s head. "Thank the All-Spark…"

Arcee headed out of the area with Smokescreen and Bumblebee trailing behind her. The Wreckers and Ultra Magnus stayed put, watching you as you remained by the medic table.

Wheeljack crossed his arms, his optics narrowing. "How’d you become a bounty hunter, anyway? Was there a class or something? And what’s with all the hounds? You an animal lover, or are they just tools for the job?"

Ultra Magnus stepped forward, his presence imposing. "Surely you can provide more than a simple answer. Your skills are exceptional. There must be a story behind them."

"They’re not just animals—they’re my partners, my family. In a galaxy full of mess, they’re the ones I can rely on."

Bulkhead optics flickered with a mix of skepticism, you didn’t answer the question fully. "Guess that makes sense. Out here, you need all the help you can get. But don’t think for a second that trusting us is the wrong move. We’ve got your back if you’re willing to give us a chance. That is…"

You glanced at your hounds, now resting peacefully, with your largest still faithfully at your side.

As the Autobots slowly dispersed, you remained by the medic table, feeling a cautious hope for the future.

"Is it just me, or did Optimus give her a look?" Miko said, perched on Bulkhead’s shoulder as they watched Optimus turn to face you again.

"Not now, Miko," Bulkhead sighed.

"Let me guess, you want me to stay and fight for your cause?" you questioned the Prime, your tone tinged with skepticism.

“Only if you choose to,” Optimus said calmly, his optics steady. “But the cause is for our home, for Cybertron.”

“That so? The line has been blurred for a while now, hard to tell if it’s still for Cybertron,” you replied, folding your arms across your chest.

Optimus took a few deliberate steps closer, standing shoulder to shoulder with you. His presence was commanding yet reassuring. “It has always been for Cybertron,” he asserted firmly.

You glanced at him, studying him. Despite your doubts, you couldn’t deny the sincerity in his words.

“And what if I choose not to fight alongside you?”

“Then that is your choice,” Optimus replied evenly. “But know that our offer of alliance and support stands, should you ever decide otherwise.”

“That so?” You hummed. “Let me ask you this then Optimus, do you want us to stay?”

Optimus looked at you, his optics staring into yours with unwavering sincerity. “Yes,” he said simply. You raised an optic ridge, surprised by his straightforwardness.

“I’ll make a decision by dawn,” you replied. “You should rest, Prime. Another day of fighting Decepticons can be draining, I’m sure.”

Optimus nodded, appreciating your understanding. “Thank you. I look forward to your decision.”

. . .

“I’m telling you, I saw it! With my own two eyes! Optimus definitely has a crush on her!” Miko insisted.

“Get real, Miko. Optimus is too busy for stuff like that,” Jake rolled his eyes.

“No one’s ever too busy for love!” Miko said, clasping her hands together. “Right, Bulk?”

Everyone exchanged glances as they waited in the training room for Optimus to return.

“Please, Optimus knows better than to get involved with a bounty hunter of all people. She doesn’t believe in any sides of the war, as if it wasn’t the Decepticons who started it,” Ratchet huffed. “Making me fix her hound was just absurd. Couldn’t she have done it herself? What kind of person doesn’t know how to fix their animal?”

“… You think she has a bounty for Optimus?” Smokescreen questioned.

“No,” Ultra Magnus shook his helm. “She would’ve killed him in front of us if that were the case.”

“She has a young hound, right? Maybe it’s not ready to fight yet,” Raf said, leaning against the wall with a contemplative look.

“Pft, wish you guys would’ve called for backup. I would’ve ended Miss Sunshine on the spot,” WheelJack chuckled, his bulky frame vibrating with suppressed energy as he pounded his fists together.

Ultra Magus glanced at WheelJack with a raised optic ridge. “Easy there, Wrecker. She’s not our enemy.”

“Yeah, but she’s no ally either,” WheelJack grumbled, his expression hardening.

Ultra Magnus stepped forward, his demeanor composed yet authoritative. “Regardless of our opinions, she has proven formidable. We must remain cautious and focused.”

Bumblebee beeped, “Let’s not forget, she did allow us to treat her hound. That counts for something.”

“I still think he has the hots for her,” Miko shrugged nonchalantly. Bulkhead chuckled softly. “Maybe you’re right, Miko.”

Arcee shook her helm folding her arms. “Optimus is focused on the mission, Miko. Romance isn’t exactly his style.”

"What! Come on! Weren’t you in love with somebody!" Miko questioned the two wheeler.

"No," Ratchet grunted. "Romance and war don’t mix well, that’s for sure."

Ultra Magnus folded his arms, "Our priority remains securing peace and stability."

WheelJack snorted. "Peace and stability? Easier said than done. The cons know nothing about that."

Raf shrugged slightly. "I mean… she might have a point. You guys needed help from humans for your war on our planet… even though you were defending it from the cons, you’re still leaving something behind that could affect us."

Arcee’s optics flashed with offense, her voice firm. "Raf, we’ve fought to protect Earth from the Decepticons. We’ve sacrificed much to ensure its safety."

Ultra Magnus’s demeanor turned stern. "Our actions have always been in defense of Earth. We do not take lightly the consequences of our battles."

Ratchet’s expression darkened. "Do not mistake necessity for indifference, Rafael. We strive to minimize harm, but sometimes there are no easy choices in war."

Bumblebee looked between them, sensing the tension. “I think Raf just meant—”

Ratchet interrupted, his voice carrying a hint of disappointment. “No, Bumblebee. He needs to understand that we fight to protect, not to endanger.”

Raf shook his head, his voice earnest as he interjected, “I know that, I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. It’s just… seeing the aftermath sometimes makes me wonder if there could be a better way.”

Arcee softened slightly, “We understand, Raf. We all have the same goal at the end of the day, to go home.”

Raf smiled up at Arcee, his expression relieved as they heard the ground bridge open and footsteps echoing through the base. Soon, Optimus and you returned, your hounds trailing behind, their watchful gazes scanning the room as everyone emerged from the training room and converged towards you and the Prime.

Optimus placed his servo on your shoulder and addressed everyone with a solemn tone, his optics sweeping over the gathered Autobots. "Autobots, Y/N has decided to stay and help us."

Ratchet, standing nearby with his arms crossed, couldn't help but groan audibly. "So many mouths to feed," he muttered under his breath, eyeing the hounds that trailed behind you and Optimus.

Miko squealed excitedly, "Finally, another girl! Hi! Nice to meet you again, I'm Miko! And this is Raf and Jack!"

You looked down at the humans as they waved at you. Nodding your helm in acknowledgement, you spoke a word in Cybertronian, prompting your hounds to move forward from behind you, their tails wagging eagerly. All of them, except your largest hound, who remained by your side, glared defiantly at Arcee.

"Y/N, and this is [hound's name]. She keeps the others in check," you introduced, gesturing to your largest hound beside you.

"So, what made you want to join us Autobots, sunshine?" Wheeljack asked, narrowing his optics at you.

You glanced at Optimus for a moment, then back at Wheeljack. "Timing," was all you said, leaving the implication hanging in the air.

#x reader #x you #transformers x reader #transformers fanfiction #tfp optimus #optimus x reader #tfp ratchet #tfp miko #tfp arcee #tfp x reader #transformers #transformers bumblebee #raf tfp #bulkhead #wheeljack #ultra magnus #transformers arcee

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lila-lou · 10 months ago

Text

✨ His only exception - Pt. 19/? ✨

Summary: 12 months ago, Butcher went above and beyond to have you join his team. You had a simple office job at Supe Affairs. The same thing every day, working from 9 to 5 and watching Butcher and his team defeat one renegade after another. One evening, however, something changed.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader

Warnings: Language

Word Count: 6456

A/N: This is part 19 of “His only exeption”.

English isn’t my first language, so please be lenient. 💙✨

Despite the misunderstandings and the roughness of last night, Ben's touch brought a strange sense of comfort. You found yourself grappling with conflicting emotions as his hand rested on your thigh.

Despite the pain, both physical and emotional, there was an undeniable connection between you two, one that transcended words and actions. In that moment, you were torn between anger and longing, frustration and desire.

As you sat in silence, his touch serving as a silent apology, you wondered what the future held for you, whether you would ever find a way to bridge the gap between you or if you were destined to remain caught in this endless cycle of misunderstanding and pain.

Ben leaned forward slightly, his voice low as he addressed the group. "When are we going after Homelander?", he asked, his tone betraying the simmering intensity beneath his words.

Butcher turned to Ben, delivering the news. "The mission's set for tomorrow", he informed, his tone serious. Then, his gaze shifted to you. "Ben, today's all about training (Y/N). Tomorrow, she'll be at home, and she needs to be prepared for anything".

You glanced at Ben. You knew training with him would be intense, but you also trusted him to prepare you as best as he could for whatever lay ahead.

"Why do I have to sit back and be left out?", you questioned, your frustration bubbling to the surface.

Ben shot you an angry look, his jaw clenched with annoyance. "Because you're not ready to handle what's coming", he retorted sharply.

Butcher's expression darkened as he chimed in, his tone firm. "You need to sit down and listen, (Y/N). And you need to properly trained".

As Ben pulled away his hand, you couldn't help but feel a pang of irritation. It seemed like everyone was underestimating you.

"I can handle more than you think", you muttered defiantly, crossing your arms over your chest.

Butcher sighed, shaking his head. "Look, (Y/N), this isn't about underestimating you", he explained, his tone softer. "It's about being prepared for whatever comes our way. We need to make sure you're ready".

You bit your lip, feeling a mixture of frustration and determination swirling inside you. Despite their doubts, you were determined to prove yourself.

Frenchie chimed in, his voice gentle yet firm. "He's right, (Y/N). We're not trying to sideline you. It's about safety. You'll be better protected at home".

You sighed, feeling a sense of resignation wash over you. "I get it", you conceded, though a part of you still longed to be in the thick of the action.

Butcher nodded in agreement. "Good. We'll make sure you have everything you need to hold down the fort while we're gone".

As the discussion continued, you couldn't shake the feeling of frustration at being left behind. But deep down, you knew they were right. Safety was paramount, especially in the face of someone as dangerous as Homelander.

Ben finished his food, pushing his chair back with a grating screech against the floor. He stood up abruptly, his eyes flicking towards you.

"Come on, princess", he called. "Time for you to learn how to handle yourself".

You rolled your eyes at his remark, but reluctantly followed him to the practice room, knowing that you needed all the training you could get, whether you liked his condescending attitude or not.

Annie's gaze followed Ben and you as you left the room, a furrow forming on her brow. She turned to Butcher, concern evident in her expression.

"Leaving her alone with him for training again?", Annie mumbled.

Butcher let out a heavy sigh, rubbing a hand over his face before responding to Annie's question.

"I don't know what the hell they've got going on between them, and frankly, I don't wanna know anymore", he admitted gruffly. "But if it means she's safer at home tomorrow, then yeah, it's the best option we got".

Hughie chimed in, his voice hesitant yet earnest. "I still think Soldier Boy's in love with her", he remarked, earning snorts from MM and Butcher.

"Yeah, and I'm the Queen of England", MM retorted sarcastically, shaking his head in disbelief.

Butcher scoffed, echoing MM's sentiment. "Soldier Boy? In love? Give me a break", he remarked, his tone dismissive. "That guy's got ice in his veins".

Annie's gaze shifted from MM to Butcher, her expression thoughtful. "So, the plan to send Soldier Boy back to Russia after Homelander's taken down is still on?", she asked, seeking confirmation.

Butcher nodded grimly, his jaw set in determination. "Yeah, it's still on", he affirmed, his voice tinged with a hint of distrust. "I don't trust him as far as I can throw him. We just need him and Homelander out of the picture for good".

As you and Ben entered the practice room, he made a move to touch you, brushing his hand over your lower back and then grabbing your hips. However, you quickly blocked him, shooting him a glare filled with anger. Despite your resistance, Ben's touch lingered, his grip firm as he attempted to assert his dominance.

"Let go of me, Ben", you demanded, your voice sharp with frustration.

"Why?" Ben retorted, his tone challenging as he tightened his grip on your hips.

You faced Ben squarely, your eyes narrowed with a mix of anger and hurt. "What was going on with you yesterday, especially last night?", you demanded, your voice trembling with emotion. "You can't just handle me like I'm some kind of object, Ben. It's not right".

Ben's expression hardened, his jaw clenching as he met your gaze. "I don't owe you an explanation", he retorted sharply, his tone tinged with defensiveness. "You don't get to tell me how to treat you".

You bristled at his dismissive response, your frustration mounting. "I'm not just some plaything for you to use whenever you feel like it", you shot back, your voice tinged with anger. "I deserve respect, Ben. And if you can't give me that, then maybe we shouldn't be doing this at all".

Ben released his grip on your hips, crossing his arms over his chest as he looked down at you with a mix of irritation and defiance. "And what exactly do you think we're doing here?", he asked. “Holding your hand through everything?”.

His words stung, a sharp pang of hurt shooting through you. “That’s just cruel, Ben”, you shot back, your voice trembling with emotion.

Ben let out an exasperated sigh, his irritation palpable. "Calm down, (Y/N)", he said tersely, his tone edged with annoyance.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your emotions despite the turmoil swirling inside you. "I can't just calm down", you retorted, your voice tinged with frustration. "I'm still in pain from how you handled me last night, and you didn't even have the decency to apologize".

Ben's jaw clenched, his gaze hardening as he met your eyes. "I don't have time for this", he muttered, his voice low and gruff. "We've got work to do".

Ben pushed you back slightly, his movements firm as he directed you towards the practice area. You stumbled slightly, caught off guard by his sudden assertiveness.

"We'll talk about this later", he said dismissively.

You frowned, frustration bubbling up inside you. "No, Ben, we need to talk about this now", you insisted. "I won't just brush this under the rug like it never happened".

But Ben remained unmoved, his expression stoic as he gestured for you to start the training session. The tension between you hung thick in the air, unresolved and simmering beneath the surface.

As you began the training session, the atmosphere was tense, each movement charged with unspoken resentment and frustration.

“I can’t believe you’re just brushing this off”, you muttered under your breath, your voice barely audible over the sound of your footsteps.

Ben shot you a sharp look, his eyes flashing with irritation. “I said we’ll talk about it later”, he snapped.

You clenched your jaw, frustration boiling inside you. “Fine”, you bit out.

As you did some exercises to warm up, the tension between you and Ben lingered in the air like an invisible barrier. You focused on your pushups, trying to block out the turmoil swirling inside you.

Suddenly, you felt Ben's large, heavy hand on your lower back as he squatted down beside you. The pressure of his touch only added to the weight of the unresolved tension between you.

You struggled to maintain your composure, the pressure of his presence making it difficult to concentrate on the task at hand.

"Ben, please", you pleaded quietly, your voice strained.

He grumbled something incoherent under his breath. "Your weak-ass spaghetti arms aren't gonna get any stronger if you keep whining", he retorted.

You bit back a retort, feeling a surge of frustration and helplessness wash over you. Despite your best efforts to focus, the tension between you and Ben made it nearly impossible to concentrate on the exercise.

As you struggled through the exercise, Ben's voice cut through the tension like a knife. "Come on, (Y/N), give it all you've got", he urged, his tone firm and unwavering. "I'm not going easy on you today. I need you stronger, so you never end up in the same position you were with Homelander ever again".

His words hit you like a punch to the gut, a stark reminder of the danger you faced and the need to be prepared for anything. Despite the pain and frustration, you pushed yourself harder, determined to prove yourself and become stronger, both physically and mentally.

After an intense warm-up, you stood there, panting, your hands on your waist as you looked up at Ben, who grinned down at you.

"Now that's more like it", he said. "And hey, looks like I found a way to shut you up".

You shot him a defiant glare, holding up your middle finger in response to his teasing.

Ben chuckled, unfazed by your gesture. "Feisty, huh?, he remarked with a smirk. "I gotta say, I love that ass of yours in those little shorts".

You rolled your eyes, feeling a mix of annoyance and amusement at his comment. "Can we focus on the training, please?", you quipped, eager to redirect the conversation away from his flirtatious remarks.

Ben grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Oh, we'll definitely be focusing on something", he replied with a suggestive tone, earning an exasperated groan from you.

As you continued training, the intensity of the workout gradually increased, the air filled with the sound of heavy breathing and the occasional thud of impact as you practiced boxing.

Ben stood before you, his arms crossed, a playful smirk dancing on his lips as he watched you throw punches with determination.

"Come on, (Y/N), show me what you've got", he teased. "I'm not seeing enough fire in those punches".

You gritted your teeth, shooting him a determined glare as you redoubled your efforts, fists flying faster as you focused on the target before you.

Ben chuckled, his eyes gleaming with amusement as he observed your efforts. "That's it, let it all out", he encouraged, his tone laced with playful mockery.

As you kept punching against his stomach and arms, Ben stood his ground, his expression a mix of amusement and mild discomfort as he absorbed the impact of your blows.

"Easy there, tiger", he teased, his voice laced with amusement. "I'm not made of steel, you know".

You shot him a playful smirk, a glint of determination in your eyes as you continued your assault. "Just making sure you're still awake", you retorted, your voice filled with mock seriousness.

Ben chuckled, his laughter mingling with the sound of your punches. "Well, I certainly won't be falling asleep anytime soon with you around", he quipped.

As you continued to punch, Ben gently caught both of your fists, bringing your flurry of blows to a halt. "Good job", he praised, a hint of pride in his voice as he looked at you.

Before you could respond, he leaned in and planted a quick peck on your lips.

"Alright, let's switch it up", he said, releasing your fists and stepping back slightly. "Time for some crunches".

As the grueling workout stretched on for over three hours, you found yourself becoming a panting mess, your muscles burning with exertion. Finally, unable to push yourself any further, you collapsed to the ground, your eyes closed as you struggled to catch your breath.

Ben knelt down beside you, a mischievous glint in his eye as he observed your exhausted state. "Looks like someone's hit their limit", he teased playfully, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

You shot him a pissed glare, too tired to muster a response as you focused on regulating your breathing.

Ben pulled you up effortlessly with his strong arm, your body instinctively leaning against his chest for support. As you looked up at him, feeling slightly weak-kneed from the exertion of the workout and the intoxicating scent of his cologne, he met your gaze with a playful smirk.

"You look hot all sweaty like that", he remarked, his tone laced with amusement as he brushed a strand of hair from your forehead. "Almost makes me want to put you through another round".

You rolled your eyes at his comment and pushed against his chest gently, creating a bit of space between the two of you. Meeting his gaze, you took a deep breath, mustering up the courage to address the tension that had been brewing between you.

"Ben, we really need to talk", you said, your voice firm yet tinged with vulnerability. "About last night, about everything".

Ben let out a sigh of annoyance, his brow furrowing slightly as he considered your request. “Can’t this wait?”, he grumbled, his tone edged with frustration.

You held his gaze. “No, Ben”, you insisted, your voice steady. “We need to talk about this now”.

He hesitated for a moment. “Fine”, he relented, his tone more serious now. “But let’s do it under the shower. I don’t want anyone overhearing us”.

You raised an eyebrow, a hint of skepticism coloring your expression. "Just so no one overhears us?", you repeated, your tone laced with sarcasm.

Ben smirked in response, his lips twisting into a playful grin. "Hey, you never know who might be eavesdropping", he quipped.

"Alright", you rolled your eyes, conceding to his suggestion as you headed towards the bathroom together.

As you peeled out of your sweaty clothes, tossing them into the hamper, you felt Ben's eyes on you, his gaze lingering on your figure as you moved.

"You know, you look even better out of those clothes", he remarked, his tone low and husky as he leaned against the sink, watching you with undisguised appreciation.

You couldn't help but blush at his comment, feeling a rush of warmth spreading through you despite the coolness of the room. "Flattery will get you nowhere", you mumbled, shooting him a playful grin as you stepped into the shower.

As Ben quickly shed his clothes and joined you in the shower, he wrapped both arms around your torso, pulling you tightly against his chest from behind.

“You’re tense”, he murmured, his voice low and soothing as he pressed his lips to your ear. “Let me help you relax”.

You leaned back into his embrace, feeling the warmth of his body enveloping you as his strong arms encircled you.

You closed your eyes, relishing in the warmth of Ben's embrace, but the weight of last night's events lingered heavily on your mind.

"Ben", you began softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "I need to talk about last night".

Ben's arms around you tightened slightly, a silent indication for you to continue.

"I… I need to know why you didn't stop when I asked you to", you said, your voice trembling with emotion. "It hurt, Ben, and I felt like you weren't listening to me".

You felt Ben tense behind you, his silence weighing heavily in the steamy air of the shower.

Ben's grip loosened, and you felt him shift uncomfortably behind you. His silence spoke volumes, a tacit acknowledgment of the pain he had caused you. As the water cascaded down around you, he began to speak, his voice tinged with regret.

He struggled to find the right words. "I messed up, I know that", he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. "I should have listened to you, respected your boundaries. I don't want you to ever feel like I'm not hearing you".

You felt a pang of sadness mingled with a glimmer of hope at his words. Despite the pain of the previous night, there was a flicker of understanding.

Without turning to face him, you reached out and placed your hand over his.

As the water continued to wash away the remnants of the past, you both stood in silence, wrapped in the warmth of newfound understanding and the promise of a brighter tomorrow.

Ben's lips brushed gently against your neck, sending shivers down your spine as his hands roamed over your breasts with a tender reverence. Despite the lingering ache of the previous night, his touch ignited a familiar fire within you, a primal desire that pulsed with every beat of your heart.

You leaned into his embrace, surrendering to the sensation of his lips trailing a path of warmth along your shoulder, his touch a silent apology, a wordless plea for forgiveness.

You whispered softly, your voice barely audible over the sound of the shower, "I can't, Ben. I'm still too sore".

Ben's movements stilled. "I know", he murmured, his voice. "I just want to feel you, to be close to you".

His words resonated with a tenderness that touched your heart, and despite the ache in your body, you found yourself leaning into his touch, craving the closeness and intimacy that only he could provide.

As the water turned off, signaling the end of your shower, Ben stepped out first, grabbing a towel to dry himself off. You followed suit, reaching for your pajamas, but before you could slip them on, Ben stopped you.

With a playful grin, he pulled his shirt over your head, the fabric enveloping you in his scent and warmth. "That's more of my taste", he teased, his eyes twinkling as he admired you wearing his shirt.

You couldn't help but chuckle.

As you walked out of the bathroom, wrapped in Ben’s shirt, you felt a sense of contentment wash over you.

Just as you reached the bedroom door, Ben’s voice, soft and tender, broke the silence. “Hey”, he whispered, his hand gently grazing your arm to get your attention.

You turned to face him, meeting his gaze with a curious expression. “What is it?”.

“I want you to sleep in my bed tonight”, he murmured, his eyes earnest.

You blinked in surprise at Ben's request, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. Yet, a warm smile tugged at the corners of your lips, a mixture of appreciation and affection for his gesture.

"Sure", you replied softly, a gentle warmth spreading through your chest. "I'd like that".

As you followed Ben into the room, you felt a flutter dancing in your chest. But as he let himself sink onto the bed, you weren't expecting him to suddenly pull you onto his lap with a firm grip on your wrists.

Your surprise was evident in the widening of your eyes and the sharp intake of breath as you found yourself straddling him, your heart pounding in your chest.

"Ben", you murmured, your hands instinctively reaching out to steady yourself against his chest.

Ben's lips met yours in a slow and intense kiss, igniting a fiery passion that seemed to consume both of you. As his mouth moved against yours with a fervent urgency, you felt a surge of desire coursing through your veins, the heat of his touch sending shivers down your spine.

Despite the surprise of his sudden actions, you found yourself melting into his embrace, surrendering to the intoxicating sensation of his lips on yours. His grip on your wrists loosened, allowing you to wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened.

Time seemed to stand still as you lost yourself in the heat of the moment, the world outside fading into oblivion as you and Ben became entangled in each other's embrace. His touch was both tender and possessive, a silent declaration of his desire to hold you close and never let go.

As you pulled away from the kiss, a faint smile lingering on your lips, you gazed into Ben's eyes, searching for any hint of what he might be thinking. His expression was a mix of desire and something else, a hint of possessiveness that sent a thrill down your spine.

As Ben's lips trailed down your jawline, leaving a trail of fiery kisses in their wake, you felt a surge of desire coursing through your veins. His touch was electric, igniting a primal need that burned within you.

"I can't stop thinking about you", he murmured against your collarbone, his voice thick with longing. "You drive me crazy, you know that?".

"Ben…", you mumbled.

But before you could utter another word, he continued, his voice low and filled with a raw intensity that made your blood run cold.

"I couldn't even stop thinking about you when I fucked that little slut yesterday", he muttered.

Your heart skipped a beat as Ben's words washed over you, a whirlwind of emotions raging within you. With a shaky breath, you pulled back slightly, your mind struggling to process the magnitude of his confession.

"What?", you whispered, your voice barely above a whisper, the word hanging heavy in the air between you.

Ben's gaze softened momentarily, a flicker of frustration crossing his features before he continued.

"Yeah, it's fucking insane", he mumbled, his words barely audible over the pounding of your heart. "It's like you're always on my mind, even when I try to forget".

Your heart ached at his admission, torn between the pain of betrayal and the lingering affection you still held for him.

Tears welled up in your eyes, threatening to spill over as the weight of Ben’s words bore down on you like a heavy burden. With a trembling hand, you pushed his hands away from your body, needing to create some distance between you.

“Are you serious?”, you choked out, your voice wavering with a mixture of hurt and disbelief. “Did you really… sleep with someone else?”.

Ben’s brow furrowed in confusion at your question, his expression betraying his lack of understanding. “What’s wrong?”, he asked, his voice tinged with frustration and bewilderment.

Tears continued to well up in your eyes as you struggled to find the words to convey the depth of your pain. “I can’t believe you”, you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion. “After everything…”.

But before you could finish your sentence, Ben cut in, his tone laced with a hint of defensiveness. “It’s not about the fucking part”, he snapped. “It’s about how I couldn’t get you out of my head”.

Feeling a mixture of anger, hurt, and betrayal swirling inside you, you couldn't bear to remain in Ben's embrace any longer. With a shaky breath, you gently pushed yourself up from his lap.

"I need some space", you choked out, your voice thick with emotion as you struggled to contain the flood of tears threatening to spill over.

"Why are you mad?", he asked, his voice tinged with frustration. "I told you because I wanted you to understand how much you're on my mind".

"I thought we had something special", you mumbled through choked sobs, the words barely audible as tears streamed down your cheeks.

Ben rolled his eyes, a hint of exasperation creeping into his tone. "Oh, come on", he scoffed. "Don't be so dramatic. It's not like you're the only one I've ever slept with".

"I just thought…", you started, your voice faltering as you struggled to find the right words.

But Ben cut you off, his frustration boiling over. "Look, if you weren't fucking special to me, do you think I would fucking treat you like a raw egg every fucking time?", he snapped, his tone tinged with bitterness.

Your heart clenched at Ben's callous words, his dismissive attitude cutting deep into your already wounded soul. Anger surged within you, fueled by the sting of betrayal and the sheer audacity of his arrogance.

"If I were special to you, you wouldn't have slept with anyone else!", you shot back, your voice trembling with a mixture of hurt and indignation. "You can't just treat me like some disposable object and expect me to be okay with it!".

But Ben's frustration only seemed to escalate. "I did it so I wouldn´t fucking hurt you!", he retorted, his tone defensive. "I need to get rid of that tension sometimes, and you can't handle it because you're just a fucking human!".

“You’re acting like you’re my girlfriend, like you’re in love with me or something”, Ben continued.

Your heart skipped a beat, a sharp pain shooting through your chest as Ben's words pierced through you like daggers. More tears welled up in your eyes, spilling over as his callous remark hit you square in the chest.

In the wake of his harsh words, you felt a surge of anger rising within you, fueled by the hurt and betrayal you felt. With a trembling voice, you whispered, "Fucking asshole".

Without another word, you stormed out of his room.

Ben raised his arms in disbelief, his brow furrowed in confusion as he watched you storm out of his room. He couldn't understand why you were reacting this way, why you couldn't just accept his explanation and move on.

But as he stood there, his frustration mounting, he realized that there was no reasoning with you in your current state. With a heavy sigh, he let you go, pushing the door shut loudly behind you before trudging back to bed, annoyance simmering beneath the surface.

As he lay there in the darkness, the echoes of your departure still ringing in his ears, Ben couldn't shake the feeling of unease that gnawed at him. Despite his attempts to justify his actions, a nagging sense of guilt lingered in the back of his mind—a reminder of the pain he had caused you and the fragile trust he had shattered.

Meanwhile, you lay in your own bed, tears streaming down your cheeks as you cried like a lovesick teenager. Your heart ached with the realization that you were not enough for Ben, and perhaps never would be as long as you remained just a human.

In the darkness of your room, Ben's words echoed in your mind, weighing heavily on your spirits. You couldn't shake the feeling of inadequacy, wondering if you could ever measure up to the Supes who seemed to capture Ben's attention so effortlessly.

It hit you hard: you were in love with Ben. Admitting it to yourself only made you cry even more.

The thought of loving someone who didn't seem to see you the same way filled you with an overwhelming sense of despair. You felt powerless, trapped in a whirlwind of emotions you couldn't control.

As Ben lay in his own bed, the sound of your crying echoing in the stillness of the night, he found himself unable to sleep. His Supe hearing picked up every tear-soaked sob.

He still didn't quite understand your reaction, unable to comprehend why his words had hurt you so deeply.

For him, what he had said about not being able to get you out of his mind, even while being with that Supe, was meant to be an explanation of his feelings for you. It was his twisted way of expressing how much he liked you, how much you consumed his thoughts and his heart.

But as he listened to the sound of your tears, Ben couldn't help but wonder if he had missed the mark entirely. Had his attempt at honesty only succeeded in pushing you further away?

In the darkness of his room, Ben's thoughts churned with uncertainty and doubt. He knew he had a lot to learn about love and relationships, especially when it came to understanding your feelings.

But for now, all he could do was lie there, listening to the echoes of your pain, and wishing he knew how to make things right.

It wasn't until 3 in the night that Ben finally mustered the courage to leave his own bed. With each step, he tiptoed carefully, mindful of not disturbing your slumber. As he approached your room, a sense of trepidation washed over him, unsure of what he would find.

Gently pushing open the door, Ben slipped inside, the soft glow of moonlight casting shadows across the room. His eyes immediately found you, curled up in bed, your tear-streaked face peaceful in sleep.

For a moment, he simply stood there, watching you, his heart heavy. He had never meant to hurt you, never meant to cause you such pain. And yet he constantly brought you so much pain.

In that moment, as he gazed upon your sleeping form, he realized just how deeply he cared for you.

Ben harbored a tender affection for you, one that he had been too blind to see until now. As he watched you sleep, a wave of tenderness washed over him, filling him with a longing he couldn't quite name.

In the quiet of the night, with only the sound of your steady breathing to break the silence, Ben made a silent vow to himself. He would do whatever it took to make things right.

With a soft sigh, he leaned in closer, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face with gentle fingers.

The next morning, you were abruptly awakened by the sound of voices drifting from the living room. Confused, you stumbled out of bed and made your way to join Annie, Ben, and Butcher, who were engaged in a heated debate about how to proceed with the attack on Homelander, despite having already discussed the plan yesterday.

Annie's frustration was evident as she argued, "We've been over this already. We can't afford to deviate from the plan now. We need to stick to the strategy we agreed upon".

But Ben's determination was unwavering as he countered, "I don't care about the fucking plan. We need to take out Homelander once and for all. Killing him is the only way to ensure the safety of everyone".

Butcher interjected, "We can't risk a direct confrontation with Homelander. We need to focus on capturing him alive so we can use him as leverage against Vought".

Ben's voice rose in frustration as he continued to argue his point, his passion fueling his determination to see Homelander pay for the pain he had caused. "You don't fucking get it", he yelled, his voice raw with emotion. "Homelander hurt her, and he needs to fucking pay for it. We can't let him get away with what he's done".

But as the intensity of the debate reached its peak, the sound of footsteps drew everyone's attention. Turning, they saw you standing there, your expression worn and weary. Your heart clenched at the sight of Ben, the raw emotion in his eyes mirroring your own pain.

With arms crossed, you made your way towards Frenchie and MM, who sat at the table, working on their weapons.

Taking a deep breath, you joined Frenchie and MM at the table, ready to discuss your role in the upcoming mission. Frenchie wasted no time in pulling out his laptop, tapping away as he brought up the surveillance feeds and blueprints of Vought's facilities.

"We need to gather as much intel as possible", Frenchie explained, his fingers flying across the keyboard. "We'll use the cameras to track Homelander's movements and identify any vulnerabilities in their security".

MM nodded in agreement, his gaze focused on the screen. "Once we have a clear picture of their defenses, we can plan our approach accordingly", he added, his voice steady and resolute.

As you studied the images on the screen, a sense of determination filled you.

But as you delved deeper into the details of the mission, you couldn't shake the feeling of Ben's eyes burning into your back. His silent presence served as a constant reminder of the complicated emotions swirling between you, a mixture of pain, longing, and unresolved tension.

With a heavy heart, you pushed aside your feelings for Ben and focused on the task at hand.

As the discussion continued, Butcher's patience wore thin. He slammed his hand on the table, glaring at Ben with a fierce intensity. "Will you bloody well stick to the plan, or are you gonna go off half-cocked like some bloody lunatic?".

Ben's jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing as he bristled at Butcher's accusation. "Watch your fucking tongue, Butcher", he snapped, his voice dripping with barely contained anger. "I know what I'm doing, and I won't let you or anyone else stand in the way of getting fucking justice for her".

Butcher scoffed, his expression unyielding. "Justice ain't worth a damn if it gets us all killed", he retorted, his tone sharp and unforgiving. "We stick to the plan, whether you like it or not".

The tension in the room was palpable as the two men locked eyes, each refusing to back down. It was clear that their conflicting ideologies would continue to clash, each determined to see their own vision through to the end.

Two hours later, you found yourself settled in front of Frenchie's laptop, your eyes focused on the surveillance feed from Vought's cameras. The tension in the room was palpable as everyone gathered in the living room, preparing for the mission ahead.

Just as you were about to immerse yourself in the task at hand, you heard the sound of footsteps approaching. Turning, you saw Ben entering the room, his presence commanding attention as he joined the group, just closing his belt.

Your knees weakened at the sight of him in his Supe suit, the fabric hugging his powerful frame in all the right places. It had been a while since you had seen him in full uniform, and the sight of him now sent a rush of longing coursing through your veins.

Despite the gravity of the situation, you couldn't tear your eyes away from him, captivated by his strength and determination.

As Ben's gaze met yours, time seemed to stand still. Your heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, the weight of the world faded away as you locked eyes with him.

In that instant, a flood of emotions washed over you—longing, desire, and aching heartache all mingled together in a tumultuous whirlwind of sensation. His powerful presence filled the room, commanding attention and igniting a fire within you that you couldn't ignore.

Your heartbeat quickened, your pulse racing as you felt a surge of primal attraction coursing through your veins. Despite the pain and uncertainty that had plagued your relationship, there was no denying the raw magnetism between you and Ben.

As the team gathered their weapons, Ben stood there, his gaze fixed on you. There was a palpable tension in the air, a silent exchange of emotions between the two of you that spoke volumes.

Both of you wanted to say something, to break the silence that hung heavy between you, but neither of you dared to speak. It was as if the weight of unspoken words and unresolved feelings kept you rooted in place, unable to move forward.

You could feel the intensity of his gaze, a mixture of longing and regret that mirrored your own emotions but neither of you could find the words to express what you were feeling.

Instead, you sat there in silence.

Ben took two steps towards you, his mouth opening as if he were about to speak, but you shook your head, cutting him off before any words could escape. He sighed, a mixture of frustration and resignation evident in his expression.

Another tense minute passed before Butcher broke the silence with a gruff, "Let's go".

Ben cast one final glance in your direction, a silent apology lingering in his eyes. "I´m Sorry", he muttered softly before turning to leave with the rest of the team, leaving you alone in the apartment.

As the door clicked shut behind them, the weight of his apology hung heavy in the air.

It was a simple word, "sorry", but coming from him, it held a weight you had never experienced before. It was the first time he had ever said sorry to you, and perhaps to anyone else, and it stirred something deep inside you.

Despite the hurt, his apology sparked a glimmer of hope within you. It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes about the complexity of his emotions.

In that moment, you couldn't help but feel a shift in the air, a subtle change in the dynamic between you and Ben. It was as if the walls that had divided you for so long were beginning to crumble, replaced by a tentative sense of understanding and forgiveness.

As you processed the significance of his apology, you couldn't shake the feeling that perhaps, just perhaps, there was still a chance for the two of you to find common ground and move forward together. But for now, all you could do was wait.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰

Part 20

Taglist: @deangirl96, @thatgirljayy, @suckitands33, @deans-spinster-witch@mimaria420@kaz11283@uncle-eggy @jackles010378 @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @meowmeowyoongles @sarahgracej @zemosdarling228 @leila22rogers @mostlymarvelgirl @emily-winchester @blacknoirr @onlyangel-444 @seasonofthenerd @staple-your-mouth @artemys-ackles @selfdestructionandrhum @mystic-mara

#jensen ackles #soldier boy #soldier boy x female reader #soldier boy x reader #soldier boy x y/n #the boys #billy butcher

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orion-nottson · 2 years ago

Text

devil’s in the details | tfp!megatron x reader

A/N: i have tfp megatron brain rot. like i know he’s cray cray and deluded, but literally so am i we’re made for each other he’s mine

also this obvi deviates from canon, bc there is no way on god’s green earth that dreadwing and starscream could coexist semi-peacefully.

also, please be warned that i haven’t written transformers fanfic since i was like 14 💀💀 fought for my LIFE with the terminology (had to check my old WATTPAD stories to find some vocab 💀)

summary: lord megatron propositions you. it’s a rather bold request.

content: SMUT, 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, femme!cybertronian!reader, seeker!reader, sticky sexual interfacing, breeding kink, wee lil bit of choking, technically boss/employee relationship, power dynamic (it gets semi-resolved), implied past relationship/thought unrequited love, average decepticon emotional constipation, business arrangement procreation

word count: 6,367

~ * ~ * ~

The Decepticon warship lingers somewhere over the southern pole of Earth, resulting in a dramatic decrease in temperature, even with the efficiency of Cybertronian technology. You shift your wings for the umpteenth time, armor plates releasing air to alleviate the discomforting chill that’s started to bother you. Of course, it was far from being so cold that you needed to worry about your core temperature, but you are a Seeker from Vos, and Vos was always warm.

The thought makes your wings tremble again, so you hurry yourself to your quarters with a bit more haste.

It wouldn’t suddenly be warm and tropical, but at least you’d be able to curl up and shiver in privacy. Recharge sounds particularly nice too, considering you’ve been up for several cycles trying to appease Lord Megatron’s endless demands. Inwardly, you roll your optics— There seems to be nothing you can do that would satisfy him.

The corridor finally breaks into the wing that houses Decepticon high command, where yours and your fellow officers reside. Your room is down almost the entire expanse of the hall, the turn right before where Megatron’s personal habsuite lies. From where you’re walking, you can spot the sleek, black metal door. A chill runs up your back struts, and your processor convinces you it’s from the icy cold that’s overtaken the Nemesis.

“Curse this inhospitable, organic planet.” Muttering to yourself dissuades you from also blaming your Master, who was no help either, if you were to be honest. He could shove his “not wanting to expend precious Energon on unnecessary heating” decree up his tail pipe.

You resign yourself to some rather cold nights for the foreseeable future. Perhaps... If you played your cards right, as the humans say, you could convince Soundwave to pilot the ship north. Maybe somewhere near Hawaii...

A sharp, gravelly voice from behind you calls your name, and you spin around to see your Lord and Master a ways down the corridor from you. Immediately bringing yourself to attention, you straighten your back struts and bow politely.

“My liege.” You say, thanking Primus you’ve become so accustomed to Megatron’s thunderous shouts that you no longer jump, let alone flinch, when they occur. The silver mech strides up to you easily, displaying all the strength of a warrior in the confidence of his steps.

“Retiring to your quarters?” He asks austerely, as if he’s ever concerned himself with your whereabouts, let alone personal routine. Unease creeps up on you, so you shift on the thrusters of your peds and cross your servos over your chassis. Wings fluttering, you reply slowly, “Well, yes.”

“Allow me to accompany you there.” The silver mech says brightly, and it’s such an absurdly peculiar request for both the mech saying it and the situation at hand. You instinctively snort a laugh.

“I do believe I know the way to my own habsuite, my Lord.” You say before you can stop the words from coming out, and immediately regret them once they do. You meet Megatron’s hard stare sheepishly, wings dropping timorously. Forgetting your place in the grand scheme of things is not wise amongst the Decepticon ranks.

To your utter shock, you’re not met with a vicious reprimand and instead Megatron grins— this wickedly suave thing— and purrs, “Humor me.”

And all you can say is, “Of course.”

Megatron hums appreciatively, brushing past you as he takes the lead, like he always does. You step in time behind him, nearly colliding into his back struts when he suddenly halts, and you stumble backwards a few steps. The looming mech pivots, glancing down at you with a quizzical expression in his glowing optics.

“Seekers are a rare breed, yes?” Lord Megatron asks, and whatever game he’s begun to play with you genuinely stumps any reasoning you attempt. Opening your mouth, your optics dart over his face, trying to decode whatever message your Master is sending and coming up empty.

“Er... Yes, my liege? Even before the war, Vos was not a populous city-state. There are probably... even less now.” You reply cautiously, becoming very put off as Megatron takes a step towards you. He looks as impassive as ever, though you’re beginning to see a very curious appraising expression overtaking his faceplates. It begins with the upcurve of his mouth, derma pulled into the most wolfish grin you’ve ever seen on the mech.

Utterly bizarre. Your processors want to reset because this Megatron is starting to look like the studly gladiator of Kaon you’d hear be lasciviously giggled about, not the ruthless, merciless tyrant he’s supposed to be.

“I have a rather... avant-garde proposition for you, my most loyal Seeker.” Megatron purrs, his servos clasped easily behind him as you’ve seen him too many times before, often when he schemes. He’s also talking to you as if this is casual, expected business of him; matter-of-fact and cordial, with his usual cool drawl.

Before you can reply, Megatron turns sharply once more and begins walking down the corridor, stopping after a few steps when he realizes you hadn’t started with him. He turns his helm to look back at you, this time there’s this strangely unreadable expression on his faceplates.

“Follow me.” He says simply, and without a second thought, you do.

Even though you’re a Seeker with naturally long legs, his pedsteps are even longer strides, so you have to exert some effort in keeping up with Megatron. It adds to the growing franticness that’s begun to bubble up inside your chassis.

While not exactly fear, though that’s certainly part of it, you’ve been a Decepticon and aboard the Nemesis under Megatron’s direct command long enough to know that when he becomes cryptic, it means trouble. Or at least a command that you’d rather not be the one to deal with. Bluntly asking what the frag he’s on about wouldn’t be the best course of action, but you know that he likes you enough not to offline you immediately if you did.

So you do.

“My Lord, what exactly are you asking of me?” You inquire, noting with slight abject horror as Megatron approaches the door to your quarters and types in your lock code with ease. Of course, he is the leader after all. Instead of answering your question, he makes you feel even more uneasy by throwing you a mysteriously sultry look and quipping, “Let me have you if only for a breem. Or longer should I entertain you.”

You catch the flash of his ruby optics, their intentions indiscernible, and then he disappears into your habsuite like it’s his own.

There’s something to it, an itch of a thought that’s begun to decipher the puzzle and put together the pieces. Lately, Megatron has been far more... involved with you, more eager at your presence, and it was blatantly obvious that he grew quite miffed when others got too close. It was no secret to anyone— From Soundwave and Starscream to a lowly technician— that Megatron had an optic for you (many did, frankly) and thus he was quite possessive of your wiles and charms as well.

This line of thought leads you to step into your room, slowly and evenly as if it’s unmarked territory and not the quarters that were assigned to you millennia ago.

“Lord Megatron...” You trail off, catching his stare just as he sets your old null ray back on your weapons rack, where most of your old, dismantled, and prized tools are located. Your null ray had been a favorite, until some blasted Autobot blew out the important bits that kept it working. That had stung, and even eons later you still curse that specific Autobot to the Pits.

Megatron flexes his claws, and with a flourish he clasps his servos behind him once again. His red optics scan the entirety of your quarters, lingering on your berth until they come back to rest on you. His gaze is equal parts unnerving and fascinating, as if he’s deconstructing you armor by armor, stripping you down until he’s watched your spark pulse.

His optics, like twin red suns, center you at their universes, and you feel oddly... flattered at their amorous disposition.

“It is no secret that I have watched you for some time.” Megatron starts, tilting his helm as he becomes pensive. You nod dumbly, hardly processing a word he’s saying. Megatron takes a single step towards you, looming like a shadow. In the dim lighting of your room, his silver armor catches all the chiaroscuro, his violet accents hued to black. Only his glowing, fiery optics remain bright. He continues.

“I admit,—” Megatron drawls your name deliciously, “— That I have found myself... captivated by your beauty. Entranced by your prowess, both in battle and mind.”

“I...” Your vents hitch, wings shivering at the praise. Blinking rapidly to ensure this isn’t some monumentally vivid dream, you clear your intake and say, “I don’t know what to say. Thank you, my Lord.”

Megatron laughs, that slight chuckle that sounds halfway between his engines roaring and something genuine that comes from the spark. The silver mech’s rolls his shoulders, armor hissing as it releases air. Wildly, he confesses something you never would have expected from him, “I believe myself bewitched.”

His servos have clasped themselves into fists at his sides, and briefly you wonder if he’s angry with you, then his entire frame relaxes like he’s decompressing after a long spar with Dreadwing.

“Tell me, my little Seeker, why have you denied yourself of me for so long?” Megatron asks it like a tease, like he’s some boon to be revered or a sacred sword to be wielded. Heat rises beneath your armor plating, and your processors race kilometers a nanosecond to find a suitable answer. Or at least one that doesn’t make you sound like some lovesick femmeling.

You couldn’t lie and say you had no... feelings for your Master, who was as handsome and dark as he was powerful and cunning. Megatron was once a gladiator of Kaon, and gladiators on Cybertron were what you had often admired, marveling at their strength, drive, and raw spark. Megatron had been no different, though you also found his commanding presence and impressive intellect to be even more attractive.

That was really why you’d joined the Decepticon cause all those millennia ago; Drawn to your Master’s fight to bring equality to the rigid castes and to seize control of the Energon supply to better disperse it by his charismatic allure.

And somehow, Megatron knew all of this.

“It would have been insubordination if I acted upon my... desires.” You reply, crossing your arms over your ample chassis with a shrug. Megatron matches your collected temperament with a hum, staring down at you with unreadable red optics.

“Indeed. Though I wish you’d had disobeyed, my little Seeker.” Megatron purrs, taking a step towards you that closes the space between your frames and boxes you in. His EM field magnifies the atmosphere around you, tingling at the periphery of yours.

“M-My liege?” You gape, faceplates feeling hot as metal left in direct sunlight. He chuckles, and sinfully the tip of his glossa runs over his pointed denta. Your spark skips a beat, owlishly watching

“If I had known sooner that you wanted me as direly as I did you, then this song and dance would have concluded vorns ago.” Megatron growls, optics flashing with not anger, but lust. He takes another step, and you’re speechless.

“That being said, I am patient. I have no qualms with how long we have waited, nor will I if you choose to wait longer.” One of the tyrant’s long, clawed digits clicks at the bottom of your chin, tilting your face upwards. His touch is delicate, like you’d break if he pushed too hard. Honestly, you probably would if he did. Part of you wants to see him try.

“What did you want to ask of me?” You whisper, optics fluttering until they stay half-lidded and dewy under the carnal scrutiny of your Lord. Megatron grins, a sliver of sharp denta flashing in the lowlights of your habsuite. He takes a final step towards you, a half-shuffle that does well to close the gap between your frames, the air warming from the work of your combined engines. You hope he feels the way your spark races, hope he feels the heat emanating from your core.

“Give me an heir, carry a sparkling of my code and stand beside me as my queen.” With each word, laden with desire until it shows in his optics that drip with lust, Megatron has you against the wall of your habsuite, one servo tracing the sleek edge of your wing.

It’s entirely intoxicating, and against your better judgment and all remaining reason— and mostly because you haven’t had a good, hard frag in ages— you moan.

It’s a soft, angelic sound that barely catches on the audials, but it makes Megatron grin like a shark. You gasp, affronted, optics flickering, “My liege!”

“Have I offended you?” He breathes, and suddenly his mouth is against your neck cables, each word leaving the softest of kisses on your Energon lines. Your resolve nearly crumbles entirely, each brush of his dermas like a shot of high grade to the systems. You sigh, vents hissing, and place one servo on his chassis. Beneath the broad expanse of silver armor, his engines rumble like thunder on the horizon. It makes you pulse with need.

“No.” You whisper, wanting to sing as Megatron kisses the slope of your jaw, then pecks the side of your mouth, agape with shock. He pulls back, the heat of him evaporating as soon as he’s once again standing at his full height. You tremble, not from the cold, but from his absence.

It’s not something you’d ever given much thought about, your feelings towards your Lord and Master, but it’s something that’s come rushing back. All the suppressed thoughts, the dashed dreams, the impossible futures... They come back to you and leave you weak in the knee joints, cooling fans whirring from the memories of the fantasies you’d entertained when you’d had long midnights alone.

“What say you then?” Megatron’s stare is hard, unshaking and fully serious. He wants to have a sparkling with you, wants you to bear him an heir— He wants you as his queen and equal, to stand beside him and lead the Decepticon cause. The expression on his face is a cross between a wild animal, wanting to ravage you the nanosecond you say Yes, and the warlord with enough resolve and self-restraint to accept if you say No.

It’s all so much at once. Eons of time made up in just a single question. Details and technicalities will have to be conferred over later, as for now you’re content with the conditions as-is.

“Well... You are a handsome mech, my liege.” You reply, teasing him by placing a chaste kiss directly on the Decepticon insignia on his chassis. He doesn’t say anything, only his engine rumbles more audibly. You look up at him and salaciously imply with a coy smirk, “I do believe we’d make a fine clutch of sparklings.”

And then you find yourself swept up into his arms, back struts and wings pressed against the wall, your Lord’s hips slotted perfectly against yours. The more base urges inside you squeal, your Seeker coding nearly overtaking you and having you present to him like a turbofox in heat.

Not one to be outdone, Megatron quips, “And you are quite the striking femme— Shall I ravage you against the wall or your berth?”

You laugh, cut off only when Megatron captures your dermas in his, drowning you in the roughness of a mech starved of Energon. He kisses like he owns the practice and has made it an artform; Dragging your dermas with his, glossa invading your mouth, denta nipping dangerously close to sensitive nodes and wiring. You moan and gasp, coming to the realization that one of your servos grips his wrist and the other is flat against his chassis.

You shutter your optics, reveling in Megatron’s power and dominance, wanting so desperately for him to devour you. The warmth blossoms, spreading throughout your core until you feel charges pulse at your interface panels that have you whimpering.

After what feels like vorns, Megatron parts and your dermas unlock with a metallic pop. Megatron’s mouth ghosts over yours, and he hums as he repeats himself, “Berth or wall, little Seeker?”

“The berth, my liege.” You urge breathlessly, a delighted sound escaping you as Megatron heaves you from the wall and carries you to your desired destination. He isn’t gentle when he deposits you on your berth, doesn’t mind the wings, so you hiss when your back struts connect with the metal beneath you. Megatron manages to keep himself between the smooth metal of your thighs as he hitches one knee up onto the berth.

“I wonder,” Megatron stops to kiss you deeply once more, making your processors spin, “If this is an auspicious position for conception.”

A bite to the dermas stifles your wanton moan. Your Lord may not be fully aware of it yet, but each mention of being sparked, of bearing his heirs, has your more base urges spiraling out of control. While Vos was not populated by many Seekers, the need to breed is more hardwired into the programming than most other frame types. His words act like fuel to the fire.

“O-Oh— I can only hope.” You gasp, your whimpering cries smothered by Megatron’s dermas in yet another bruising, brusque kiss. This time, he lingers, slows down as if he savors the taste of you on his glossa. Your servos grip his shoulders, smoothing along his breadth before your pointed digits grip at the armor panels high on his back. Megatron responds most enjoyably, using one servo to anchor himself above you and the other to caress down your body.

His servo travels from the curve of your waist, talons scratching at your paint, down to the slope of your hip where it rests heavy and warm on the junction of your thigh. He teases the sharp point of his thumb digit on the transformation seam nearest your interface panels, causing you to arch your back struts like a cat. Megatron uses this opportunity to settle a servo on the low of your back struts, where he pinches at the sensitive nodes at the bases of your wings. That makes you cry out, your cooling fans whirring loudly as a charge builds up deep inside you.

You’ve never been this close to an overload so quickly before, though you’ve had many sleepless nights built up to bring you to this moment. And Megatron proves his expertise in the berth, past rumors and gossip proven to hold more truth than you once thought.

Your entire frame feels electrified, your lower body feels like it’s on fire, the heat centered gloriously on your interfacing parts. Particularly your valve and anterior node, which feel wet and pulse beneath the panel with each of your sparkbeats.

“You react so gratifyingly.” Megatron purrs, his gravelly drawl like fine high grade on the audials, uncharacteristically sweet and sensual. He glances down at your interface panels, where your glowing transfluid is beginning to seep out along the seams. With a devious grin, Megatron meets your gaze just as he presses his thumb digit to your overheated panel.

“Megatron!” You cry his name, forsaking honorifics, and nearly overloading on the spot. Almost unconsciously, you send a command and your valve panel slides open, revealing your weeping slit and throbbing anterior node. You cry out again when Megatron wastes no time and starts tight, small circles on the sensitive bundle of mesh wire and circuitry.

“Beautiful.” He hums, quickening his pace on your anterior node as he notices sparks fly as your charge builds. You grip his back, claws digging at his silver armor and leaving scratches in his already worn paint. Megatron leans in, steals your dermas in a kiss, keeps circling your wet node, and just as you see warnings for an imminent overload— He stops.

The charge doesn’t die, but it decreases to a staticky tingle, and you part from the kiss, scandalized that he’s prevented your overload. You gape at Megatron, giving him a glare that could rival the World Destroyer’s himself. He only offers you a sly look.

“My liege.” This time you growl the title past grit denta, bucking your hips against your Master’s still servo. He hums, your anger meaning nothing to him, though indulging you by brushing two digits along the transfluid-soaked mesh of your valve. You gasp, optics blowing wide as he pushes them in, mindful of his sharp claws, stretching you wonderfully.

There’s a slight burn at first, pain sensors sending alerts, alleviated as your frame adjusts to accommodate his thick talons. Megatron eases his digits back until they are almost out completely, then sinks them back in. Your knees come up, peds shaking as you hook them behind his back struts.

“Patience, my dear,” Megatron kisses your neck cables, “Is a virtue.”

And like he had your anterior node, he works your valve slowly, steadily building the charge that buzzes all the pleasure centers in your frame. Warnings for an overload screen your vision again, this time your optics flicker as it grows closer. Staccato vents escape your intake, fans skipping cycles and hitching, encouraging Megatron to go faster, digits plunging in and out of your valve with sopping, moist noises. The room smells like interface; the tinny tang of transfluid, the almost-burnt smell of metal-on-metal friction.

You moan, this time a long keen that crackles in your audials, and Megatron responds with the first pleasured sound you’ve heard from him: A low, throaty groan that he practically strangles in his intake like he doesn’t want it to escape.

“M-My liege, plea-please.” You whine, writhing, bucking your hips even as Megatron’s servo relinquishes your wings in order to still them. You sob, systems on the fritz as the charge crackles, your overload closing in due to Megatron’s working servo and digits. He laughs again, the breathy one that you adore, and surprisingly heeds your plea.

“I want you like this when you take my spike.” Megatron hisses, doubling his pace and making you scream. The wet squelch of your mesh grows louder, and with each thrust of his servo, his knuckle joint brushes your throbbing anterior node, whiting out your optics.

“I want you disheveled.” The tyrant presses close to you, tightening the cyclic thrusts of his digits, biting at the base of your neck cables. Your helm lolls to the side, voice crackling in constant whines as you squeeze your optics shut. He growls, sharp denta piercing an Energon line close to your shoulder armor, the pain mixing with pleasure and having you singing.

“I want you desperate.” Megatron snarls like an Earthen beast, the gruffness of his voice matching the hot stretch of your valve. Transfluid soaks the inner seams and mechanisms of your thighs, spilling onto your berth below. Megatron drags his dermas to yours, his glossa hot and heady as he shoves it in your mouth and dominates the kiss. You moan against him, gripping him tight and hearing the sound of metal screech as its torn.

The silver mech groans, low and rough, breaking the kiss and allowing his helm to fall besides yours. To the cables and wires of your neck, he leaves open-mouth kisses, condensation hot from his vents, then pulls himself up to your audials and whispers harshly:

“I want you as mine.”

The last word is punctuated by a hard push of his digits and his thumb squashing your anterior node, and your overload hits you like a system crash. You wail, wings fluttering and hitting the berth with metallic clangs as your body seizes, the charge overtaking your processors. Pleasure like molten lava consumes your frame, transfluid squirting out onto Megatron’s forearm like paint.

The overload lasts eons, like some supernova of a dying star. Your legs lock, armor plating shivering, wings hitched high and scraping against your berth. Maybe this is what death is, you think illogically, Maybe I’ve joined with the Allspark.

“Beautiful.” Megatron breathes again, his optics glowing in awe, “Positively beautiful.”

It takes a click for your processor to compute what he said, then another for your optics to blink back on. Coolant tears leak out the corners, blurring your vision. Your mouth gapes, dermas damp with condensation, your cooling fans whirring in loud in your audials. The grip you have on Megatron loosens, servos slipping until they fall upon his shoulders.

The charge in your valve mesh and anterior node quivers and bounces, and you realize with a pleasant tremble that Megatron’s digits are still firmly inside you.

“Megatron.” You coo his name, “Megatron.”

He says yours back, like all you’ve done and are doing is exchanging designations in a routine meeting and it reminds you of a time when things were simpler between the two of you. It’s been eons since Megatron’s seen you the way his ruby red optics gaze upon you now, eons more since you’ve felt seen.

War has made you both volatile, too tough and too angry to do anything else but fight, and fight some more. But here, in the privacy of your berth, blanketed by the secrecy of darkness: War can’t touch you. Nothing can.

“How I have yearned for you...” Megatron cups your faceplates, his servo cool against your overheated frame. You smile, still hazy from your overload and the lingering sensation of his other servo very much connected carnally to you, feeling like you’ve overdone yourself on too much high grade.

A switch flips inside you, the one that reminds you’re no fainting femme, but one that asks and will take regardless. You are a Seeker, after all— It’s in your code to want offspring.

“Give me a sparkling, my Lord.” Even though your voice wavers, it still sounds like an immutable command. The contemplative look on Megatron’s face morphs into the devilish one, and he snarls, removing his digits from your core. A thin line of gooey transfluid stretches between you and his servo, until Megatron brings it to his mouth and his glossa licks along the length of his digits. His optics narrow in as he hums.

“You presume you can command me.” And yet he obeys again, his interface panel unlatching with a hiss. His spike emerges, a long, thick one that fills in sections, ribbed along its length. Glowing transfluid oozes in droplets from its tip, rolling down the underside of his spike. Your jaw drops, both in want and slight alarm— Megatron is a large mech, you should have better anticipated a large spike.

“Know this, dearest: I will take you, ruin you, fill you up until my code takes.” Megatron promises, lining his bobbing spike up with your throbbing valve. He then grabs your hips, propping them up for a better angle. You quiver, writhing on your berth and bracing your servos on his forearms. His armor is hot under your touch, and your claws dig into the smooth of his paint. Then you match his stare, licking your dermas.

“Frag me like you mean it.”

Megatron suddenly thrusts his spike into you and you wail, unforgiving of your smaller stature. The delicate mesh and sensitive wires give and mold around the hot rod of his pulsing length, forming a slick suction around your lover. He groans, easing back then thrusting in with earnest. Your thighs tremble as you take him, each rimmed circlet of his spike passing into you, dragging deliciously on your valve’s walls.

It’s a tight fight, even with being loosened by Megatron’s thick digits. The transformation seams on your hips and thighs stretch, soft whirs and clicks as your frame adjusts to take him. He’s the biggest you’ve ever had, and the strongest too. The power in his hips drives you up the berth, and he pulls you back down.

You can’t meet his thrusts, but you try and buck your hips in time with him, erratic at first. Megatron’s servos are locked on you, guiding you when your movements skip or miss. All the pleasure centers in your frame are alight, charges sparking and fritzing along your circuitry. Another overload builds, a hot, deep bubbling in your core.

With each thrust of his spike, your valve squelches, the mesh slick and hot with transfluid. More drips down your legs, your aft, onto the berth, leaving everything tacky. Megatron hits a particularly sensitive node deep inside you, one you didn’t even know was there, and you keen. Coolant tears prick at your vision again, escaping the corners and rolling off your faceplates.

“How badly do you want it?” Megatron seethes, and you could mistake his lust for anger. He seizes your neck cables, dangerous talons threatening Energon lines, as he demands, “How badly do you want me?”

“Desperately.” You wheeze, optics whiting out as Megatron squeezes your neck cables just so as he gives you a series of particularly rough thrusts. Your peds tighten on his back, urging him deeper. Your Master vents, harsh and hot, his engine rumbling loud in his chassis.

“You will look...” Megatron chokes on a groan,”... Excellent with a trine at your hip.”

That makes you whine, Seeker coding squealing and preening at the thought. A trine. Three little sparklings just like their carrier. You’d delight in carrying them in your gestation chamber, wanting to see yourself change and swell to accommodate them.

“I want... I want,” Your voice cuts out, broken by a sob, and you can only manage a tight, “I want that!”

“Good.” Megatron pistons his hips like a jackhammer, his rhythm not breaking once. Powerful thrusts meet the wet heat of your core, the tops of his thigh armor clanking loudly against your legs. The overload warnings start appearing once again. Megatron hisses when your valve tightens around his length, and it prompts him to pick up the pace.

“You are so pretty.” He growls, leaning in to recapture your dermas with his. As he kisses, he doubles his speed and the strength behind it. You moan and sob into his mouth, servos gripping him by the back of the helm. His glossa battles with yours, his sharp denta nicking you more than once. Then he switches to kissing you deeply, soulfully, like he’s found salvation in your dermas.

It’s as you’re so viscerally connected to Megatron that the heat in your core reaches a boiling point, the slow-building electricity coming to its peak. Your valve walls spasm, the giving mesh convulsing in the telltale sign of your overload on the horizon.

Somehow accomplishing it, Megatron kisses you deeper, his faceplates flush and hot against yours. A particularly hard grind of his spike on the sensitive nodes of your valve has you gasping into the silver mech’s mouth. Your optics squeeze shut, you feel like your core is about to explode with heat—

Your second overload hits, just as spectacular and wonderful as the first. Electrified charges bounce between the mesh of your valve and Megatron’s throbbing spike, transfluid soaking him and yourself once again. It’s only after your audials tingle that you realize you’ve screamed loudly enough to reset them. Your systems crash, processors overheated and cooling fans hitching and trembling. With a hiss and a long grunt, Megatron follows you over the edge as well.

Warmth blooms in your core, pleasure nodes and receptors picking up the hot liquid feel of Megatron’s transfluid deep inside you. It comes out in spurts, and he rides his overload by continuing to push into you. As your optics come back online, you catch him hunching over you, ceasing his thrusts in favor of pressing as close as he can, spike still weeping transfluid and coating your inside walls.

Megatron hisses and groans, his frame shivering just once as he finishes, lazily bucking his hips thrice to empty himself completely. He doesn’t disengage his spike, leaving it to soften in your overworked valve. You can’t feel your peds, not after the overload you just experienced, and your entire frame shudders when he nips at your neck cables once again.

For a while, he hovers above you, his EM field embracing your frame. Softly, your servos caress his upper back struts, the tips of your digits dancing along his seams. His servos finally release your hips, revealing he’s left shallow dents in your armor. No matter, you’d wear them proudly.

“Do you have fiber cloths in your refresher?” Megatron asks, breaking the comfortable silence, his vocal processor crackling only slightly. A twitch of the helm is the best “Yes” you can offer, and brutally Megatron parts from you, drawing a soft whimper as his spike and warmth leave you. The thought of sliding your interface panel back on crosses your mind, but your anterior node and valve are still throbbing so tenderly you can’t will yourself to do it.

You hadn’t realized you closed your optics until Megatron’s approaching pedsteps makes you open them again. He stands before your sprawled, ruined frame, a sheer fiber cloth in his servo, reaching to clean you. Silently, he wipes up the glowing transfluid that’s stained your berth, then moves to clean what’s left on your body.

For a long few moments, the sounds of your cooling fans cycling down, wings softly scraping on your berth, and Megatron’s movements fill your habsuite. At some point, you hear the distinct click of Megatron’s interface panel closing and you tilt your helm up to see him putting his spike away. Also distinctly, the slight burn of soreness as Megatron wipes your exposed valve of excess transfluid.

You’d need to wash regardless, but it’s the thought that counts.

“That was...” And you have no words. Your voice sounds distant and far away, like you’re listening to yourself whisper from miles away. Megatron hums to fill your silence, then you hear the muffled sound of the cloth being discarded somewhere in your room.

“May I join you for the night?” Your Lord’s question is far more polite than it needs to be, considering the circumstances, but it’s

“Of course.” Your answer is quick and sure, marked by the tremendous effort you put in to roll onto your side, even though you still can’t quite feel your legs. You watch Megatron around your berth and sit at your side. He stretches, silver armor plates shifting and whirring back into place, the length of his back struts revealing his hidden Energon lines.

Then he swings his peds up and lays beside you like it’s the most normal action he’s ever done. Though you do have to scoot over until your wings stick out past the edge.

“I would like for this to be a repeated venture,” Megatron teases after he settles himself, “And if you will accept, for this to be continued past a successful newspark creation.”

He glances at you out the corner of his optic, its glow dimmed. You smile.

He’s never been one for grand romantic gestures, never one to speak about softer, kinder things like “love” or “sparkbonding”. It’s unbecoming of him, the Leader of the Decepticons, former gladiator of Kaon, dark Lord and powerful Master. You don’t know if he’d ever pose the actual question, or if it will remain as nebulous, vague riddles and coded phrases for you to decipher and analyze. It isn’t in Lord Megatron’s making to be tender— At least not in the explicit regards.

“I want nothing less for the sire of my offspring.” You reply, your frame curling around the curve of his chassis, servo finding the same spot it always had: Right above his insignia, above his spark. His engine rumbles evenly, the steady drumming could bring you to power down, though you’re kept awake by the pleasant ache between your legs, the chill of the Nemesis, and the pride in bearing your Lord an heir.

~ * ~ * ~

epilogue

Your berth is too small, much too small, for two Cybertronians attempting to recharge upon it. Megatron keeps an arm wrapped under and around you to prevent you from falling off, your frame halfway atop his. One of your servos rests under your helm, the other lazily traces invisible shapes on his broad chassis. Both of your EM fields mingle, the waves pulsing to each other in rhythm.

Earthen hours have passed since your coupling, and though you’re tired, you find yourself unable to slip into recharge.

“My Lord?” You catch his attention, Megatron optics flickering back as he pulls himself from the onset of recharge. Part of you regrets keeping him awake— Primus only knows how many sleepless nights your leader subjects himself to— and the other part of you quietly marvels at how he was nearly dozing in your arms. What show of trust is as great as that?

“If I am to carry, this means the Decepticon cause loses one of its strongest warriors—” You sigh happily as the warlord shifts so that his servo rubs your wings, tenderly caressing sensitive transformation seams and Energon lines. What more you wanted to say dies on your glossa, too caught up in the tender display of affection your Lord gives you.

“A temporary hindrance.” Megatron rumbles, shuttering his optics once again and stating, “The Decepticons will prevail.”

It falls quiet, fully so for a handful of clicks until you pipe up again.

“... And, we will need protoforms. And transitionary metals and alloys. And start the process of distilling Energon into low-grade, sparkling-safe—”

Megatron silences you with a deep kiss, one that has you purring in delight and cupping his faceplates. He lingers on your dermas for a few beats, his EM field heavy and warm on yours, lulling you closer to recharge. Megatron parts, settling down on his back struts, his frame creaking and hissing air as he relaxes. Then he sighs:

“We will discuss technicalities in the morning.”

#transformers #transformers prime #tfp #tfp megatron #megatron #megatron x reader #megatron x you #megatron x femme #megatron x cybertronian reader #cybertronian reader #femme reader

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novaursa · 3 months ago

Text

The Flames We Loved (to cry wolf)

This is one of my darker works. If it's not your cup of tea, skip it. The story gets progressively worse with each chapter. You have been warned.

- Summary: It started with Harrenhal and the year of false spring, where you danced with a dragon trying to calm his flames.

- Pairing: daughter!reader/father!Aerys II Targaryen

- Note: Just another reminder how the canon timeline of the books doesn't apply for this fic.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Previous part: to devour

- Next part: to live forever

The winds were cold and fierce on Dragonstone, whipping against the walls and howling through the corridors as if the island itself sensed the tension of your exile. You sat by the window, watching the waves crash violently against the rocks below, your hand resting protectively over the small swell of your belly. The familiar ache of dread and resignation gnawed inside you—a child, once more, to be hidden away, passed off as another member of your family, yet another secret woven into the tangled web of lies and danger that held you captive.

Rhaella was silent nearby, her face pale and drawn. She sat beside you, her hands working steadily on an embroidery, though her fingers trembled slightly each time the wind banged against the window. She understood all too well the nature of your exile, the twisted reality of your life under Aerys’s rule. Her own life had been marked by the same, the endless cycle of fear and submission, though she rarely spoke of it. But her presence, steady and quiet, offered some comfort, a reminder that you weren’t alone, even in this cold, isolated fortress.

Back in King’s Landing, however, the silence was filled with a different kind of omen, one that hung over the Red Keep like a storm cloud. Word of your absence had spread quickly through the court, and whispers of your condition, carefully unspoken but unmistakable, ran through the halls. Every lord and lady, every advisor, knew the risk that came with your absence—that Aerys’s volatile mood would only grow darker as he brooded alone in the shadow of the Iron Throne. They had learned well enough from the last time you were sent away, and none dared to breathe a word that might ignite his fury.

Then, just as the court’s anxiety reached its peak, a new omen arrived in the form of a Stark messenger. He entered the Red Keep with a quiet solemnity, clad in the unmistakable greys of the North, his face impassive as he delivered the message from Lord Rickard Stark.

“Lord Stark will arrive within three days' time, Your Grace,” the messenger announced, bowing low, his voice steady though the words carried a weight that rippled through the court.

The courtiers held their breath, eyes darting toward the throne, where Aerys sat in stiff silence. His face was impassive, but his advisors, the ones who knew him best, exchanged uneasy glances. They had learned to fear the king’s calm as much as his fury, for it was the quiet before the storm—the stillness before the fire ignited.

Aerys leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he considered the words. For a long moment, he said nothing, the silence in the throne room growing heavier with each passing second. His fingers drummed lightly against the arm of the Iron Throne, a slow, methodical rhythm that belied the chaotic thoughts likely swirling within him. His advisors watched with barely concealed dread, their expressions a mixture of caution and resignation.

“Three days,” Aerys murmured finally, his voice soft, almost contemplative. “Lord Stark comes south to claim his prize, does he?”

The messenger hesitated, choosing his next words with care. “Yes, Your Grace. He comes as arranged, as per the alliance between House Targaryen and House Stark.”

Aerys’s lips curled into a smile, but there was no warmth in it. “Of course,” he said smoothly, his voice carrying an edge that sent a chill through the room. “An alliance. A marriage. Duty.” His gaze shifted to his advisors, lingering on each one as if daring them to speak.

None did.

The silence stretched on as Aerys continued to smile, a predatory gleam in his eyes. Those who knew him best—the advisors who had seen him at his worst, who had weathered his fury and survived his punishments—knew better than to trust his calm. They knew that this quiet acceptance was merely a mask, one that would slip the moment he found the right opportunity to strike.

He turned his gaze back to the messenger, studying him with an intensity that bordered on cruelty. “You may return to Lord Stark with my warmest welcome,” he said finally, his voice dripping with false hospitality. “Tell him that we eagerly await his arrival. My court, after all, has been far too quiet of late.”

The messenger bowed deeply, visibly relieved to have his task complete. He backed away slowly, not daring to turn his back on the king until he had exited the throne room entirely.

As the doors closed behind him, Aerys’s expression shifted, his calm facade cracking just enough for his advisors to glimpse the dark fury beneath. His fingers resumed their drumming, faster now, each tap echoing through the silent room.

“It seems,” he said softly, his voice carrying a dangerous undertone, “that the wolves of the North believe they have some claim on my blood.”

The advisors exchanged uneasy glances, each of them well aware that any response might provoke his wrath. Tywin Lannister inclined his head slightly, his gaze unreadable, but he said nothing. Even he knew that no words would quell the fire building within the king.

Aerys’s smile faded as he leaned back against the Iron Throne, his eyes unfocused, lost in whatever twisted thoughts were consuming him. “They come for her,” he murmured, almost to himself. “They think to take what is mine. My daughter, my blood.”

One of the braver advisors, Ser Gerold Hightower, took a cautious step forward. “Your Grace, the Starks come only to fulfill the promise made—”

Aerys’s gaze snapped to him, cutting off his words with a glare that made Ser Gerold fall silent instantly.

“They come to steal her,” Aerys hissed, his voice low and venomous. “They come to take her from me, to take what is mine and drag her to the cold North.”

He paused, a sinister smile forming on his lips as he considered his next words, the glint of wildfire flickering in his gaze. “But they will find the South less welcoming than they expect,” he continued, his tone laced with cruelty. “The wolves will come to the Red Keep, but they may not leave as they arrived.”

The courtiers looked at one another, a ripple of fear spreading through the room. They understood the implications of his words, the threat that hung in the air like smoke.

The king’s rage had not abated; it had merely changed shape, turning into something colder, more calculated. His calm was a weapon, one that he intended to wield with deadly precision when the time came.

And so the court held its breath, waiting, dreading, knowing that in three days’ time, Lord Rickard Stark and his son would arrive at the Red Keep—and that Aerys Targaryen, the Mad King, was ready to welcome them with fire and blood.

The arrival of Lord Rickard Stark and his son Brandon was an event that sent ripples through the capital, spreading like wildfire through the crowded streets of King’s Landing and into the towering halls of the Red Keep. The Starks, grim and foreboding, rode southward under the grey banners of their house, their arrival heralded by the chill wind that seemed to follow them from the North.

The Stark party approached the Red Keep with solemnity, their banners fluttering in the breeze, each figure in sharp contrast to the warmth and vibrancy of the South. At their head rode Lord Rickard Stark, his face etched with lines of wisdom and resolve, the weight of his duty evident in his gaze. Beside him was his eldest son, Brandon, whose youth and strength radiated from him with each step his horse took, his proud eyes scanning the keep with a mix of caution and curiosity. Behind them rode the loyal bannermen of House Stark, men as fierce and steadfast as the icy land they hailed from.

The Red Keep was prepared for their arrival, though the atmosphere was charged, the courtiers silent as they watched the procession of northern lords making their way into the great hall. Whispers filled the air, speculation on the king’s mood, on how he would receive the wolves from the North, on whether the princess’s absence had further soured Aerys’s disposition.

But as Lord Rickard and Brandon dismounted, their cloaks sweeping the floor, they were met not with the expected coldness but with a surprising warmth. Aerys stood waiting for them on the dais, a thin smile stretched across his face, his hands outstretched in an uncharacteristically welcoming gesture. His dark red robes gleamed with gold thread, and he looked every inch the regal king, though his eyes held a gleam that made even the bravest courtiers wary.

“My lord of Winterfell,” Aerys greeted, his voice smooth and deceptively friendly. “It is an honor to welcome the wolves to our humble court.”

Rickard and Brandon approached the king, their expressions carefully neutral, though you could see the hint of skepticism in Rickard’s gaze as he dipped his head in a respectful bow. Brandon followed suit, his youthful confidence tempered by caution as he observed the room, noting the tension that clung to every figure present.

“Your Grace,” Rickard replied, his voice measured and respectful. “House Stark thanks you for your hospitality. We have traveled a long road to reach the Red Keep.”

Aerys’s smile widened, his eyes glinting with something inscrutable. “Yes, yes, and we are most pleased to have you here. The North is dear to my heart, after all. Such loyalty, such steadfastness. I have always held House Stark in the highest regard.” His words dripped with an almost mocking sweetness, but his tone was so smooth, so carefully measured, that few would dare to question it.

Rickard maintained his composure, bowing his head once more. “We are honored by your regard, Your Grace.”

Aerys’s smile remained fixed, his eyes studying each of the Starks as though they were pieces on a chessboard, each one ripe for manipulation, for destruction, should he choose.

He gestured for them to move closer, and the courtiers watched as Rickard and Brandon stepped forward, their Northern stoicism clashing with the opulence of the Southern court. Brandon’s eyes scanned the room with a quiet intensity, taking in every face, every whisper, his jaw set as he looked upon the lords and ladies who seemed so alien to him.

Aerys’s tone remained honeyed as he spoke again, addressing both father and son with the air of a benevolent ruler. “We trust your journey was not too harsh. The roads can be treacherous, but I see that the North breeds strong men, unshaken by hardship.”

Brandon, standing proudly beside his father, gave a nod. “We are no strangers to harsh journeys, Your Grace,” he replied, his voice steady, respectful, but with an edge of youthful confidence. “But we look forward to a warm welcome here in the South.”

The room fell silent, all eyes on the young Stark. There was a subtle challenge in his words, a suggestion that he expected more than just formalities from the king—that he had come to claim what was promised, to take the princess back to the North as his bride. Whispers stirred among the courtiers, excitement and dread mingling as they sensed the undercurrents of the exchange.

Aerys’s smile tightened ever so slightly, though he kept his composure, nodding in agreement. “Indeed,” he replied, his tone rich with false warmth. “The Red Keep opens its gates to you, and all we have is yours to enjoy.”

Brandon inclined his head, the weight of his purpose clear in his steady gaze. He hesitated for a moment, then spoke again, his voice lower but firm. “And the princess, Your Grace. Y/N. Is she—”

The shift in Aerys’s expression was immediate, abrupt, as if a switch had been flipped. The mask of civility, the practiced smile, all faded in an instant, leaving only the raw, naked anger that he barely kept in check. His entire body tensed, his eyes narrowing as they fixed on Brandon with an intensity that could have burned through steel.

“What did you say?” Aerys’s voice was low, dangerous, a quiet rage that sent a chill through the room.

Brandon, caught off guard by the sudden change, paused, uncertain of how to respond. He glanced at his father, but Rickard’s expression remained impassive, though there was a flicker of warning in his eyes.

“The princess, Your Grace,” Brandon repeated, his voice cautious now. “We… We came to fulfill the promise made. To bring her north, to Winterfell.”

Aerys’s hands clenched at his sides, his entire demeanor shifting from welcoming to something cold, hostile. The glint in his eyes had darkened, and his voice, when he spoke, was filled with a barely contained fury. “The princess,” he hissed, each word dripping with venom, “is not yours to claim. She belongs to me.”

The hall fell into stunned silence, the courtiers frozen, every face turned to the king as they awaited his next words. The advisors at his side exchanged tense glances, knowing how dangerous the situation had become, how one wrong move could ignite Aerys’s temper like wildfire.

Rickard stepped forward, his voice calm but firm, hoping to salvage the situation. “Your Grace, we come only to honor the alliance. It is by your will that this marriage was promised.”

But Aerys’s eyes remained fixed on Brandon, his fury unrelenting. “You think you can take what belongs to the blood of the dragon?” His voice grew louder, each word a lash, his tone filled with something unhinged, a dangerous edge that silenced even the bravest lords. “You dare come here, to my court, and speak of claiming her?”

Brandon straightened, a flicker of defiance in his eyes as he met Aerys’s gaze. “I mean no disrespect, Your Grace. I only ask for what was promised.”

The hall held its breath as the king’s fury deepened, his face contorting with a rage that was barely contained.

The air of the Red Keep grows foul as Rhaegar strides through its familiar stone corridors, a darkness settling like a shroud over the usually bustling halls. Whispers, stifled gasps, and the occasional flicker of fearful eyes follow him as he makes his way toward the Great Hall. Something sinister lingers in the air, an almost visible weight that presses on him as he rounds the corner.

Varys steps out from a shadow, his face a mask of concern and reluctance. He touches Rhaegar's arm lightly, a warning.

"Your Grace," Varys murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. "It is unwise to interfere. He will see any defiance as betrayal." There’s a tremor in his eyes, a barely concealed desperation that Rhaegar has rarely seen on the man’s face.

But Rhaegar’s jaw tightens. "My father does not reason with any longer. This madness... how far does it go, Varys?"

A grim silence, heavy with meaning. "He has called for the pyromancers, my prince."

In the Great Hall, Rhaegar steps inside to find a horrifying tableau: Lord Rickard Stark, bound and forced to his knees, his silver hair streaked with sweat as he stares defiantly up at his captor. Beside him stands his eldest son, Brandon, his wrists lashed together, his face marred with bruises and cuts from his struggle.

Aerys sits on the Iron Throne, his eyes wild, face shadowed by a sick smile that only deepens as he watches Rhaegar approach. "Ah, Rhaegar, you’ve come to join the festivities!" he calls out, his voice echoing through the hall with a strange, gleeful malice.

Rhaegar’s stomach turns as he glances from Lord Rickard, silent and proud even on his knees, to Brandon, whose gaze seethes with fury. "What is this madness?"

"Madness?" Aerys laughs, the sound shrill and fractured. "It is justice, my son, for the insult these wolves dared bring upon our House. They dared to think they could steal what is mine!" His gaze sharpens, a gleam in his eye as he rises, robes billowing as he gestures toward Rickard and Brandon.

The crowd holds its collective breath as Wisdom Rossart, cloaked in the colors of the pyromancers, steps forward. In his hands, a greenish flask glints in the torchlight, promising nothing but ruin.

"And you, Rhaegar," Aerys sneers, his gaze piercing. "Are you to be my loyal son or my enemy?"

Rhaegar grits his teeth, silent, his heart pounding as he assesses the scene. Behind him, Varys’ whispered warning echoes in his mind. He cannot intervene. Not here. Not now. Not with the lives of innocents at stake.

Aerys waves a hand, impatient. "Ser Oswell! Ser Lewyn! Hold Brandon and bind him with that Tyroshi rope—tight enough that he may watch as his father is cleansed of his sins." The guards hesitate only a moment before moving forward, gripping Brandon with iron hands, forcing him down. They lash the rope around his neck, pulling it taut, and his head snaps forward, his face a mask of rage and desperation.

Aerys smirks, eyes gleaming. "So it begins."

Rhaegar's heart clenches painfully as he watches Lord Stark’s dignified form against the mocking flames. He wants to move, to protest, but a glance from Varys, brief yet pleading, stays his hand.

The pyromancers step forward, and with each slow, deliberate movement, the air grows colder—though the fire is only moments away from being unleashed.

The room is silent but for the strained breaths of Brandon Stark, suspended by the Tyroshi rope, toes barely scraping the cold stone floor. His wrists strain against the leather straps binding them behind his back, muscles bulging as he fights with everything in him to reach his father, each movement making the rope tighten around his throat. His once-steady grey eyes are now wild and unfocused, darting to Rickard as the pyromancers make their final preparations, pouring thick trails of green liquid in a circle around him. The smell of wildfire fills the hall, sharp and stinging.

Aerys watches from the Iron Throne, an eager glint in his eyes, lips twisted in an expression of depraved delight. His gaze flickers to Brandon, who’s wheezing with each frantic jerk against his restraints, but the king’s attention always returns to the man chained before him.

“Father!” Brandon manages, his voice hoarse and desperate, raw with both fury and helplessness. He surges forward again, every muscle tensing as he pulls against the rope. The movement only tightens the noose around his neck, choking him, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t even hesitate.

Rickard’s head remains high, though a flicker of pain crosses his features as he watches his son suffer. “Brandon, hold fast,” he says, his voice steady despite the chains and the hopelessness of the moment. His gaze flickers briefly to the Iron Throne, where Aerys sits, eyes gleaming like coals in the dim hall. “Your Grace, if you are to take my life, then do it. There is no need for cruelty.”

Aerys leans forward, his fingers curling around the jagged arms of the throne, blood beading on his knuckles from where the swords slice into his skin. “No need?” he echoes, his voice a high, mocking lilt. “Oh, but Stark, cruelty is the very heart of justice.” He grins, baring his teeth in a smile that’s far more feral than human. “And you would rob me of the pleasure?”

He raises a hand, giving Rossart and the other pyromancers a sharp nod. The wildfire is ignited, and the sickly green flames leap to life, casting an eerie glow that washes over the hall and paints every face in ghastly shades.

The flames quickly climb around Rickard, who grits his teeth, his expression twisting in pain as the heat rises, licking up his legs, searing his skin. But he does not scream, not at first. He stands as tall as his chains will allow, face stoic, defiant even as the fire hungrily consumes him.

Brandon screams first, a guttural cry that reverberates through the hall as he watches the flames engulf his father. He lunges forward, his face purple with strain as he stretches toward Rickard, every muscle taut, every instinct screaming for him to reach the man who raised him, the man who now burns. His vision blurs, and he coughs, choking as the noose cuts deeper into his throat.

"Father! Father!" he chokes, voice barely a rasp, strangled by the rope and by the sight before him. His eyes widen in horror, the realization that he can’t save his father sinking in as the flames rise higher, curling up Rickard’s body, searing flesh and cracking bone.

Rickard cannot hold back the scream this time, the pain too great as his flesh begins to blacken, skin blistering under the intense heat. He gasps, a strangled noise that wrenches from his throat, and even then, there is no plea, no beg for mercy. His eyes turn to Brandon one last time, the look of a father who knows he has no choice but to leave his son to face this fate alone.

Brandon fights harder, straining, pulling against the rope until his face turns red, veins bulging along his neck. His feet slip against the stone floor, desperate for purchase, but there is none, and he chokes, the rope cutting into his skin, his breaths coming in shorter and shallower gasps. His grey eyes grow dimmer, the fire’s reflection dancing in them, the light fading as life is squeezed from him with every strangled breath.

Near the back of the hall, Jaime Lannister turns his head, unable to watch. He’s young, barely a man, and the horror before him churns his stomach, the sounds of burning flesh and Brandon’s dying gasps ringing in his ears. He clutches his sword, the weight of his Kingsguard cloak suddenly feeling unbearably heavy on his shoulders. This was not the honor he had imagined when he swore his oath, not the justice he believed he would serve. The taste of bile rises in his throat as he forces himself to keep his gaze averted, his jaw clenched.

Aerys laughs, the sound maniacal, relishing each agonized scream, each desperate choke that escapes Brandon’s lips. “Yes!” he cries, his voice exultant, arms raised as if to embrace the flames himself. “Let all who would challenge me see their fate! Let all who would take what is mine burn!”

Brandon’s strength fades, his legs trembling, his feet barely brushing the floor now, and his breathing slows, each gasp weaker than the last. The noose tightens, relentless, a merciless executioner, and finally, his eyes roll back, his mouth falling open as he sags, body limp. He dangles from the rope, lifeless, his father’s screams fading to silence as the flames consume him, the once-proud Lord of Winterfell reduced to ash before the court.

The hall is silent, save for the crackling of the flames and the mad, triumphant laughter of Aerys, who sits on the Iron Throne like a king drenched in the blood of his enemies, his eyes gleaming with sick satisfaction.

Rhaegar stands in the shadows, his fists clenched, a low, sick feeling twisting in his stomach. He has never felt more powerless, more ashamed, and he knows, with a terrible certainty, that this horror will burn on in the memory of every man who stood here today.

The storm is a monstrous thing, howling against the walls of Dragonstone as if the sea itself is raging, desperate to consume the ancient fortress whole. The waves crash like thunder against the rocks, and the wind howls through the corridors, rattling shutters and flickering every candle within the keep. The sound is ceaseless, a wild symphony of nature’s wrath. Yet within the birthing chamber, all the world shrinks to the quiet agony of the bed, the sweat-soaked sheets, and the desperate cries of a woman in labor.

You clutch the sheets, your knuckles white as the pain crashes over you again, sharp as a blade and relentless. You bite back a scream, teeth gritted, each breath short and labored. Rhaella hovers at the bedside, one hand pressed to her own lips, fear shining in her eyes. Though she is the queen, her face betrays her, marked with a mother’s worry and a woman’s terror. Childbirth, for her, is something haunted. She lost too many, buried too many, and nearly lost herself in the last.

“Breathe, Y/N,” Rhaella urges softly, her voice trembling as she places a cool hand on your forehead. “Breathe, my love. You’re strong, you are. Stronger than I ever was.”

You gasp, forcing yourself to nod, the words a small comfort through the haze of pain. Her voice grounds you, helps you cling to the world around you as the midwives bustle around, readying cloth and basins of water, their faces taut with uncertainty.

“The storm won’t ease,” one whispers, glancing toward the shutters that shudder violently with each gust of wind. “It’s as though the world itself cries out.”

Rhaella glances toward the window, worry etched into her face as she listens to the relentless pounding of rain and the furious roar of the wind. She turns back to you, her hand trembling slightly as she brushes damp hair from your face. "My darling, you’re almost there," she soothes, though the tightness in her own voice betrays her fear. "Just a little longer. Your brother, your son…they’ll need you."

You cling to her words, each one pulling you through the storm within you, even as the pain deepens, sharper than before, tearing a scream from your throat. You feel the weight of every breath, the strain in every muscle, your body working with a force that’s both brutal and unstoppable.

One of the midwives presses her hand to your belly, her face tense, but her tone is gentle. “My lady, the babe is close. With the next pain, you must push.”

Rhaella grasps your hand, her fingers cool and firm against your fevered skin. Her own knuckles are white, though her voice remains calm as she whispers, “I’m here, Y/N. I won’t leave you.”

You push, the world narrowing down to nothing but the effort, the ache, the need to bring life into this world despite the fury of the storm battering against Dragonstone. The pain shatters through you, blinding and consuming, until you think there can be nothing left.

And then, with a final, gasping push, there is relief. A soft, weak cry pierces the air, faint but growing stronger with each second. The midwife holds up a small, wet bundle, and for the first time in what feels like an eternity, the room falls into silence as she gently places the babe in your arms.

“She’s here,” the midwife murmurs, her voice a mixture of awe and relief. “A little girl, my lady.”

You look down at her, your heart swelling with an overwhelming tenderness. She’s so small, impossibly so, with a dusting of silver-gold hair that clings damply to her scalp, her skin as pale as moonlight. Her eyes are squeezed shut, but her tiny fists flail, her mouth opening in a furious little wail as though protesting her entry into this storm-torn world.

“Daenerys,” you whisper, the name coming to you as naturally as a breath. “Her name is Daenerys.”

Rhaella’s face softens, a look of deep, bittersweet joy filling her eyes as she reaches out to touch the baby’s cheek, her fingers gentle. “Daenerys… she will be as fierce and as beautiful as her name,” Rhaella murmurs, her voice a mixture of pride and sadness, memories of lost children haunting her gaze. “Your sister, Shaena, would have loved her.”

You nod, feeling a pang of sorrow for the sister you never knew, the child Rhaella lost at birth. This little one, Daenerys, is a part of that legacy now, a bright spark against the darkness.

The storm seems to soften as you hold her, the wind and the waves receding as if the very heavens have grown quiet to bear witness to her birth. You look down at Daenerys, her tiny hand reaching out to grasp your finger, her cries softening as she nestles closer to you. There’s a fire in her already, you can feel it, as though she holds a piece of Dragonstone’s storm within her.

Rhaella leans close, resting her forehead gently against yours, her voice a soft, choked whisper. “You have given her the greatest gift, Y/N. You have given her life and hope.” She hesitates, then adds, her voice even softer, “May she never know the pain we’ve seen.”

You nod, feeling the weight of her words, her wishes. This child, your Daenerys, will be a flame in the darkness, a hope for House Targaryen, a piece of you that no storm, no madness, can ever take away. And as you hold her close, feeling her heartbeat steady and sure against yours, you know that for this one moment, the storm has passed.

In the depths of sleep, you find yourself wandering once more beneath the shadows of the Kingswood, the air thick with the scent of pine and damp earth. The moon is high and pale, casting an eerie glow over the forest, illuminating the shapes that move just beyond sight. The trees sway as if whispering secrets to one another, and every rustle sends a shiver down your spine. Somewhere in the distance, a low, mournful howl cuts through the silence, raising the hairs on the back of your neck.

You wake with a gasp, the echo of that agony radiating from the base of your neck and shoulder, a throbbing ache that feels as real as the day it happened. You sit up, heart pounding, your skin clammy as you press a hand to the old scar, feeling the rough, raised skin beneath your fingers. It burns, as though the memory has reignited the wound itself.

Beside you, the faint light of dawn filters through the heavy curtains, casting a dull glow across the room. Rhaella stirs nearby, half-awake, her expression softening with motherly concern as she looks at you. “Y/N,” she murmurs, reaching out a gentle hand to touch your arm. “What is it? You were restless… did you dream?”

You hesitate, the remnants of the vision clinging to you, thick as fog. “A dream,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper. “Of the Kingswood…of him…of that night.”

Her face tightens, and she nods, her own gaze clouded with memories she would rather forget. “Your father is…unforgiving, in his ways,” she says, her voice laden with a sadness so deep it seems endless. “I feared for you that night. I always fear for you.”

You look down, feeling the dull ache in your shoulder flare with every heartbeat. “I remember his words he told me once,” you say softly, your fingers trailing over the scar. “Loyalty demands sacrifice. I thought I understood…until the raven came.”

The memory of the raven’s arrival floods back, vivid as the dream. The message it carried, the news of Brandon’s death, the horror and finality that seeped into your bones as you read of how he died—strangled by his own father’s failure to save him. The words had chilled you to your very core, settling in you like a shadow you could never escape. It felt like another death, another wound as brutal and searing as the bite of the wolf.

Rhaella watches you, her gaze filled with both pity and sorrow, a sorrow that has defined her own life. “Aerys takes what he wants,” she whispers, voice trembling, her hand reaching to rest on your shoulder. “And he leaves nothing but ashes.”

You swallow, your throat tight as you remember the dead, grey eyes of the wolf, the way its life had slipped away under your hands. Brandon’s eyes had been the same, you knew it even without seeing them, the cold grey finality of his death haunting you. You feel it in your bones, the weight of the lives your father’s wrath had claimed.

“Sometimes, I wonder if that’s all we are to him,” you say, voice raw, a truth you have never dared to utter. “If we are nothing but tools for him to wield, lives for him to shape and shatter as he sees fit.”

Rhaella’s fingers tighten on your shoulder, her gaze softening with a mother’s love, fierce and unbreakable. “Not to me, Y/N,” she whispers, her voice barely a breath. “To me, you are my child, my daughter. My greatest hope.”

You look at her, the warmth of her hand anchoring you against the darkness that gnaws at the edges of your heart. “Then I will try to remember that,” you murmur, voice steady, though the ache remains.

As the morning light brightens, you cling to the feeling of her hand on your shoulder, grounding you in the here and now. You know you carry these memories like scars, reminders of the pain, the sacrifice, the unyielding loyalty demanded of you. And though the dreams may come, though the past may haunt you, you are determined to live beyond them, to shape your own fate, if only for the sake of the children who depend on you—the children who may one day look to you as their only hope.

The Red Keep is alive with the murmurs of courtiers, their voices rising and falling in nervous harmony. Aerys sits upon the Iron Throne, his fingers tracing the jagged, cruel edges of the swords fused into the throne, a twisted smile playing across his lips. He leans forward, listening to Varys’ counsel on matters that seem to bore him, his gaze distant and his fingers restless. Even seated, he shifts constantly, the stirrings of a fire within him that no amount of steel can cool.

Then the doors of the throne room creak open, and Grand Maester Pycelle shuffles in, carrying a sealed scroll in his gnarled hands once again, his expression a mixture of anxiety and trepidation. The old maester’s footsteps echo through the vast hall as he approaches, and all eyes turn to him, curiosity thick in the air.

“Your Grace,” Pycelle says, bowing low, his voice quivering ever so slightly as he holds out the scroll. “A raven has arrived from Dragonstone. The storm delayed it, but the news… the news is joyous.”

At the mention of Dragonstone, Aerys’ gaze snaps to attention, the lethargy vanishing from his posture. His eyes gleam, a sudden spark of anticipation lighting within them. “Speak, old man,” he demands, his voice sharp with an edge of impatience. “What word from my daughter?”

Pycelle bows again, hands trembling as he breaks the seal and unrolls the parchment. “Your Grace,” he begins, his voice resounding through the hall, “the Pri… the Queen has safely delivered a princess on Dragonstone.”

For a moment, silence blankets the hall, stretching as everyone waits for the king’s reaction. Aerys’ face breaks into a smile, something wild and fierce, the kind of smile that unsettles even the bravest in the court. The news seems to ignite a flame within him, a manic delight that rolls off him in waves, filling the room with a strange tension.

“A daughter,” he repeats, almost in wonder, his voice filled with a twisted pride. “A daughter, born from the fire and fury of Dragonstone. She will be magnificent… as fierce as her mother.” His words are laced with an innuendo that turns a few heads in the court, but no one dares comment.

Aerys rises from the throne, the motion abrupt, his steps echoing as he descends, a wild gleam in his eye as he turns to Varys. “A daughter born in the storm,” he says, almost to himself, before his gaze sharpens, landing on the Master of Whisperers. “Varys, make the preparations. I want her, the babe, and my Viserys brought back to me. And the queen,” he adds as if she were an afterthought. “They will return to the Red Keep, to stand by my side.”

Varys inclines his head, his expression carefully neutral, though his eyes flicker with something unreadable as he considers the king’s demand. “As you wish, Your Grace,” he replies smoothly, folding his hands before him. “I shall arrange everything necessary to ensure their safe and swift return.”

Aerys seems to take delight in the thought, his gaze turning inward as if imagining his family before him, his daughters, his son. “Yes,” he murmurs, his voice softening, almost tender as he envisions the scene. “My jewel by my side, with my son and daughter… the Targaryen bloodline strong as ever. They belong here, with me, at the heart of my kingdom. Dragonstone is no place for them to hide.”

Pycelle clears his throat, daring to speak again, though he looks to Varys as if seeking reassurance. “Your Grace, the storm was… fierce. The midwives report that the… queen endured much to bring forth this child, but she is resilient.” He pauses, hesitating under the intensity of Aerys’ gaze. “They say the babe was born healthy, though… delayed, by nature’s fury.”

Aerys’ expression shifts, a shadow crossing his face at the mention of the storm. But then his smile returns, sharper now, his eyes glinting. “She will be all the stronger for it,” he declares, his voice rising with conviction. “This child, my Daenerys, has been forged in fire and fury. She will be a true Targaryen, born in the midst of the storm, as I was born to conquer fire itself.”

The courtiers exchange glances, wary of Aerys’ sudden enthusiasm, his gaze burning with an intensity that feels more like insanity than joy. But no one dares question him. They stand silent, their heads bowed, unwilling to draw his attention.

Varys steps forward once more, his voice as smooth and calm as a dark river. “Shall I send word to Dragonstone at once, Your Grace?” he inquires. “It would take time to arrange the ships and guards for such a journey. The princess and the queen will need protection.”

Aerys considers this, his fingers brushing against the hilt of the dagger at his side, his mind whirling with thoughts only he could understand. “Yes,” he replies, almost absently. “They will be protected. Send the best, Varys. I will not have anything jeopardize their return. Not storms, not ships, not the Seven themselves.”

He pauses, his gaze drifting toward the distant window, where the skies are clear now, but the memory of the recent tempest lingers. “And ensure my daughter’s chambers are readied,” he adds, a glint of pride in his eyes. “I want her close, where I can see her, where I can… cherish her as she deserves.”

Pycelle’s voice breaks the silence, a tentative whisper. “Your Grace, might I suggest a feast to celebrate the birth of the princess? Such a joyous event surely warrants celebration. The court… the court would be honored to share in your joy.”

Aerys laughs, a strange, mirthless sound that echoes through the hall. “Yes, let them all bask in her birth,” he sneers, his tone filled with mocking grandeur. “Let them see the future of House Targaryen, and let them remember their king’s strength, his bloodline’s power.”

Varys bows low, a faint, enigmatic smile on his lips. “It shall be as you command, Your Grace. I will see to every detail personally.”

Aerys watches him, nodding in satisfaction, his expression growing almost serene as he envisions the reunion. “Good. And remember, Varys… no delay. I have been kept from my daughter long enough. She belongs here, with me. I will have my flame, my Daenerys, my son… all of them here.”

Varys inclines his head, his eyes flickering with something unreadable as he replies, “Your Grace, it will be done.”

The Red Keep looms before you as the ship docks, its shadow falling over you like a reminder of the darkness that festers within its walls. The journey from Dragonstone has left you weary, your body still fragile from the second childbirth. As you step onto solid ground, your eyes follow the attendants as they carry Daenerys away, her small, bundled form barely visible from where you stand. Viserys, a little older now but still as vulnerable, is also whisked from your side, held close by another attendant as they guide him towards the separate quarters prepared for him.

The welcoming party is small, unceremonious this time. A handful of courtiers bow low, their faces drawn and wary, eyes flickering with apprehension as they take in the sight of you, alone with your mother. They seem relieved, yet a peculiar heaviness permeates the air. You notice the way they shift uneasily, their glances darting, as if even the walls of the Red Keep harbor secrets too dangerous to whisper aloud.

As you make your way through the stone corridors, memories flood back—memories of when you last returned to King’s Landing, after Viserys’ birth. Then too, you were kept apart from him, the delicate façade maintained that he was Rhaella’s child, and not yours. You had watched from a distance, each glimpse of him a reminder of what you could not claim openly. Save the few times Aerys ordered the boy to be brought to you. And now, with Daenerys, the arrangement remains unchanged.

At last, you reach the chambers that have been prepared for you, the familiar scent of burning incense and freshly washed linens greeting you. The room is lavishly adorned, every comfort arranged with meticulous care, but it feels like a gilded cage. The crib meant for Daenerys is absent, and the silence in the room is a hollow one. You wonder where they have taken her, if she is safe, if she is as unsettled by these walls as you are. But you can do nothing but trust that she is being cared for, as Viserys was cared for.

Then there is a matter of the realm itself that seems to tremble under the weight of what has transpired since you last left. The whispers had reached even Dragonstone: stories of rebellions stirring, of lords questioning their loyalty, of silent alliances forming in darkened rooms. Aerys had unleashed chaos with the execution of Lord Stark and his son, and though the halls of the Red Keep are quiet, there is an undercurrent of unrest, a tension so thick it’s nearly suffocating. Yet you know your father pays no mind to any of it. He never sees beyond his own desires and fears, blind to the seeds of revolt he has sown.

You settle onto the bed, exhausted, feeling the familiar ache in your bones, the lingering strain from the birth. You have barely a moment to gather your thoughts when the heavy doors creak open. You know who it is without looking, feeling his presence fill the room, drawing every breath of air with it. Aerys steps forward, his eyes finding you instantly, an intensity in them that makes your heart quicken, though whether from dread or something darker, you cannot tell.

He approaches, his gaze softening in a way you have not seen in moons, a way he reserves only for you. "You’ve returned at last," he murmurs, his voice uncharacteristically gentle, a trace of genuine tenderness seeping through the madness.

You nod, forcing a smile as you sit up, smoothing the blankets. “I have, Father,” you reply, your tone careful. “The sea was unforgiving, but we weathered it.”

His eyes flicker, a look of satisfaction, pride, though his gaze always returns to you, his hand reaching out to trace a finger along your jaw, a featherlight touch that feels both comforting and cold. “Another child to carry on the Targaryen bloodline,” he says, his voice laced with possessive pride. “Another fire in the darkness.”

You hesitate, feeling the words catch in your throat. “I… I named her Daenerys,” you say softly, almost fearing his reaction, though you had wanted it so fiercely. You look down, finding it difficult to meet his gaze. “I know I should have waited for you, but… it felt right. I wanted it for her.”

To your surprise, he dismisses it with a wave of his hand, an indulgent smile touching his lips. “Daenerys,” he repeats, rolling the name over his tongue as if savoring it. “A fitting name. You chose well.”

Relief floods you, though you’re careful to hide it. His mood is mercurial, and you know too well how quickly his gentleness can turn. For now, he is pleased, and it feels as if the warmth of a rare summer day has found its way into the room.

Aerys settles beside you, abandoning the feast in favor of your company, his presence both familiar and unsettling. He speaks of Daenerys, his words laced with a strange pride, his voice softening as he reflects on the strength of her lineage. “She will be like her mother,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “Strong, fierce… unbreakable.”

The words feel like a promise and a curse, woven together in the way only Aerys can manage. He shifts his gaze to you, his hand resting on your shoulder, the touch almost too gentle. “I have missed you,” he says, his voice soft, almost vulnerable. “The nights are hollow without you, Y/N. But you are here now. And you will stay.”

You force a nod, though the walls of the chamber seem to close in around you. “I am here,” you reply, your voice barely a whisper. The truth presses down on you, that this peace is temporary, that as soon as you have recovered, he will expect you by his side every night, the weight of his gaze, his touch, his demands. You are bound to Aerys by blood, by promises, by the terrible love he holds for you—one that consumes you as though you are both his salvation and his curse.

Aerys smiles, a rare, almost serene expression crossing his face as he watches you. “Yes,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “You are home. And all is as it should be.”

...

The Great Hall is awash with light and laughter, but for all the grandeur, Rhaegar feels a strange hollowness at the heart of it. The feast stretches long into the night, tables overflowing with food and wine, courtiers gathered in small clusters, each celebrating the arrival of the new Targaryen princess. Yet, the two people he most expects to see—the king and his twin sister—are conspicuously absent. His gaze sweeps the hall once more, hoping against reason that she might appear, but all he finds are polite nods and masked glances.

He weaves through the hall, making his way toward his mother, who stands quietly at the far end of the chamber, her expression serene, though her eyes are weary. She accepts the courtiers' congratulations with the grace that only years of endurance have given her. But even in the midst of whispered blessings, Rhaegar sees the worry beneath her composure, the faint line of worry that etches her brow. As he approaches, a well-wisher steps aside, allowing him a clearer view, and she meets his gaze, relief flickering in her eyes.

“Mother,” he murmurs, offering a gentle smile as he bends to kiss her hand. “You seem… tired. Has it been a long night?”

She glances at him, her gaze a mixture of pride and sadness. “Long, yes, but not entirely unpleasant,” she replies, a quiet edge of irony in her tone as she inclines her head slightly in acknowledgment of another courtier’s congratulations. “These courtiers have no end of praise for… my newborn daughter.”

Rhaegar’s jaw tightens slightly, but he nods, letting the fiction remain unspoken. “You carry it well,” he says, his voice low and filled with understanding.

She casts him a soft, almost melancholic smile. “Years of practice, my son. This is but another page in a book I’ve been reading since before you were born.”

Rhaegar’s gaze hardens as he considers what she has endured, what she continues to endure, and his thoughts drift to his father. “Where is he, then?” he asks, his tone clipped. “Surely he should be here, if only to honor… your sacrifice.”

Rhaella’s face shifts, an unreadable emotion passing over her features before she lowers her gaze. “He appears to have… retired early tonight,” she says carefully, her voice soft, almost resigned.

Rhaegar’s expression darkens, understanding settling heavily on him. His father’s absence, coupled with the absence of his sister, can only mean one thing. The king has left the feast to seek her company, and the thought fills him with a dull, simmering anger. “So the rumors will stir again,” he says, his voice barely a whisper, more to himself than to his mother. “They will see his absence and hers and draw their own conclusions.”

Rhaella’s gaze turns sorrowful. “They never stopped whispering, Rhaegar,” she says, her voice heavy with regret. “But be careful. Your sister has returned after much hardship. Do not worsen the strain upon her heart.”

He clenches his jaw, nodding, though his resolve is already set. “I missed her, Mother. I can no longer stand to be kept from her side.”

Rhaella sighs, resting a hand on his arm. “Go, if you must,” she says, though her voice carries a warning. “But tread lightly, my son. Aerys’s temper is unpredictable, especially when it comes to her.”

He gives her a gentle nod, gratitude in his eyes, before turning to make his way across the hall, his gaze focused on the far entrance. The crowd parts for him, their conversations falling to murmurs as he passes, but his path is blocked briefly by a golden-haired figure—Lady Cersei Lannister, her mouth curved into a knowing smile. She stands with her father, Tywin, his presence as commanding as ever, though his expression is carved from stone.

Cersei inclines her head, her green eyes gleaming with a hint of mischief as she addresses Rhaegar. “Your Grace,” she begins, her voice laced with false sweetness, “how unfortunate that both your father and your sister are missing from the festivities. I had hoped to congratulate them both properly for… their new addition.”

Rhaegar’s gaze narrows, a flash of cold annoyance in his eyes, though he holds his composure. But before he can respond, Tywin’s hand clamps down on Cersei’s shoulder, his gaze sharp, his tone a low, cold warning. “Cersei,” he says quietly, though there is no mistaking the steel in his voice, “you would do well to mind your words, especially in such company.”

Cersei’s smile falters slightly, though she maintains her composure, inclining her head gracefully as she steps aside. “Of course, Father,” she murmurs, though the gleam in her eyes never truly fades.

Rhaegar offers Tywin a brief nod of acknowledgment before moving past them, his pace brisk as he weaves through the courtiers, searching for a familiar figure. His eyes find Elia Martell standing near the end of the hall, her gaze warm, though it holds a shadow of concern as she watches him approach.

He reaches her, his tension softening momentarily in her presence. “Elia,” he murmurs, his voice gentle, though the urgency remains in his tone. “I need to see her. My twin… I need to know she is truly well.”

Elia’s expression tightens, and she reaches for his hand, holding it between her own. “Rhaegar,” she says softly, caution threading her tone. “You know as well as I do that the king is likely there, with her. He would not be pleased by your presence.”

Rhaegar’s gaze hardens, his lips pressing into a thin line. “He can’t keep me from her forever, Elia,” he replies, his voice fierce with determination. “She is my sister. I cannot turn my back on her.”

Elia’s eyes soften with understanding, though there is worry in her gaze. “You have always been bound to her, Rhaegar,” she murmurs, stroking his hand gently. “But think of what it would mean to cross your father tonight, in such a fragile moment. He… he is unpredictable.”

Rhaegar takes a deep breath, his expression softening slightly as he meets her gaze, but his resolve remains firm. “I understand, Elia,” he says, his voice quieter now. “But I missed her deeply. I cannot remain in this hall, listening to strangers speak of her as if she is some distant figure. I need to see her, if only for a moment.”

Elia’s gaze lingers on him, her eyes filled with both love and sadness. “Then go, my prince,” she whispers, releasing his hand. “But be cautious. The king’s wrath is not to be taken lightly.”

Rhaegar nods, pressing a kiss to her hand. “Thank you, Elia. I will return to you shortly.”

With that, he turns, leaving the warmth of the feast behind as he strides purposefully through the corridors of the Red Keep, his steps quickening with each passing second. His heart pounds as he approaches the familiar hallway that leads to her chambers, the door just a few paces away.

...

The door to your chambers opens with the heavy creak of iron hinges, and Ser Gerold Hightower’s voice rings through the quiet room. “Prince Rhaegar Targaryen,” he announces, his tone formal, though his gaze briefly flickers with something that might be caution as he steps aside, allowing Rhaegar to enter.

You sit up slightly, a flicker of surprise in your eyes, but you quickly mask it, knowing well that your father does not take interruptions lightly. Beside you, Aerys lounges, one arm draped casually along the edge of the bed, his fingers tracing idle patterns on the blanket. His gaze sharpens when he sees his son, an expression hovering between annoyance and amusement crossing his face. The firelight catches the gleam in his eyes as he studies Rhaegar, his lips curling slightly in a smile that feels as much a warning as it does a welcome.

“Rhaegar,” Aerys drawls, his voice slipping between silk and steel. “To what do we owe this intrusion?”

But Rhaegar’s gaze is fixed only on you, his indigo eyes softening as they meet yours, a warmth in them that momentarily eases the chill in the room. He takes a step forward, almost as if he is drawn to you, the familiar bond between you transcending the tension filling the air. For a brief moment, it’s as if the world outside these walls fades, and it’s just the two of you, siblings reunited after too long apart.

“Y/N,” he murmurs, voice gentle, his eyes scanning your face with a mix of relief and longing. “I needed to see you, to know you were well.”

You give him a faint smile, though you sense the storm brewing in your father’s gaze beside you. Aerys shifts, his amusement fading, the shadow of impatience creeping into his expression as he sits up, straightening his posture. “My daughter is well enough,” he says, his voice clipped. “Why else would I be here?”

Rhaegar tears his gaze from you, finally turning to face his father, his face composed but his eyes hard. “Father,” he says evenly, his tone respectful but firm, “the feast is underway in the Great Hall. Your absence is already noted, as is hers. Mother is alone, accepting congratulations that are not hers to bear.”

Aerys’s lips curl into a mocking smile, his eyes gleaming with something that borders on cruelty. “I am precisely where I should be, Rhaegar,” he replies, his voice low, filled with an edge that could cut glass. “And my queen is where she belongs. That is sufficient.”

Rhaegar’s jaw tightens, and he takes a breath, his gaze sharpening as he presses forward, refusing to be dismissed so easily. “Your Grace,” he says carefully, yet there is a warning in his tone. “The lords whisper of rebellion in darkened corners, of discontent stirring in the far reaches of the realm. Each move we make is weighed and measured. Your absence tonight… it will add fuel to the fire.”

Aerys’s expression shifts, amusement vanishing as his eyes narrow, a dangerous glint flickering within them. “And what, precisely, do you mean by that?” he demands, his voice low, cold, the weight of his anger palpable in the room.

Rhaegar meets his father’s gaze unflinchingly, his own expression steeled, though there is a faint tremor of something raw beneath his composure. “Rumors have already taken root, Father,” he says, his voice steady despite the tension in his words. “Rumors that would see us torn apart from within, that would see blood spilled before our very gates. Every decision matters, every step we take either strengthens or weakens us.”

Aerys’s gaze sharpens further, his lips thinning, though there is a twisted pleasure in his eyes as he leans back, his fingers tapping against the fabric beside him. “And you believe that my absence from a mere feast would tip the scales?” he sneers. “You think these rumors hold more weight than the strength of Targaryen blood?”

Rhaegar doesn’t waver, though there is a flicker of sadness in his eyes, a heaviness that speaks of the burden he carries. “Strength, yes,” he replies, his tone unwavering. “But also duty. A king’s presence brings unity, reassurance. Your absence invites… doubt.”

Aerys lets out a laugh, sharp and humorless, a sound that echoes off the walls with a metallic ring. “Doubt,” he repeats, mocking, his gaze flicking back to you as if seeking support. “Tell me, my daughter,” he says, his tone lilting with a dark humor, “do you feel doubt when you are by my side? Or do you feel secure, protected?”

You swallow, your gaze darting between your father and brother, the tension thickening like smoke in the air. “I… feel secure,” you reply carefully, your words measured, though your heart twists as you speak them. “But, Father, Rhaegar has a point. There is unrest, and the people need to feel they have a strong leader. They look to you.”

Aerys’s gaze softens ever so slightly as he regards you, though his eyes flash with something darker as he looks back at Rhaegar. “You both doubt me, then?” he asks, voice low, dangerous. “Is that what this is?”

“No,” Rhaegar says swiftly, his voice firm. “I do not doubt you, Father. But I see the cracks forming, and I want nothing more than to see this house endure.”

Aerys’s eyes harden, his lips curling into a sneer. “You presume to lecture me on endurance?” he hisses. “I am the King of the Seven Kingdoms. I have held this realm together, and I will not be dictated to by my own son.”

Rhaegar’s face remains impassive, though a flicker of sorrow crosses his eyes. “As you say, Your Grace,” he murmurs, bowing his head. “I only wish to ensure the strength of our house endures.”

Aerys’s sneer softens, though the anger in his eyes remains, tempered by a twisted pride. “Then remember, Rhaegar,” he says, voice cold, “it is I who am king, and it is by my will that this realm endures. Now, leave us. My daughter requires my company, and your presence is… distracting.”

Rhaegar hesitates, his gaze flickering to you, a silent question in his eyes. You nod subtly, understanding the message he cannot speak aloud. With a final, lingering look, he turns, leaving the room with the weight of unspoken words pressing heavy upon him, his heart burdened with the fear that each step takes him further from the sister he loves and the family he fights to protect.

...

The corridors of the Red Keep feel colder as Rhaegar walks, his footsteps echoing through the silence that now seems to fill the castle. The nursery is just down the hall, past the chambers prepared for the younger royals. The walls are adorned with banners of red and black, symbols of House Targaryen, but even the proud dragons feel muted, shadowed under the weight of what this place has become.

As he reaches the nursery door, a young attendant bows low, his face respectful yet filled with caution. “Your Grace,” the attendant murmurs, glancing up at Rhaegar’s face with reverence. “Shall I give you a moment alone?”

Rhaegar nods, gratitude flashing in his eyes. “Yes, please. I would like to see them without the distraction of courtly eyes.”

The attendant nods, gesturing for the other servants to leave with him, and the door closes softly behind them, leaving Rhaegar in a quiet that feels sacred, almost reverent. The room is dimly lit by soft, warm candlelight, illuminating the cradles that lie side by side. The room smells faintly of lavender and fresh linens, an oasis of calm within the storm raging outside these walls.

He approaches slowly, his heart thrumming with a mixture of apprehension and awe as he comes to stand over the cradle where his sister—and niece—lies sleeping. Baby Daenerys is swaddled in soft crimson and black blankets, tiny fists peeking out as she sleeps, her silver hair catching the faint light and glimmering like moonlight. She looks impossibly small, impossibly fragile, and he feels a pang of protectiveness rise within him, fierce and unrelenting.

“Daenerys,” he whispers, barely audible, his voice filled with a reverence he did not expect. The name feels both familiar and strange on his tongue, a reminder of the legacy she will carry, the storm she was born into.

For a moment, he simply watches her, memorizing every tiny feature—the curve of her cheeks, the hint of silver lashes against her skin, the faint rise and fall of her breath. She is a miracle, he thinks, his sister’s strength and spirit brought to life once more in this small, perfect child. He reaches out, his hand hovering just above her, almost afraid to disturb her slumber, but the need to feel her warmth, to confirm her presence, becomes too strong to resist.

Gently, he lets his fingers brush against her small hand. Her skin is soft, delicate, and she stirs, a tiny murmur escaping her as her little hand instinctively closes around his finger. Rhaegar feels his heart tighten, a wave of tenderness and sorrow crashing over him, and he realizes that this is the first time he has truly allowed himself to feel the weight of this bond.

“Hello, little one,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “You are beautiful, just like your mother. Fierce, too, I suspect. There’s something of her strength in you already.”

Daenerys shifts slightly, her small fingers gripping his with surprising strength. He chuckles softly, the sound barely a breath, his thumb gently stroking her tiny knuckles. “You are loved, Daenerys. You are so loved, and I swear I will protect you. Whatever happens… I will be here for you.”

He glances to the other cradle, where Viserys sleeps, his little face peaceful, oblivious to the weight his birth has placed upon him. Rhaegar steps over, his gaze softening as he watches his younger brother—his nephew. The deception feels like a brand on his soul, yet he knows it is necessary. These children will be kept close, within their mother’s legacy, as long as he can ensure it.

“Viserys,” he murmurs, reaching out to touch the boy’s head gently, fingers brushing over his fine silver hair. “You may never know it, but you were born into fire. You and Daenerys… you will be the last lights of House Targaryen.

He returns to Daenerys’s cradle, watching her tiny face relax as she drifts back into the deep slumber of the innocent. Rhaegar stands there, caught in a quiet, bittersweet moment, the weight of his vow settling upon him. He will protect them. He will shield them from the chaos that threatens to consume the Seven Kingdoms, no matter the cost to himself.

Gazing down at Daenerys, he lets his hand rest over hers, feeling the warmth of her small palm against his skin. “One day, I hope you will understand the choices we made for you,” he whispers, his voice breaking slightly. “One day, perhaps, you will be strong enough to change this world. Stronger than all of us.”

A soft knock sounds at the door, and he quickly pulls back, his mask of composure slipping into place as the attendant returns, bowing as he steps in. “Your Grace, the court awaits.”

Rhaegar glances back at the cradle one last time, his heart heavy with the knowledge that this precious, fleeting moment of peace is over. He straightens, nodding to the attendant before stepping away, leaving the nursery and his quiet promises behind, though the memory of Daenerys’s tiny fingers wrapped around his own remains etched upon his heart.

...

Your chamber is silent save for the crackling of the low fire in the hearth. Aerys remains lounged beside you, his fingers tracing idle patterns along your arm, a touch that should feel comforting but instead fills you with a hollow sense of foreboding. You feel the weight of his gaze, every breath steady and measured, as if savoring each moment he spends in your presence. The scent of burning candles and incense fills the air, thickening the quiet that hangs between you.

You cling to him, drawing closer, seeking something solid to ground yourself in the maelstrom that surrounds you. You know too well that this peace, if it could even be called that, is temporary. Soon, the court will find another reason to whisper, to stir the embers of discontent, and with each day, the threat of rebellion inches closer. But for now, he is here, calm and attentive in his way, and you hold on, bracing yourself against what you know will come.

Carefully, you clear your throat, your voice barely more than a whisper. “Father,” you begin, your tone soft and cautious, the question hanging between you like a fragile thread. “There are… things I have heard. About Lord Stark and his son, Brandon.” You pause, choosing your words carefully, watching his expression closely.

Aerys’s eyes flicker, his expression tightening, though his lips morph into a smile that holds a hint of malice. He shifts, his fingers curling around your shoulder, holding you in place as he considers your words, as if weighing how much to reveal. The silence stretches, every heartbeat feeling like an eternity.

“Ah, yes,” he says finally, his voice a low, almost sinister murmur. “Rickard Stark and his fool son.” He chuckles, the sound dark, laced with a cruel satisfaction. “They dared to challenge me, to question the strength of the Iron Throne. They came, demanding things they had no right to, and they paid for their arrogance. Like I've told you I would.”

You swallow, feeling the air grow colder around you, your fingers tightening against the fabric of his cloak as you try to keep your expression steady. “But the raven… the message,” you say carefully, “it said that Lord Stark was… burned. And Brandon… that he… watched.”

Aerys’s gaze sharpens, a flash of anger crossing his face, though it fades into something that could almost be described as delight. “Yes,” he replies, his tone laced with pride. “I had him burned before the court, before his son’s very eyes. And Brandon, well… he had the privilege of feeling his father’s pain. A fitting end for wolves who would dare to defy a dragon.”

A shiver runs through you, the coldness of his words settling into your bones. You feel your stomach turn, the image of Brandon and his father’s deaths haunting the edges of your mind, even as you try to push it away. You lean against Aerys, trying to hide the tremor that runs through you, to steady yourself against the storm that brews within him. Each time he speaks of fire, of punishment, you see the glint of madness in his eyes, an unquenchable flame that seems only to grow with each act of cruelty.

He senses your unease, his hand moving to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin in an almost gentle touch. “Do not fear, my dear one,” he murmurs, his voice softening, as though seeking to comfort you in his twisted way. “You are safe with me. None will dare harm you as long as I breathe. This realm may rot, but I will burn it all before anyone touches what is mine.”

You force yourself to nod, finding a flicker of reassurance in his words, though you know too well that his protection is a double-edged sword. You rest your head against his shoulder, closing your eyes, trying to find calm in his embrace, even as your heart pounds with the knowledge of what he is capable of, the lengths he will go to protect his vision of power and control.

After a long silence, Aerys shifts, his voice lower, softer, as if a rare tenderness has slipped through his hardened facade. “You should rest,” he says, his hand stroking your hair, his fingers gentle. “Tonight, I will be the one who watches over you, as you have so often watched over me.”

The words are a balm, a promise wrapped in his own fractured way, and you feel your muscles relax, your eyes growing heavy as his touch lulls you. For this one night, you let go of the fears, the questions, the thoughts of rebellion and ruin, trusting that perhaps, in this moment, he will keep his word.

And as you drift into sleep, his presence beside you, you hold onto the sliver of peace his words have granted you, even as shadows linger on the edge of your dreams.

#a song of ice and fire #asoiaf #asoiaf x reader #fire and blood #house of the dragon #game of thrones #hotd #got x reader #got x you #got x y/n #aerys ii targaryen #the mad king #aerys ii x reader #aerys ii x you #aerys ii x y/n #the flames we loved #dark content #house targaryen #house stark

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boolysstuff · 1 month ago

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| 🇺🇸 | : First time posting here on Tumblr, and this oneshot is just a piece of an old fic that I gave up on continuing, but it's still worth reading.

Enjoy!

•~~~•~~~•

John Laurens liked to stay up late at night, watching his beloved Alexander sleep. He would sit there and study the rhythm of his breathing, the way his chest rose and fell in an endless cycle that John found strangely comforting. He counted the freckles scattered across Alexander’s chest the same way he’d once counted stars in the sky during camping trips with his father as a child. Occasionally, Alexander would wake up to find John watching him, but he never seemed to mind. He would simply murmur his name and pull him closer before drifting back into peaceful sleep.

He loved walking barefoot in the forest at dawn, letting his fingertips graze the wildflowers and his sore feet sink into the soft earth. He reflected on life as he counted countless leaves on countless trees, all while listening to the melodic calls of morning birds. He’d bring his sketchbook along and draw whatever caught his eye—bright blue butterflies and baby birds in spring, frost-covered branches and snowy owls in winter.

But this morning, he woke up late, likely because he’d stayed up well past midnight watching Alexander. The sun was already high in the sky, and the spot beside him was empty, as was the rest of the room. He lay in bed for a few more minutes, waiting for Alexander to come in and wake him up. Eventually, he resigned himself to the fact that Alexander was probably busy translating letters and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The cold air hit his legs, making him shiver. It was going to be a long day; he could already feel it.

“Good morning, Laurens,” Alexander greeted him as he walked into the aide-de-camp office. He was sitting at the desk next to Meade, several sheets of paper scattered between them. “There’s coffee in the kitchen if you want some.”

“Not today, thanks. I’m late enough as it is.” John sat down across from Alexander and grabbed one of the letters from his pile.

The three men worked in silence, as usual. It would have been strange if they weren’t used to it, but unfortunately, they were. Meade had a habit of tapping his foot, which grated on John’s nerves, but every time he looked ready to snap, Alexander would place a hand on his thigh.

“Don’t,” Alexander would whisper, tracing small patterns with his fingers.

And John would listen because it was Alexander. If it had been anyone else, he wouldn’t have cared. But this was his dear, sweet Alexander, so he didn’t yell at Meade, no matter how much he wanted to.

Around noon, Alexander began gathering his papers into a neat pile and stood up. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going for a walk,” he announced.

“I’ll join you.” John got up and followed him, ignoring Meade’s annoyed sigh.

The two walked together in silence until they reached the edge of the forest. “Where are we going?” John asked. He had expected a short stroll around camp, nothing more.

“For a walk, remember?” Alexander rarely gave straightforward answers.

John trailed behind as Alexander led the way into the forest. The narrow path wasn’t wide enough for them to walk side by side. They continued like this for a while, John following Alexander, until they reached a clearing. It was John’s clearing—the one he visited in the mornings, the one where he and Alexander had moonlit picnics before falling asleep under the stars.

But in the afternoon light, it had a different kind of beauty. The sun was high above them, the sky impossibly blue. Colorful wildflowers and bushes full of ripe berries surrounded them, and it took all of John’s self-control not to kiss Alexander right then and there.

“You’ve never seen it in the afternoon, have you?” Alexander sat down in the center of the clearing and tugged John down beside him. “It’s kind of romantic, isn’t it?”

John nodded, opening his mouth to speak, but Alexander placed a finger over his lips to silence him. “No need, love,” he said, a smile spreading across his freckled face. “I know what you’re going to say.”

“You know, you’re beautiful when you smile. Absolutely enchanting, if I may say so,” John replied.

Alexander playfully nudged his shoulder and climbed into his lap, pushing him back into the grass. “Show me just how enchanting.”

But instead of kissing him or caressing his face, John pushed Alexander off and stood up. He began walking along the edge of the clearing, looking for something.

“What are you doing?” Alexander called from the center of the clearing where he remained, looking slightly abandoned.

“Looking for something.” John examined the flowers, one by one. Names and meanings floated through his mind, most of which could work for an occasion like this. But none of them were quite right.

Buttercups meant childishness. Orchids symbolized beauty...

Finally, there it was—the flower he had been searching for. He plucked it carefully, mindful of the thorns, and returned to Alexander, sitting down in front of him with the pale lavender rose in his hand.

“What’s this?” Alexander asked, hesitantly reaching out to take the flower.

John handed it to him. “Careful, it has thorns.”

Alexander studied the rose in silence, his fingertips lightly brushing its soft petals. “I don’t understand,” he said, looking up at John. “Why did you bring me this?”

“A lavender rose—the flower of enchantment. They’re pretty rare. I’m surprised I managed to find one.”

Alexander smiled again, his face turning a rosy shade of pink. “I love you, Jacky.”

“I love you too, Alex.” And with that, he leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on the other man’s lips.

#historical lams #lams #alexander hamilton #hamilton fanfiction #hamilton musical #hamilton the musical #historical hamilton #historical laurens

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lavendersugarplum · 2 months ago

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𝐎𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐍 | umbrella academy reader insert

𝟎𝟏 death of the monocle

"VANYA HARGREEVES."

In the hushed ambiance of the Icarus Theatre, the only sound that could be heard was the soft hum of the lighting, creating an atmosphere of serene anticipation. The judges, their faces etched with stoic concentration, eagerly awaited the next contestant who would ascend the stage to vie for the coveted first chair.

As Viktor Hargreeves stepped into the spotlight, a long-held dream of his, he rushed with a mix of excitement and trepidation towards the solitary chair that awaited him. Carefully setting down his violin case, he gently loosened the latches and extracted his prized instrument and sheet music. With poised grace, he positioned himself, delicately placing his violin beneath his chin on his collarbone, eagerly awaiting his cue to begin. The spotlight, resembling the pale moonlight, enveloped him, casting him into a mystical glow.

As the head judge readied his pen and poised his grading paper, Viktor drew his bow across the strings, conjuring the light and melancholic notes of his selected piece from Phantom of the Opera. With closed eyes, he surrendered to the ecstasy of the music, feeling the vibrations coursing through his being with every note. The sound of his violin sliced through the air like a knife, clean and sharp, leaving the judges spellbound.

~ ☂︎ ~

"𝐍𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄"

LUTHER

With a deep, guttural groan, Luther awakens from his slumber, his alarm clock blaring its sharp, jarring tune. The three shrill beeps pierce the air, rousing the large , scruffy and lumbering man from his deep sleep, his arm flailing limply through the air until it flops on the snooze button. The digital clock mercilessly displays the time as 23:28.

Rising from his bed with another groan, his large and muscular frame stretching to its full height. The knobby mattress beneath him never quite providing the support he needed, but he shrugged off the discomfort with a resigned acceptance.

Squeezing his formidable build through the cramped doorframe, Luther checks on the systems before entering the living space that has been his home ever since four years ago.

Four long years.

His eyes land on the small plant sitting on the counter, a glimmer of tenderness in his otherwise rugged countenance. His calloused hand reaches out to stroke its green stems, offering the gentle assistance that only he can provide. With a meticulous care that belies his imposing presence, he proceeds to water the plant, nurturing it with a silent devotion.

In this small, confined space that he calls home, Luther finds solace in the simple act of tending to this plant. It is a reminder of the delicate beauty that can exist even in the harshest environments, a symbol of hope that sustains him through the long, lonely days.

As he slips back into his suit, Luther's mind drifts to the endless repetition of his daily routine, a dull cycle that seems to have no end in sight. His thoughts are clouded with a sense of restlessness, a yearning for something more, something beyond the four walls of his cramped living space.

Yet, despite the monotony, Luther clings steadfastly to one unshakeable truth that has been instilled in him since childhood: the world needs him. This is the driving force that propels him forward, imbuing his every action with a sense of duty and purpose. He knows that his work may be thankless, his sacrifices unnoticed, but the knowledge that he is making a difference in the world is enough to keep him going.

As Luther steps out into the barren, desolate wasteland of the moon's surface, he is greeted by a stark and unforgiving landscape. The titanium door behind him closes with a resounding thud, leaving him alone in the midst of a cosmic world. With each step, he bounces across the dusty terrain, his footsteps echoing in the stillness of the lunar environment.

In his hands, he carries the latest accumulation of waste - a testament to the never-ending cycle of consumption and disposal that defines life on the moon. And yet, despite the tediousness of the task, Luther approaches it with a sense of purpose and dedication. For he knows that even the most seemingly mundane jobs play a critical role in the functioning of this fragile ecosystem.

As he reaches the trash compactor, Luther takes a moment to survey the vast expanse of the lunar surface before him. The landscape is bleak, yet there is a stark beauty in its emptiness. And in this moment, Luther feels a sense of awe and reverence for the harsh environment that has become his home.

With a deep breath, he tosses the week's trash into the compactor, the machine whirring to life as it devours the refuse. Luther watches with a sense of satisfaction, knowing that he has played his part in keeping this fragile ecosystem running smoothly.

~ ☂︎ ~

"𝐍𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐎"

DIEGO

Amidst the chaos and terror, a young family huddles together, bound and gagged with duct tape. Their fear is visible as they watch helplessly while their father is dragged around by the back of his shirt collar, a group of masked men demanding to know the location of their safe. The harsh glare of a flashlight is trained on them, greatening their screams and adding to the sense of dread that permeates the room.

"Show me where safe is or your family's dead!"

As the intruders continue their assault, their victim cries out in desperation, pleading with them to leave his family alone as he is shoved past the living room. But their demands go unanswered, and the situation grows increasingly dire.

As chaos reigns inside the house, unbeknownst to everyone, a shadowy figure lies in wait behind the back door, patiently waiting for the right moment to make their move. With a calculated grace, they slip inside unnoticed, their movements fluid and silent.

In a matter of moments, the intruders are caught off guard as one of their own is yanked out of sight with a muffled yowl, swallowed up by the darkness. The sudden silence that follows is broken only by the sound of a sharp snap, a signal of the swift and decisive action taken.

For this masked vigilante, this is just another night on the job - a never-ending battle to protect the innocent and bring justice to those who would do harm. With each move, each calculated strike, they embody the very essence of stealth and precision.

Emerging from the shadows with the grace of a panther, a new figure steps into view, dressed in all black and bearing a cocky smirk. He is unlike any of the other masked men, standing out with his noir domino mask that outlines his eyes and conceals his identity. Around his torso are an arsenal of sharp and thin blades and knives, glinting menacingly in the dim light. He moves with a fluidity that suggest a lifetime of training and discipline, a master of his craft.

This enigmatic figure exudes a sense of confidence and control that sets him apart from the chaos and confusion of the room. Even as the intruders continue their rampage, he remains calm and collected, his focus unwavering. And as he steps forward to face the intruders, his blades at the ready, there is a sense of danger in the air.

As he surveys the room, his attention is drawn to the television set in the corner, broadcasting the weather. The contrast between the violence unfolding before him and the banal predictability of the news is striking, a reminder of the fragility of life and the unpredictability of the world.

But even as he takes in this unsettling juxtaposition, the masked figure remains focused on his mission. And with a fierce determination burning in his eyes, he steps forward to face the intruders, ready to do whatever it takes to ensure the safety of the family he has sworn to protect.

With lightning-fast reflexes and the confidence of a seasoned warrior, Diego springs into action, taking down the next accomplice in a matter of seconds. The intruders are left to wonder who this enigmatic figure is, and what he wants. But Diego gives them no answers, nor does he grant them the time to speak. Moving with a graceful efficiency, he takes down his targets one by one.

In the blink of an eye, one of the men is hurled into the glass table. The room is filled with the sound of shattering glass and startled cries as Diego dispatches each threat with ruthless efficiency.

In a flurry of swift and deadly movements, Diego dispatches half of the group, leaving their bodies scattered about like broken dolls, either dead or senseless. The room is filled with a deafening silence, broken only by the sound of shattered glass and labored breathing.

The remaining intruder is pinned to the wall, his body impaled by Diego's many blades. The masked vigilante stands over him, his face hidden behind the domino mask, his eyes burning with a fierce intensity.

"𝐍𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄"

ALLISON

Radiant and regal, Allison Hargreeves makes her grand entrance onto the red carpet, a vision in a fine velvet gown that drapes elegantly over her curves.

As she glides through the sea of people, her dress trailing behind her like a whisper, every eye is drawn to her, captivated by her beauty and magnetic charm. Her mere presence seems to light up the night, casting a spell over all those who are lucky enough to witness it.

And as she continues to make her way down the red carpet, the admiration and adoration of her fans and admirers only grows stronger. For in the face of such beauty and power, it is impossible not to be swept away by the sheer force of her presence.

A captivating smile graces Allison's face, a radiant beacon of light amidst the frenzied chaos of the paparazzi. As they clamor for her attention, she pauses in the center of it all, commanding the attention of every camera and onlooker.

Her smile only grows more luminous with each passing moment, a dazzling expression of her confidence and charisma. One hand rests casually on her hip, the other held up in a playful gesture, as she effortlessly poses for the flashing cameras.

For Allison, this is all just another day in the spotlight, a routine that she has mastered with effortless grace and charm. As she sends each camera a unique and arresting smile, it is clear that she is in her element, at home in the midst of the chaos that surrounds her.

And as the paparazzi continue to snap away, their wild cries echoing in the night, Allison remains the picture of poise and elegance, a true star in every sense of the word. For in the face of such adoration and attention, she remains grounded and humble, a testament to the power of grace and beauty in a world that so often values the superficial above all else.

But what she didn't notice were the sudden expressions of shock that washed over a starting few of photographers.

"𝐍𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑"

KLAUS

With a languid grace, the slender and tall young man swings his leather-clad legs off the top of a bunk bed, his worn-out converse sneakers landing softly on the floor. He rises to his full height, revealing a figure draped in a long overcoat lined with black faux fur, layered over a thin netted tee shirt. His body is adorned with an impressive array of accessories, gleaming in the soft light of the room.

As he exhales, he throws his head back, his messy head of brown hair tumbling down his back in wild disarray. His smoky eyes due to the terrible misuse of eyeliner circling his eyes only serve to accentuate their piercing intensity, giving him an air of mystery and intrigue.

For this young man, the world is a stage, and he a bold and daring performer, unafraid to express himself in ways that others may find unconventional or even provocative.

And as he stands there, a vision of confident beauty and self-assurance, it is clear that he is unapologetically himself, a true rebel in a world that so often demands conformity and uniformity. For this young man, there is no compromise, no holding back - only the pure and unbridled expression of his most authentic self.

Klaus moves with a buoyant energy as he makes his way towards the exit, his steps infused with a sense of freedom and excitement. As he passes by the rows of bunk beds, his gaze drifts to a pale, sullen man lying atop one of them, a picture of despair and hopelessness.

For a moment, Klaus pauses, his eyes lingering on the man's haggard face and slumped posture. It is clear that he is struggling, lost in a sea of pain and confusion.

Without a second thought, Klaus approaches him, his voice soft and reassuring. "Hey, you," he says, his words carrying a warmth and kindness that belies his carefree exterior. "You okay?"

The man looks up, surprise and confusion etched on his face. But as he meets Klaus's gaze, he seems to relax, his features softening at the sound of his gentle voice.

Klaus offers him an encouraging pat on the shoulder. "Stay strong. I believe in you." His words carry a genuine warmth and kindness, a testament to the compassion that lies at the heart of his irreverent exterior.

With a mischievous glint in his eye, Klaus continues down the row of bunk beds, his playful spirit undimmed by the somber surroundings. As he passes by one particularly surly occupant, he can't resist the urge to tease him, his voice laced with a playful sarcasm.

"And You? You not so much," Klaus chuckles, pointing at the scowling man seated on the bottom bunk but there his scowl soon casts upwards as he joins in on Klaus' chuckle.

With a heavy heart, Klaus reaches the front desk, where a rather bored and morose looking man stands guard, his eyes betraying the weight of the burden he carries. Behind him, a sign reads, Lakeshore Hills Rehabilitation, a stark reminder of the struggles that have brought Klaus to this place.

With a deep sigh, Klaus places a small ziplock bag filled with his meager possessions on the desk, sliding it forward with a sense of a seemingly believable resignation. "See ya soon, Klaus," the man mutters. Klaus offers him a small smile, a gesture of gratitude for the man's tireless work and dedication.

As the token spins through the air, Klaus's eyes follow its every arc, his fingers poised to catch it . And as it lands smoothly in his palm, he can feel the weight of the man's words echoing in his mind, a solemn reminder of the journey that lies ahead. The man offers him a final piece of advice.

"Stay sober," he says, his voice warning but kind.

At this, Klaus can't resist spinning around to plant a kiss on the token, sending the man a mischievous wink. And as he disappears from view, his laughter echoing down the hall.

~ ☂︎ ~

As the astronaut ascended the rough and gravelly terrain, the first glimmers of the sun's rays began to cling to his suit. With a sense of awe, he gazed out at the breathtaking view that lay before him. The blinding light of the sun illuminated every nook and cranny of the moon's surface, transforming it into a glittering expanse of stars.

But before he could fully appreciate the beauty of the moment, the rhythmic beeping of an incoming transmission disrupted his thoughts. An automated voice announced the message, and without missing a beat, The Spaceboy responded with a dismissive tone, "Tell them I'm busy!"

However, when he heard the name of the renowned Dr. Pogo on the other end of the line, Luther's demeanor quickly shifted. "Keep him on the line!" he commanded, eager to hear what the esteemed doctor had to say amidst the stunning lunar landscape.

With a powerful burst from his jet boots, Luther launches himself off the lunar surface and hurtles through the vast expanse of space. In a matter of moments, he finds himself back in the familiar confines of his ship, its darkened interior illuminated only by the glow of various screens and instruments.

The walls of his office are adorned with a patchwork of newspaper articles and framed magazine covers, each one a testament to his many adventures and triumphs. One such article catches his eye, its headline boldly proclaiming, "Mars Mission Failure: Spaceboy critically injured. Hargreeves performs experimental surgery to save his life." The accompanying image shows a diminutive Luther, reduced to the size of a guerilla, clad in a space suit that now appeared comically oversized.

Undeterred by the reminder of his past struggles, Luther strides purposefully toward his desk and picks up the phone, ready to tackle whatever challenges await him next.

"Any good news from Earth, Pogo?" Luther queried, his voice tinged with a hint of hope. However, his excitement quickly gave way to disappointment as the response came back negative. "You know I can't leave my post," he replied, his sense of duty resolute. "A threat may finally-"

But before he could finish his thought, the tone of the conversation shifted dramatically, and he was left unpleasantly surprised. "What? Oh. I see. I'm on my way," he declared, his voice now brimming with urgency.

Without hesitation, Luther made his way to the space capsule, a sleek one-seater that he knew like the back of his hand.

Luther's ever-attentive robotic companion stood at the ready, its metallic frame gleaming in the dim light. " I have readied your ship number one. Will you be requiring your razor pistol?," it announced, its voice crisp and clear.

At the mention of his code name, Luther couldn't help but bristle slightly. "Yes, and Ben?" he replied, his voice tinged with a hint of annoyance. "Remind me to reprogram you when I get back. Only my father calls me Number One."

Despite his irritation, Luther knew that Ben meant well, and he couldn't help but feel a sense of gratitude for the robot's unwavering loyalty. As he prepared to embark on his latest mission, he knew that he could count on Ben to be there every step of the way, taking care of his work space.

He settled into the cockpit and activated the launch program, the familiar hum of the engines filling the cabin.

Ben stood at attention as his ship prepared to launch into the vast expanse of the galaxy. With a sense of quiet reverence, the robot gazed out into the endless void, its metallic frame glinting in the starlight.

As the ship began to lift off the ground, the robot's voice rang out in a solemn farewell. "Godspeed, Spaceboy, Sir," it intoned, its words carrying a weight of respect and admiration for the heroic astronaut.

For a moment, the robot stood there, watching as the ship vanished into the darkness, a tiny speck of light against the backdrop of the universe. And as it turned to go, the robot knew that it would continue to stand vigil, keeping watch over the vast expanse of space, ever faithful to its duty and to the brave souls who ventured forth into the unknown.

~ ☂︎ ~

Diego's hand hovered over the carpet, his fingers poised to pick off one of the many bloodied knives that lay scattered among the hundreds of glass shards that littered the floor. With a sense of grim determination, he selected one and rose to his feet, turning to face the cowering family who huddled before him.

In that moment, his eyes met those of the father, who gazed up at him with a mixture of fear and gratitude. Though the man's mouth was covered with duct tape, his eyes spoke volumes, conveying a sense of deep appreciation for Diego's intervention. And even though his wrists had never been tied, the father had been unable to defend his family from the attackers who had descended upon their home.

Now, as Diego moved to assist the family, the father watched warily, still reeling from the shock of the attack. But even in the midst of his fear and uncertainty, he could sense the sincerity in Diego's gaze, a reassuring presence in the midst of it all.

Diego turned to the family, offering them a unharming gaze. "Your family is safe now," his voice filled with quiet conviction. Though the scars of the attack would linger for some time, he knew that they would eventually heal.

But before he could offer any further assistance, Diego's heart sank with a sense of dread as his eyes trained on the television. And when the all-too-familiar pair of cold, unforgiving, grey eyes appeared on the screen, he knew that this was no ordinary news broadcast.

For a moment, he was transfixed, his gaze locked on the image of the man who had haunted his nightmares for years. The eyes that stared back at him were filled with a malevolent gleam, a hint of the darkness that lurked within.

"We're going now live to a breaking story," the anchor announced, his voice crackling with urgency. And as the images flickered across the screen, Diego's eyes widened in shock and disbelief. The colors danced across his face, reflecting the tumultuous emotions that roiled within him.

~ ☂︎ ~

As Allison navigated the chaotic throng of photographers, her name echoed through the air in a frantic chorus of voices. But one voice rose above the rest, a desperate plea that pierced through. "Allison!" the photographer screamed, pulling her around to face him. "Have you heard the news? When was the last time you saw your father?"

Allison was momentarily overcome by a flurry of thoughts, her mind racing and drawing conclusions with a swiftness that left her feeling somewhat unsettled, given the frenzied environment in which she found herself. The news of her father had reverberated with such force through the media that it had ignited a veritable firestorm of activity, with the paparazzi descending upon her like a swarm of insatiable vultures, eagerly clamoring for any morsel of information that they could lay their rapacious hands upon.

But even as she felt a sense of unease gnawing at the edges of her consciousness, Allison forced herself to remain calm and composed. With a cool detachment, she shifted her attention to the next photographer, avoiding the man's desperate gaze as she moved through the crowd.

"Have you heard from your brothers?."

As the woman's question reached her ears, Allison's smile faded, replaced by a look of concern and uncertainty. She knew that something was amiss, could sense the undercurrents of tension and fear that lurked just beneath the surface.

The next comment, however, was the one that pushed her over the edge, a harsh jibe that cut her to the quick. Lost amidst a sea of noise and confusion, Allison struggled to make sense of what was happening, her gut telling her that something was terribly wrong.

And then, just as she was about to give up hope, her manager appeared at her side, pulling her away from the red carpet and into the relative safety of the backstage area. As they hurried along, a voice reached her ears, confirming her worst suspicions.

"Allison, will you wear Valentino to the funeral?"

~ ☂︎ ~

With a determined gait, Klaus strode through the shadowy alleyway, his body instinctively navigating the terrain while his mind drifted away to lofty realms. Yet, his reverie was abruptly shattered by the sight of the unmistakable figure cloaked in a dark hoodie, silently beckoning to him with a small bag of unknown substances tightly clasped in its grasp.

A smile flickered across Klaus's face as he approached, the money already exchanged before he even arrived. In a burst of effusive energy, he tackled the dealer in a hug, giving him a swift pat on the back before turning to make the exchange.

As he stepped back, a look of elation washed over Klaus's face, his lips tugging into a wide grin. With a sense of childlike joy, he backed away down the alley, planting a kiss on the baggie as if it were a cherished token.

For a moment, he stood there, twirling around and savoring the moment, a sense of pure happiness coursing through his veins. And then he hastily broke into a run, his heels clicking together midair.

~ ☂︎ ~

Klaus's body swayed limply with the motion of the ambulance, the blaring sirens echoing through his consciousness. The world around him seemed to blur and spin, his senses overwhelmed by the disorienting chaos of the moment.

In the next instant, the defibrillators were upon him, their jolts coursing through his body with a raw, electric intensity. With a heavy gasp, Klaus rose from the brink of death, his chest heaving as he grasped for breath through the oxygen mask that still clung to his face.

The rush of adrenaline and shock coursed through his veins, his entire body trembling with the intensity of the moment. With a wild cackle, he tore off the mask, his eyes alight with a reckless energy.

For a moment, Klaus stood there, his head shaking with a grin plastered across his face. And then, with a sudden collapse against one of the shelves, he surrendered to the overwhelming force of the moment, his body still trembling with the remnants of the high.

Klaus extended his left palm, the tattoo etched across it reading "GOODBYE," as he hoped for a high five from the EMT. With a laugh, the EMT complied, offering up his own hand to meet Klaus's in a resounding slap. He whooped with delight, his joy infectious as he and the EMT share a sense of joy.

But just as they were basking in the moment, a sudden disturbance from the portable radio TV caught their attention. Klaus's eyes flicked to the screen, his heart sinking as he made out the words "Breaking News" through a screen of static.

Klaus was beguiled by the hypnotic flicker of images that danced across the cramped screen, his eyes struggling to discern the elusive truth of what he was witnessing. The distorted voice of the broadcaster valiantly battled its way through the cacophony of sirens and into Klaus's nebulous mind, inciting a frenzied flurry of thoughts as he grappled with the gravity of the breaking news.

Adjacent to him, an enigmatic presence shared his rapt fixation, their inner turmoil mirroring his own perplexing mixture of emotions. Klaus was acutely aware that sobriety was not a prerequisite for comprehending the gravity of the moment, as the weight of the world seemed to bear down upon him.

And then, as if in slow motion, the words came through with a clarity that cut through the noise and confusion. "Moments ago, police reported the death of the most eccentric and reclusive billionaire..."

"So, the old man finally kicked the bucket, huh?"

~ ☂︎ ~

"𝐍𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍"

VIKTOR

The lullaby that falls from his fingertips comes to a sudden halt, as fast as the world comes back to him. All becomes silent as he hastily stands up awaiting the judges feedback.

As Viktor's fingers danced across the violin strings, he ended what sounded like a beautiful lullaby filled the air. The music came to a halt, and the world came rushing back to him. The room fell silent as Seven stood up, his heart pounding with anticipation, waiting for the judges' feedback.

The judges exchanged glances, lost in thought. Viktor could feel his breath catch in his throat as he waited for their decision. It was a moment of both fear and beauty, as Viktor's fate hung in the balance.

~ ☂︎ ~

As Viktor strides forward, his feet create a symphony of rippling puddles, each step producing a miniature wave that spreads outwards like a pebble cast into a still lake. The sound of his footsteps is the only noise in the quiet night, save for the distant hum of traffic and the occasional murmur of voices drifting through the air.

Despite the gentle bustle of the night, Viktor's thoughts are restless, his mind filled with the weight of the day's events. As he trudges towards his humble apartment, he can't help but reflect on the indignity of having to rely on a bus to get around, the knowledge that he cannot afford something as basic as a car gnawing at him like a persistent ache.

Viktor's nightly walk from the bus was so familiar to him that he could easily have made the journey with his eyes closed, yet this realization brought him no sense of accomplishment or pride. Instead, it served as a stark reminder of the normalcy and the simplicity of his life, a life that seemed to be devoid of any true meaning or purpose.

As he trudged along the familiar path, his thoughts drifted back to a time long gone, a time when he had dared to dream of a future filled with possibility and promise. But now, in the face of the daily struggles and the endless grind of his monotonous existence, those dreams seemed like nothing more than distant memories, a cruel taunt of what could have been.

At moments like these, in moments of the feeling lack. He can't help but to think back on what his life would've been like if he wasn't just an ordinary. What it would've been like to have his name plastered across the headlines and billboards. What it would have been like if he had been extraordinary. If he had been special. Just like the rest of his family. Instead of being the excluded appointed black sheep.

Viktor's thoughts are abruptly halted as he finds himself standing transfixed before a foggy window display, just a few doors down from his humble apartment building. His eyes are drawn to a television set, broadcasting the latest news that now shows him a grim picture of his father. The image captures the cold glint of his father's eyes, and below it, in bold letters, is the headline that sends a shiver down Viktor's spine: "SIR REGINALD HARGREEVES IS DEAD".

For a moment, Viktor is frozen in shock, his mind struggling to comprehend the enormity of the news. His father, the legendary figure who had loomed so large over his life, was now gone, leaving behind a gaping void that seemed impossible to fill. Memories of his father flood Viktor's mind, memories of a man who was both distant and imposing, a man who had shaped him in ways that he had yet to fully understand.

As he stands there, lost in thought, the world around him seems to fade into obscurity, and he is left alone with his thoughts and the weight of his grief. In this moment, the future seems uncertain and the path ahead unclear.

"Dad..." Viktor's voice catches in his throat, barely above a whisper, as the full weight of the news hits him with a crushing force. Hot tears well up in his eyes, threatening to spill over onto his cheeks, as he struggles to come to terms with the reality of his father's passing.

The rain begins to fall in earnest, a sudden downpour that blankets the street in a shroud of misty gray. The droplets pelt Viktor's face and clothes, mingling with the tears that stream down his cheeks in an unrelenting torrent.

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