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sweet-pea-channie · 23 days ago

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In the silence, I found you

Azriel x female!reader

Summary: Azriel saves a mute fae woman left for dead after an ambush. Haunted by her silence, he finds himself drawn to her, not out of pity, but recognition. She reminds him of something he lost… and something he never thought he'd find again.

Warnings: Mentions of past abuse & torture (non-graphic but emotionally heavy), trauma responses including selective mutism, violence, aftermath of assault, PTSD, survivor's guilt, anxiety, grief and loss of family, slow emotional healing and intimate recovery scenes, soft angst + comfort

Word count: 12.6k

A/N: Hi! Thank you so much for reading 💛 English is my third language, so if you spot any grammar mistakes or odd phrasing, please be kind! I’m doing my best. Feedback is always welcome, especially if it's helpful and respectful. This fic is really close to my heart. It’s about healing, trust, and connection without words and I hope it speaks to you, even if it's quiet.

masterlist

Smoke still clung to the charred ruins of the village, curling through the early dusk air like ghostly fingers refusing to let go. The ground was slick with soot and blood, a patchwork of scorched cobblestones and scorched earth. The scent, acrid, raw, was more than just fire. It was despair, clinging to the bones of the place like a second skin.

Azriel stood beside Rhysand and Cassian at what had once been the village square, soldiers and warriors surrounding them. Now it was just rubble. A well had collapsed inward, blackened beams jutted from the earth like broken ribs, and half-burned furniture lay strewn about, a child’s wooden toy horse among them, snapped in half. It was quiet now, but not peaceful. Too quiet. The kind of silence that hummed with what had been done.

“They came through at night,” Rhysand informed everyone, his voice low and tightly leashed. “Wards were weak, barely held together. Half the villagers were Fae with lesser magic. Some couldn’t even defend themselves. The males who led the attack… they didn’t just want to kill.”

Cassian’s jaw flexed. His wings twitched, as if he couldn’t decide whether to fold them in or unfurl them in rage. “They weren’t just soldiers. They were predators.”

Azriel didn’t speak. His shadows slithered around his boots, darting in agitated wisps toward the edges of the square, as if still seeking out threats or witnesses. They found neither.

“The ones we caught,” Rhys continued, staring at the wreckage like it personally offended him, “are in chains. The rest… fled before we arrived. The survivors, the ones hiding, have been found. Healers are seeing to the injured. Children have been taken in by the temple elders from the northern hillside.”

Azriel’s shadows whispered again. A soft, mournful hum.

“It’s done,” Rhys said, scanning the hollowed shells of cottages and shattered windows. “Everything that can be done, has been. It’s over.”

But it didn’t feel over. Not to Azriel. Not with the metallic tang of blood still staining the air. Not with the look on that elderly female’s face when she had asked them, in a broken voice, “Why didn’t anyone come sooner?”

He hadn’t had an answer.

Rhysand glanced between Azriel and Cassian after the soldiers left, noting their silence. His own eyes, usually glowing with a spark of slyness, were dull. Exhausted. “You can rest now,” he said. “Or go home.”

Azriel looked past him, to the tree line beyond the village where the smoke thinned into mist. He caught a glimpse of a child sitting on a stone step, clutching a burned blanket, eyes hollow. The child didn’t cry. Just stared.

Rhys would return to Velaris. To Feyre. To warm arms and gentle laughter. To peace. But Azriel and Cassian… they had always found peace harder to carry. Harder to believe in.

“I’ll fly back in the morning,” Cassian said, rolling out his shoulders. “Want to make sure the families here have shelter. Food. Some of them don’t even have shoes.” He paused. “It still feels… raw.”

Azriel gave a quiet nod. “I'll stay here, too.”

Rhys hesitated, as if he wanted to protest, to pull rank. But then he just studied their faces and sighed.

“Fine. But rest, both of you. You're of no good use if you overstrain yourself,” he said softly. Then he was gone, winnowing in a shimmer of darkness and violet starlight.

The world felt heavier once he left.

Cassian turned toward a row of broken homes and muttered, “I’ll check the supply wagons again, make sure nothing’s gone missing.”

The village quieted further without him. Just the sound of crackling embers and murmuring healers in the distance. Cassian broke off to check the perimeter, but Azriel lingered by the outskirts, near the forest line.

The temporary camp had been set up just beyond the village outskirts, a collection of tents pitched beneath the shadow of the pines, where the smoke from the ruins thinned into something cleaner, but not quite peaceful. The sky had bled into twilight, bruised and streaked with orange. The smell of fire still lingered on the wind.

Azriel stepped into the tent he shared with Cassian, a canvas shelter thrown together more for function than comfort. His leathers creaked as he unbuckled his chest plate, his siphons clicking faintly as he set them down beside the low cot.

Cassian wasn’t there yet, probably still helping rebuild the central well, or lifting logs like they were made of kindling. Azriel rolled his shoulders and sat down heavily, stretching out his long legs and leaning back against the support pole. For a moment, he let the silence settle around him. He closed his eyes. Exhaled.

Then a shadow darted into the tent like a dagger. Fast. Sharp. Urgent.

Azriel’s eyes snapped open.

He didn’t need words. His shadows never spoke in them, not truly, but their intent thrummed through him like a pulse. There’s another. A survivor. Still out there. Still in pain.

He was already moving.

Armor forgotten, he strapped his siphons back on with swift, practiced movements and swept out of the tent without a word. No time to tell Cassian. No time to alert the others. His shadows were already leading the way, slithering ahead of him like smoke toward the trees.

The forest was dark, dense. Pines loomed like sentinels, and the path was barely a path at all, just loose soil and patches of moss tangled with roots. Azriel moved like a ghost, silent and fast, eyes trained ahead, shadows feeding him flashes of what they’d sensed.

Fae. Alive. Hurt. Alone.

He ran deeper, branches clawing at his shoulders and wings, the shadows growing sharper in their urgency. The quiet of the woods wasn’t peaceful, it was stifling. Suffocating. No animals moved. No birds cried.

Something clenched in his chest.

Then, a scent.

Blood. Faint, old. Human-like, but Fae.

His shadows curled tight around a cluster of trees, and Azriel slowed. Stepped carefully now. Each footfall deliberate. His siphons glowed faintly, casting a subtle blue hue against the undergrowth.

And then he saw her.

She was barely a shape in the gloom, slumped against the base of a thick pine, her body partially hidden by brush and shadow. A small Fae woman. Her wrists were bound cruelly above her head, tied to the tree with frayed rope that had cut deep into her skin. Her dress was torn, legs smeared with mud, face streaked with dried blood. One of her ankles looked swollen.

Her eyes were closed. Chest rising shallowly. Not asleep, not unconscious, just… still. Too still.

Azriel’s heart lurched. For a split second, he feared she was already gone.

He was beside her in a blink.

“Hey,” he said softly, dropping to one knee, his siphons dimming as he reached out. “Can you hear me?”

Nothing. Not even a flinch.

He hovered a hand near her cheek, not touching, not yet. “You’re safe now. I’m not here to hurt you.”

Slowly, slowly… her lashes fluttered.

She didn’t open her eyes, but her body tensed. Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came.

Azriel felt it then, not just the physical damage, but the weight of something deeper. A silence that had settled into her bones. Not shock. Not in this moment. This silence was old. Familiar.

He reached for the ropes carefully, cutting through them with a dagger he pulled from his belt. The bindings snapped with a dry crack, and her arms slumped forward, too weak to catch herself. Azriel caught her gently, cradling her body with one arm as he sliced the rope from her wrists.

She didn’t try to pull away. But she didn’t relax either.

“You’re okay,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

She blinked again, just once, then lifted her hand weakly, her fingers twitching in the air.

Signing.

Clumsy. Slow. As if she hadn’t done it in years.

Azriel’s breath caught. He understood.

“Don’t hurt me.”

He remembered the signs from centuries ago. His throat worked around the knot forming there. He shook his head, voice a whisper. “Never.”

Another flicker of fingers.

“I couldn’t scream.”

She wasn’t just mute from pain. It was something older. Deeper. She hadn’t screamed because she couldn’t.

Azriel gently gathered her into his arms. She was light, too light. Starved and cold. Her fingers clutched weakly at the collar of his leathers as he stood.

“I’m taking you back,” he said, already moving through the trees. “You need to see a healer."

And though she didn’t speak, he felt it, a shiver in her body. Not of fear, but something near it. Not trust, not yet. But recognition. A thread, fraying and fragile, tying her to this moment.

To him.

His shadows twined around them both as he carried her toward the broken village, a silent promise echoing in the night: Never again. Never left behind.

Azriel moved quickly through the woods, his steps fast but careful as he cradled the small Fae female against his chest. Her weight was next to nothing. Too thin. Her head lolled weakly against his shoulder, but every now and then, he felt her tense-sharp flinches whenever his boots crunched too loud, or when a branch snapped somewhere nearby.

Trauma lived in every muscle of her body.

“You’re safe,” he murmured again, more for her than himself. “Just a little longer. The healers will take care of you.”

She didn’t respond, didn’t sign, didn’t lift her head, but he felt her heartbeat flutter like a bird’s wing, fast and erratic against his arm.

The treeline broke, and the village came back into view: still smoldering, still broken. Torches burned in a quiet perimeter around the camp. The night had deepened now, casting everything in a dull, aching gray.

Azriel descended the last rise toward the path leading to the camp when a familiar voice called out.

“Az?” Cassian emerged from around a pile of crates, brow furrowed. He froze mid-step as his eyes landed on the figure in Azriel’s arms. “What the hell?”

“She was in the woods,” Azriel said without slowing, his voice clipped but steady. “Tied to a tree. Alive. Barely.”

Cassian’s face darkened. “You’re serious?”

Azriel gave a sharp nod, eyes flicking down to the female in his arms. She kept her face turned inward, buried against his shoulder, as if the mere sight of another male might break her.

Cassian stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Where exactly did you find her?”

“Half a mile east of the perimeter,” Azriel said. “Tucked into a tree line past the ravine. They left her there.”

Cassian’s fists clenched. “Left her?”

Azriel didn’t miss the way her shoulders flinched again. He tightened his hold around her protectively.

Cassian’s expression softened just slightly as he crouched to her eye level. “Do you remember who did this to you?” he asked gently.

She stirred then. A hand moved hesitantly from Azriel’s chest, slow and trembling, as if even that effort cost her. Her fingers began to move, barely forming a sign before faltering.

“She can’t speak,” Azriel said quietly, his shadows curling around her like a shield. “She’s mute. I think she always has been.”

Cassian blinked, stunned. “Shit.”

“She couldn’t scream,” Azriel went on, his voice sharper now, more bitter. “That’s probably why they left her. Grew tired of her when she didn’t make enough noise while they—” He cut himself off, his jaw locking. “The marks on her body… they didn’t come from the ropes alone.”

Cassian swore under his breath, eyes flicking with a warrior’s rage and a male’s sorrow. “Monsters.”

Azriel looked down at her. “She needs a healer. Now.”

Cassian nodded immediately and moved aside, clearing the path ahead. “Go. I’ll make sure they know to expect you.”

Azriel strode past him, his steps swift as he made his way to the makeshift healer’s tent at the edge of the village. It was lit with soft blue faelight, quiet voices murmuring within. He ducked inside.

The healers, two older Fae females and a half-Illyrian male apprentice, looked up in surprise.

“She’s injured,” Azriel said. “Badly. Found her just now.”

One of the healers, a calm-eyed woman named Thera, stepped forward and motioned for him to lay the girl down on the cot. “Bring her here, carefully.”

Azriel hesitated only for a second. He turned to the girl in his arms, his voice soft. “You’re with healers now. No one will hurt you. I promise.”

She looked up at him, finally meeting his gaze.

There was nothing left in her eyes, no fight, no anger, not even fear. Just exhaustion. And behind it, buried deep, something older. A wound without a name.

He set her down gently. Her fingers twitched, but she didn’t pull away from his hand until the healer nudged him back.

“We’ll take it from here,” Thera said gently, already unfastening the remnants of the ropes from her wrists.

Azriel didn’t move far. He stayed just a few steps away, arms crossed, shadows flicking around him protectively like they were refusing to let go of her.

Cassian appeared in the tent’s entrance, arms crossed, watching her with the same quiet horror Azriel had swallowed down moments before.

“She’s lucky you found her,” Cassian said after a beat. “Another night out there and…”

Azriel didn’t look at him. His eyes stayed on her face, on the way she winced at every touch, even the gentle ones. “It’s not luck.”

His voice was low. Absolute.

“She was meant to survive.”

────────────

Warmth.

That was the first thing she noticed.

Not the cloying, suffocating heat of ropes cutting into her skin or the rank, sticky breath of her captors. No. This warmth was soft. Dry. Almost… clean.

A blanket. Someone had tucked a blanket around her.

She blinked her eyes open. Faint blue light bathed the room, soft and shifting like water. The ceiling above her was canvas, not sky. She was lying on a cot. Her arms, for once, were free.

Her throat tightened.

I'm not tied up.

But her wrists still ached. Her whole body felt stiff, like her bones had forgotten how to lie still without pain. The pressure at her ankle pulsed in slow waves, wrapped now in linen and balm. She smelled herbs. Clean ones. And something else, leather, faint smoke, a scent like fresh wind after a storm.

She turned her head. He was there. The male who had found her. The quiet one. The one made of shadows.

He sat just beyond the edge of the cot, wings tucked in tight, shadows flicking softly around his shoulders like living smoke. His siphons gleamed blue in the faint light. But he was sitting like a sentry, not a predator.

He was watching her without staring, his expression unreadable. Not cold. Not cruel. Just... steady. A pillar in the storm.

She tried to move her hand. It shook.

The blanket slipped off her shoulder and panic rose like bile in her throat. She flinched, curling slightly, waiting for the blow, for the sneer, for the voice that would growl “Don’t waste my time again, mute girl.”

But nothing came. The shadows stirred. Not toward her, around her.

A gentle breeze kissed her temple. Not wind, not air, shadow. It felt like someone brushing hair from her face.

Her vision blurred. She blinked fast.

The last thing she remembered clearly was the sound of boots. Loud. Heavy. She'd kept her eyes closed as the footsteps approached the tree, too exhausted to move, too broken to care. She had thought, truly, deeply, this is the end. The males who left her had no interest in finishing the job. They just didn’t want to look at her anymore. She hadn’t made enough noise for them.

She'd learned early: screams fed monsters. Silence bored them.

So she stayed silent. Even when it hurt. Even when the ropes cut skin. Even when she bled. And they’d left her. Forgotten. Until him.

She turned her head again. Looked at him. His shadows stilled. Not gone, never gone, but quiet. Curious.

She lifted her hand. Slow. Trembling.

Signed: “Thank you.”

His head tilted slightly, and to her shock… he understood. He nodded once, low and firm, and murmured, “You don’t have to thank me.”

She stared at him.

Another sign: “You know?”

A pause. Then: “I do. A long time ago.” His voice was a whisper. Rough and soft at once. “I used to know someone like you.”

The words made her throat burn. Something inside her cracked open a little, not wide enough to be a wound, but enough to let air in. Enough to breathe again.

Her hand fell slowly back to her chest, the simple motion of signing already exhausting.

But he didn’t look away.

Azriel’s shadows curled faintly, retreating to his shoulders like they were giving her space. His wings shifted slightly, and then, with a quiet rustle, he moved closer. Not looming. Not hovering. Just near enough that his voice could stay low.

“Do you have a house here?” he asked, careful and quiet, like he was afraid to press too hard. “I could check. See if anything’s left.”

She looked at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, painfully, her fingers began to move again.

“I saw it burn.”

Azriel’s breath caught, but he didn’t interrupt.

“My sister was inside. I couldn’t—”

Her hands trembled too much to finish. The signs faltered and fell apart, and her throat clenched in frustration. Not being able to scream was one thing. But not being able to say it, even now, made the grief coil tighter around her chest.

Azriel didn’t ask for more. Didn’t demand she finish.

“I’m sorry,” he said instead, his voice rough. He shifted again, closer but not touching, and added, “You’re sure you’re alone now?”

She nodded once. It was the hardest motion of all.

For a long moment, neither of them said anything. The healer’s faelight swirled around them, blue and soft. Outside, the quiet hum of the camp settled into the air — the distant sound of Cassian’s voice barking orders, wood being stacked, water poured.

And still Azriel sat with her.

Then he spoke again. “We’re going to rebuild the village. All of it. We’ll keep it safe. I promise you, this will never happen again.”

She looked at him, not with hope, not yet. But with a fragile thread of belief. Not because she trusted easily, or because his words were sweet. But because his eyes didn’t lie.

Because when he said we’ll rebuild, she knew he meant every stone, every broken family, every shattered soul, including hers.

And he wasn’t promising to fix her.

He was promising that she wouldn’t have to do it alone.

────────────

The war room in the House of Wind smelled of parchment, cedar, and the faintest trace of lavender, likely from something Feyre had left behind. Morning light streamed through the high windows, catching on the scattered maps and marked reports laid across the obsidian table.

Rhysand stood at the head, fingers steepled under his chin as his violet eyes swept over the latest reports.

“They’re calling it Emberon now,” he said at last, tapping a finger to the northern ridge of the map. “The villagers decided on it a few days ago. Said they wanted something that acknowledged the fire, but didn’t let it define them.”

“Emberon,” Cassian echoed, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed. “Has a ring to it.”

“Poetic,” Azriel added, though his voice was low, contemplative. His eyes lingered on the spot on the map, far beyond the borders of Velaris. The smoke and ash had long since cleared, but the memory remained vivid, especially one particular memory.

Rhys nodded. “Most of the homes are rebuilt. They’ve started clearing out the western fields for planting again. The last supply drop from Velaris got there two days ago. But I want to see it myself.”

“You’re going?” Cassian asked.

“I’ll only stay for the day. Feyre’s painting again, and Nyx has been using my leathers as a canvas. But I want to speak to the village leaders in person. Make sure they have what they need.”

“I’ll come,” Cassian said immediately. “I want to see the families again. The way they bounced back from that mess…” He trailed off, eyes hardening. “They deserve everything we can give.”

Rhysand turned to Azriel. “You?”

Azriel didn’t answer right away. His shadows curled thoughtfully across his shoulders, stirred by something quieter than words.

In truth, he’d been thinking about that village for days. Ever since the last courier had brought back news of a functioning market square and newly laid stone paths, a thread of thought kept pulling at him.

The girl.

The one he’d found bound to a tree, all bone and silence, eyes hollow from more pain than any person should endure. She hadn’t spoken, couldn’t speak, but her hands had told him enough.

He never got her name.

She’d stayed in the healer’s tent the last time he saw her, still too weak to walk. When he and Cassian had flown back to Velaris days after the attack, she hadn’t woken to say goodbye.

He hadn't expected her to. But he had thought about her far more than he admitted, wondered if she had a roof again, if she still flinched in her sleep. If she still signed “thank you” with trembling hands.

Azriel looked up. “I’ll come.”

Cassian raised a brow. “Didn’t think you’d say yes. Thought you were brooding too hard in your tower lately.”

Azriel gave him a flat look. “I’ll be brooding in the skies today.”

Cassian grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

Rhysand just offered a small nod. “Then we leave within the hour. Bring warm gear, it still gets cold up in those hills.”

As Rhys vanished to prepare, Cassian stood and stretched with a dramatic groan. Azriel remained seated, tracing his gaze over the inked lines of Emberon on the map. It wasn’t just a village anymore, it was a scar turned to a seed.

He wondered if she was still there, among the rebuilding. If she had a home now. If her silence still felt like a prison, or if it had started to feel like power.

He didn’t know what he hoped for.

But he knew this: when he set foot in Emberon again, the first person he would look for was her.

The wind was brisk over the hills when they crested the last ridge and Emberon came into view.

It looked nothing like the place they’d left behind.

Where there had once been scorched timbers and the ghostly remains of shattered cottages, now stood a patchwork of new roofs, whitewashed stone, and garden plots with sprigs of green clawing their way through the thawing earth. Smoke curled from chimneys — not the smoke of ruin, but of hearths. Cooking fires. Blacksmith forges. Life.

Children ran between homes, their laughter carried on the wind. Baskets of bread and vegetables sat outside doors. Bright scraps of fabric fluttered on clotheslines like prayer flags.

A rough wooden sign greeted them at the edge of the road: Welcome to Emberon Forged by Fire - Reborn by Choice

Azriel’s shadows stilled around him as they landed at the edge of the main square. He wasn’t the only one surprised.

Cassian let out a low whistle. “They’ve done a gods-damned miracle here.”

Rhysand didn’t respond immediately, his violet gaze scanning every face, every movement. Then he gave a quiet, satisfied nod. “This is what rebuilding should look like.”

The square was buzzing with activity. A group of Fae elders spoke quietly at a stone table under a tree in bloom. Two younger males carried buckets from a well. And off to the side, a tall healer was speaking with a few villagers, nodding in approval at someone’s bandaged arm.

But Azriel wasn’t focused on any of them.

His shadows had stirred again. Not warning, guiding.

They pulled softly at the edge of his coat, brushing his neck and nudging his gaze toward the far side of the square. Toward a small communal garden fenced with woven branches.

And there she was.

Kneeling in the soil, sleeves rolled past her elbows, dark earth streaking her hands and forearms. A loose braid of hair hung over one shoulder, strands escaping to catch the sun. Her face was turned toward the raised bed, her expression hidden, but there was something different about her now.

Not fragile.

Focused.

She moved carefully, planting tiny seedlings into the soil with practiced care. Around her, several others worked, older women, a pair of teenagers, but even in the crowd, Azriel saw her as clearly as if she stood in a spotlight.

He felt it again, that thread, that invisible pull in his chest. It didn’t ache like it had before. Not grief. Not guilt.

Just a quiet, steady certainty.

She was alive.

He hadn’t imagined her resilience, her presence. She wasn’t still in a healer’s cot, curled into herself. She was here. Rooted.

Cassian followed his gaze, and a small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Is that her?”

Azriel didn’t answer.

Because in that moment, she looked up.

Her eyes met his across the square, not startled, not afraid, just still.

Recognition flickered there, followed by something gentler. Like the first breeze of spring brushing across old wounds.

She stood slowly, wiping her hands on her apron. And though she didn’t smile, didn’t wave, didn’t move toward him… she didn’t turn away either.

Azriel’s shadows curled like smoke around his boots. “She’s stronger,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

Cassian clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Looks like someone’s been taking care of her.”

Azriel nodded once. “Or maybe… she’s been taking care of herself.”

Across the square, she tilted her head, just slightly, and lifted one hand. The sign was small. Barely a motion.

Hello.

And for the first time in weeks, Azriel felt the corners of his mouth lift. Not a smile, exactly. But something close.

Hello, he signed back.

Azriel crossed the square with deliberate steps, not because he feared startling her, not anymore, but because he wasn’t sure how to approach her. Not because of any distance between them, but because he had grown used to watching her from a distance, giving her the space she needed to heal.

As he neared the low fence, she noticed him. She straightened, brushing her palms against her apron once again. There were faint traces of dirt on her cheeks, and her hair was loosely braided, a few strands escaping as she worked. She didn’t seem startled by his presence, but instead looked at him with quiet curiosity, the same way she had the first time he had found her in the woods.

When Azriel reached the edge of the garden, he stopped. He gave her the choice, as he always did, waiting to see what she would do next.

She tilted her head, just slightly, and then without a word, she stepped through the small gate, closing the space between them.

Azriel stood still for a moment, taking in the changes he could see in her. Her face had filled out with strength, the faint weariness in her eyes replaced by something more like calm determination. There was a quiet confidence in the way she held herself, the way she moved between the rows of plants, even as the shadow of her past still lingered in her gaze.

When she stood before him, she didn’t look away. There was no tension in her body, no unease, just an understanding that they were both in this moment together.

Her hands moved, slow but steady. “You came back.”

Azriel’s voice was soft, low. “I wanted to see the village. And see if you were still here.”

For a long moment, she didn’t respond. Then she signed again, more slowly this time, as though careful with her words. “I never left.”

Azriel’s chest tightened at her words. He didn’t know what he had expected, but there was something in her response that settled in him, a quiet kind of peace, maybe. That she had stayed. That she had found a way to stay.

She hesitated, fingers trembling ever so slightly before continuing. “You never asked for my name.”

Azriel felt a pang of realization. He hadn’t asked for her name, hadn’t thought to ask it before. The moment of crisis, of survival, had taken away the small things, the human things. He hadn’t asked, because there hadn’t been space to.

“I didn’t want to ask until you were ready,” he replied quietly.

She regarded him for a long moment, her eyes studying his face, then placed her hand gently over her chest.

“Y/N.”

Azriel repeated the name in his mind, letting it settle like a new melody in his thoughts. He nodded, though his voice was quiet when he spoke again. “Azriel.”

There was no smile, but her lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, a flicker of something there. Maybe it was acknowledgment. Maybe it was relief. Maybe it was both.

She then turned slightly, gesturing to the garden around them. “Do you want to see?”

Azriel nodded and followed her through the rows of plants. She led him from one raised bed to the next, pointing out herbs, vegetables, and flowers, thyme, rosemary, young lettuce, and the beginnings of carrots and squash. With every motion, she signed the name of the plant, and Azriel followed her hands, his gaze not on the plants but on the rhythm of her movements. The way her hands danced through the air as if she had been doing this all her life.

At one point, Y/N handed him a small wooden trowel, her expression one of quiet challenge. Azriel accepted it, and with a slow, deliberate motion, crouched beside her, taking his time as he began to dig gently into the earth. Together, in silence, they planted a row of small sprouts.

There was no rush. No expectation. Just the quiet work of two souls who, for this moment, shared something that wasn’t spoken aloud but was understood.

After some time, Y/N stood and wiped her hands on her apron. She didn’t look at Azriel immediately but glanced down at the garden, a small flicker of something passing over her face. When she finally did look back at him, there was no sadness in her expression. No fear.

Just quiet contentment.

Azriel’s shadows, which had settled low around him, shifted lightly at his feet, as if aware of the change in the air between them. The space between them felt less like distance, less like hesitation, and more like a soft, growing connection.

For the first time since he’d found her in the woods, Azriel allowed himself to believe in the possibility of what could come next, in the small, steady steps forward, and in the quiet trust that was beginning to blossom between them.

The village of Emberon was slowly coming back to life. The faint hum of hammers and chisels filled the air as more homes were rebuilt, children played in the dirt streets, and the scent of fresh bread wafted from a small bakery on the corner. Azriel walked beside Y/N, his shadows swirling at his heels, as she led him toward the place she had called home since her recovery. It was a modest house, but to her, it was a sanctuary. The early evening sun bathed the streets in golden light as they made their way through the village, Azriel glancing at the quiet houses and newly constructed buildings.

"I can't believe it's finally coming together," Azriel murmured quietly, his tone soft as he looked around at the rebuilding.

Y/N gave him a smile, though it was subtle, and motioned toward the direction of her house with a small wave of her hand. She signed quickly, and Azriel nodded, catching the gist of her words. "I’m proud of it. Of what’s been built here."

They had been walking in silence, and Azriel found comfort in the stillness, the sense of normalcy beginning to return to the village. His mind drifted as they walked, but it was broken by the sound of raised voices from down the street. His sharp eyes cut through the crowd, and he spotted Cassian and Rhysand talking to a tall fae male, a general from another region, right outside one of the shops. The conversation seemed to be heated, and Cassian’s boisterous voice was hard to miss even from a distance.

Y/N hesitated for a moment, then gestured for Azriel to follow her toward the group. She wanted to show him her new home, but there was no harm in saying hello. As they approached, Cassian turned and spotted them immediately, his grin widening at the sight of Y/N.

“Well, well, look who it is!” Cassian called, his voice booming across the street. He took a few steps forward, his eyes scanning her, noticing her calm but wary demeanor. “How are you?”

Azriel stood back a little, watching as Y/N stepped forward to respond. She raised her hands, signing rapidly, and Azriel moved closer to her side. His shadows drifted around her, a constant comfort, as he translated her words for Cassian.

“She says she’s doing better,” Azriel said softly. “She’s settling in.”

Cassian nodded, his expression softening. “That’s good to hear. You know, we’ve been working hard to help everyone here. You’ve got a good home now.”

Y/N signed again, this time more slowly, and Azriel watched as her hands moved fluidly. He translated for her again, the words flowing as she spoke.

“She’s thankful for everything that’s been done,” Azriel said, glancing back at Cassian. “But she still remembers everything. It’s hard to move past it all, even if she has a place of her own.”

Rhysand, who had been quiet up until now, stepped forward, his violet eyes locking with Y/N. The breeze shifted as the power of his Daemati abilities sparked in the air around him. Without a word, Rhysand reached out, connecting with her mind. Azriel’s brow furrowed as he watched, instinctively stepping back, sensing the power at play. He couldn’t hear their conversation, and neither could Cassian, but it was clear what was happening.

Y/N’s eyes softened as Rhysand’s voice entered her thoughts, and Azriel felt a strange mix of emotions as he watched her respond, her lips moving slightly, but not making a sound.

“You’ve helped so many here, Rhysand,” Y/N’s voice came, quiet but clear in Rhysand's mind. “Without you, and without Azriel and his shadows, I probably wouldn’t be here.”

Azriel felt the weight of their conversation in his chest, but he couldn’t hear what they said. He didn’t need to. The connection between the two of them, that subtle shift in her expression, told him everything he needed to know. There was a tenderness in the way Y/N held herself, a gratitude so deep that Azriel felt it resonate with his own heart.

Suddenly, Rhysand broke through the mental connection, his voice cutting through the air for all to hear, loud and firm.

“It’s our responsibility,” Rhysand said, his voice carrying over the conversation. “To protect, to help, and to make sure this never happens again. We will rebuild this place, just like we’ve rebuilt so many others.”

Azriel stood still, his eyes focused on Y/N’s reaction. She blinked, as though Rhysand’s words were just as powerful in her mind as they were in the air, and she gave a small nod. It was as though she had heard it all before, and yet, it still made a difference to her.

Y/N turned to face them, her hands moving again. She signed with slow, graceful gestures, her fingers weaving through the air as she asked Azriel to translate.

“She’s offering us food,” Azriel said with a small smile, his voice quieter now. “She wants us to come to her place. A quick meal.”

Cassian raised an eyebrow. “I’m not turning down a free meal,” he said, his voice teasing.

Azriel glanced at Y/N, who smiled at Cassian's words. Then, with a subtle nod, she turned toward her home, motioning for them to follow.

Rhysand’s eyes lingered on the village for a moment before he turned to follow them. “Lead the way, Y/N. We’ll be happy to join you.”

Azriel, trailing behind, allowed his shadows to flow around him like a cloak. He could feel the weight of the day lifting, but he wasn’t sure if it was because of the meal or because Y/N had invited them into her world. They had done what they could for her, for the village, but it was clear that her journey was far from over. Still, there was a small flicker of hope in the air, a belief that maybe, just maybe, she could begin again.

The inside of Y/N's house was simple, yet welcoming. The small kitchen area had a hearth where a pot of stew simmered on the flames, filling the air with a savory aroma. The furniture was modest but carefully placed, and the warmth of her home was a stark contrast to the cold, barren village Azriel had found her in all those weeks ago. The stone walls were lined with fresh herbs, and small touches of color from woven fabrics gave it a sense of life.

Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel stood near the entrance, surveying the space. Cassian was running his hand along the rough wooden shelves, his eyes scanning the room for anything that stood out. He noticed a few things still left unfinished, some shelves that weren’t fully mounted, a small pile of firewood in the corner that needed to be stacked.

Rhysand’s eyes were softer than usual as he observed the place. The High Lord of the Night Court was always in command, always exuding a certain distance, but here, in the quiet of Y/N’s home, something in him softened. He turned his attention to her, and his voice was gentle as he reached out to her mind.

“Y/N,” Rhysand’s voice was like a whisper in her thoughts. “Would you like us to help finish anything here? We could take care of the shelves or the firewood, whatever you need.”

Y/N paused for a moment, considering the offer, but then signed in a quick, dismissive motion as she shook her head. She wanted to refuse, her hands moving gracefully in the air as she said to Azriel, who translated for the group.

“She says she couldn’t possibly ask for the High Lord of the Night Court to do something like that,” Azriel said with a chuckle, his voice warm as he glanced toward Rhysand. “She’s too proud.”

Rhysand raised an eyebrow, letting out a soft laugh. “Don’t worry, Y/N,” he said aloud, his voice echoing in the small space. “I won’t put my hands on anything. But Cassian over here”, he grinned slyly, “he’ll do all the work.”

Cassian’s eyes widened in mock horror. “What?” he grumbled. “I don’t even know how to-”

Before Cassian could protest further, Rhysand just waved a hand dismissively, clearly enjoying the banter. Azriel couldn’t help but grin a little as he watched the two of them, but his attention soon shifted as Y/N turned back to the stove, checking on the stew.

Azriel gave the room one last sweep and noticed that Y/N had already begun setting the table for the meal. He could see the care she’d put into everything, but there was still a certain sense of unfinished business, the house wasn’t quite complete, and the simple details spoke volumes about how much she had left to do.

He moved toward her, not wanting to stand idle. “I’ll help with the stew,” Azriel offered quietly, his voice low but steady.

Y/N glanced at him, a smile playing at the corner of her lips before she nodded. She handed him the ladle to stir the pot, and Azriel did so with ease, his attention on the bubbling stew. He caught the faint scent of vegetables and spices, his mouth watering slightly. The sounds of Cassian and Rhysand’s conversation in the background faded as he focused on the simple task of preparing the meal.

Once the stew was ready, Y/N began ladling it into bowls with precise, careful movements, her hands flowing through the motions as if she had done it a thousand times. Azriel stood by, ready to help, and as she placed the bowls on the counter, he moved to take them and set them on the table.

But just as he was about to move, one of his shadows seemed to get in his way. It darted out from behind him, swirling in front of his hands like an unruly piece of cloth. He tried to move past it, but it lingered, twining in front of him like it had a mind of its own. His focus was split for just a moment, and before he realized it, the stew spilled over the edge of the bowl, splashing onto his hands.

Azriel cursed under his breath, grimacing as the hot liquid seared his skin. He jumped back, quickly wiping his hands on the towel he had nearby. The sting of the burn made his jaw tighten, but it wasn’t unbearable. He muttered a curse to himself, knowing it was his own fault for not being more mindful.

“Damn shadows,” he told them, low and to himself, not realizing how loud his thoughts were as he cursed.

But then, just as he was preparing to move the bowl again, a cold, wet cloth pressed gently to his hand. Azriel froze, his brow furrowing in confusion as he looked up to see Y/N, who had come to his side without him even realizing. She was focused, her hands working quickly to press the towel to his injured skin.

Azriel blinked in surprise. “How did you-”

Y/N’s gaze met his, and she tilted her head, her brow furrowed in concern. She seemed to sense his confusion and signed back to him, her hands moving slowly and deliberately as she explained.

“I heard you,” she signed carefully. “I could hear you talking to yourself. I thought... I thought you were in pain.”

Azriel’s breath hitched. He had been speaking to himself, yes, but there was no way she could have heard him. Wasn’t it just his internal thoughts? She couldn't have—

“Wait,” he asked, his voice a little unsure, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You... you heard me?”

Y/N nodded, a flicker of confusion in her own eyes. She signed again.

“You were talking to your shadows. I heard it. Are you okay?”

Azriel’s mouth went dry, and his mind raced. He had been speaking to his shadows, sure, but the fact that she could hear him... that was something else entirely. He had never imagined that someone who couldn’t speak could somehow hear his thoughts. It was impossible... but then again, this was Y/N.

Azriel paused for a moment, staring at her, trying to process everything. “Can you hear... my thoughts? Like how Rhysand can?”

Y/N’s brow furrowed even more in confusion, and she signed again, this time slower, as if trying to make sense of it herself.

“I don’t know. I just... I could hear you. In my mind. Can you hear me, too?”

Azriel blinked, feeling the faintest ripple of something he couldn’t explain, something new between them. “I... I think I can.”

He wasn’t sure how it worked, or why it was happening, but as he stood there, with the cold cloth still pressed to his hand, a strange connection started to form. He could hear her in his head, her thoughts were as clear as if she had spoken aloud.

Azriel’s mouth went dry as he turned to her, unsure whether to be thrilled or confused. “This... this is new.”

Y/N’s lips curled into a small, unsure smile. She signed once more.

“Maybe it’s something we share now. I’m not sure.”

Azriel smiled faintly, looking down at his hand, which no longer burned from the hot stew. His shadows had settled, and his mind was still spinning. But in that moment, he felt something shift between them, something tangible and warm.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said quietly, feeling more at ease than he had in weeks. “Together.”

Y/N nodded, and Azriel couldn't help but feel a flicker of hope rise in his chest. Maybe this was a new beginning, one where she didn’t have to remain silent anymore.

────────────

The sun had already dipped behind the hills, casting the village in soft lavender hues when Azriel knocked gently on Y/N’s door. A cool breeze stirred the leaves in the trees outside, rustling just loud enough to be noticed. Her home, tucked between two larger cottages near the outer edge of the rebuilt village, was bathed in the golden light of a few lanterns within.

Y/N opened the door before he could knock again, her expression neutral at first, but softening immediately at the sight of him. She stepped aside wordlessly, inviting him in.

Azriel stepped inside, the warmth of her home wrapping around him like a soft blanket. It smelled faintly of dried herbs, pinewood, and something sweet.

“Would you like some tea?” she asked him, speaking gently into his mind.

He nodded. “Sure. Whatever you’re having.”

A flicker of warmth crossed her face as she moved into the small kitchen area, setting a kettle on the iron stove. From a wooden drawer she pulled out a small tin and opened it, releasing the delicate fragrance of her favorite blend, peppermint, chamomile, and rose hip. The colors were beautiful in the low light: deep green leaves, pale yellow petals, rich crimson fruit. She dropped them into a small teapot and poured hot water over them.

Azriel watched her from a nearby chair, silent, but something about the domesticity of it, her careful movements, the quiet ritual of preparing something comforting, felt oddly intimate. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed this kind of quiet.

When the tea had steeped, she poured two cups and handed him one. Their fingers brushed briefly. He muttered a soft “thank you,” and she nodded, taking her seat by the hearth, gesturing for him to join her.

They sipped in silence for a few minutes, letting the warmth of the drink settle into their bones. Then, she looked up at him, her gaze sharp but kind.

“You’re troubled,” she said into his mind, gently, without judgment.

Azriel leaned back, his fingers wrapped around the cup, wings slightly hunched behind him. “I’ve been thinking. About… this. You and me. Whatever this is.”

She didn’t interrupt. Just waited, eyes steady on his.

“It’s not a mating bond,” he said slowly. “At least, I don’t think it is. I’ve read everything I could find on the subject over the years. I thought… I hoped I’d recognize it instantly, if it ever happened. I would know. But this...” He paused. “It feels different.”

Y/N’s eyes didn’t leave his. Her mental voice was quiet, steady. “It’s not a mating bond.”

Azriel stiffened, then nodded once. “You’re sure?”

“I had one once,” she said. The words slid gently into his thoughts, but their weight landed heavily. “A true mating bond. I rejected it.”

His brows drew together. He set the cup down, leaning forward. “Why?”

“Because he was cruel. Manipulative. He wanted to break me, not cherish me.” Her hands remained folded in her lap, but her voice in his head was calm. “The bond was there, yes. But I would rather walk alone than be bound to someone like him.”

Azriel’s chest ached. He shifted to sit across from her now, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. “And yet,” he said, “you and I… we have something.”

“We do.”

“I can speak to you without sound. You can answer. It’s not like what you have with Rhys, I can’t do that with anyone else. And you can’t do it with anyone else, either, can you?”

She shook her head. “Only you. And Rhys, because of what he is. But with you… it’s different. Easier. Natural.”

He studied her face, her stillness, the way her shadows always seemed to draw nearer when he was near her. “Maybe it’s the shadows,” she offered softly. “They understand me. I’ve always felt like they listened when no one else could. Maybe they… carry me to you.”

Azriel looked down. His own shadows curled at his ankles, one brushing the hem of her skirt. They didn’t pull away. If anything, they seemed... content. Restful.

“You might be right,” he admitted. “I’ve never known them to behave like this before. They whisper to me, warn me, guide me… but they’ve never connected me to someone like this.”

She leaned forward slightly. “Do you think they’re giving you something you didn’t know you needed?”

The question was quiet, but it dug in deep. Azriel looked up, met her eyes, and for a moment, it felt like she’d peeled back every layer he spent a lifetime guarding.

“Maybe,” he said finally, his voice low even in his own mind. “Maybe they are.”

Y/N’s lips curved faintly, not quite a smile, but something just as kind. She reached for the teapot, poured them both another cup.

And as they sat there, in the fading evening light with the scent of peppermint and rose hip between them, neither spoke aloud.

They didn’t need to.

The air between them shifted, thick with unspoken words. The warmth from their tea had settled into the bones of the small cottage, but Azriel couldn’t shake the feeling that something heavy lingered in the space between them. He’d always known Y/N was a survivor, that there was more to her silence than met the eye, but he hadn’t pushed, until now.

The shadows at his feet coiled tighter, drawn to the quiet stillness of the room. He could feel them, just as he could feel the weight of her presence. She was stronger than she realized, but there were cracks in her walls. Azriel’s mind lingered on those cracks, and the realization hit him hard: She has a story. And I need to hear it.

“Y/N,” Azriel began, his voice quiet but steady, “You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not ready to, but... I need to ask. Were you always mute?”

She paused, her fingers gently tracing the edge of her teacup. Her eyes fell to her lap, and for a moment, he feared she would close off completely, retreating into herself. But then, slowly, she looked up at him. The silent communication between them was a delicate thread now, one she grasped without hesitation. And for a brief second, Azriel saw the rawness behind her calm facade.

“No,” she said, her mental voice soft, laced with pain. “I wasn’t always like this.”

Azriel leaned forward, sensing that this was the moment where the walls would either crumble or solidify. He said nothing more, allowing her the space to share her story on her terms.

She inhaled deeply before speaking again, her voice now shaking, though still only audible to him. “I was born into a family that was... never safe. My parents were good people, I think. But the world around us was always breaking, always trying to tear us apart. I was just a little girl, caught in the chaos.” Her mind drifted for a moment, eyes looking past him, as if seeing something Azriel couldn’t.

“When I was young, our village was attacked, too. They came at night, burning homes, ripping families apart. My parents were taken from me, pulled from my arms while I was screaming, too loud, too helpless. They told me to be quiet. They told me that if I made a sound, I would die like them.”

Azriel’s heart twisted painfully at her words, at the way she spoke with such quiet certainty of loss. But what struck him the most was the calmness in her voice, as though she had long ago resigned herself to the horrors she had lived through.

Her mind continued, and the weight of her trauma filled every thought. “After they... they killed them, the others came for me and my sister. They said they’d cut out my tongue if I ever screamed. They said I was worthless if I didn’t learn to obey, to shut up. And they made sure I understood by threatening to do it right there.”

Y/N’s eyes squeezed shut, the pain almost palpable even though it was confined within her mind. Azriel could see the shadows at her feet, as if they, too, felt her anguish. He reached for his own, needing the connection, needing to hold something tangible as her memories bled through their shared silence.

“They locked us away. Kept us in a room, chained to a wall. And every time I tried to make a sound, anything, there were punishments. Whips. Swords. It didn’t matter. The message was clear: Don’t speak. Don’t make a sound. And after a while... I couldn’t anymore. I was so terrified. Every time I tried, it felt like my voice was gone.”

She paused, the heaviness of her confession suffocating the air between them. Azriel could feel it, could see it in her eyes. The tears that had never fallen, the silent scream she could never release.

She looked at him now, her eyes full of something else, resignation, but also a quiet, unyielding strength. “It’s like my voice was stolen. It’s not just fear anymore. It’s like my body just... refuses. Even now, if I try to speak, nothing comes out. And I don’t know how to fix it.”

The silence that followed was deep, and Azriel felt like the room itself had stopped breathing. His hands clenched into fists, the sharp ache of helplessness pulling through his chest. What she had been through, what she still carried, was unimaginable. And yet, she was still here. Alive. Still fighting.

Azriel didn’t know what to say, didn’t know if there were words to make this right. Instead, he took a slow breath, pushing through the growing ache. “You don’t have to fix it, Y/N,” he said softly, his voice rougher than usual. “You don’t have to speak for me to understand you.”

Her eyes flickered with something like relief, but she didn’t respond. She just closed the space between them, a tentative touch to his arm, her hand resting there, silent but full of meaning.

“I just…” she thought, her mental voice hesitant, “I want to be heard. In my own way. To be understood.”

Azriel reached up slowly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. He didn’t need to speak aloud. He didn’t need to fill the silence with words. Instead, he let her know, through the bond they shared — through the shadows and his steady presence — that she was heard.

Azriel sat in stillness for a moment longer, watching the way her fingers curled around her teacup as if grounding herself through the warmth. The weight of her story still hung in the room, but there was something new now, a vulnerability she hadn’t shown before, and the trust it took to reveal it.

He shifted slightly, resting his arms on his knees. His voice came quiet, thoughtful, each word etched with a heaviness he didn’t try to hide.

“Aren’t you afraid,” he asked gently, “that something like that might happen again?”

Her head lifted at that, her eyes meeting his, not startled, not offended. Just honest. He hesitated, then continued.

“It happened again, Y/N. Just a few weeks ago. That night I found you... bound, bleeding. Alone.”

The shadows at his back flickered restlessly, echoing the unease he barely contained.

She was quiet for a long time before her voice slipped into his mind, soft and sure. “Yes. I’m afraid.”

She didn’t try to hide it. And the admission, simple as it was, carved deeper into Azriel than any scream ever could.

“But I trust Rhysand,” she added. “This village matters to him. To you. I believe he’ll keep us safe.”

Azriel’s jaw flexed as he looked at her, at the softness of her features, the hard-earned strength beneath. The shadows whispered against his skin, tugging at him, as if echoing what he was about to say.

He took a breath, ran a hand through his hair, and then asked what had been weighing on him since the day he left the village: “Would you come to Velaris?”

Y/N blinked, taken aback, her fingers going still against her cup.

“It’s safer there,” Azriel said quickly, before she could answer. “The city is protected. Guarded. No one would touch you. I could take you there. You’d be safe.”

He didn’t say I’d sleep better knowing you’re behind those wards. He didn’t say I think about you more than I should. But it was all there, in the way his voice dipped, the way his shadows hovered near her like they were drawn to her pain, her quiet strength.

Y/N’s thoughts reached him after a moment, hesitant but clear. “I can’t abandon them.”

Azriel frowned slightly, but said nothing as she continued.

“These people… they stayed. They rebuilt this place together. With blood on the ground and ash in their mouths, they still stood. I can’t leave them behind.”

He nodded slowly. He understood, more than she could know. Still, he leaned forward, his voice barely above a whisper. “But you can’t scream for help.”

He hated the sound of that truth aloud. “If something were to happen again-”

“Then maybe,” she cut in gently, “you could teach me how to stay safe.”

Azriel blinked. Her eyes met his, unwavering. There was no fear in them now, only quiet determination.

The shadows stilled.

“You want me to train you?” he asked, surprise flickering through his voice.

She nodded. “I don’t want to be helpless again. I don’t want to rely on someone hearing me. I want to be able to protect myself… and others too.”

Azriel’s mouth curved — not quite a smile, but something close. “Alright.” His voice was gravel and warmth. “Then tomorrow, we begin.”

And even though she said nothing aloud, he felt the quiet warmth ripple across their bond, gratitude, fierce and radiant, and beneath it, something new: Hope.

────────────

The sun had just begun to dip behind the Sidra, painting Velaris in shades of gold and lavender as Starfall’s first shimmering streaks whispered across the sky.

At the House of Wind, laughter and warmth swirled through the grand dining hall like old music. Lanterns floated gently above the long table, casting soft hues of blue and violet over wine glasses and golden plates. The Inner Circle was gathered, every one of them dressed in star-kissed silks or tailored leathers, the room buzzing with anticipation, except for one lingering question.

“Why aren’t we eating?” Nesta asked, arms folded, her patience thinning as she eyed the untouched food on the table. She looked radiant tonight, as always, in midnight blue, like she belonged among the stars themselves.

Rhysand, lounging at the head of the table with Feyre nestled beside him, smiled with that infuriating calm of his. “Because,” he said smoothly, “Azriel is picking someone up.”

Cassian, who had just downed a sip of wine, leaned back in his chair and smirked. “You mean Azriel and his girlfriend.”

Mor nearly choked on her drink, eyes sparkling. “Wait, seriously? Are they…?”

She left the question open, eyebrows raised toward Rhysand.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he glanced toward the open balcony, where the night sky had begun to stir with faint threads of starlight. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, thoughtful. “I don’t know what to call it,” he said. “But I can feel it. Whatever is between them, it’s real. And different.”

Amren, perched near the end of the table, narrowed her silver eyes. “He shares something with her he doesn’t with any of us. That much is clear.”

Feyre nodded softly, brushing her fingers along the stem of her glass. “I’ve seen it, too. The way his shadows behave around her, like they’re part of her now.”

The conversation faded into a hush as a faint sound stirred from the hall, the rustle of boots on stone, the quiet press of wings folding behind them.

The door opened, and Azriel stepped inside, dressed in soft black, his Siphons gleaming like frozen stars on his hands and shoulders. At his side walked Y/N.

She wore deep forest green with a shimmer of silver woven into the fabric, nothing elaborate, but breathtaking in its simplicity. A small braid was pinned behind her ear, and her gaze moved over the Inner Circle with a calm steadiness that held no fear. Only curiosity. And quiet strength.

Azriel kept close beside her, a shadow brushing along her arm like it was anchoring her, or maybe the other way around.

Rhysand stood first, his smile genuine. “Welcome.”

Y/N bowed her head gently in greeting, and though she didn’t speak, she didn’t need to — the way her eyes met each of theirs, full of quiet warmth and gratitude, said enough.

“Thank you,” her voice echoed gently into Rhysand’s mind. “For letting me be here.”

Rhysand inclined his head with a smile, then turned toward the rest of the room. “Shall we eat now, Nesta?”

Nesta rolled her eyes, though a smirk played at her lips.

Cassian was already rising to his feet, nudging a chair out beside him. “Come sit, Az. And Y/N, we saved the good bread for you.”

Mor beamed as Y/N took a seat beside Azriel, the shadows around him curling like smoke in moonlight, peaceful for the first time in days.

And outside, the stars began to fall, like silver rain from the heavens, silent and endless.

Dinner was laughter, the clink of glasses, warm candlelight, and the shimmer of magic laced in the air.

Y/N sat quietly between Azriel and Feyre, a faint smile on her lips as she watched the easy rhythm of the Inner Circle, the way Cassian teased Mor with flicks of bread rolls, the way Amren rolled her eyes and muttered about “children,” even though the corners of her lips were quirked in amusement.

“Did Azriel tell you,” Cassian said mid-chew, gesturing toward Y/N with his fork, “that he threatened three construction workers last week for letting a hammer fall too close to your garden?”

Azriel, without looking up from his plate, said calmly, “I told them to be more careful.”

“You said,” Mor mimicked in a deadly-serious tone, “‘Drop that again and I’ll rip your arms off and bury them in the herb bed.’” She grinned at Y/N. “We were all there.”

Y/N’s eyes widened slightly in amusement, then her hands moved, quick, fluid gestures of her fingers.

Feyre laughed, translating instinctively, “She says the hammer didn’t even touch the ground.”

Azriel’s lip twitched.

“I told you,” Cassian said, pointing his fork again. “Absolutely whipped.”

Azriel didn’t argue. He just raised a brow and flicked a shadow toward Cassian’s wine, tipping the cup ever-so-slightly.

Y/N caught the movement and bit back a laugh, shaking her head as if to say boys.

The Inner Circle was basking in warmth, and Y/N felt the unfamiliar but comforting sensation of being part of something, even if she mostly listened. Still, she didn’t feel apart from them. Not tonight.

Azriel stayed close at her side, his shadows uncharacteristically calm. Every so often, he’d lean in, not out of necessity, but as if it was simply his instinct now.

When Cassian launched into another embellished story about Mor and a bakery brawl years ago, Y/N turned slightly toward Azriel and caught his eye.

“Are they always like this?” she asked in his mind, her tone dry, amused.

Azriel’s lips curved faintly. “This is tame. Wait until Cassian’s had three more glasses of wine and starts dancing.”

She laughed silently, a soft sparkle lighting her eyes.

“You’ve changed,” she added after a moment, more hesitantly now. “Since the night you found me. You seem… lighter.”

Azriel turned his head to her, searching her face in the flickering glow. “Maybe because you’re here. And safe. It’s easier to breathe when I know that.”

Across the table, a pair of sharp silver eyes were watching them closely.

Amren said nothing. She swirled the deep red wine in her goblet and observed the pair, the way they seemed to speak without a sound, how Azriel’s shoulders loosened when he was with Y/N, how Y/N’s expressions shifted as though full conversations were happening in silence.

There was something deeper there. Not a mating bond, she’d known enough of those to recognize it, but something… older. Stranger.

When dessert arrived, Amren stood without a word.

Feyre glanced over. “You’re not staying?”

“I have something to look into,” Amren replied, her tone clipped as always, though her eyes flicked once more to Azriel and Y/N before she turned. “Something I should’ve thought of sooner.”

And then she was gone, shadows slipping behind her as she vanished from the dining hall, no doubt heading toward the library’s oldest corners.

Back at the table, Y/N noticed Azriel watching Amren leave. She nudged his arm gently, tilting her head.

“Everything alright?”

He shook his head once. “With her, who knows.” But his eyes softened when he looked back at her. “You okay?”

Y/N nodded. “I’m more than okay. This is the first time in… years… that I feel like I’m not surviving. I’m just living.”

Azriel blinked slowly, something fierce and fragile sparking behind his eyes.

Then, almost without thinking, he reached under the table, just a brush of his pinky finger against hers, a quiet promise. She stilled, and then wrapped her fingers around his.

Later, when most of the Inner Circle had drifted to other corners of the House of Wind, some to sip wine by the fire, others to dance beneath the starlight, Azriel and Y/N slipped away to one of the balconies.

They said nothing for a while. They didn’t need to.

Y/N leaned against the stone railing, gazing up at the stars as they fell in slow, glowing streaks. The sky shimmered with ancient magic, vast and silver-blue and full of unspoken dreams. Her hair moved gently in the breeze, and Azriel, standing just behind her, watched as one of his shadows twined itself around her wrist like a ribbon, then flitted away as if shy.

She turned to him after a moment, her voice touching his mind in that soft, singular way.

“Is it always like this?”

Azriel shook his head. “Some years, the stars fall slower. Sometimes the wind carries them in spirals. This… this is rare.”

She smiled faintly, her eyes reflecting the light. “Then I’m glad I’m seeing it like this. With you.”

A pause.

He looked at her, really looked, as if this was the first time he could, uninterrupted by fear or pain or the weight of everything else they’d survived.

“I thought I knew what I was looking for,” Azriel murmured. “All these centuries. I thought I’d know the shape of it when it came.”

Her brows lifted, curious.

He stepped closer, slowly, giving her time, space, always.

“But this,” he said, voice lower now. “This wasn’t what I expected. It’s not a mating bond. It’s not fire. It’s… quiet. Like peace. Like my shadows finally have nothing to warn me about.”

She didn’t speak to his mind immediately. Instead, she reached out, just barely, and brushed her fingers against his.

Azriel’s eyes darkened as they held hers.

“Then maybe,” she said gently in his mind, “you weren’t looking for fire. Maybe you were always looking for quiet.”

The words landed like a balm across a scar.

Slowly, deliberately, Azriel lifted one hand and cupped her jaw. His thumb skimmed the curve of her cheek, the corner of her mouth. Her breath caught, eyes wide and shining.

When he leaned in, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t claimed. It was reverent.

Their lips met beneath the falling stars - soft, slow, warm.

Y/N exhaled into him, and Azriel breathed her in like he had waited a lifetime to do so.

Above them, a shooting star blazed past, brighter than the rest. And for a moment, time stilled.

When they parted, Y/N rested her forehead against his chest, her mind brushing his again with a whisper: “You make me feel safe.”

Azriel’s hands trembled just slightly where they held her.

“I will always keep you safe,” he murmured aloud. “No matter where you are.”

The stars were still falling when the soft click of the balcony door stirred them from their shared silence.

Azriel turned first, instinctively, his shadows twitching before settling as the figure stepped into view.

Amren.

She looked… different. Not in appearance, still timeless, still clothed in midnight silk and draped in something sharper than elegance, but there was an intensity in her silver eyes that hadn’t been there at dinner.

“I thought I’d find you two out here,” she said, folding her arms. “You’ve become rather inseparable.”

Y/N straightened slightly, unsure if she should step back from Azriel, but his hand remained gently over hers, grounding, not possessive. She didn’t move.

Amren strode to the balcony’s edge, glancing once at the sky, then at them again.

“I saw the way you were interacting tonight,” she said plainly. “The way you speak without sound, how your magic knows each other before you do. It reminded me of something I once read. A long, long time ago.”

Azriel narrowed his eyes. “You went to the library.”

Amren’s mouth twisted into something half-smirk, half-snarl. “Of course I did. I don’t like mysteries I can’t name. And what you two have-” she waved a hand vaguely between them, “-is not a mating bond.”

Y/N’s brows drew together. Amren turned her gaze to her.

“No, girl, it’s not a bond of body or desire. But it is powerful. And old.”

She paused, and for once, the silence was heavy.

“It’s called a thirren bond,” Amren said at last, voice quieter. “From a language lost before Velaris was even built. It only happens under very rare, specific circumstances. Two souls, both fractured, but not by fate, like mates. By experience. By grief. And sometimes, when the cracks align just so…”

Her gaze swept between them again, sharp and unreadable. “They fill each other.”

Azriel’s voice was low. “And what does that mean, exactly?”

Amren tilted her head. “It means you share more than thoughts. You share… knowing. Not just emotions or whispers. You don’t complete each other. You comprehend each other. There’s no hierarchy. No instinct to dominate or claim. It’s a conscious harmony. A chosen one.”

Y/N stared at her, mind gently spinning.

Azriel was quiet beside her, shadows curling slowly at his feet.

“But it’s rare,” Amren continued. “Rarer than any mating bond. Most fae don’t even believe in it anymore. Because it requires pain. It requires survival. And a willingness to connect that deeply without being compelled.”

She stepped back toward the door, her words falling like stones.

“So whatever this is between you,” she said, “don’t waste it trying to label it with something lesser.”

Then she turned and disappeared into the hallway, her scent fading with the soft click of the door.

Silence fell again.

Azriel looked over at Y/N.

Her eyes were distant, thoughtful.

“Do you believe her?” he asked gently, his mind brushing hers.

Y/N looked at him then, searching his face, the raw honesty in it, the care.

And she nodded once.

“I think we already knew. We just didn’t have a name for it.”

Azriel stepped closer, reaching for her hand again.

And this time, when their fingers laced together, it felt like confirmation. Not the beginning, not even the middle, but something ancient finally remembered.

The night air was cool, laced with starfall’s faint shimmer. They stood close, quiet in the wake of Amren’s revelation, both of them turning it over in their minds like a precious, fragile truth.

Y/N’s gaze lingered on the distant hills beyond Velaris, her expression thoughtful but unreadable. Then, finally, she turned to Azriel.

“What does this mean for us?” Her mental voice was soft, tentative. “This… thirren bond?”

Azriel looked at her for a long moment. His shadows were quiet now, as if they, too, were listening.

“I don’t know exactly,” he admitted, brushing his thumb gently across her knuckles. “But I know what it feels like.”

He searched her face, his voice a low murmur in her mind. “It feels like I’m not carrying the weight of the world alone anymore.”

A soft, trembling smile curved Y/N’s lips, and her eyes flicked down to their hands, still laced together.

“I feel that too,” she said. “But it’s not just the bond.”

Azriel’s head tilted, curiosity blooming in his features.

She looked up at him then, eyes lit with quiet fire.

“I think I’m falling in love with you,” she said. “Not because of the connection. But because of you. Because of how gentle you are with me. How patient. How you see me without needing me to explain every broken piece.”

Azriel stilled, just for a breath, shadows curling gently at his shoulders, like they’d heard something sacred.

Then he stepped a fraction closer, his voice brushing against her mind with warmth.

“I’m falling too.”

Her breath caught as he reached up to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear.

“I’ve been trying not to rush,” he whispered aloud this time. “Trying to give you space, especially after you said you didn’t want to leave the village.”

Y/N gave a small, almost sheepish smile — the kind that crinkled the corner of her eyes and made something bloom in his chest.

“Maybe I changed my mind,” she teased softly. “Maybe I want to come to Velaris. To be closer to you.”

Azriel’s heart stumbled.

“You do?”

She nodded, her smile widening just a little.

Azriel let out a breath, more like a laugh, really, one of disbelief and gratitude mingled, before he cupped her cheek in one hand and leaned in.

This kiss was slower than the one beneath the stars earlier. Deeper. A quiet promise shared under falling starlight, between two people who had once lived in silence and shadow, and now found peace in each other’s presence.

When they parted, their foreheads resting together, Azriel whispered, “You have no idea how happy that makes me.”

“I think I do,” Y/N whispered back into his mind, her fingers brushing his cheek.

They stayed like that a while longer, wrapped in each other, beneath the gentle rain of stars, knowing that whatever this bond was, it was theirs to define.

Together.

#azriel #azriel acomaf #azriel acotar #azriel acotar series #azriel fanfic #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x reader #acotar #acotar series #a court of thorns and roses #rhysand acotar #rhysand #feyre archeron #rhys acotar #acotar fic #acotar fanfiction #cassian acotar #shadowsinger #azriel fic

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realcube · 6 months ago

Text

dilf december

day eleven ⭑ ushijima wakatoshi ⭑ time for christmas kids?

tw: nsfw minors dni, breeding, mentions of pregnancy, riding, squirting, size kink and cervix bruising

to everyone's surprise, ushijima was strangely receptive and understanding when his contract with the swedish adlers expired and they didn't renew it for the next season; telling him they didn't make the decision out of ill-intent, they just think it's time for him to retire.

there was nothing stopping ushijima from simply trying out for another team. he'd likely have no problem finding another one that would accept him, despite him being thirty-five, since he is still fit and healthy.

however, shockingly, ushijima took the adler's advice.

this was unlike him as all throughout his career, he has vehemently protested whenever anyone even alludes to his retirement, insisting that he will remain on the volleyball court until his legs give out from under him.

and although that is true to some extent, because he often visits the court and plays games recreationally while in retirement, it still puzzled you as to why he switched tempo so suddenly.

although, you weren't going to complain, as since leaving the swedish adlers you've been able to spend a lot more time with him than you usually did, which is always nice, especially around the holiday season. you almost felt greedy having him all to yourself: no useless teammates blowing up his phone and no whiny managers asking to meet with him. just love and peace on earth!

that is, until you remembered a conversation you've been having with him ever since the beginning of your marriage.

"when are we going to have kids, toshi?" you would look up at him with boiling anticipation in your eyes.

and though he'd appreciate your eagerness, he'd frown and reply sternly, "i don't have the time to raise kids, currently. i don't think i will ever have the time while i am employed as an athlete. we should have this discussion once i retire."

you grumbled, "but you literally always say that you're never going to retire?"

"that's true, though i might fall into unexpected circumstances. say, if i am hit by a train."

"or my car." you'd comment with a titter.

it was funny and light-hearted dialogue back then, but now that you had both matured and grown in your relationship, you find that particular topic of disucssion to be more pressing. especially as you have fallen into what ushijima may describe as "unexpected circumstances" where he now has all the time in the world to help you raise a child.

so, you decide to bring this point to his attention one night, before bed.

the outside is consumed with darkness and your back windows are virtually blackened; it reflects the flickering light of the festive scented candles placed around the room. wafting the smell of freshly baked cookies through the space, pleasing your nose like a warm hug, while your focus constantly shifts between the tv screen and your husband, who is sat beside you on the couch with his eyes drilled into a book while you lounged in your fluffy robe.

you weren't paying attention to the show currently playing at all. no, it was simply background noise to the chorus of worries and perpetual screaming in your mind, as you mulled over whether or not now was a good time to bring up the topic you so desperately wanted to discuss. the last thing you'd want to do is disturb the peaceful night you were sharing and cause tension in the household.

but if you can't talk to your husband about something that is important to you, what is the point of getting married?

you swallow your pride and inhibitions with an audible gulp, then croak, "wakatoshi?"

"yes, dear." he replies in his usual blunt manner, not glancing up from the pages.

"do you remember a while ago when we talked about having kids?" you said timidly, so quiet that ushijima could barely hear you over the noise of the tv. so he pauses the show, and replies,

"yes, i think i do remember."

his face is so stern and unwavering; it's hard to tell if that is due to his natural stoic nature, or if he truly does not care for what you are saying. for the sake of your self-esteem, you assume its the first one, and continue talking.

or, at least, you try to. it's quite hard when your heart is pounding so harshly in your chest that you feel it could leap out of your throat at any given moment. "you said we should talk about it when you retire. so, have you given it any thought?"

he furrows his eyebrows together, and stares into the distance. a couple seconds pass, and he closes his book too, placing it to the side in order to focus on pondering your question.

it takes a minute, but he finally responds, "yes, i have."

you blink, expecting him to continue, so when he doesn't, you urge him to do so, "and?"

"and i think it's a great idea. now is the perfect time to have child." he says it in such a dry manner that any onlooker would think he was being sarcastic, but you know your husband all too well, and you can pick up on the subtle signs of sincerity in his cadence.

your whole face lights up, and you perk up in your seat, "really? that's amazing news, toshi!" you squeal, lunging forward and throwing yourself into his arms. and as always, he's ready to catch you in his strong arms and hold you close for however long you need.

as your melting into the hug, wakatoshi uses his gentle grip on your waist to pull you onto his lap, only so you could be even closer together. he peppers kisses up your neck and across your shoulderblade, while his hand sneaks behind your thigh.

at first you think nothing of it, as you know your husband enjoys a sneaky little grab at your ass sometimes. however, when his squishing slowly turns into rubbing, and his target moves from your perky ass to in-between your thighs, you gasp at the realisation and stagger, "oh, you meant like.. right now?"

you jerk away from him, and he meets your shocked expression with an entirely blank look on his face, "of course."

you blink, and so does he. considering it for a moment, it only takes you a couple seconds to land on the conclusion that there is no time like the present.

thus, you slip your arms around his broad shoulders again and pull him in for a passionate kiss; lips sensually weaving together, as you bounce on his lap a little, prompting him to continue his risky endeavours.

originally, both hands are fixed on your waist. however, he slips one down under your robe in order to rub your clit. he was expecting you to be wearing undergarments underneath the robe, but he was in for a pleasant surprise when his palm made direct contact with your damp folds, and you feel him smirk into the kiss slightly, causing you to titter.

meanwhile, his other hand swiftly got to work on pulling down the elastic of his sweats and whipping out his hardened length. while the two of you were still engaged in a heated make-out session, and his fingers were still working at your clit, he stroked himself a lazily, in an attempt to temporarily satiate his desperate hunger, but his mere hand couldn't even come close to the homey grip of your pussy. he needed to be encased in your walls urgently.

soon though, after a couple more minutes of harsh action on your clit, he reckoned you would be wet enough to take him by now. and he tested this hypothesis by dipping two meaty fingers into your pussy, stretching it out and causing you to arch your back as waves of unexpected stimulation shoot through you.

your whiney moans vibrate against his tongue, as you are still locked in an intimate kiss, and he furrows his brows in thought, prodding and stirring his fingers around your insides to assess whether your hole was lubricated enough for him to enter. and with each poke at your gummy walls, he sends another lewd moan winding down to your lips.

he yanks his fingers out, deciding that however wet you were right now would have to do because he wasn't able to wait any longer.

with that, he uses the same hand to manoeuvre his cock so it was hovering right by your dripping enterance, allowing this tip to be greased with your arousal. in doing so, you are pushed back a bit, forcing you to break free from the intense kiss with a dramatic gasp. you look at him, with your pretty chest floating up and down with each shallow breath.

he looks you in the eye sternly, with a kind glint his iris, waiting for your approval.

you nod slightly, but before you are even able to processs your own response, he's already pushed you down around his girthy length, forcing your tight pussy to suck it all up, somehow.

your eyes rolled back into your head as he did so, and an obscene, pornographic whine was pried from your throat. ushijima basked in it for only a moment before he made you ride his cock by using his grip on your waist. he set a relatively slow pace to begin with, allowing your gracious hole some time to adjust to his length, but it wasn't nearly enough.

despite that, he hastily quickened his pace, bucking his hips slightly into you with every bounce, meaning he would brush your cervix with his tip, which caused you to grunt and mewl each time. you appreciated he was trying to be thorough and having him so deep inside you might increase the chances of fertility, but you weren't entirely sure if it was worth having your cervix brusied for.

the veins on his length rubbed the most delicious parts inside you, it was like he was scratching an itch you weren't even aware of until now. your cheeks and the tips of your ear heated up with pure pleasure, and you could feel him getting warmer under your touch as well. meanwhile the molten coil inside you was only growing more rigid by the second, threatening to crumble at any moment.

his dick rammed into your hole repeatedly, at an increasingly feverish pace, eliciting a short moan or grunt from you each time, and your whole body shook. therefore, ushijima had no idea where to look — he was spoiled for choice — although he revelled in watching your tits bounce wildly around and threaten to escape the confines of your robe, he was also partially mesmerised by the way your perfect cunt consumed him so nicely.

"tight.." was all he was able to grit.

you nod, but you're too fucked out to even muster up a coherent response; your mind was almost as scrambled as your insides.

with how his dick was ploughing into your poor pussy, it wasn't long until the coil inside you snapped and you found yourself suddenly shaking and tremoring while you squirted around him, unleashing a dam of crystalline fluid over his sweats and the couch.

and the harsh squeeze of your pussy around his cock was enough to tip him over the edge of a climax too, and he groaned lowly with his eyes shut as he deposited his first load into your hole. thick warmth flooding your insides in an instant, sticking to your walls and leaving you conjested.

he stayed there for a moment, to allow you both to catch your breathes, and he pried one of his eyes open to look at your beautifully dishevelled state, "thank you, (y/n)."

you chuckle, and rest your weary head on his shoulder, "thank you, toshi."

"no, thank you." he looks down at your stomach, and strokes it tenderly with his big hand, "i can't wait to see you carry our baby."

you pout, gazing up at his cute dumb face, illuminated only by the coloured tv light, which cast shadows over his strong features. you pressed a soft kiss on his cheek, and sunk into his embrace, "i can't wait either. you'll be such a good dad." you muse, dreamily.

meanwhile, he slowly eases his cock out of your hole, provoking a small hiss from you at the change. but little did you know, he was kind enough to stick his three fingers in immediately afterwards, so none of his cum threatened to spill from your leaky pussy.

"and you will be a good mother." he assures you softly, snaking an arm behind your neck to cradle your head in his arms.

then, to your surprise, he utilised this position in order to flip the two of you, so you were laying face up with your back against the couch, and he was kneeling between your legs, which he pushed spread-eagle by your knees.

it all happened so quickly, that you were already in the position before you were able to gasp, "huh?! what're you doing?"

"round two." he keeps his three fingers stuffed in your pussy while he uses his other hand to guide his erect dick towards your hole, "for the best chance of pregnancy."

#ushijima x reader #ushijima smut #haikyuu smut #ushijima wakatoshi #ushijima x you #haikyuu ushijima #ushijima x y/n #👾nsfw #dilf⭑december

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lets-try-some-writing · 3 months ago

Note

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

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

Aversion at its Finest

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

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━

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

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

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

Only silence.

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

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

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

A renewed war.

A plague of hate.

The Quintessons and their creations.

Unicron’s wrath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why had it turned out this way?

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

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

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

“Power of course.”

Ah.

He should have known better.

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

By the stars… what a life he’d lived.

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

“You’ve forgotten why you killed millions?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wouldn’t be long now.

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

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

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

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

“So much death…”

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

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

Children? Strange.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How long must I fight?”

“Till All Are One.”

And then everything faded away once more.

----

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

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

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

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

Slag, his processors hurt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Unaccounted for.” Frag.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He missed Elita. He missed Prowl.

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

Until the voice rang out as it had millennia earlier.

“Too late. You woke too late.”

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

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

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

“Not now. We are out of time.”

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jazz.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You hurt so deeply, my chosen.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

How ominous the voice was…

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

“All that is and will be.”

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Power?”

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

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

“Why?”

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

How much had he missed?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And just as predicted, Primus met him once more.

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

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

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

“Not so. We will make it right.”

But at what price?

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

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

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

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

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

That was a pleasant promise, if nothing else.

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You sense it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why would I-?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You did not use this life wisely.”

And there came the disappointment.

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

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

Oh to be a god and not understand mortality.

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

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

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

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

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

Fraggin yes.

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He just had to wait.

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

“Almost. My design improves once more.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was done with all of this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You have served me long enough.”

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

He needed rest and support.

Those things Optimus could offer him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You have done well, my chosen.”

At last, his mission was complete.

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jmunneytumbler · 2 years ago

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Entertainment To-Do List: Week of 6/16/23

Shh! It’s a SECRET Invasion (CREDIT: Marvel Studios) Every week, I list all the upcoming (or recently released) movies, TV shows, albums, podcasts, etc. that I believe are worth checking out. Movies –Asteroid City (Theaters) –The Blackening (Theaters) –Elemental (Theaters) –The Flash (Theaters) TV –The Righteous Gemstones Season 3 Premiere (June 18 on HBO) –Secret Invasion Series Premiere (June…

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#Asteroid City #Átta #Bettye LaVette #Cat Stevens #Django Django #Elemental #In Times New Roman...#King Gizzard & the Lizard Wizard #King of a Land #LaVette!#Off Planet #PetroDragonic Apocalypse or Dawn of Eternal Night: An Annihilation of Planet Earth and the Beginning of Merciless Damnation #Queens of the Stone Age #Secret Invasion #Sigur Ros #The Blackening #The Flash #The Righteous Gemstones #Yusuf

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hy6erion · 2 months ago

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𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝, 𝐁𝐢𝐠 𝐛𝐚𝐝

𝐉𝐚𝐲𝐜𝐞 𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐬 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

✰⍣..𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐚 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭, 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐬 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐬 𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐮𝐟𝐟, 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐰𝐨𝐥𝐟 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐡, 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐮𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐦. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠-- 𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐬 𝐚 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐲.

⇢𝐟𝐞𝐦! 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭 (𝐦𝐝𝐧𝐢), 𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐝! 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐰𝐨𝐥𝐟! 𝐉𝐚𝐲𝐜𝐞, 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐲! 𝐉𝐚𝐲𝐜𝐞, 𝐋𝐎𝐓𝐒 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐞, 𝐜𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞

𝐚/𝐧: @lvlixy I love u for this request (and i’m sorry it took so long (´-ω-`) )

The forest had always been a whispering thing.

Tall, gnarled trees reached to the sky like fingers blackened by ash, their mossy veins twisting along the bark like secrets. The air smelled of damp earth, bark, and pine—thick with the weight of something wild, something watching.

You didn’t mind it, though. You’d walked this path a hundred times. Basket on your arm, hood pulled up to shield your head from the fine misty rain that always lingered in these woods. A bright, soft red—a small, fluttering flame against the cold hues of the forest.

You weren’t supposed to talk to strangers.

You certainly weren’t supposed to speak to men who lurked on the edges of the path, half-shrouded in shadow, with broad shoulders and golden eyes that gleamed like lanterns in the dusk.

But he’d been there last week.

And the week before that.

At first, he’d just watched. One hand braced against a tree trunk, breath slow and even, the thick swell of his chest rising and falling beneath the open laces of his shirt. You thought he might be a hunter—he wore furs over his shoulders, heavy boots, thick leather straps wrapping strong forearms—it made your face warm just thinking about it.

But then he spoke.

Gravel-rough, like a growl beneath a human voice. “You always bring sweets into a forest like this?”

You had paused. Blinked. Clutched your basket a little tighter.

“…They’re for my grandmother” you’d said gently, voice like the first crackle of a fire on a cold day. “She lives past the glen. I always bring her cookies.”

He’d just stared. Expression unreadable. His eyes flicked to the cloth-draped basket on your arm. You had the strange, fluttering urge to offer him one. So you did.

“Would you like one?” you’d asked, lifting the edge of the cloth with delicate fingers.

His brows lifted like he’d never been asked something so innocent in his entire life.

He didn’t take one.

Not that time.

But he watched you walk away. You felt it—burning into the back of your red cloak like a flame trying to crawl into your skin.

⸻

It was raining heavier this time.

The trees shook with the wind, shivering down silver droplets, but you were already halfway to your grandmother’s cottage—boots soft in the loam, heart warm under your cloak.

He was there again.

Leaning against a tree like it was the only thing keeping him upright. A towering silhouette against the blue-gray gloom. Wet hair clung to his brow, curling into his temples, and the water beaded down the sharp line of his jaw before disappearing into his beard. He looked carved from the wild—unkempt, dangerous, beautiful.

You slowed as you approached. He hadn’t spoken this time. Just watched.

“Hello again” you said gently, voice carrying through the soft hiss of rain. Your hand curled around the handle of your basket. “You’re always out here.”

His nostrils flared. He didn’t blink.

“I live here.”

You tilted your head. A drop of rain slid from your hood down your cheek. “In the forest?”

A grunt. “It’s quieter.”

“I suppose it would be.” You smiled. “Would you like a cookie today?”

He looked at you then—really looked. His jaw twitched like he was grinding down a response behind those lips. And then, slow as a storm rolling in, he stepped forward.

His boots sank deep into the mud. His coat of fur shifted on his shoulders. He was so large up close, you had to tilt your head back to meet his gaze. His eyes glowed faintly under his brow—strange, sharp, not quite human.

You held out the cookie with both hands like an offering.

He took it.

Rough fingers, scarred and calloused, brushed over yours as he accepted it—so warm, so big that your hand felt like a doll’s in comparison. You watched him stare at the cookie like it was a foreign object, some strange, alien thing.

You giggled softly. “It’s just sugar and flour. It won’t bite.”

He gave you a look. One brow arched—bemused. “Shame.”

Then he bit it.

Teeth sharp. It cracked between them. You saw the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth—something between amusement and pleasure. He chewed slow. Deliberate. His eyes never left yours.

You swallowed. Your stomach felt like it had butterflies and bees and something heavier. Something… needier.

“…Good?” you asked, shy.

His voice was low when he finally said, “Too sweet.”

You shrank back a little. “Oh. I’m sorry—”

“But I don’t mind” he added, almost like a confession. He licked a crumb from his lower lip, and your eyes followed the motion without meaning to. His tongue was wide. Slow. Almost… animalistic.

You didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know why your thighs pressed together under your skirt, or why the rain suddenly felt hotter against your skin.

His head tilted. “You’re not afraid of me?”

You blinked up at him. “Should I be?”

“…Most people are.”

You smiled at that. “You’ve never given me a reason to be.”

He stepped closer. So close you could feel the heat of him now—radiating off his chest, his arms, his broad frame. You had to crane your neck just to keep his face in view.

He looked at you like he didn’t understand you. Like you were something soft and sacred and very stupid for wandering into a wolf’s den.

He didn’t say another word.

He turned and walked away.

But his scent lingered—woodsmoke, pine, and something feral. Something male. It stuck in your throat like a taste.

And you knew—next week, when you walked this path again, he’d be there.

Waiting.

⸻

You weren’t supposed to go into the woods after sundown.

Not even with your red cloak pulled tight around your shoulders, not even when you knew the trail like the veins of your own hand. But tonight felt different. The wind was wrong—too sharp, slicing through the trees like a whisper with teeth. The birds had gone silent. Even the squirrels and rabbits had disappeared into their dens.

You should’ve listened.

But something pulled you deeper. Something old and instinctual. A strange tug in your chest—tight, trembling, desperate.

You found him by the trees.

At first, you weren’t sure it was him.

There was blood. So much of it. Spattered on the undergrowth, soaked into the ground. His silhouette slumped near the base of a thick pine, half-hidden by its roots and shadows. His coat was torn, hanging from one shoulder like a broken pelt. And his arm—gods, his arm was shredded. Long, brutal gashes ran down from shoulder to elbow, still bleeding, still glistening red and raw in the moonlight.

Your heart stuttered.

“Jayce?” you whispered, breath hitched.

He looked up.

His golden eyes caught the moonlight like a curse. Pain darkened the hollows of his face, but he still growled when he saw you approaching, low and feral. “Go home” he rasped.

You stepped closer.

He bared his teeth. “I said go.”

But you were already dropping to your knees beside him, skirts soaking in the wet earth. “You’re hurt—oh gods, you’re hurt. What happened?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

You pressed your hand to his chest to steady him. His skin was hot. Feverish. The heat of him burned through your palm like a brand. His heart thumped under your touch—fast, too fast.

“It matters to me” you said softly.

His head tilted, face twisted in something unreadable. Like he didn’t know what to do with that kind of softness. Not from a girl in a red cloak with hands too gentle for this world.

You didn’t give him time to argue.

You hooked your arm under his—ignoring how massive and heavy he was—and with some miraculous combination of coaxing, pulling, and sheer stubbornness, you got him to his feet.

And then you took him home.

⸻

Your cottage wasn’t far. A cozy thing, tucked behind a thicket of trees, hidden from the main path. A crooked chimney, ivy-covered stone, soft yellow light spilling from the windows like a warm sigh.

You dragged him inside. He was breathing hard, jaw clenched, trying to hide the way his legs buckled under him. You led him straight to your little table and helped him sit, his blood leaving smears on the wooden floor as you did.

“Stay” you said firmly. “I’ll get water.”

He scoffed under his breath. “Not going anywhere.”

When you returned with a bowl and cloth, your breath caught.

He had shrugged off what was left of his coat and shirt.

And gods, he looked like something carved from earth and war.

His shoulders were massive, covered in a latticework of old scars—some deep, some shallow, all of them a story. His chest rose and fell with sharp, pained breaths, slick with sweat and dirt and blood. The gashes on his arm were the worst—red and swollen, torn open by something with claws.

“Another wolf did this?” you whispered, dipping the cloth into the water.

He didn’t answer. Just looked at you under those dark lashes, golden eyes unreadable.

You started cleaning the wound carefully.

He flinched when the cloth touched raw skin.

“Sorry” you murmured, “I’ll be gentle…”

He huffed through his nose. “You always are.”

You paused. Looked up at him.

He was watching you.

And not like before—not like the quiet, curious glances he gave in the woods. This was different. Hungrier. Like he couldn’t understand why your hands weren’t shaking. Why you weren’t running.

He looked at you like a man who’d forgotten what tenderness felt like.

You said nothing.

You just kept going—slow, careful, brushing away blood, revealing skin beneath. You reached for the jar of balm you’d made with your grandmother’s old recipe—wild herbs and crushed petals, thick and fragrant. You dabbed some onto your fingers and gently worked it into the torn flesh.

He growled softly—more like a pained exhale than a threat.

Your eyes flicked up. “Does that hurt?”

His voice came out rough. “No. Just… you’re warm.”

You blinked.

His gaze dropped to your hands, still smoothing salve into his arm. His brows drew together like he was trying to solve you. You could feel the heat in the air now—not just from the fire, but from him. From the way he sat shirtless in your little kitchen, bleeding and scarred, looking like he wanted to devour something and didn’t know if it was you or the softness you offered.

“You didn’t have to bring me here” he said finally, voice low.

You smiled. “I know.”

“Why did you?”

You paused. Looked up. Your hand hovered at the edge of one healing gash.

“Because no one else would.”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t move, either—except for the faint quiver in his jaw, the way his fingers curled into the table edge. You could see the effort it took to hold himself back, to stay still under your touch.

You brushed a strand of hair out of his face. Your fingers ghosted over his brow, the curve of his temple. You didn’t know why you did it. You just… wanted to.

Jayce inhaled sharply.

You pulled back. “I should run a bath for you. You’re still covered in blood.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I do.”

He blinked as you stood, crossing the room to the little tin tub near the fireplace. You poured warm water from the kettle, stoking the fire beneath it, until steam curled from the surface like mist.

He watched you.

Watched as you gathered clean towels, fresh bandages, everything he might need.

When you turned back to him, he was still shirtless. Still bleeding. Still enormous and tense and quiet.

“You’ll feel better once you’re clean” you said gently, nodding toward the tub.

He didn’t move.

“…Do you need help getting in?”

His eyes burned into yours.

You realized what you’d just said. Heat rushed to your face, embarrassment flooding you. “I—I didn’t mean—! I meant if you need to steady yourself, or if your arm hurts, I could—”

He stood up.

The chair creaked behind him. And then he was walking toward you, massive frame moving like a beast restrained. Every step closer made your heart beat louder, faster.

He stood over you, his chest inches from yours, and the scent of pine, smoke, and blood enveloped you.

“You really don’t know what I am, do you?”

You looked up. Swallowed.

His face was close enough to kiss. Close enough to feel the heat of his breath. His eyes flicked to your mouth and back again.

“I don’t care” you whispered.

That stopped him.

Something shifted in his expression—something soft and wounded and wild.

You reached for his hand.

And to your surprise… he let you take it.

You led him to the tub.

The bath steamed gently in the corner of the cottage, curls of mist dancing into the air like ghosts. You tested the water with your hand—warm, almost too warm—but you figured he needed it. The rain had soaked into his skin, and his muscles were stiff with blood and tension. A deep, guttural kind of tension that came from pain… and from something else he refused to name.

Behind you, Jayce stood still. Towering. Silent.

He hadn’t moved since you led him to the edge of the tub, hadn’t said a word. You could feel his eyes on you, heavy and constant. The air between you hummed with something taut and unspoken—something that made your fingers tremble where they hovered above the water.

You turned slowly.

And there he was.

Golden eyes low beneath thick lashes, broad chest rising and falling as he watched you. His massive frame filled the space like a beast barely contained—scarred, wounded, yet still undeniably powerful. He looked… unsure. Like he was waiting for you to change your mind. To finally realize what he was and run.

But you didn’t.

You stepped toward him again, your voice soft. “You can take off the rest of your clothes now… I’ll look away if you’d like.”

He didn’t answer. Just stared down at you for a long moment.

Then his hands went to his waistband.

Your breath caught.

You turned your back—respectful, heart hammering. You heard the shift of leather. The quiet, wet drag of fabric pulled down. A grunt of pain as he moved too fast. The dull sound of his boots hitting the floor.

Your fingers clenched into your skirt.

Then… water.

The soft splash of it. The way it lapped gently at the sides of the tub as his heavy body lowered into it. You imagined it—how his thick thighs would stretch against the edges, how the water would bead on his chest, trickling between muscles and over scars.

You waited a moment before glancing over your shoulder.

Jayce was sunk deep into the tub, arms braced on either side, head tipped back against the wall. His eyes were closed. Drops of water clung to his lashes. His hair, darker now from the damp, curled along his temples and jaw. His chest was still rising a bit too fast, like the heat of the bath wasn’t enough to melt the tension from his body.

You hesitated, then stepped closer with a soft cloth and a clean bowl of water.

“I’m going to clean the rest of your wounds” you said gently. “Just relax. Let me help you.”

His eyes opened. Heavy-lidded. Watching.

“You don’t have to” he said, voice low.

“I want to.”

That made something flicker behind his gaze.

You knelt beside the tub.

His shoulders were so broad your cloth barely covered a third of them at a time. You dipped it into the warm water, wrung it out, and pressed it to his skin. He inhaled sharply.

“Too hot?” you asked, instantly worried.

“No” he muttered. “Just… you.”

You paused.

But then, slowly, you continued—dragging the cloth down over the planes of his shoulder. Over the thick muscle of his arm, his collarbone, the side of his throat. He tilted his head just slightly, exposing his neck to your touch, his jaw tense like he was grinding down something dangerous behind his teeth.

His skin was littered with old wounds—some faded and silver, others fresh and pink. You treated each one with tender care, as if your touch could erase the pain written into them. Your fingers moved with delicate purpose, smoothing balm here, washing blood there. You avoided the waterline of the tub, not daring to glance down too far—though your curiosity itched at you.

You focused on his chest instead.

So strong. So scarred. The water licked at his ribcage, and you trailed your cloth just beneath it, brushing the ridges of hard muscle. His abdomen clenched beneath your touch. You didn’t miss it. You didn’t mention it either.

“You’ve fought a lot” you whispered, wiping along the curve of his shoulder.

“Had to.”

You rinsed the cloth again. Dipped it gently, wringing it out with both hands. “What happened? Tonight.”

He exhaled through his nose. “Another wolf. Bigger. Stronger. He came too close to the edge of my territory. I didn’t like that.”

You stilled.

He hadn’t said it out loud before.

Wolf.

You knew. Of course you knew. The golden eyes, the strength, the scars, the scent—wild and primal and male. But hearing it… confirmed… made your breath come faster.

He turned his head. Watched your reaction.

But you only looked up at him with wide, soft eyes.

“…Does it hurt when you change?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Jayce blinked.

His throat bobbed with a swallow. “Sometimes.”

You touched your hand to the edge of his neck, brushing your thumb along a scratch there. “I’m sorry.”

His eyes darkened.

“You’re not afraid of me” he said, voice a little rougher.

“No.”

“You should be.”

You leaned in, almost without thinking. Your palm was flat against his chest now, just above his heart.

“You keep saying that” you murmured, “but I’ve only ever seen you hurt… tired… kind.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked.

“I could tear you in half.”

You smiled. “But you won’t.”

He stared at you.

The only sound in the cottage was the slow drip of water from the cloth, the soft hiss of the fire. Your hand stayed on his chest, and his stayed at the edges of the tub—clenched, white-knuckled, like he was holding himself back from doing something stupid.

“You don’t understand” he growled, voice barely contained. “The way you smell… the way you look at me. It—it messes with my head. You’re so sweet.”

Your cheeks flushed. “Is that… bad?”

He shut his eyes tightly. “It’s dangerous.”

You pulled your hand back, slowly, fingers trembling. But not from fear.

From want.

“Then tell me to stop” you said softly.

He opened his eyes again. And you saw it—the conflict, the need, the ache swimming there. Like he wanted you so badly it hurt. But still, he said nothing.

So you dipped the cloth again, and continued your soft ministrations.

Because he didn’t tell you to stop.

And somewhere deep down, you knew—

He didn’t want to.

⸻

Jayce hadn’t intended to come back.

At least, not that day.

He told himself he was fine. Told himself that the lingering warmth in his chest would fade, that the memory of your hands on his skin, your soft voice in his ear, would eventually stop haunting him. He wasn’t some lovesick fool. He was a wolf. A creature of instinct and survival. He didn’t need comfort. Didn’t need softness. Didn’t need… you.

But the forest felt empty without you in it.

The birdsong grated against his ears. The river sounded too loud. The wind too quiet. He tried patrolling the edges of his territory like always, but every rustle in the trees made him turn his head, hoping—expecting—you to be there. That stupid red cloak flashing between the trees. That voice calling his name, like you weren’t afraid of what he was. Like you were calling him home.

But you weren’t there.

And gods, it hurt.

By the third day, something in him snapped.

He shifted before he even realized it—skin giving way to fur, spine snapping, hands warping into paws. It wasn’t violent, not like usual. It rolled over him like a wave. Fast. Desperate. Directionless.

And then… he ran.

⸻

You were in the garden when you heard it.

The scratching.

Soft at first. Then harder. Urgent. You looked up from your basket of wildflowers, heart skipping. The sun had just begun to dip behind the trees, painting the sky in swirls of rose and gold. Birds chirped overhead. Wind rustled through the tall grass.

But the sound came again—clawing, just beneath the door.

You knew it was him before you even stood.

You dropped the basket and ran barefoot across the grass, skirts lifted just enough to keep from tripping. Your door trembled on its hinges as the weight behind it grew more insistent—thud, thud, scratch—and when you opened it, heart in your throat, there he was.

Jayce.

In wolf form.

But not the towering, snarling beast you imagined from stories. Not the predator you were warned about as a child. No. He was massive, yes—easily taller than your hip at the shoulder, fur thick and dark, eyes gold and gleaming—but he looked…

Devastated.

His ears were low. His tail tucked. His huge body sagged like every limb weighed a thousand pounds. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

Your breath caught. “Jayce…?”

He made a noise in his throat—soft, low, miserable.

Then, he stepped forward and collapsed.

Right there on your threshold.

You dropped to your knees beside him, hands flying to his fur. “Oh gods—what happened? Are you hurt? Are you—?”

He whimpered.

Not from pain.

From something else.

You stroked his head, gentle, soothing. “It’s okay… you’re okay now. You came back…”

His fur was thick and coarse in some places, soft and downy in others. He pressed his snout against your thigh and whined, a sound so pitiful it made your heart ache. You leaned over him, arms wrapped gently around his neck, burying your fingers into the dense fur there.

“You missed me, didn’t you?” you whispered.

He huffed against your leg. Then nodded.

It was barely a movement. Barely even human. But you felt it. The confession. The truth of it.

You smiled softly. “Come in, then. You need rest.”

He let you guide him inside—slowly, limping with exhaustion. He shifted back once the door shut behind you, stumbling into himself, bare and breathless, muscles trembling as he dropped onto your rug. His human form was flushed, damp with sweat, and his eyes… his eyes looked starved.

Not for food. Not even for touch.

But for you.

You knelt beside him once more, reaching up to brush the hair from his forehead. “You came all this way for me?”

His lashes fluttered. “Didn’t know where else to go.”

“Oh, Jayce…”

He looked up at you then, gaze heavy with something he couldn’t say. His whole body seemed to sag under it—this crushing weight of longing and confusion and loneliness he didn’t know how to carry.

You leaned in without thinking, wrapping your arms around him, drawing his big, trembling frame into your lap. He went boneless, head pressed to your chest, the furrow in his brow softening just slightly.

And then you started brushing his hair.

Slow. Repetitive. Gentle.

He shuddered. Not from cold. From the intimacy.

“Good boy” you whispered, stroking through his dark curls.

Jayce whined.

His arms twitched, clutched at the hem of your dress. His cheek pressed harder into your chest. His breath stuttered, unsteady.

“You’re safe here. You’re always safe here” you murmured, still brushing. “You’re so strong… so brave… but you don’t have to be, not with me.”

He whimpered.

You smiled and dragged your fingers down his shoulder blades, over his broad back. The old wounds there were tight with scar tissue, but your touch was featherlight. Comforting. Loving. He trembled again—one big shiver rolling down his spine.

“I like when you come to see me” you continued, your voice soft and playful now. “You act so mean and scary in the woods, but I think you just want to be loved.”

He made a broken noise. Something halfway between a growl and a groan.

Your fingers slid to his shoulders, kneading softly into the muscles there. “You hold so much tension here,” you murmured. “Poor thing…”

“Please…” he rasped suddenly.

You paused. “Jayce?”

His head lifted from your lap, eyes wild, burning.

“Please. I need to—I need you.”

Your heart stopped.

He reached for you, hands trembling, cupping your face with almost reverent care. Like you were something holy. His thumbs brushed your cheeks, and his voice broke.

“I can’t take it anymore” he whispered. “The way you talk to me. The way you touch me. You’re so kind it hurts. I ache for you. I don’t know how to stop.”

You stared at him, stunned, lips parted.

“I don’t want to scare you” he choked out. “I don’t want to ruin you. But I need to feel you. Please.”

Your hands gently moved to cover his. You leaned into his touch.

And you smiled.

“Okay” you said sweetly. “You can.”

He blinked. “Wh-what?”

“I said yes” you whispered, your fingers sliding up into his hair. “You don’t have to beg. I want you, too.”

Jayce groaned, head bowing against your chest again like the strength had left him entirely.

You held him there, stroking his back, whispering his name like a balm, like a spell. The fire cracked softly in the hearth. Your breath mingled in the warmth between you.

And he whispered, “Thank you” like it was a prayer.

⸻

It happened right there on the rug.

The air was warm from the fire, golden light flickering across Jayce’s broad back, catching on the sheen of sweat starting to gather at the nape of his neck. He was on top of you, arms braced on either side of your head, breath hot and shaky as he looked down at you like he couldn’t quite believe this was real.

Like you weren’t real.

His knees were spread wide on either side of your hips, thighs flexed and trembling, and he was barely managing to hold himself back. His cock was hard and heavy, brushing your thigh—twitching whenever you whispered something sweet.

And you… you were looking up at him like he was something sacred.

You cupped his face with both hands, your thumbs brushing the curve of his jaw, the slope of his cheekbones. “You’re so beautiful like this,” you whispered, kissing the bridge of his nose. “So strong. So good.”

Jayce whined.

The sound tore from his throat—unrestrained, needy, like a pup being cradled too gently. His golden eyes fluttered closed, and his chest shuddered as you kissed him again—his cheek, his jaw, the soft spot just beneath his ear.

“Such a good boy” you whispered. “You came all this way to be close to me…”

“I couldn’t help it” he rasped, his voice thick and ruined. “I tried. I tried to stay away. But you’re in my head—I dream about your voice. About your touch.”

“You don’t have to dream anymore,” you breathed. “I’m right here. I want this. I want you.”

His hips rolled forward, just barely, and the head of his cock dragged over your entrance. He groaned—deep and low and guttural—and dropped his forehead to your shoulder, panting like he’d just run through the forest on all fours.

“You’re shaking” you murmured sweetly.

“I’m trying not to lose it” he growled. “I want to take my time—but you’re so warm, so soft—gods, I can smell you—”

You kissed the side of his face, hands stroking through his hair. “Then go slow. I’ll help you.”

And he did.

Jayce sat up, planting his feet wide and low so he could squat over you, hands gripping your thighs to steady himself. His thighs were huge, quivering with restraint, the muscles carved and flexing as he held himself above you like some desperate, starving beast who’d finally been offered something sacred. His cock bobbed between you—thick, flushed, leaking—and you whimpered as he dragged the tip through your slick folds, teasing himself, trembling.

You reached up and stroked his face again.

“Jayce” you whispered, “I want you inside me. Please.”

He whined again.

Then he pushed forward—slowly, carefully, like he was terrified you’d shatter beneath him. His length stretched you inch by inch, the thick head breaching you with a delicious burn. He let out a choked, broken sob of a breath, his mouth falling open, and his hands tightened on your thighs.

“Fuck— you’re so tight”

You held his gaze, breathless. “You’re doing so good, baby. You’re being so gentle. I’m so proud of you…”

His hips bucked sharply at that.

He bottomed out with a guttural moan, the position letting him sink deep, his pelvis flush against yours, chest heaving like he’d just survived something dangerous.

You reached up and kissed his temple, then the corner of his mouth. “See? That wasn’t so scary.”

His eyes rolled back.

“You keep saying things like that,” he panted, “and I’m gonna lose it. I—fuck—I can’t—”

“You can” you whispered. “I want you to.”

And that was it.

Jayce started to move.

Slow at first—his thighs straining as he lifted himself up and sank back down again, groaning as his cock dragged through your walls with aching precision. You moaned beneath him, hands exploring every inch of him you could reach—his chest, his waist, the trembling muscles of his thighs as he squatted low, grinding into you on every downstroke.

“Oh gods, you’re perfect” he gasped. “You feel so good, I—fuck, I can’t believe you let me—”

You ran your hands over his arms, dragging your nails lightly down his biceps, then leaned up and kissed his chest—soft, open-mouthed, reverent. “Of course I did. Look at you… so big and strong. And you’re being so good for me.”

Jayce’s head dropped back and he whined again—softer this time, more helpless. Like he didn’t know what to do with the affection. Like he’d never been praised in bed. Like no one had ever called him good before.

You kissed up the line of his throat. “I love when you whine for me…”

His hips faltered—grinding down instead of thrusting, his cock rubbing perfectly against your sweet spot. He trembled so hard it nearly knocked him off balance.

“I’m close,” he choked. “Already—I—I can’t hold—”

“It’s okay” you cooed. “Let go, Jayce. Let me take care of you.”

His movements stuttered. Then sped up—sloppy, frantic, messy. His thighs burned from holding himself up, and his hands moved to cradle your head, your waist, like he couldn’t decide where to hold on while he came apart.

You pulled his face down to yours and kissed him—tender, wet, slow. Your tongue brushed his, and he shuddered with a moan, spilling inside you with a long, low groan that shook his whole body.

He didn’t pull out.

Just collapsed forward—carefully, shaking, chest pressed to yours, panting into your neck like he couldn’t catch his breath.

You wrapped your arms around him, stroking his hair, humming softly against his cheek.

“You did so good” you whispered, smiling. “So, so good for me.”

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