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mostlysignssomeportents · 2 years ago

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Why they're smearing Lina Khan

My god, they sure hate Lina Khan. This once-in-a-generation, groundbreaking, brilliant legal scholar and fighter for the public interest, the slayer of Reaganomics, has attracted more vitriol, mockery, and dismissal than any of her predecessors in living memory.

She sure must be doing something right, huh?

A quick refresher. In 2017, Khan — then a law student — published Amazon’s Antitrust Paradox in the Yale Law Journal. It was a brilliant, blistering analysis showing how the Reagan-era theory of antitrust (which celebrates monopolies as “efficient”) had failed on its own terms, using Amazon as Exhibit A of the ways in which post-Reagan antitrust had left Americans vulnerable to corporate abuse:

https://www.yalelawjournal.org/note/amazons-antitrust-paradox

The paper sent seismic shocks through both legal and economic circles, and goosed the neo-Brandeisian movement (sneeringly dismissed as “hipster antitrust”). This movement is a rebuke to Reaganomics, with its celebration of monopolies, trickle-down, offshoring, corporate dark money, revolving-door regulatory capture, and companies that are simultaneously too big to fail and too big to jail.

This movement has many proponents, of course — not just Khan — but Khan’s careful scholarship, combined with her encyclopedic knowledge of the long-dormant statutory powers that federal agencies had to make change, and a strategy for reviving those powers to protect Americans from corporate predators made her a powerful, inspirational figure.

When Joe Biden won the 2020 presidential election, he surprised everyone by appointing Khan to the FTC. It wasn’t just that she had such a radical vision — it was also that she lacked the usual corporate law experience that such an appointee would normally require (experience that would ensure that the FTC was helmed by people whose default view of the world is that it should be structured and regulated by powerful, wealthy people in corporate boardrooms).

Even more surprising was that Khan was made chair of the FTC, something that was only possible because a few Republican Senators broke with their party to support her candidacy:

https://www.senate.gov/legislative/LIS/roll_call_votes/vote1171/vote_117_1_00233.htm

These Republicans saw in Khan an ally in their fight against “woke” Big Tech. For these senators, the problem wasn’t that tech had got too big and powerful — it was that there were a few limited instances in which tech leaders failed to wield that power in the ways they preferred.

The Republican project is a matter of getting turkeys to vote for Christmas by doing a lot of culture war bullshit, cruelly abusing disfavored sexual and racial minorities. This wins support from low-information voters who’ll vote against their class interests and support more monopolies, more tax cuts for the rich, and more cuts to the services they rely on.

But while tech leaders are 100% committed to the project of permanent oligarchic takeover of every sphere of American life, they are less full-throated in their support for hateful, cruel discrimination against disfavored minorities (in this regard, tech leaders resemble the corporate wing of the Democrats, which is where we get the “Silicon Valley is a Democratic Party stronghold” narrative).

This failure to unquestioningly and unstintingly back culture war bullshit put tech leaders in the GOP’s crosshairs. Some GOP politicians actually believe in the culture war bullshit, and are grossly offended that tech is “woke.” Others are smart enough not to get high on their own supply, but worry that any tech obstruction in the bullshit culture wars will make it harder to get sufficient turkey votes for a big fat Christmas surprise.

Biden’s ceding of antitrust policy to the left wing of the party, combined with disaffected GOP senators viewing Khan as their enemy’s enemy, led to Khan’s historic appointment as FTC Chair. In that position, she was joined by a slate of Biden trustbusters, including Jonathan Kanter at the DoJ Antitrust Division, Tim Wu at the White House, and other important, skilled and principled fighters like Alvaro Bedoya (FTC), Rebecca Slaughter (FTC), Rohit Chopra (CFPB), and many others.

Crucially, these new appointees weren’t just principled, they were good at their jobs. In 2021, Tim Wu wrote an executive order for Biden that laid out 72 concrete ways in which the administration could act — with no further Congressional authorization — to blunt corporate power and insulate the American people from oligarchs’ abusive and extractive practices:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/08/13/post-bork-era/#manne-down

Since then, the antitrust arm of the Biden administration have been fuckin’ ninjas, Getting Shit Done in ways large and small, working — for the first time since Reagan — to protect Americans from predatory businesses:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/18/administrative-competence/#i-know-stuff

This is in marked contrast to the corporate Dems’ champions in the administration. People like Pete Buttigieg are heralded as competent technocrats, “realists” who are too principled to peddle hopium to the base, writing checks they can’t cash. All this is cover for a King Log performance, in which Buttigieg’s far-reaching regulatory authority sits unused on a shelf while a million Americans are stranded over Christmas and whole towns are endangered by greedy, reckless rail barons straight out of the Gilded Age:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/10/the-courage-to-govern/#whos-in-charge

The contrast between the Biden trustbusters and their counterparts from the corporate wing is stark. While the corporate wing insists that every pitch is outside of the zone, Khan and her allies are swinging for the stands. They’re trying to make life better for you and me, by declaring commercial surveillance to be an unfair business practice and thus illegal:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/08/12/regulatory-uncapture/#conscious-uncoupling

And by declaring noncompete “agreements” that shackle good workers to shitty jobs to be illegal:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/02/02/its-the-economy-stupid/#neofeudal

And naturally, this has really pissed off all the right people: America’s billionaires and their cheerleaders in the press, government, and the hive of scum and villainy that is the Big Law/thinktank industrial-complex.

Take the WSJ: since Khan took office, they have published 67 vicious editorials attacking her and her policies. Khan is living rent-free in Rupert Murdoch’s head. Not only that, he’s given her the presidential suite! You love to see it.

These attacks are worth reading, if only to see how flimsy and frivolous they are. One major subgenre is that Khan shouldn’t be bringing any action against Amazon, because her groundbreaking scholarship about the company means she has a conflict of interest. Holy moly is this a stupid thing to say. The idea that the chair of an expert agency should recuse herself because she is an expert is what the physicists call not even wrong.

But these attacks are even more laughable due to who they’re coming from: people who have the most outrageous conflicts of interest imaginable, and who were conspicuously silent for years as the FTC’s revolving door admitted the a bestiary of swamp-creatures so conflicted it’s a wonder they managed to dress themselves in the morning.

Writing in The American Prospect, David Dayen runs the numbers:

Since the late 1990s, 31 out of 41 top FTC officials worked directly for a company that has business before the agency, with 26 of them related to the technology industry.

https://prospect.org/economy/2023-06-23-attacks-lina-khans-ethics-reveal-projection/

Take Christine Wilson, a GOP-appointed FTC Commissioner who quit the agency in a huff because Khan wanted to do things for the American people, and not their self-appointed oligarchic princelings. Wilson wrote an angry break-up letter to Khan that the WSJ published, presaging their concierge service for Samuel Alito:

https://www.wsj.com/articles/why-im-resigning-from-the-ftc-commissioner-ftc-lina-khan-regulation-rule-violation-antitrust-339f115d

For Wilson to question Khan’s ethics took galactic-scale chutzpah. Wilson, after all, is a commissioner who took cash money from Bristol-Myers Squibb, then voted to approve their merger with Celgene:

https://www.documentcloud.org/documents/4365601-Wilson-Christine-Smith-final278.html

Or take Wilson’s GOP FTC predecessor Josh Wright, whose incestuous relationship with the companies he oversaw at the Commission are so intimate he’s practically got a Habsburg jaw. Wright went from Google to the US government and back again four times. He also lobbied the FTC on behalf of Qualcomm (a major donor to Wright’s employer, George Mason’s Antonin Scalia Law School) after working “personally and substantially” while serving at the FTC.

George Mason’s Scalia center practically owns the revolving door, counting fourteen FTC officials among its affliates:

https://campaignforaccountability.org/ttp-investigation-big-techs-backdoor-to-the-ftc/

Since the 1990s, 31 out of 41 top FTC officials — both GOP appointed and appointees backed by corporate Dems — “worked directly for a company that has business before the agency”:

https://www.citizen.org/article/ftc-big-tech-revolving-door-problem-report/

The majority of FTC and DoJ antitrust lawyers who served between 2014–21 left government service and went straight to work for a Big Law firm, serving the companies they’d regulated just a few months before:

https://therevolvingdoorproject.org/wp-content/uploads/2022/06/The-Revolving-Door-In-Federal-Antitrust-Enforcement.pdf

Take Deborah Feinstein, formerly the head of the FTC’s Bureau of Competition, now a partner at Arnold & Porter, where she’s represented General Electric, NBCUniversal, Unilever, and Pepsi and a whole medicine chest’s worth of pharma giants before her former subordinates at the FTC. Michael Moiseyev who was assistant manager of FTC Competition is now in charge of mergers at Weil Gotshal & Manges, working for Microsoft, Meta, and Eli Lilly.

There’s a whole bunch more, but Dayen reserves special notice for Andrew Smith, Trump’s FTC Consumer Protection boss. Before he was put on the public payroll, Smith represented 120 clients that had business before the Commission, including “nearly every major bank in America, drug industry lobbyist PhRMA, Uber, Equifax, Amazon, Facebook, Verizon, and a variety of payday lenders”:

https://www.citizen.org/sites/default/files/andrew_smith_foia_appeal_response_11_30.pdf

Before Khan, in other words, the FTC was a “conflict-of-interest assembly line, moving through corporate lawyers and industry hangers-on without resistance for decades.”

Khan is the first FTC head with no conflicts. This leaves her opponents in the sweaty, desperate position of inventing conflicts out of thin air.

For these corporate lickspittles, Khan’s “conflict” is that she has a point of view. Specifically, she thinks that the FTC should do its job.

This makes grifters like Jim Jordan furious. Yesterday, Jordan grilled Khan in a hearing where he accused her of violating an ethics official’s advice that she should recuse herself from Big Tech cases. This is a talking point that was created and promoted by Bloomberg:

https://www.bloomberg.com/news/articles/2023-06-16/ftc-rejected-ethics-advice-for-khan-recusal-on-meta-case

That ethics official, Lorielle Pankey, did not, in fact, make this recommendation. It’s simply untrue (she did say that Khan presiding over cases that she has made public statements about could be used as ammo against her, but did not say that it violated any ethical standard).

But there’s more to this story. Pankey herself has a gigantic conflict of interest in this case, including a stock portfolio with $15,001 and $50,000 in Meta stock (Meta is another company that has whined in print and in its briefs that it is a poor defenseless lamb being picked on by big, mean ole Lina Khan):

https://www.wsj.com/articles/ethics-official-owned-meta-stock-while-recommending-ftc-chair-recuse-herself-from-meta-case-8582a83b

Jordan called his hearing on the back of this fake scandal, and then proceeded to show his whole damned ass, even as his GOP colleagues got into a substantive and even informative dialog with Khan:

https://prospect.org/power/2023-07-14-jim-jordan-misfires-attacks-lina-khan/

Mostly what came out of that hearing was news about how Khan is doing her job, working on behalf of the American people. For example, she confirmed that she’s investigating OpenAI for nonconsensually harvesting a mountain of Americans’ personal information:

https://www.ft.com/content/8ce04d67-069b-4c9d-91bf-11649f5adc74

Other Republicans, including confirmed swamp creatures like Matt Gaetz, ended up agreeing with Khan that Amazon Ring is a privacy dumpster-fire. Nobodies like Rep TomM assie gave Khan an opening to discuss how her agency is protecting mom-and-pop grocers from giant, price-gouging, greedflation-drunk national chains. Jeff Van Drew gave her a chance to talk about the FTC’s war on robocalls. Lance Gooden let her talk about her fight against horse doping.

But Khan’s opponents did manage to repeat a lot of the smears against her, and not just the bogus conflict-of-interest story. They also accused her of being 0–4 in her actions to block mergers, ignoring the huge number of mergers that have been called off or not initiated because M&A professionals now understand they can no longer expect these mergers to be waved through. Indeed, just last night I spoke with a friend who owns a medium-sized tech company that Meta tried to buy out, only to withdraw from the deal because their lawyers told them it would get challenged at the FTC, with an uncertain outcome.

These talking points got picked up by people commenting on Judge Jacqueline Scott Corley’s ruling against the FTC in the Microsoft-Activision merger. The FTC was seeking an injunction against the merger, and Corley turned them down flat. The ruling was objectively very bad. Start with the fact that Corley’s son is a Microsoft employee who stands reap massive gains in his stock options if the merger goes through.

But beyond this (real, non-imaginary, not manufactured conflict of interest), Corley’s judgment and her remarks in court were inexcusably bad, as Matt Stoller writes:

https://www.thebignewsletter.com/p/judge-rules-for-microsoft-mergers

In her ruling, Corley explained that she didn’t think Microsoft would abuse the market dominance they’d gain by merging their giant videogame platform and studio with one of its largest competitors. Why not? Because Microsoft’s execs pinky-swore that they wouldn’t abuse that power.

Corely’s deference to Microsoft’s corporate priorities goes deeper than trusting its execs, though. In denying the FTC’s motion, she stated that it would be unfair to put the merger on hold in order to have a full investigation into its competition implications because Microsoft and Activision had set a deadline of July 18 to conclude things, and Microsoft would have to pay a penalty if that deadline passed.

This is surreal: a judge ruled that a corporation’s radical, massive merger shouldn’t be subject to full investigation because that corporation itself set an arbitrary deadline to conclude the deal before such an investigation could be concluded. That’s pretty convenient for future mega-mergers — just set a short deadline and Judge Corely will tell regulators that the merger can’t be investigated because the deadline is looming.

And this is all about the future. As Stoller writes, Microsoft isn’t exactly subtle about why it wants this merger. Its own execs said that the reason they were spending “dump trucks” of money buying games studios was to “spend Sony out of business.”

Now, maybe you hate Sony. Maybe you hate Activision. There’s plenty of good reason to hate both — they’re run by creeps who do shitty things to gamers and to their employees. But if you think that Microsoft will be better once it eliminates its competition, then you have the attention span of a goldfish on Adderall.

Microsoft made exactly the same promises it made on Activision when it bought out another games studio, Zenimax — and it broke every one of those promises.

Microsoft has a long, long, long history of being a brutal, abusive monopolist. It is a convicted monopolist. And its bad conduct didn’t end with the browser wars. You remember how the lockdown turned all our homes into rent-free branch offices for our employers? Microsoft seized on that moment to offer our bosses keystroke-and-click level surveillance of our use of our own computers in our own homes, via its Office365 bossware product:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/11/25/the-peoples-amazon/#clippys-revenge

If you think a company that gave your boss a tool to spy on their employees and rank them by “productivity” as a prelude to firing them or cutting their pay is going to treat gamers or game makers well once they have “spent the competition out of business,” you’re a credulous sucker and you are gonna be so disappointed.

The enshittification play is obvious: use investor cash to make things temporarily nice for customers and suppliers, lock both of them in — in this case, it’s with a subscription-based service similar to Netflix’s — and then claw all that value back until all that’s left is a big pile of shit.

The Microsoft case is about the future. Judge Corely doesn’t take the future seriously: as she said during the trial, “All of this is for a shooter videogame.” The reason Corely greenlit this merger isn’t because it won’t be harmful — it’s because she doesn’t think those harms matter.

But it does, and not just because games are an art form that generate billions of dollars, employ a vast workforce, and bring pleasure to millions. It also matters because this is yet another one of the Reaganomic precedents that tacitly endorses monopolies as efficient forces for good. As Stoller writes, Corley’s ruling means that “deal bankers are sharpening pencils and saying ‘Great, the government lost! We can get mergers through everywhere else.’ Basically, if you like your high medical prices, you should be cheering on Microsoft’s win today.”

Ronald Reagan’s antitrust has colonized our brains so thoroughly that commentators were surprised when, immediately after the ruling, the FTC filed an appeal. Don’t they know they’ve lost? the commentators said:

https://gizmodo.com/ftc-files-appeal-of-microsoft-activision-deal-ruling-1850640159

They echoed the smug words of insufferable Activision boss Mike Ybarra: “Your tax dollars at work.”

https://twitter.com/Qwik/status/1679277251337277440

But of course Khan is appealing. The only reason that’s surprising is that Khan is working for us, the American people, not the giant corporations the FTC is supposed to be defending us from. Sure, I get that this is a major change! But she needs our backing, not our cheap cynicism.

The business lobby and their pathetic Renfields have hoarded all the nice things and they don’t want us to have any. Khan and her trustbuster colleagues want the opposite. There is no measure so small that the corporate world won’t have a conniption over it. Take click to cancel, the FTC’s perfectly reasonable proposal that if you sign up for a recurring payment subscription with a single click, you should be able to cancel it with a single click.

The tooth-gnashing and garment-rending and scenery-chewing over this is wild. America’s biggest companies have wheeled out their biggest guns, claiming that if they make it too easy to unsubscribe, they will lose money. In other words, they are currently making money not because people want their products, but because it’s too hard to stop paying for them!

https://www.theregister.com/2023/07/12/ftc_cancel_subscriptions/

We shouldn’t have to tolerate this sleaze. And if we back Khan and her team, they’ll protect us from these scams. Don’t let them convince you to give up hope. This is the start of the fight, not the end. We’re trying to reverse 40 years’ worth of Reagonmics here. It won’t happen overnight. There will be setbacks. But keep your eyes on the prize — this is the most exciting moment for countering corporate power and giving it back to the people in my lifetime. We owe it to ourselves, our kids and our planet to fight one.

If you’d like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here’s a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/14/making-good-trouble/#the-peoples-champion

[Image ID: A line drawing of pilgrims ducking a witch tied to a ducking stool. The pilgrims' clothes have been emblazoned with the logos for the WSJ, Microsoft, Activision and Blizzard. The witch's face has been replaced with that of FTC chair Lina M Khan.]

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magic-shop-stories · 3 months ago

Note

hiya I love your style of writing !!

Could you write a pregnancy yoongi headcannon , like add in the negatives and positives of going through a pregnancy with him etc :) and could you include how his idol life would affect it aswell please

hope you’re well 😊

💌 Reply:

AHAHHAHHHHH! THIS REQUEST IS GOING TO BE MY ROMAN EMPIRE FOR A WHILE - I SWEAR... I LOVE YOU! and THANK YOU And i really tried my best... hoping it's what you wanted 💜 PLS TELL ME IF I CAN WRITE A SHORT FIC OUT OF IT BECAUSE DAMN!!!!!!!!!! I OWE YOU! - c -

Min Yoongi (Suga) Pregnancy Headcanons x Reader

Warning: added a short mention of complication/ loss during pregnancy

🌙 How He Finds Out

you take the test alone first

needing to process it

when the second line appears, you sit on the bathroom floor for 20 minutes

staring at the wall for minutes

Yoongi knocks, worried

at first strained humor through the door

"Did tteokbokki kill you?"

you’ve been quiet too long

bobby pin lockpick (tour-prank skill)

finds you clutching the test (tears streaming)

his first words?

“Is that… ours?”

voice shaky

= like he’s afraid to hope

sinks beside you when you nod

forehead pressed to yours

thumbs brushing tears

“Okay. Okay.”

🌅 Initial Reaction

Panic

spends the first night researching everything

= prenatal vitamins, OB-GYNs in Seoul, safest baby monitors...

3 a.m.: muttering about “cord blood banking” and “hypoallergenic cribs”

"Newborns can’t regulate heat... adjust the thermostat!"

overprepared rants about blueberry-sized humans

Hidden Excitement

find him humming “Sweet Night” while washing dishes the next day

when you catch him, he scowls

blushing over secret excitement

“Don’t look at me.”

🌧️ Worries

Fatherhood Fears

his relationship with his dad haunts him

confesses at 2 a.m.

raw-voiced

“What if I’m… like him? What if I don’t know how to be there?”

Dad’s voice in his head, doubting his own readiness

reads “The Book You Wish Your Parents Had Read” in secret

highlights passages about “breaking cycles”

Idol Life Stress

agonizes over balancing tours and prenatal appointments

“I don’t want to miss a single scan. But if I cancel Osaka…”

🍲What He Does (Early Days)

Spoiling You

buys a Japanese kotatsu for the living room

"...so you’re always warm."

stocks the fridge with your cravings

hides your aversions in the back

Overprepared

creates a shared calendar labeled “Bun in Oven”

color-coded doctor visits, vitamin reminders, and “Y/N Nap Time”

finger brushing dates, secretly smiling

💜 Telling BTS

waits until the 12-week mark

invites them over for “casual dinner”

spends hours prepping japchae (your current craving)

hiding ultrasound printouts under napkins

Jungkook notices his trembling hands

"Hyung, did you poison the food?"

clears his throat, after dessert

“We, uh… made something.”

plays a voice memo of the baby’s heartbeat on the speaker

recorded secretly at the last scan

Reactions:

SILENCE

then CHAOS

Jin

“Finally! Our grandpa is gonna be a dad!”

immediately starts planning a diaper cake

Jungkook

cries silently

“Can I be the godfather? I’ll teach them...!”

Yoongi rolls his eyes but smiles

“Yeah, fine. Just… just... don’t drop them.”

Jimin

sob-hugs you

“I’m teaching them all the choreo. All of it.”

Taehyung

stares at the ultrasound

“It looks like a space alien. I love it.”

Namjoon

nods sagely

“Life’s most beautiful paradox... creation amid chaos.”

later slips Yoongi a parenting philosophy book titled “Raising Humans Without Losing Your Damn Mind”

Hobi

already reorganizing your pantry “for efficiency!”

tearfully rambling about “our baby’s first dance steps”

Yoongi’s Quiet Moment

leans against the kitchen counter

watching the chaos

you catch his faint smile

You: “They’re gonna spoil it rotten...” Yoongi: “…Good.”

Bonus:

“Project Blueberry” is the baby’s code name in the BTS group chat

Jin/ Jungkook changes it to “Golden Maknae 2.0.”

🖤 Telling His Family

after the 20-week anatomy scan

visits Daegu with ultrasound photos

buys a onesie that says “Future CEO of Daegu”

His Mom

opens the door, sees your bump

immediately bursts into tears/ sobs

hugs you

drags you to the kitchen

force-feeds you seaweed soup

then scolds Yoongi for “not feeding you enough”

“Are you sleeping? Are you eating? Why is she so pale?!”

His Dad

stiff handshake

avoids eye contact (at first)

awkward silence

later, his dad pulls him aside

“You’ll be better than me.”

Yoongi cries in the car afterward

Hidden Detail

finds an old mixtape in his childhood room

songs he made at 14

angry and unheard

slides it into the glove compartment

“Not passing that shit on”

tossing it in a Daegu dumpster on the drive home

🌼Daily Life

Routine & Rituals:

6:30 AM

unusually wakes before dawn to prep kimchi jjigae (iron-rich obsession)

leaves sticky notes: “EAT. OR ELSE.”

including doodles of frowning carrots

Post-Lunch Massages

teaches himself prenatal yoga via questionable YouTube tutorials

“Turn over. No... gently, you menace.”

his hands are surprisingly warm

kneading your lower back while muttering about “gluteus medius tension.”

Idol-Life Adjustments

converts his studio closet into a snack arsenal

= seaweed chips, honey butter almonds, and a secret Tteokbokki thermos for midnight cravings

texts producers: “No collabs after 8 PM. Family hours.”

Chores

takes over laundry

insists on fragrance-free detergent

fights Jungkook over detergent brands

“Mint scent? Are you trying to kill her? Fragrance-FREE ONLY.”

becomes a kimchi jjigae master to combat your anemia

recipe is his mom’s (smuggled during the Daegu trip)

builds the crib himself

“Ikea is a conspiracy.”

Taehyung helps by painting constellations on the wall

Idol Life Impact

skips late-night studio sessions to rub your feet

writes lullabies instead of diss tracks

secretly practices swaddling with a stuffed tiger

Quiet Moments

3 AM Playlist Curating

creates a “Calm the Fuck Down”* playlist for your anxiety

SEA, Winter Bear, Seesaw, and hidden track “Noori’s Lullaby”

=his first composition for the baby

samples your heartbeat from the first ultrasound

Voice Memos

records himself reading The Little Prince for days he’s on tour

“You think they can hear me? …Stupid question. Forget it.”

📸 Public Announcement

Lead-Up

Media Lockdown:

hires cybersecurity team to scrub your address from forums

changes your code name to “Meteor” (after Jungkook’s “it’s a star baby!” slip-up)

ARMY Hints

wears a silver bracelet engraved with “Noori” during a Live

Army's zoom in

crashing Weverse with theories

Reveal

after birth

via a handwritten letter on Weverse

smudged ink (from your tears, denies it's his)

Text: “ARMY, you’ve been my light, you gave me light when I was shadows. Now I have a new one, a new sun to protect. Please protect their privacy, love them quietly, as I do. – SUGA”

posts a black-and-white photo of the baby’s hand gripping his pinky

Aftermath:

ARMY Reactions

#Noori trends for 72 hours

ARMY floods donation sites in the baby’s name

$500k to children’s hospitals in under a day

Paparazzi Countermeasures

releases a diss track snippet targeting tabloids

“Snap a pic, I snap your lens. Try me.”

billboards drop by 80%

🌀 When You Panic

Trigger

a What to Expect chapter about birth defects

you drop the book, gasping for air

Calm Facade, storm inside

voice steady, hands grounding yours

“Breathe. We’ve got this.”

Secret Meltdowns

texts Namjoon at 4 a.m.

“What if I’m terrible at this?”

gets a thesis-length reply about “the ontology of parenthood”

Acts of Service

makes citrus tea in his studio mug (the one chipped from your first fight

distracts you with “urgent” decisions

“Which onesie is less cursed? Dinosaur or broccoli?”

Idol-Life Impact

cancels a radio appearance to stay home

tells Bang PD: “Family emergency”

later writes a ballad to process the guilt

🕯️If Something Goes Wrong (+ Loss)

Hospital Vigils

refuses to leave your side

snaps at nurses who downplay your pain

or who call it “common”

“Not to us.”

washes your hair in the hospital sink, fingers trembling

“I’ve got you. Always.”

Guilt/ Aftermath

blames himself

“I should’ve canceled the tour. Should’ve noticed sooner.”

you find him asleep in the nursery rocker

tear tracks dried on his cheeks

clutching the “Future CEO of Daegu” onesie

writes “Noori (Unsung Verse)”

no lyrics, just piano

plays it once, then locks the file

postpones tour indefinitely

releases a vague statement: “Health hiatus”

ARMY floods Weverse with support

Support System

Jin forces you both to his cabin

“No talking. Just eat and stare at the river.”

Jungkook leaves a stuffed tiger on your doorstep

note: “For when you’re ready”

Bonus

"Noori (Unsung Verse)” is played once

years later, at his child’s first piano recital

brings your child on tour in noise-canceling headset

"Their first concert better be mine!"

🎉Gender Reveal

Reaction

“A girl? Fuck. Fuck. She’s gonna wreck me.”

immediately buys tiny Converse and a BTS World plush set

ultrasound tech says “It’s a boy!”

Yoongi freezes

voice cracks

“…A boy?” “Fuck. Fuck.”

buys tiny headphones the next day

“For studio time. Gotta start early.”

gender-neutral nursery anyway

soft grays, muted mint, and a framed lyric:

“You’re my eternal moment”

whispering to your bump at night

“You can be anything. Artist, engineer, anything. I’ll never say ‘phase.’”

teaches the baby “Daechwita” beats via belly taps

“Rhythm’s in their blood, huh?”

🏥 Labor & Delivery

Prep

packs a hospital bag

weeks early

= your favorite hoodie, his AirPods (for your playlist), and a stress ball shaped like a bear*

*Jin’s gift: “For when you wanna murder him mid-contraction”

memorizes your birth plan like a rap verse

argues with a nurse about “delayed cord clamping”

you have to tell him to breathe

During Labor

holds your hand

cracks terrible dad jokes to distract you

“Hey, at least the kid’s got my timing... fashionably late.” “Kid’s already stubborn. Must get it from you.”

becomes your human anchor

counts breaths in rhythm

white-knuckles the bedrail

tears in his eye

“You’re doing so good. So fucking good.”

First Hold

cutting the cord

hands shake, but he does it

freezes when the nurse hands him the baby

“They're… so small” “Strongest thing I’ve ever held.”

cradles them like glass, lyric notebook (reverent, awed)

whispering

“Hi, little shadow"

Namjoon snaps a pic of Yoongi asleep in a chair

baby on his chest

both swaddled in the Agust D merch

= becomes his lockscreen

🌐 Idol Life Challenges

Touring/ Tour Adjustments

negotiates shorter legs of tours

2-week tour blocks max

“I’ll livestream concerts if I have to. Not missing first steps/ birth!”

FaceTimes you during soundcheck

camera angled at your belly

“Tell them Appa’s coming home soon.”

brings them in a soundproof bassinet backstage

staff find Yoongi humming “Spring Day” during diaper changes

baby monitor on his desk

producers hear gurgles during track reviews

“New focus tester. Baby hates trap beats.”

Privacy

hires extra security

insists on code names (“Project Blueberry”) in group chat

threatens to write a diss track about any paparazzi who snap bump pics

wears a “F** Off”* face mask in baby-outing pics

archives old posts

New IG bio: “Not a role model. Just a dad.”

BONUS - BTS Support System

Jin’s Uncle Duties

babysits with RJ plushie tutorials

“Lesson one: How to side-eye haters and still be handsome.”

Hobi’s Playdates

teaches them “micro-dancing” (tiny foot wiggles)

Yoongi films it

saves it as “future blackmail”

🎁 Bonus Headcanons

Nicknames/ Nonsense

calls the baby “Noori” (meaning “world”) until you both decide on a name

denies it’s sentimental

calls them “Shadow” when they toddle after him

“Like father, like menace.”

secretly thrilled when their first word is “Appa”

claims it was “aggressive babbling”

Late Nights

falls asleep reading parenting forums

bookmarks: “How to Apologize to Your Kid (Even When You’re Scared).”

First Birthday

hosts a private party with BTS/ private zoo trip

baby tries to hug a baby goat

Yoongi’s face softens

“Cursed. They're cursed.” (Takes 100 photos.)

Jungkook faceplants into the smash cake

Yoongi saves a frosting-smudged photo in his “Hidden” album

First Studio Visit

lets them mash piano keys

samples it into a track titled “Noori’s Chaos Theory”

275 notes · View notes

mommykye · 2 months ago

Text

All demands

young!Ambessa Medarda x pregnant!wife!reader

summary: Ambessa gives into her wife’s demands

warnings: you guessed it, smut. ambessa’s has a dick

request are open

masterlist

The estate of Ambessa stood as a testament to power and refined brutality. Hewn from massive blocks of stark white and deep black marble, the imposing structure dominated the surrounding landscape, a physical manifestation of the formidable woman who resided within its walls. Even under the muted, overcast sky that perpetually seemed to hang over Noxus, the polished surfaces gleamed, the contrasting colors a deliberate and meaningful choice made years prior by Y/N. It was her subtle, constant reminder of the intricate balance she perceived within her wife – a dance between ruthless strength and unexpected tenderness.

Inside, the cool, echoing halls stretched into seemingly endless perspectives, the silence broken only by the soft, almost imperceptible padding of Y/N's bare feet against the smooth, unyielding floor. Despite the advanced stage of her pregnancy, the five-month swell preceding her like a proud banner, she moved with a fluid grace that spoke of her royal upbringing. At twenty-eight, Y/N possessed a maturity and poise that both complemented and subtly contrasted Ambessa’s own intense, almost volatile energy.

She found her wife in the strategy room, a chamber that hummed with the silent language of war and conquest. Massive maps, depicting conquered territories and potential battlefields in intricate detail, were spread across a colossal table of polished stone. Flanking this table were intricately carved chairs of polished darkwood, silent witnesses to countless hours of planning and deliberation. Ambessa, a towering figure even when seated, was hunched over a particularly detailed map of a volatile border region, her brow furrowed in the deep lines of intense concentration. A single, focused beam of light pierced through a narrow aperture in the high ceiling, illuminating the scene below like a macabre yet captivating painting, highlighting the stark angles of Ambessa’s face and the unforgiving lines of the maps.

Ambessa exuded a raw, untamed power, a force of nature barely contained by the stone and mortar of the room. She was a study in contrasts, a paradox of brutal efficiency and unexpected depths. Her face, often stern and unyielding, softened almost imperceptibly as she sensed Y/N's presence, a subtle shift that only Y/N had learned to recognize. Her golden eyes, usually sharp and assessing, held a fleeting flicker of warmth, a private ember lit only for her wife. Her powerful frame, honed from years spent on the battlefield and in rigorous training, was still, yet it emanated an aura of controlled strength, a coiled tension that spoke of her readiness for any challenge. She looked every bit the Noxian warlord, a woman who commanded respect and fear in equal measure. Her hair, the color of midnight, was pulled back from her face in a tight, intricate braid, revealing the strong lines of her jaw and the high, sharp planes of her cheekbones. She wore simple, functional clothing: dark, plain tunic, practical attire for a life spent navigating both the complexities of the war room inside their home and, as Y/N knew with intimate familiarity, the passionate entanglements of their shared bedchamber.

Y/N leaned against the heavy stone doorframe, her arms crossed beneath her burgeoning breasts, observing her wife for a long moment. She knew this room intimately, knew the intricate details of the maps, knew the brilliant, ruthless strategic mind that worked tirelessly behind those intense eyes. But more importantly, she knew the woman beneath the warlord, the woman who, for the past decade, had been her wife, her lover, her anchor in the often-turbulent seas of Noxian politics. Their shared history stretched back to a chance encounter during a delicate diplomatic mission years ago, a clash of wills that had unexpectedly and fiercely blossomed into an enduring love, a bond forged in mutual respect and undeniable passion.

Y/N had been immediately drawn to Ambessa's unwavering conviction, her fierce loyalty, and the barely leashed passion that simmered beneath her formidable exterior. Ambessa, in turn, had been captivated by Y/N's regal bearing, her sharp intellect that could dissect political intricacies with effortless grace, and the surprising vulnerability she occasionally allowed to surface, a fleeting glimpse behind the carefully constructed walls that she herself had conquered to earn a blissful life.

"You'll strain your eyes in this light," Y/N said, her voice a low, melodious drawl that broke the heavy silence of the room. It was a voice that had once commanded audiences, swayed councils with its persuasive cadence, but now, it held a unique intimacy, a silken thread woven into the rich tapestry of their shared life, reserved almost exclusively for Ambessa.

Ambessa glanced up, her sharp expression shifting almost imperceptibly from focused concentration to something softer, something that bordered on a rare and cherished amusement. "And you'll strain your back, standing there. Come, wife." She gestured to the chair beside her, the one usually reserved for her most trusted advisors, a silent yet profound acknowledgment of Y/N's pivotal role in her life, both personally and politically.

Y/N pushed herself off the doorframe, her movements still fluid and deliberate despite the gentle yet undeniable sway of her pregnant form. She walked towards the massive table, her bare feet making no sound on the polished floor. She reached Ambessa and, instead of taking the offered seat, she settled onto Ambessa's lap, facing her. The weight of her, the solid curve of her belly pressing intimately against Ambessa's chest, was a familiar and welcome sensation, a tangible connection that grounded them both.

Ambessa's dark eyebrows rose slightly, a silent question in their sharp arch, but she didn't protest. This was Y/N. This was how she was, especially now, with the heightened emotions and insistent desires that seemed to accompany the burgeoning life within her. Ambessa found a certain possessive satisfaction in Y/N's unwavering need for her, a primal pull that mirrored her own fierce devotion.

"Is that wise?" Ambessa asked, her voice a low rumble that vibrated against Y/N's back. "With the precious thing you carry?" Her large, calloused hand instinctively went to Y/N's rounded stomach, her touch gentle, a stark contrast to the brutal strength of her warrior's hands.

Y/N snorted softly, a sound that was both elegant and utterly irreverent. "I'm hardly made of glass, Ambessa. And I'm certainly not an invalid." She shifted slightly, adjusting her position so she was more comfortable, her hands resting on Ambessa's broad shoulders, her fingers digging lightly into the hard leather of her armor. Her eyes, dilated into the color of a stormy sea just before a tempest, locked onto Ambessa's. "Besides, I have a need."

Ambessa's gaze darkened, a slow, possessive burn igniting within their depths. "A need?" The single word was laced with a possessive curiosity, a hint of anticipation.

Y/N's lips curved into a sultry smile, a flash of the regal power that still resided within her, a power that Ambessa found endlessly alluring. "A very specific need. One that only you can satisfy." Her voice was a husky whisper, laced with a demanding edge that would have sent lesser beings scrambling for cover. But Ambessa was not a lesser being. She was Ambessa Medarda, and this woman, this demanding, pregnant woman, was her wife. And she found it exhilarating. The inherent power dynamic in their relationship, the constant push and pull of dominance and submission, was a source of intense and mutual pleasure, a silent language they both understood intimately.

"And what need is that, my demanding one?" Ambessa asked, her voice a low growl that resonated deep within Y/N, stirring a familiar heat in her core. Her hands settled on Y/N's hips, her strong fingers tracing the curve of her swollen belly, a silent acknowledgment of the life they had created together, a life that now amplified Y/N’s desires.

Y/N leaned closer, her breath warm against Ambessa's face, carrying the faint, exotic scent of the tea she favored, a fragrance that Ambessa had come to associate with her. "I need you, Ambessa. I need you inside me. Now." The directness of the request, the complete lack of preamble or coyness, was a deliberate act, a testament to the raw intimacy and uninhibited passion they shared. The sheer audacity of it, even in the relative privacy of their own estate, sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated desire through Ambessa. It was this very quality – this fearless, unapologetic desire – that had captivated her from the moment their paths had crossed. Y/N had never been one to shy away from what she wanted, even when what she wanted was the formidable Ambessa Medarda.

"Now?" Ambessa echoed, her voice a dangerous purr, her grip tightening slightly on Y/N's hips. "Here? On the strategy table?" The thought was undeniably arousing, the forbidden juxtaposition of war and intimacy, of strategic planning and raw, primal desire, a potent combination that resonated with the core of her being, a thrilling transgression against the very order she often imposed.

Y/N's smile widened, a predatory gleam in her stormy eyes. "The table is large. And sturdy. Much like its owner." She jokes, trailing a hand down Ambessa's chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath the fabric, the steady beat of her wife's heart quickening beneath her touch. "And the thought of you, taking me here, surrounded by your maps, your plans, the idea of being caught, it excites me." Her eyes gleamed with a primal hunger, a reflection of the deep, almost visceral connection they shared, a bond that transcended the battlefield and the intricate dance of Noxian politics. Pregnancy had amplified her desires, stripping away any lingering pretense of demureness. She was raw, demanding, and utterly irresistible in her newfound intensity.

Ambessa's control, always there, wavered precariously. The intoxicating combination of Y/N's scent – a heady mix of exotic perfumes and the subtle, musky undertones of arousal – her nearness, the warm weight of her in her lap, and the sheer eroticism of the request was almost overwhelming, threatening to shatter the carefully constructed walls of her composure. The strategic maps, the very symbols of her power and ambition, suddenly seemed insignificant, mere parchment and ink compared to the vibrant, demanding woman in her arms.

"You are…insatiable," Ambessa murmured, her voice thick with burgeoning desire, her thumb tracing the delicate curve of Y/N's jawline, a possessive caress.

"Only for you," Y/N purred back, her fingers now playing with the edge of Ambessa's collar, her touch both possessive and exquisitely provocative. "And the babe. The babe wants its mother happy." She knew how to manipulate Ambessa, how to crack the littlest of pressure points, continue on their growing family, into the tapestry of her desires, a subtle yet effective leverage.

Ambessa knew, with a certainty that resonated deep within her, that Y/N was using the pregnancy, using the innocent babe, to get exactly what she wanted. And, truth be told, she didn't care in the slightest. The thought of Y/N, carrying their child, craving her with such unbridled intensity, was a potent aphrodisiac, a constant reminder of the deep and unbreakable bond they shared, a testament to the love that lay beneath the surface of their often-brutal world.

"And what if I were to say no?" Ambessa challenged, her voice low and husky, a playful edge to her tone, though the heat in her eyes betrayed her true desire.

Y/N's smile turned predatory, a flash of sharp teeth beneath her full lips. "You wouldn't." It wasn't a question, not even a hint of doubt. It was a statement of absolute fact, born of years of shared intimacy and a profound understanding of her wife's deepest desires. Y/N knew the fire that burned beneath Ambessa's controlled exterior, the fierce passion that Ambessa rarely unleashed on anyone but her. She knew that Ambessa was as utterly enthralled by her as she was by Ambessa. And she was right. Ambessa wouldn't say no. Not when Y/N looked at her like that, her stormy eyes blazing with unadulterated need, her body radiating a palpable heat. Not when the thought of possessing her, of filling her, right here, right now, was so utterly compelling, so deliciously forbidden.

With a swift, decisive movement that spoke of her inherent strength and unwavering resolve, Ambessa stood, lifting Y/N with her as if she weighed nothing, her powerful muscles belying the delicate nature of her precious cargo. She didn't break eye contact, her dark gaze locked intently on Y/N's, her own desire a tangible force that crackled in the air between them.

"Then let us not waste any more time," Ambessa said, her voice a low growl that sent shivers of anticipation down Y/N's spine. Instead of turning towards the hidden doorway that led to the privacy of their opulent chambers, Ambessa took a deliberate step back, positioning herself firmly between Y/N's legs, the cool, smooth surface of the massive stone table pressing against the backs of Y/N's thighs.

Y/N's breath hitched, a sharp gasp of surprise and burgeoning excitement. She had instinctively expected their usual retreat to the secluded intimacy of their rooms, but this…this was a delicious deviation, a raw and impulsive act that spoke volumes about the intensity of Ambessa's desire, a willingness to transgress the boundaries of their usual rituals.

Ambessa's hands tightened on Y/N's hips, steadying her as she subtly shifted her weight, ensuring her wife's comfort while simultaneously asserting her control. The cool, unyielding surface of the table was a stark and thrilling contrast to the rising heat radiating from their intertwined bodies. The maps, the carefully laid plans of conquest and dominion, were now beneath Y/N, a silent and potent testament to the fact that, in this moment, nothing in the vast Noxian empire held more significance than the fierce and undeniable connection between them.

"Ambessa…" Y/N breathed, her voice laced with a mixture of surprise and rapidly escalating excitement.

"You wanted me now," Ambessa murmured, her gaze dropping momentarily to the gentle swell of Y/N's belly, then rising again to meet her eyes, a possessive gleam in their dark depths. "And I aim to please."

With deliberate, almost ritualistic movements, Ambessa reached down and began to unbuckle the fastenings of her dark clothing, the soft clinking of metal echoing in the heavy silence of the room, each small sound amplifying the growing tension between them. Y/N watched her, her heart pounding a heavy rhythm against her ribs, her own desire intensifying with each passing moment as the warlord began to shed her layers. The controlled exterior was slowly giving way to the passionate lover beneath.

Ambessa’s pants fell to the floor with a soft thud, leaving her in the tunic. Her strong, calloused hands then moved to the hem of Y/N’s flowing gown, the supple fabric offering little resistance to her touch, sending shivers of anticipation dancing across Y/N’s skin. Ambessa slowly pushed the gown upwards, revealing the delicate curve of Y/N’s bare legs, the soft skin flushed with rising desire.

Y/N instinctively wrapped her legs around Ambessa’s waist, pulling her closer, the intimate friction igniting a spark that threatened to consume them both. The feeling of Ambessa’s hard, muscled body pressed intimately against her own, the life within her a soft, precious cushion between them, was intoxicating, a tangible reminder of their shared love and future.

Ambessa’s hands continued their exploration, tracing the delicate curve of Y/N’s thighs, the gentle swell of her hips, her touch both possessive and reverent, acknowledging the beautiful changes that pregnancy had wrought upon Y/N’s body, changes that Ambessa found undeniably alluring, a testament to their shared creation.

"You are magnificent," Ambessa murmured, her voice thick with desire, her lips brushing against the sensitive skin of Y/N's neck, sending a jolt of pure sensation through her. "Every curve, every swell…you are breathtaking."

Y/N tilted her head back, allowing Ambessa greater access, her own breath coming in short, shallow gasps. "And you are taking far too long," she whispered, her own impatience growing with each teasing, passing moment. The intoxicating scent of Ambessa, a heady mix of leather and musk and something uniquely her own, filled her senses, further fueling the insistent ache within her.

Ambessa chuckled softly, a low rumble against Y/N’s skin that vibrated through her very core. "Patience, my love. What is worth having is worth savoring." But even as she spoke the words, her actions belied her claim. Her hands moved with increasing urgency, pushing Y/N’s gown higher, until it was bunched around her waist, exposing the soft skin of her thighs and the delicate curve of her pregnant belly as she places a soft kiss to her cheek.

Y/N reached down and gripped Ambessa’s tunic, pulling it upwards with a demanding tug. She wanted to feel Ambessa’s bare skin against hers, the raw heat of her body a tangible reassurance of her desire. Ambessa obliged without hesitation, stripping off the tunic and tossing it carelessly aside, her eyes never leaving Y/N’s, their depths filled with a primal hunger.

The contrast between them was stark and beautiful, a testament to the complementary nature of their desires. Y/N, with her softer, more yielding curves and the delicate flush of arousal blooming on her skin, and Ambessa, all hard muscle and controlled power, her eyes burning with an intensity that mirrored Y/N's own. They were two halves of a whole, their differences only serving to amplify the intense and undeniable connection between them.

Ambessa’s hands returned to Y/N’s hips, her strong thumbs pressing into the sensitive skin just above her pelvic bones, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from Y/N. "Tell me what you want," Ambessa commanded, her voice a low growl that resonated deep within Y/N, stirring the insistent ache in her core. "Tell me exactly what you need."

Y/N’s eyes darkened with a primal desire. "I want you inside me, Ambessa. Deep inside. I want to feel you filling me, claiming me, making me yours." The words were a raw, uninhibited expression of her need, a testament to the deep physical and emotional connection they shared, a bond that transcended the constraints of their often-brutal world.

Ambessa’s gaze intensified, a possessive fire burning within their depths. "And you shall have it, my queen." Ambessa pulls down the remainder of her clothing, allowing it to pool at her ankles, revealing the hard, undeniable length of her desire straining against her dark undergarments. The air in the strategy room crackled with an almost palpable anticipation, thick with unspoken desires and the promise of raw intimacy. The maps beneath Y/N, depicting the strategic layouts of conquered territories and potential future campaigns, became silent witnesses to their passionate encounter, the intricate lines and symbols of war momentarily forgotten in the face of a more primal, all-consuming need.

Ambessa positioned herself more firmly between Y/N’s parted legs, her strong hands sliding beneath her wife’s thighs, lifting them higher, arching Y/N’s back against the cool stone. Y/N instinctively tightened her grip on the edge of the table, her body already anticipating the exquisite pleasure to come, her hips tilting upwards in silent invitation.

The first touch was electric, a searing spark that ignited a raging firestorm of desire within them both. Ambessa’s entry was slow and deliberate, a tender consideration for the life they were creating, allowing Y/N’s body to adjust to her size, yet the intensity of their connection was immediate and undeniable, a visceral merging of two souls bound by fierce love and insatiable desire.

Y/N gasped, a sharp, involuntary sound escaping her lips, her head falling back against the cool stone, unyielding marble as she felt Ambessa fill her, stretching her, claiming her in a way that transcended mere physical intimacy. Ambessa paused, her hands gripping Y/N’s thighs, her dark eyes locked intently on her wife’s flushed face, searching for any sign of discomfort.

"Does it feel good, my love?" she murmured, her voice thick with desire, a hint of tenderness lacing her usual commanding tone.

"Yes," Y/N breathed, reaching out to grab onto Ambessa’s shoulders allowing her fingers to dig into the muscle, her body already beginning to move instinctively against hers. "Oh, yes. But don't be so gentle, Ambessa. I need you rougher. I want to feel you." The words, a raw expression of her heightened desires, hung heavy in the air, a direct challenge to Ambessa’s initial tenderness.

A flicker of something primal ignited in Ambessa’s eyes. The warlord in her recognized and responded to the demand. With a low growl that rumbled deep in her chest, she surged forward, slamming into Y/N with a force that made her cry out, yet she remained acutely aware of the precious life they carried, her movements powerful but carefully controlled.

"Pregnant whore," Ambessa growled, the words a rough caress against Y/N’s ear, a dirty endearment that sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through her. "You want me rough, you'll have it."

"Yes," Y/N gasped, meeting Ambessa’s fierce gaze with a hunger of her own. "Fuck me, Ambessa. Like you mean it. Make me feel this."

And Ambessa obliged, her movements becoming more insistent, more demanding, yet always mindful. The rhythm of their bodies intertwined, a primal dance of need and fulfillment, a language spoken in the thrust and parry of their hips, in the ragged gasps that escaped their lips. The only sounds in the room were their increasingly frantic breaths and the soft thud of Ambessa’s powerful body against Y/N’s.

Y/N’s senses heightened, every nerve ending alive and tingling. The intoxicating scent of Ambessa filled her nostrils, the feel of her wife’s hard, muscled body pressed against her own was a potent aphrodisiac. The pressure deep within her grew with each forceful thrust, building towards a crescendo of exquisite pleasure.

"That's it," Y/N moaned, her hips bucking against Ambessa’s. "Harder, Ambessa."

Ambessa’s movements became more demanding, her controlled strength unleashed in a torrent of raw passion, her own control beginning to slip as her desire surged, threatening to overwhelm her. She leaned down, her lips finding the sensitive curve of Y/N’s neck, her teeth gently nipping at the soft skin, eliciting a sharp cry from her wife.

"You feel so good," Ambessa grunted, her breath hot against Y/N’s skin. "So tight."

"And you feel like heaven," Y/N gasped, her body arching higher against Ambessa’s, her legs tightening around her waist, pulling her deeper. The strategic maps beneath them rustled and shifted with their frantic movements, the carefully drawn lines of conquered territories and potential battlefields becoming increasingly blurred and insignificant in the face of their primal embrace.

"Tell me you're mine," Ambessa commanded, her voice thick with possessive desire.

"I'm yours," Y/N cried out, her voice raw with passion. "Always yours, you brute."

In this moment, there was no Noxian warlord and no past royal. There were only two women, deeply in love and fiercely connected, lost in the all-consuming intensity of their shared desire, their bodies moving as one. Ambessa’s pace quickened, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. She could feel Y/N’s body clenching around her, the unmistakable signs of her impending release.

"Y/N…" Ambessa groaned, her own carefully constructed control finally shattering.

Y/N cried out again, a long, keening sound that echoed in the silent room, her body convulsing around Ambessa’s. Waves of intense, exquisite pleasure washed over her, each one more powerful than the last, threatening to drown her in sensation. She clung to Ambessa, her nails digging into her wife’s back leaving long red lines, her head thrown back against the cool obsidian in an expression of pure ecstasy.

Ambessa held her tight, her powerful arms wrapped securely around Y/N’s trembling body, riding out the waves of her wife’s pleasure, her own release following swiftly on its heels, a guttural roar escaping her lips as she poured herself into Y/N. She buried her face in Y/N’s neck, her body shaking with the force of her orgasm, the scent of just straight Y/N filling the air around her.

They remained locked together for a long moment, their breathing slowly returning to a semblance of normalcy, the echoes of their passionate encounter still reverberating in the heavy silence of the strategy room. The weight of Y/N’s pregnant belly pressed intimately against Ambessa, a tangible and precious reminder of the life they had created, the future they shared, a future born from their fierce love and unyielding passion.

Finally, Ambessa pulled back slightly, her eyes filled with a tenderness that she rarely showed to anyone else, a vulnerability reserved solely for Y/N. She gently brushed a stray strand of sweat-dampened hair from Y/N’s flushed forehead, her touch surprisingly delicate.

"Are you alright, my love?" she murmured, her voice still rough with the remnants of passion.

Y/N smiled, a soft, contented expression spreading across her face, her stormy eyes now filled with a peaceful serenity. "More than alright," she whispered back, her voice still slightly breathless. "Perfect."

Ambessa leaned down and kissed her gently, a lingering touch that spoke volumes of the deep love and unbreakable connection between them, a silent promise of more to come.

"We should move," Ambessa said eventually, gesturing to the rumpled maps beneath them with a wry smile playing on her lips. "Lest our strategic planning become compromised."

Y/N chuckled softly, a warm, throaty sound. "Perhaps. Though I daresay we've just engaged in a different kind of strategic maneuver."

Ambessa’s eyes darkened again, a hint of the possessive fire rekindling within their depths. "Indeed. And one I find far more rewarding." She carefully disentangled herself from Y/N, her movements surprisingly gentle considering the raw passion they had just shared. She then lifted Y/N with the same effortless strength, cradling her in her arms.

"Where shall we go, my queen?" Ambessa murmured, carrying her towards the hidden doorway that led to their private chambers.

"Our bed," Y/N whispered, nuzzling against Ambessa’s neck. "And then perhaps we can discuss further strategic engagements."

Ambessa’s lips curved into a predatory smile. "I believe that can be arranged." She stepped through the hidden door, leaving the rumpled maps and the echoes of their passion behind, carrying her beloved wife towards the sanctuary of their shared chambers, the promise of more intimate battles hanging sweetly in the air.

#ambessa medarda x reader #sevika x reader #arcane #ambessa chosen of the wolf #ambessa league of legends #ambessa headcanons #ambessa x you #ambessa x reader #mel and ambessa #ambessa medarda #arcane ambessa #ambessa smut #ambessa x y/n #vi x reader #caitlyn kiramman x reader #smut #fanfic

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that-house · 10 months ago

Text

“Tell me about magic,” I said to the god wearing my friend’s corpse.

It (I would not grant it the honor of using her name) smiled at me the way she used to smile. It looked like shit, by the way, streaked with mud and blood and slowly spinning new flesh from atmospheric carbon to patch up the bullet holes our latest acquaintances had left it.

“I know every word in your human languages and none of them suffice. How would you explain a black hole’s accretion disk to a fish?”

“I don’t know. Try.” I didn’t bother voicing the threat but it was implicit, as it was in all of our conversations: your kind has died only once before, but it was at the hands of mine.

It sighed with the weariness of a parent about to talk down to a kid, but it signed up for this when it trapped itself on this rock with me. “It’s a puzzle that’s almost been solved since forever began, a puzzle of infinite complexity worked on by the million sharpest minds to ever be, all themselves fractured into dizzying arrays of subminds in temporally upspun pocket universes, all striving to refine those secret arts of law and mastery. It’s cooperation and competition, vines of knowledge strangling each other as we reach ever upwards towards the sun, clawing at each other in our desperate want. It’s a science. It’s like breathing. It’s like love.”

“I distinctly recall you saying that love is an idiocy reserved for us mortals, and a more efficient chemically-induced blindness than sodium hydroxide too.”

“And I maintain that stance, but it gets the point across, does it not?” It huffed with exasperation, you know, the way that she had a thousand times when we were young. An affectation? Or a bit of humanity bleeding into the monster?

“Mhm. Sure.”

It side-eyed me but kept talking. “You don’t have the point of view it would take to truly understand magic. You never will. Even if you saw the world the way I did, you wouldn’t have the context or the time to decipher it. For you it can never be a science, only ever an art.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“In truth I envied you. With infinity at one’s proverbial fingertips, what else is there to do? The greatest possible workings have all been deduced, those most absolute and inviolable inflictions of the will upon the cosmos, and all that remains to study are the fleeting shadows of concepts beyond even us. But you humans, you tread on new ground that we’ve long since mastered, internalized, and then forgotten. The best you can manage without literally blowing your own minds is a little teleportation. You’re clueless and flawed and you fuck it all up whenever you get the chance. And I envied you.” For a creature enamored with paradox, the idea of a god envying a mortal sure pained it.

“So you cut it all free, cast off the godhead, and came down from on high to slum it with we mortals. I bet you’re regretting that now,” I said, sticking my finger in the last bullet hole and giving it an experimental wiggle. It winced, but the wound closed up like it had never been as I withdrew my finger. Pain is a just a signal, it was always fond of saying. But it still cried whenever it lost a limb.

“Not in the slightest,” said the once-god wearing my friend’s corpse. “This is the most alive I’ve felt in eons.”

#viscera star #kind of #this is a scene i wont ACTUALLY put to paper for like. Years #but i wanted to write something today and it was this #and fuck it i figured i might as well post it #lucy viscera star #katie viscera star

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blanchetteminxia · 2 months ago

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sae itoshi considered himself a man of refined tastes. he appreciated precision, dedication, and a certain... elegance. his girlfriend, was... nice. you were quiet, thoughtful, and possessed an uncanny ability to find the least crowded café in any city. he liked that. it was... efficient.

he did not, however, expect to find your secret lair of internet weirdness.

it started innocently enough. you had left your laptop open on the coffee table. sae, being a responsible adult (and, let's be honest, slightly bored), figured he'd close it to save the battery. that's when he saw it: a browser tab titled "jujutsufanaticsunited.net."

intrigued (and slightly concerned), he clicked.

the page loaded, revealing a profile: "curseddreamer77." the profile picture was... a cursed energy swirl. okay. fine. people had hobbies.

then he saw the "works" section.

titles like "limitless attraction," "six eyes on me," and "the gojo paradox" stared back at him. sae's eyebrow twitched. he clicked on "the gojo paradox."

what followed was... an experience.

it was a story. a long one. about a powerful, enigmatic jujutsu sorcerer named satoru (who, sae was starting to suspect, bore a suspicious resemblance to a certain white-haired, annoyingly strong individual, only with more... angst and a penchant for dramatic monologues about the weight of his power). and you, or rather, "curseddreamer77," had written detailed accounts of “y/n’s”... romantic exploits.

with another sorcerer. who was definitely not sae.

"his blue eyes, pools of limitless power, met y/n's," sae read, his voice flat. "a silent understanding passed between them, a connection forged in the heat of battle."

he blinked. slowly.

“y/n” he muttered. he scrolled further. there was a lot of y/n. a lot.

"satoru's hand, crackling with cursed energy, reached for y/n's, their touch igniting a surge of forbidden power that threatened to unravel the very fabric of reality."

sae closed the laptop.

he needed a moment. several moments. possibly a very long nap.

he poured himself a glass of water, trying to process what he'd just read. his girlfriend. the quiet, unassuming woman who brought him perfectly brewed tea and never complained about his training schedule... was writing jujutsu kaisen smut.

and he was pretty sure you were channeling your... fantasies about the strongest sorcerer into this brooding "satoru" character, who was getting it on with someone named “y/n” in the world of curses or some weird shit like that.

he opened the laptop again. he couldn't help himself. he had to know more.

he spent the next hour reading your fanfiction. he learned things. things he never wanted to know. about himself. about gojo. about the creative depths of his seemingly normal girlfriend.

he discovered that "satoru" had a tragic backstory involving a lost technique, a powerful curse, and a tortured soul. he also discovered that "satoru" was apparently very good with his... "limitless power."

by the time he finished, sae was questioning everything.

his relationship. was this all a performance? were you secretly living out her jujutsu fantasies through him? was he just a quiet, convenient cover for her cursed desires? were you perhaps hoping he'd be more like gojo?

his sanity. was this normal? was this what people did in their free time? write elaborate jujutsu operas about depressed overpowered men who somehow have six eyes (he questions how on earth that can be attractive)?

he found you later that evening, curled up on the couch, reading something online that he suspects has something to do with the horrific situation he was in earlier.

he looked at her. really looked at her. the gentle smile, the soft and slightly damp hair, the quiet demeanor.

and then he remembered the vivid descriptions of "satoru’s" "cursed embrace" with y/n. the sheer power of it. the explicit details...

he shuddered.

he decided not to bring it up.

some things were better left unexplored. he'd stick to football. at least he understood the rules of that game. mostly.

a/n: I was laughing my ass off while writing this AHAHHAHAH god bless that sae's eyes

#blue lock #bllk #blue lock x reader #sae itoshi #itoshi sae #bllk sae #sae x reader #blue lock sae #sae fluff #blue lock fluff #crackfic #fem reader

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dead--star · 3 months ago

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Lord Captain Saren von Aurastor was a walking contradiction, a man of refined cruelty and calculated charm.

full profile below cut

He endeavours to be a spectacle of power, never seen without his overcoat, a vast, gilt-red and black garment worth its weight in gold. It flowed to his calves, a swirling set of heavy faulds that amplified his already formidable silhouette. Imposing as it was with gilt skull motif epaulettes and a unique, intricate aiguillette arrangement that hinted at a mind both artistic and ruthless.

His face, though refined, held a disturbing beauty. One eye, a cold, predatory silver, the other a piercing, ghostwight blue, scanned his surroundings with a wild, deranged intensity. A jagged scar marred his left brow and forehead, adding a brutal counterpoint to his otherwise elegant features with a chilling reminder of a near fatal warp jump that had left him with more than just a scar.

His voice, a deep, resonant timbre reminiscent of polished steel, held a subtle menace, a low growl that could both charm and intimidate. His smile, when it came, was a carefully calibrated weapon, a flash of teeth that hinted at hidden depths and unsettling intentions.

He moved with a subtle, almost predatory grace, the bronze taps of his block heels clicking a theatrical rhythm that underscored his awareness of the effect he had on others.

He was a paradox, a man of refined tastes and brutal efficiency. He claimed to abhor emotional decision-making, favoring cold logic and calculated strategy. Beneath the veneer of ruthless pragmatism, a flicker of unexpected tenderness occasionally surfaced, a glimpse of a heart capable of loyalty or compassion, though never of gold.

His eccentricities were legion, a collection of quirks and habits that both fascinated and unnerved his retinue. His generosity, when it manifested, was as unpredictable as his temperament, lavished upon those he deemed loyal, a reward for unwavering service.

---

my baby got his in game profile

ppl have been liking his playlist, here it is again

#;;my art #deadstar #warhammer 40k #wh40k oc #rogue trader #von valancius #saren von aurastor #saren #aurastor

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pomegranatelifethis · 2 months ago

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I am me

The lab was a cathedral of cold steel and sterile light, buried deep beneath Gotham’s decaying underbelly. Vials hissed, monitors pulsed, and the air hummed with the arrogance of creation. Dr. Elias Varn, a man whose ambition outstripped his humanity, stood before the culmination of his life’s work: a figure suspended in a glowing tank, muscles taut, eyes closed, a paradox of sinew and menace. The clone. A perfect fusion of Gotham’s greatest hero, Bruce Wayne’s discipline, and its most infamous monster, the Joker’s chaotic brilliance.

But Varn had never considered that the clone might have a mind of its own.

They called him {your name}. A name you didn’t choose, but one Varn etched into your file—like a cold, indelible mark. The first sinner, the first to shed blood, the biblical outcast. {your name} was feared before you even took your first breath. Your creators saw only the potential for ruin—Bruce’s tactical genius combined with Joker’s unpredictable fury. But what they couldn’t see was this: you looked at chaos and found it… wasteful.

Your first memory was the hum of the lab, the weight of eyes upon you, and a question that burned brighter than the fluorescent glare: Why destroy when you can build? It wasn’t about morality, not exactly. Morality was for others—guilt and virtue were clumsy dances. You saw the world in probabilities, in outcomes. Destruction was loud, fleeting, inefficient. Helping, fixing, optimizing—that was the puzzle worth solving.

Gotham was a city of screams, and you walked its streets like a ghost. Six feet of lean muscle, your features a haunting blend of Bruce’s chiseled resolve and Joker’s sharp, unsettling grin. But your eyes—one green, one gray—were entirely your own; the only flaw in Varn’s perfect design.

People flinched when they saw you, sensing the danger in your stride, the latent power in your hands. They didn’t know that you’d spent the morning rerouting a soup kitchen’s supply chain to feed twice as many mouths with half the waste.

Tonight, you stood in the shadow of a crumbling tenement, watching a woman named Mara load boxes into a battered van. Her face was streaked with tears, her movements frantic. Divorce had gutted her, left her scrambling to escape a home turned hostile. The neighbors had offered hugs, platitudes, casseroles. But you saw their gestures for what they were: emotional noise, useless in the face of logistics.

You stepped forward, silent as a predator, and Mara froze. “You’re… you’re him,” she whispered, voice trembling. The papers had leaked your existence weeks ago—Varn’s hubris ensuring that. The Clone. The Monster. The End of Us All.

You tilted your head, assessing. “You’re moving out. You need help.”

Her eyes widened. “I—I don’t—”

You didn’t wait for permission. In ten minutes, you’d packed the van with ruthless efficiency, stacking boxes in a Tetris-like arrangement that left room for her daughter’s crib. By midnight, you’d secured a lease on a subsidized apartment across town, one with a deadbolt and a view of the river. Mara stammered thanks, but you were already gone, her gratitude irrelevant. The task was done. The outcome optimized.

The world didn’t understand you, and you didn’t care. You weren’t good, not in the way people wanted. Good was Batman, cloaked in sacrifice, or the civilians who clutched their pearls and prayed for heroes. You were something else—a mind that saw systems where others saw stories, a heart that weighed effort against impact. Danger pulsed in your veins, yes. You could kill with a flick of your wrist, outwit a SWAT team, or burn Gotham to ash. But why?

Chaos was a tantrum, and you weren’t a child.

Your next project was a man named Carl, a dockworker whose father had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Carl’s friends had clapped him on the back, sent cards, and organized a fundraiser. Nice, but insufficient. You spent three nights combing through medical journals, hospital records, and survivor forums. By dawn, you handed Carl a dossier: a ranked list of oncologists with the highest success rates, a breakdown of treatment costs versus outcomes, and a dietary plan tailored to bolster immunity. Carl stared at the pages, dumbfounded. “Why’d you do this?” he asked.

You shrugged. “It was the logical thing to do.”

Logical. That was the word they didn’t get. To Gotham, you were a walking apocalypse, the Joker’s madness wearing Batman’s cape. They saw your lineage and wrote your story before you could. Varn had wanted a destroyer, and the city braced for one. But you weren’t their puppet. You were your own man, carving a path neither Bruce nor Joker could have imagined—one where power served purpose, not chaos or control.

The Bat watched from the shadows, his cowl a mask of conflict. Bruce Wayne had found you, tracked you through Gotham’s veins, and now stood on a rooftop, grappling with the truth. This clone, this abomination, wasn’t the monster he’d feared. You didn’t kill, didn’t scheme, didn’t revel in pain. You helped. You solved. You were neither hero nor villain, but something Bruce couldn’t categorize—a man who saw the world as a machine and chose to fix it, not break it.

The Joker, too, had heard the whispers. In his latest hideout, he cackled at the irony. His DNA, his legacy, turned into a do-gooder? It was hilarious, infuriating, perfect. “Oh, kid,” he muttered, twirling a knife. “You’re gonna ruin my brand.”

But you didn’t care about brands, or legacies, or the war between order and anarchy. You cared about outcomes. And tonight, as you slipped into an abandoned warehouse to dismantle a gang’s fentanyl operation—not with fists, but with evidence mailed to the DA—you felt the weight of eyes on you. Bruce’s. The Joker’s. Gotham’s.

Let them watch. Let them fear. You weren’t their story. You were your own.

#batfam x reader #batfamily x reader #yandere batfam x reader #yandere batfamily x reader #bruce wayne x reader #batman x reader #joker x reader

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arthurbristow · 11 months ago

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Keep it close - Shigaraki x Reader

"Keep close," Shigaraki muttered, his crimson eyes scanning the bustling market around them. "I don't want to lose you in this crowd." His white hair fell messily over his face.

It was an unexpected outing, to say the least. The League of Villains rarely ventured out in daylight, especially to something as mundane as a game market. The two of you had left the hideout that afternoon, Shigaraki’s rare urge to indulge in some new video games coinciding with the League’s need for supplies. Dabi had been particularly insistent, his grumbling about running out of cigarettes becoming unbearable. So, with a list of groceries in hand, you accompanied Shigaraki to the market.

“Look at them, scrambling around for their mundane little pleasures,” he continued, hands twitching slightly as he spoke. “Pathetic.”

Navigating through the crowded streets, your eyes couldn’t help but notice the occasional glances and whispers directed your way. Shigaraki’s presence was hard to ignore, even if people didn’t recognize him. And you felt a wave of unease. The noise, the press of bodies, the constant motion—it was overwhelming. Your senses were on high alert, every fiber of your being screaming to find a point of stability. Shigaraki walked ahead, his posture tense but focused, clearly absorbed in his hunt for the perfect game.

The press of bodies around you intensified, and an accidental shove from an overenthusiastic passerby sent you stumbling. Without thinking, your hand shot out, grasping Shigaraki’s. The contact was immediate, grounding. Only a heartbeat later did you realize the full extent of your actions. His hand was bare — no protective gloves. A cold shiver ran down your spine. One wrong move, one slip of control, and you could be reduced to dust. Shigaraki’s Decay quirk was lethal, merciless.

He stiffened, his head whipping around to look at you. “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous, but not entirely devoid of curiosity.

“I…” You swallowed hard, the words catching in your throat. “I just… needed to hold on to something.”

His laugh was a harsh bark, but there was no malice in it. “You’re insane.” Tomura didn’t pull his hand away though, didn’t dissolve you into nothingness. Instead, his grip tightened slightly, with his pinky raised up in the air to protect you from being decayed on the spot.

The two of you moved through the market like that, hand in hand. It felt strangely intimate, a connection that defied the perilous nature of his quirk. The crowd seemed less daunting with him by your side, your anxiety ebbing away with each step.

Shigaraki led you to a stall filled with the latest games. His eyes lit up as he browsed through the titles, a rare smile playing on his lips. It was a side of him you didn’t see often, this almost childlike excitement. You couldn’t help but smile too, caught up in his rare moment of happiness.

“Found it,” he said, holding up a game with a triumphant look. “This is the one.”

“Great,” you replied, your voice steadying. “Now, let’s get those groceries before Dabi sets the hideout on fire.”

Shigaraki chuckled, “Yeah.”

As you moved to the grocery section, the crowd thickened again. Instinctively, you tightened your grip on his hand. This time, he didn’t question it, at all.

You quickly gathered the items on your list, your movements efficient despite the mass of people. Cigarettes for Dabi, snacks for Toga, and various other necessities for the rest of the League.

Through it all, Shigaraki stayed by your side, keeping his head lowered, reading the information written on the box of his new game, your hand still in his.

Holding Shigaraki's hand was a paradox of sensations. His skin, surprisingly warm, radiated a heat that contrasted sharply with the chilling fear of his lethal touch. The rough texture of his calloused palm told stories of countless battles and hardships. Yet, beneath the coarse exterior, there was a vulnerability — a silent plea for connection. The knowledge that a single slip could mean your end made the experience electrifying, heightening every sense. It was like holding a live wire: dangerous, exhilarating, and oddly comforting all at once. In that grip, there was a fragile trust, a delicate balance between life and decay, and an unspoken promise that for now, in this moment, you were safe.

Eventually, you managed to complete your shopping list. Dabi's cigarettes, snacks and manga for Toga, and even a few items for yourself. Shigaraki, meanwhile, had amassed a small pile of new games, his crimson eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

As you reached the entrance, you reluctantly let go of his hand.

He glanced at you, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "You apparently liked holding my hand, hmm?" Tomura cooed, his tone softer than you’d ever heard.

"Yeah…" You replied, feeling a warmth spread through your chest and flush claiming your cheeks.

The corner of his mouth twitched upwards. "Just don’t make a habit of grabbing my hand. Next time, I might not be so careful."

#shigaraki x reader #tomura shigaraki #shigaraki fluff #league of villains #tomura shigaraki x reader #tomura shigaraki x you #shigaraki x you #mha fluff #bnha fluff

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reveryfics · 27 days ago

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Half A Man

Bob Reynolds x Male Reader

Summary: Despite the inhumanity inflicted upon you, you discover someone who inspires you to embrace the humanity that still resides within.

A/N: I was down in the bowls of hell writing this, so enjoy over 4.7k words of angst with comfort. I don't see a lot of Bob being the one to comfort, so I had fun doing that for this. As promised the fic that tied with Bucky.

TW: Angst - Hurt/Comfort - Super soldier reader

You remember the cold. Always the cold. Not just the sterile chill of the laboratory, but the deeper, bone-aching cold of knowing you weren't human anymore. They stripped you down, piece by piece, until all that was left was a weapon. The super-soldier program, they called it. You remember the burning, too, as the serums coursed through your veins, rewriting your very DNA. Muscle grew taut and dense, senses sharpened to a painful degree, and your mind… it became a labyrinth of tactical data, a machine for death.

The imagery of your past is stark. Steel walls, flickering fluorescent lights, and the glint of instruments. The faces of your handlers, always expressionless, clinical. They taught you to kill with precision, to dismantle threats without hesitation, to be a ghost in the shadows and a thunderclap in a fight. You were the culmination of their dark desires, a living embodiment of war. Every mission was a blur of violence and adrenaline, leaving you with a hollow ache where your heart used to be. You were a walking, breathing paradox: immensely powerful, yet utterly empty.

Now, the world you inhabit is different, though no less dangerous. You’re a Thunderbolt. The name itself is a contradiction – a team of former villains and morally ambiguous operatives, now tasked with doing the dirty work the established heroes won't touch. Your uniform is dark, practical, designed for efficiency, much like yourself. The base, a repurposed facility, still hums with a familiar undercurrent of power and purpose, but there’s a flicker of something new here: a sense of… team. Or at least, something that resembles it.

You’re in the briefing room, the holographic display showing schematics of a target compound. The air is thick with the scent of old coffee and a faint metallic tang from the tech. Your teammates are a motley crew – then there's Bob.

Bob Reynolds. The Sentry. When you first met him, the sheer intensity of his presence was almost overwhelming. Golden light seemed to emanate from him, a stark contrast to the shadows you’d always inhabited. He’s all warmth and quiet strength, a gentle giant in a world that often feels too harsh. His eyes, a startling blue, hold a depth you find yourself drawn to, a kindness that you’ve long forgotten existed.

He catches your gaze across the table, a slight, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. Your enhanced senses pick up on the subtle shift in his posture, the way his shoulders relax just a fraction when your eyes meet. There’s a silent understanding between you, a shared burden of immense power and the weight of past choices.

Later, after the mission debrief, you find him in the training room, a place you often seek solace in the rhythm of combat drills. He’s lifting weights, effortlessly, his muscles coiling under his skin. The air hums with the soft thud of the weights and the low, steady hum of the ventilation system. You watch him for a moment, the fluid grace of his movements, the quiet concentration on his face.

He notices you, of course. His enhanced senses are as keen as yours. He sets the weights down with a soft clang and turns, a genuine smile now illuminating his features. “Rough day?” he asks, his voice a low rumble that sends a surprising tremor through you.

You shrug, the movement stiff. “Just… the usual.” You’re not good with words, never have been. They were deemed unnecessary for your purpose.

He walks towards you, his presence filling the space with a comforting warmth. He stops a few feet away, his gaze steady on yours. "You know," he says, his voice softer now, "you don't have to carry it all alone."

You look away, towards the scarred punching bag in the corner. The super-soldier program had taught you self-sufficiency to an extreme degree. Reliance was weakness. But with Bob, it feels different. It feels… possible.

He reaches out, and for a split second, you brace yourself, a lifetime of programmed defenses flaring. But his touch is gentle, his fingers brushing against your arm, a feather-light contact that still sends a jolt through you. “You’re more than what they made you,” he says, his voice a quiet affirmation. "You’re a good man."

You feel a flicker, a warmth in your chest that has nothing to do with the training room’s temperature. It's a fragile, unfamiliar sensation, like a seed sprouting in barren ground. He sees it, you know he does, in the subtle shift of your gaze, the slight relaxing of your jaw.

Being a Thunderbolt means facing shadows, both external and internal. But with Bob by your side, a golden light in your perpetually gray world, you begin to wonder if maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance to build something new from the wreckage of your past. You’re still a weapon, yes, forged in fire and ice, but perhaps, with him, you’re also starting to become something else. Something… whole.

You stand there, a silence stretching between you, broken only by the distant hum of the facility. His hand remains on your arm, a steady anchor in the swirling chaos of your thoughts. For so long, touch had been associated with pain, with forced transformation, with the brutal realities of your existence. But this, with Bob, is different. It’s gentle, affirming, a conduit for something you can’t quite name but desperately crave.

"It's... a lot," you finally manage to say, your voice rougher than you intended. You’re not used to speaking about what's inside, about the quiet desperation that often gnaws at you. The program had trained you to compartmentalize, to bury emotion deep beneath layers of tactical data and combat protocols.

Bob’s thumb gently brushes your bicep, a small, comforting gesture. "I know," he replies, his voice soft, understanding. "Believe me, I know. It's a heavy burden, the things we've done, the things we are." He pauses, his gaze unwavering. "But it doesn't have to define you. Not completely."

You look into his eyes, those startling blue depths that seem to see right through your hardened exterior. There’s no pity there, no judgment, just a profound empathy that resonates with something buried deep within you. It's a reflection of his own struggles, you realize, the weight of his power, the constant fight to keep the Void at bay. He understands the struggle to be more than just a force of nature, more than just a weapon.

The days that follow fall into a rhythm, a fragile balance of duty and quiet moments with Bob. You find yourself drawn to him, gravitating towards his presence. During briefings, you unconsciously seek him out. On missions, his golden aura is a beacon in the darkest environments, a silent promise of support. You notice the small things: the way he hums softly when he’s deep in thought, the genuine laugh that escapes him when someone tells a particularly bad joke, the quiet strength in his hands.

One evening, you're both in the communal lounge, a surprisingly comfortable space with worn couches and a large screen flickering with some old movie. Most of the other Thunderbolts are either out on assignment or holed up in their rooms. You’re sitting on opposite ends of a sofa, a comfortable silence between you, punctuated only by the movie’s dialogue.

Suddenly, a nightmare flashes across your mind’s eye – a memory from the program, a mission gone wrong, the screams of innocents you couldn't save. Your breath hitches, and your hands clench into fists, your enhanced senses suddenly overwhelmed by phantom sounds and smells. You feel the familiar cold dread creeping in, threatening to consume you.

Before you can fully withdraw, before you can build your walls back up, you feel a presence beside you. Bob. He’s moved silently, his movements as graceful as a dancer’s. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask. He simply sits closer, his warmth a subtle anchor. Then, gently, he places his hand over yours, his fingers intertwining with your clenched ones.

The simple touch is a lifeline. The cold recedes, replaced by the warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his pulse against your own. You relax, slowly, the tension draining from your body. He doesn’t look at you, just keeps watching the movie, his thumb gently stroking the back of your hand. It’s a silent acknowledgment, a profound act of comfort that speaks volumes more than any words ever could.

You realize, in that moment, that this feeling, this fragile connection, is something new, something precious. It’s not about power or control, not about missions or protocols. It’s about being seen, truly seen, for the first time in a very long time. It’s about a flicker of hope in the vast emptiness they created within you.

You’re still a super-soldier, still a killer when the mission demands it. The scars, both visible and invisible, will always be a part of you. But with Bob, you’re beginning to understand that those scars don't have to be the entire story. Perhaps, with him, you can learn to build something new, something that resembles a life beyond the program, a life where you're not just half a man, but something… more.

The moments of shared silence, the gentle touches, the unspoken understanding – they carve out a fragile sanctuary in the brutal reality of your life. With Bob, you feel something akin to peace, a foreign sensation that settles in your chest like a warm, heavy stone. He sees you, not just the weapon, not just the product of their experiments. He sees the remnants of the man you were, and the man you could still be.

But the past is a phantom limb, always aching, always threatening to pull you back into its grasp. You try to push it down, to bury it under the weight of new experiences, of Bob’s comforting presence. But sometimes, in the dead of night, or in the sudden stillness after a particularly violent mission, the walls begin to crack.

You're in your quarters, the lights dimmed, the hum of the ventilation system a low thrum. You’ve just returned from a skirmish that pushed your limits, a brutal dance of instinct and honed reflexes. The scent of ozone and something metallic, unmistakably blood, still clings to your uniform. You strip it off, letting it drop to the floor, and step into the sonic shower, the vibrating jets a dull attempt to scour away the residue of violence.

But the shower doesn't reach deep enough. Your mind is still running, replaying every movement, every kill. The program had instilled a chilling efficiency in you, a detachment that allowed you to operate without remorse. You were a switch, flipped from 'human' to 'killer' with cold precision. Now, with Bob’s influence, that switch feels less definitive. It sometimes flickers.

You see a flash of a face, the eyes of an opponent as they registered their impending demise. A face that, in another life, might have been a civilian, a harmless individual. The imagery is sharp, almost photographic. You close your eyes, pressing your palms against the cool, slick tiles of the shower, willing the images away.

A cold dread begins to creep in, a familiar tightness in your chest. It’s the feeling of the old self, the programmed killer, trying to reassert its dominance. It’s the chilling echo of the doctors’ voices, their dispassionate instructions, the way they stripped away your humanity with every injection, every training session. You can almost hear their whispers, telling you that this is who you are, that the warmth you feel with Bob is a weakness, a dangerous distraction.

You exit the shower, not bothering to dry off, and sink onto the edge of your bed. Your body is still humming with residual adrenaline, but it's a hollow energy, without purpose. You clench your fists, your knuckles white. This is the struggle. The constant battle against the ingrained programming, the part of you that still believes violence is the only language you truly understand.

A soft knock at your door breaks through the oppressive silence. You don't respond, a primal urge to be alone, to retreat into your shell, taking over. But the knock comes again, gentle but persistent.

"You okay?" Bob’s voice, a warm balm, cuts through the static in your mind. "Heard you came back a little… quiet."

You hesitate, caught between the instinct to push him away and the desperate need for his steady presence. The cold, logical part of your brain tells you to keep him at a distance, to protect him from the darkness within you. But the burgeoning, fragile humanity whispers a different truth.

You rise and open the door, just a crack. Bob stands there, a worn t-shirt clinging to his frame, his hair a little mussed. His blue eyes, usually so bright, are soft with concern. He takes in your wet hair, your clenched hands, the tightness around your eyes.

"Hey," he says, his voice low, stepping closer without pushing, respecting the unspoken barrier you've created. He doesn't touch you, just stands there, radiating a comforting warmth. "Bad one?"

You nod, unable to articulate the depth of it, the feeling of the old self almost overpowering the new. You feel like a frayed rope, one strand pulling towards light, the other towards the darkness they forced upon you.

He sighs, a soft sound, and then, his gaze unwavering, he steps fully into your room, closing the door behind him. He doesn't invade your space, but he is there, a silent anchor. “The past has a way of clinging, doesn't it?” he says, his voice resonating with an understanding born of his own battles with the Void. “It tries to tell you who you are. But it’s a liar.”

He walks over to your bed and sits down, patting the space beside him. You hesitate, then slowly, you join him. The contact is minimal, your shoulders almost touching, but it’s enough. His presence is a shield against the creeping cold.

“You’re fighting it,” he murmurs, his gaze fixed on some point in the distance, a knowing look in his eyes. “I can see it. That’s what matters. That you’re fighting to be more than what they made you.”

You finally turn to him, your gaze searching his. "What if I can't?" The words are a raw whisper, exposing a fear you’ve never dared voice. "What if… what if I’m always going to be just a killer?"

Bob finally turns to you, his blue eyes intense, filled with a conviction that silences the whispers of your past. He reaches out, and this time, you don't flinch as his hand covers yours, warm and strong. "Then we fight it together," he says, his voice firm, unwavering. "You're not alone in this, not anymore. I know what it's like to have a monster inside. But I also know what it's like to have someone pull you back from the edge." He squeezes your hand, his gaze holding yours. "And I'm not letting go."

And in that moment, even with the lingering echoes of your programmed past, with the chilling awareness of how easily you could slip, you believe him. You believe that maybe, just maybe, with Bob, you might finally find a way to silence the whispers and truly become your own man. The fight is far from over, but for the first time in a long time, you feel a genuine, fragile spark of hope.

The offer to fight it together hangs in the air, a silent promise. Bob's grip on your hand is firm, unwavering, a tangible connection to a present that feels both real and fragile. You find yourself nodding, a small, almost imperceptible movement, but it speaks volumes. It's an acceptance, a surrender to a trust you never thought you'd be capable of.

The next few weeks become a delicate dance between your programmed instincts and the burgeoning hope Bob represents. During missions, the old efficiency is still there. You move with deadly precision, a silent whirlwind of controlled violence. You see the shock in your opponents' eyes, the fear, and a part of you, the part they built, feels a grim satisfaction. But now, it’s always tempered. A quick glance at Bob, a silent acknowledgment of his presence, pulls you back from the brink of total detachment. His golden aura is a constant, subtle reminder of the warmth that awaits, the humanity you're fighting to reclaim.

Back at the base, your interactions with Bob deepen. You find yourself seeking him out more often, not just in the training room, but in the quiet corners of the facility. You learn about his life before the Sentry, the anxieties he carries, the profound loneliness he sometimes experiences. He talks about himself, a bittersweet memory that haunts him, and you listen, truly listen, for the first time in your life. You realize that your shared burden of immense power and past trauma creates a bond that transcends words.

One evening, you find yourselves in the observation deck, looking out over the sprawling city lights below. The artificial glow is a stark contrast to the starlit skies you remember from your youth, before the labs, before the program. You’re silent for a long time, the quiet comfortable rather than oppressive.

"Sometimes," you begin, the words surprisingly easy to form, "I can still feel the cold. Not just the physical cold, but the… emptiness. Like they hollowed me out." You’re speaking of the emotional desolation that was a constant companion for so long.

Bob turns to you, his profile illuminated by the city lights. "I know that feeling," he says softly. "The Void, it tries to do the same to me. To convince me there's nothing left but power and destruction." He pauses, then adds, "But there's always something left. Even a flicker can become a flame."

He reaches out, his hand gently finding yours. His fingers intertwine with yours, and you notice the small scars on his knuckles, remnants of his own battles. His touch is grounding, real, a stark contrast to the phantom cold that sometimes grips you.

Despite the growing warmth, the slips still happen. They come unbidden, like sudden flashes of lightning in a clear sky. A loud noise might trigger a combat response, your body moving before your mind can process, a phantom enemy materializing in your peripheral vision. Or sometimes, it’s a moment of weakness, a wave of despair that threatens to drown the fragile hope you’re nurturing.

One particularly grueling mission leaves you more drained than usual. The enemy had been relentless, forcing you to operate on pure instinct, pushing you closer to the brutal efficiency you were trained for. You return to your quarters, the familiar scent of your own blood, mixed with dust and cordite, clinging to you. You feel raw, exposed, the veneer of control dangerously thin.

You’re trying to clean your combat knives, the methodical action usually calming. But tonight, your hands tremble. You see flashes of the fight, the precise cuts, the brutal efficiency. The faces of your opponents, briefly glimpsed in the chaos, flicker in your mind. The whispers start again, the old programming asserting itself, telling you that this is your true nature, that Bob’s kindness is a fantasy.

You grip the knife so tightly your knuckles ache. A deep, primal urge to hurt, to lash out, to destroy, bubbles to the surface. It’s not directed at anyone in particular, just a raw, unfocused aggression, a desperate need to silence the screams in your head. You feel yourself slipping, the warmth of Bob’s presence fading, replaced by the chilling embrace of the killer they created.

Suddenly, the knife clatters to the floor. You hadn't meant to drop it, but your hand had frozen. You look down, your eyes wide, your breathing shallow. The familiar cold, the emptiness, is back with a vengeance.

A soft knock at the door, and then, before you can respond, it opens. Bob stands there, his expression instantly shifting from relaxed to concerned. He sees the fallen knife, your hunched posture, the tension radiating from you.

He doesn't say anything, doesn't rush. He simply walks towards you, his movements slow and deliberate. He kneels in front of you, his gaze level with yours. "Hey," he says, his voice low, gentle, cutting through the chaotic thoughts in your mind. "You're slipping, aren't you?"

You can't meet his eyes, ashamed of the monster stirring within you. You feel a tremor run through your body, a mix of fear and the lingering aggression.

He reaches out, his hand finding yours, pulling it into his. His fingers wrap around yours, warm and strong, a lifeline in the icy grip of your past. "Look at me," he urges, his voice soft but firm.

Reluctantly, you raise your gaze to his. His eyes, those astonishing blue eyes, are filled with understanding, not fear. He sees the struggle, the darkness, and he doesn't flinch.

"You're not that, not anymore," he says, his voice a quiet, unwavering affirmation. "You're fighting it. And I'm here. We're here. Together." He squeezes your hand, a tangible anchor. "Just breathe. Focus on this. Focus on us."

And as you look into his eyes, truly look, the cold recedes, slowly, like a tide pulling back from the shore. The whispers quiet. The phantom aggression lessens its grip. You’re still reeling, still vulnerable, but the darkness that threatened to consume you has been pushed back, even if just for now. With Bob, you realize, you don't have to fight the slippage alone. He's there, a constant, steady light, pulling you back from the edge, reminding you of the man you are desperately trying to become.

You sit there on the edge of your bed, Bob’s hand a warm, anchoring presence on yours. His blue eyes, deep with understanding, never leave your face. The internal storm, though not entirely quelled, has receded, pulled back by his steady gaze and unwavering belief. The whispers of the past, though still a faint echo, no longer roar in your ears.

"You're not alone in this," he repeats, his voice a soft, firm declaration that resonates deep within you. It’s a simple statement, yet it carries the weight of a world. For so long, loneliness had been your only companion, a silent testament to the monstrosity you believed you were. But Bob, with his own shared burdens and radiant strength, shatters that solitude.

You find yourself leaning into him, unconsciously at first. It's a subtle shift, a magnetic pull towards his warmth, his light. Your head tilts, drawn by an invisible force, a desperate need for connection. You don’t consciously register the movement, your focus entirely on the silent battle within and the anchor he provides.

At the same time, Bob leans in too. His gaze flickers to your lips, a silent question in his eyes. There’s no rush, no sudden movement, just a slow, almost imperceptible closing of the distance between you. He mirrors your vulnerability, meeting you in that fragile space between past and present.

Then, your lips meet.

It's not a sudden, passionate embrace, but a soft, hesitant brush of skin. A breath held, then slowly released. It’s a kiss imbued with the weight of forgotten emotions, a gentle press that speaks of shared burdens, unspoken traumas, and a nascent, fragile hope. You taste the faint saltiness of your own skin, the warmth of his breath.

A jolt, not of pain or fear, but of something profoundly new, runs through you. It's a spark that ignites a warmth in your chest, spreading outwards, chasing away the lingering cold that has been your constant companion for so long. For a fleeting moment, the roar of the super-soldier program, the screams of the past, the chilling efficiency they forged, all fade into nothingness.

In that soft, tentative connection, you feel a flood of emotions you thought long dead. Tenderness, a feeling so alien, so startling, that it brings a tremor to your lips. Vulnerability, a quiet aching that isn't weakness but a profound openness you've never known. And beneath it all, a sliver of hope, so fragile it almost breaks you. Hope for something more than just survival, more than just being a weapon. Hope for a future where humanity, however sparse it may feel in this moment, can finally take root.

When your lips finally part, it's slow, a lingering warmth in the air between you. You open your eyes, blinking, the room suddenly clearer, brighter. Bob’s face is close, his blue eyes soft, almost luminous. He doesn’t say anything, but his gaze holds a depth of understanding that speaks volumes. In that shared silence, with the echoes of a tentative kiss still on your lips, you feel a profound shift.

You and Bob remain close, your breaths mingling in the quiet air of your quarters. The lingering warmth of the kiss hums between you, a silent symphony of forgotten desires and newfound connection. He doesn't pull away, nor do you. It's a shared moment of vulnerability, a tender acknowledgment of something profound blooming in the wreckage of your pasts.

His thumb gently brushes your cheek, a feather-light touch that sends shivers down your spine. His eyes, still soft and luminous, search yours, not for answers, but for reassurance. He sees the tremor in your hands, the lingering shadow of the darkness you just fought back, and his gaze holds only understanding.

"Are you... alright?" he whispers, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through you. It's a simple question, but it carries the weight of everything you've just experienced.

You take a shaky breath, the air in your lungs feeling lighter than it has in years. The cold recedes further, replaced by the unexpected warmth that now blooms in your chest. For the first time in a long time, the word "alright" feels within reach.

"Yeah," you manage, your voice a little hoarse, "Yeah, Bob. I think so."

He offers a small, relieved smile, a genuine curve of his lips that radiates warmth. His hand moves from your cheek to cup the back of your neck, his fingers gently threading into your damp hair. He pulls you closer, not with force, but with a quiet, irresistible pull.

This time, the kiss is less hesitant, more a continuation of the unspoken conversation that just transpired. It’s still soft, still tender, but there’s a deeper current of trust and longing running through it. You respond without conscious thought, your body moving instinctually towards his warmth, towards this unexpected source of comfort and acceptance.

In the gentle press of his lips, you feel the walls you’ve meticulously built around your heart begin to crumble, not in a destructive collapse, but in a slow, almost imperceptible softening. It's terrifying and exhilarating all at once. For so long, you were a fortress, impenetrable and alone. Now, with Bob, you are learning that true strength might lie not in your ability to withstand every blow, but in your capacity to allow someone in.

When the kiss breaks, you rest your forehead against his, your eyes still closed. The silence that settles between you is different now – no longer the heavy silence of isolation, but a comfortable, intimate quiet, filled with the unspoken promises of a nascent connection. You can feel the steady rhythm of his heart beating against your chest, a grounding pulse in the chaotic aftermath of your inner battle.

You open your eyes, and his blue gaze meets yours. There’s a profound sense of peace in his eyes, a shared understanding that transcends words. He doesn't press you, doesn't demand explanations. He simply is there, a beacon of light in your perpetually shadowed world.

This moment, this fragile intimacy, marks a turning point. It's not a sudden cure for the deep-seated trauma of your past, but it's a powerful affirmation of your choice. In that hesitant kiss, in Bob’s unwavering presence, you chose your humanity, however bruised and scarce it might feel. And with him, you know that the fight to hold onto it, to nurture it, has just truly begun. The fight is far from over, but in that moment, you made a choice. You chose the warmth, the connection, the fragile seed of humanity. You chose Bob.

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