#to keep up with new and more devastating enemies

[humblemooncat]

Placing Sana on my workbench again since he finally told me about the eye situation. :3c

[lets-try-some-writing]

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

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

Aversion at its Finest

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

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━

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

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

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

Only silence.

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

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

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

A renewed war.

A plague of hate.

The Quintessons and their creations.

Unicron’s wrath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why had it turned out this way?

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

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

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

“Power of course.” 

Ah.

He should have known better.

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

By the stars… what a life he’d lived.

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

“You’ve forgotten why you killed millions?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wouldn’t be long now.

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

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

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

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

“So much death…” 

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

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

Children? Strange.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How long must I fight?”

“Till All Are One.”

And then everything faded away once more.

----

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

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

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

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

Slag, his processors hurt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Unaccounted for.” Frag.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He missed Elita. He missed Prowl.

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

Until the voice rang out as it had millennia earlier.

“Too late. You woke too late.”

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. 

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

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

“Not now. We are out of time.”

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jazz.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You hurt so deeply, my chosen.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

How ominous the voice was…

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

“All that is and will be.”

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Power?”

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

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

“Why?”

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

How much had he missed?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And just as predicted, Primus met him once more.

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

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

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

“Not so. We will make it right.”

But at what price?

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

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

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

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

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

That was a pleasant promise, if nothing else.

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You sense it?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why would I-?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You did not use this life wisely.”

And there came the disappointment.

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

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

Oh to be a god and not understand mortality.

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

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

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

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

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

Fraggin yes.

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He just had to wait.

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

“Almost. My design improves once more.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was done with all of this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You have served me long enough.”

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

He needed rest and support.

Those things Optimus could offer him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You have done well, my chosen.”

At last, his mission was complete.

[ineveryfandom]

so what if bruce has a new baby now? they have OTHER PARENTS TOO

part 1

-

Barbara:

Bruce:

Barbara: what

Bruce, holding up a video game: i noticed we haven’t been hanging out lately…

Barbara: so?

Bruce, fiddling with the game: um, do you want to-

Selina, barging in: where’s my favorite girl?!

Barbara, with a wide smile: selina!

Bruce, visibly unhappy: …selina

Selina: hey, bruce. funny how we keep running into each other huh

Bruce, inching towards Barbara, glaring suspiciously: uh huh…anyway, barbara AND I are busy, so—

Barbara, already out the door: sorry b, selina and i already have plans

Bruce: but-

Barbara: y’know she always comes first, she’s basically my MOM after all

Bruce, absolutely devastated: *drops game*

Barbara: bye!

*door closes*

Selina:

Barbara:

Selina: how many more times are we gonna do this

Barbara, gleefully: until that stinking baby of his dies of old age

Jim, walking by: why is this my life

Batman: justice league, partner up. this is unfamiliar territory.

Batman, turning to Nightwing: okay chum, let’s—

Nightwing, hanging off of Superman’s arm:

Batman:

Superman, sweating: i-i didn’t consent to this!

Nightwing, climbing on his back, putting on the saddest puppy eyes known to man: what are you talking about papa? you dont wanna hang out with me anymore? did you only like me as robin?

Superman:

Superman: nightwing and i will take left

Batman, staring dead in Superman’s eye, kryptonite in hand, miming a slit throat:

Talia: beloved, i am here to bond with our child

Bruce: perfect timing, damian’s just right over—

Jason: im ready ummi

Bruce:

Talia, hugging him: how do you fare, habibi?

Jason, hugging her back: good, but im hungry

Talia: perfect. i have just the restaurant in mind.

Talia, to a frozen Bruce: i will bring him home by eight. we will see you then.

Jason: *doesn’t even look back*

Cass: im going out with new friend. his is name is minkhoa

Bruce: okay princess, text me if you—

Bruce: what did you just say.

Cass, fixing her hair, not paying attention: khoa helps me with training. and buys me ice cream.

Cass: sometimes he goes to my recitals

Cass: he is like a dad

Bruce, about to have an aneurysm: i change my mind, you can’t go

Cass: too late, he’s here.

Cass, by the door: bye...bruce.

Bruce:

Bruce, muttering, eyes wild: bruce? not dad? my little princess?

Bruce, pacing: bruce? bruce? BRUCE?

Alfred, slowly backing away: im too old for this

Bruce, tearing up his and Minkhoa’s only picture they took back in the league: minkhoa khan...consider yourself my enemy...!

Outside

Minkhoa: did you get it

Cass: *nods*

Cass, holds out the original copy of the photo Bruce just tore up: same time next week?

Minkhoa, pocketing the picture: so long as he doesn’t get to me first

Ra’s: detective, i am here to bond with our child

Bruce: who the fu-

Tim: im ready

Bruce:

Ra’s, holding out his arms: come to my embrace, timothy

Tim:

Tim, walking away: i can’t do this. i can’t. it’s not worth it.

Ra’s, following him: ah yes, this is the most accurate portrayal of a parent-child relationship. well done, timothy.

Tim: kill yourself

Steph, slamming the door open: i need an adult!

Bruce, sighing, but already getting up with a smile on his face: what did you do this-

Harley, breaking in through the window: im here!

Bruce:

Steph: quick, my mom found out i bought beer! i need an excuse!

Bruce, with a frown: that’s very irres—

Harley: tell her your favorite adult asked you to buy it for them!

Bruce:

Steph: good idea

Bruce: stephanie, your mother wouldn’t believe that i asked you to buy beer for me. i don’t drink.

Steph: literally what are you talking about

Steph, dialing her mom: mom, bruce asked me—

Bruce, shaking his head with a smile:

Steph: —to tell you that harley asked me to go buy beer for her and pam

Bruce: 😟

Bruce, helping Duke with his powers: and if you use it like this, you might be able to cut off all the lights. now try.

Duke:

*room darkens*

Bruce:

Bruce, looking out the window:

Bruce: did you just dim the sun

Duke: *turns invisible*

Bruce:

Duke: *creates new colors*

Bruce:

Duke: *makes holographic animals*

Bruce:

Zatanna:

Bruce:

Zatanna: so what do you think of my ward

Bruce, immediately exploding: he is MY ward you—

Wonder Woman: batman, i require a favor

Batman, giving her all his attention because this was this was a first: of course

Wonder Woman: recently, i have gained a child

Batman, befuddled: you’re PREGNANT?

Wonder Woman: no

Batman: oh

Wonder Woman:

Batman:

Wonder Woman: he has come to me of his own volition. and i took him in for he possesses skills unlike any other.

Batman, not knowing where she was going with this: ...hm

Wonder Woman: he also has a sword, you see

Batman, still confused: okay...

Wonder Woman: so you understand?

Bruce, not wanting to admit how clueless he was: yes

Wonder Woman, sighing in relief: wonderful. now, i only need you to sign this

*hands him adoption papers and a transfer of custody, damian’s signature already signed at the bottom of both*

Batman:

Batman, pulling out a katana: you have three seconds

[awearywritersworld]

men are so quick to blame the gods

ryomen sukuna x reader summary: your boyfriend is a heavy sleeper, leaving you to form an unlikely relationship with the curse occupying his body during the late hours of the night. w/c: 2.6k tags/warnings: enemies to lovers. angst/fluff. aged up!yuuji. sa is mentioned but it's pretty much just sukuna saying he doesn't condone it. heavy kissing. obvi features yuuji x reader but it's not at all the focus. cursing. sukuna calls you kitten. i'd like to think he's not too ooc in this but im probably delusional. not canon compliant. fem!reader. no use of y/n. no manga spoilers. a/n: am i rehabbing our handsome vicious psychopath? yes<3 loosely inspired by this post (features manga spoilers) of him being v beautiful and poetic series masterlist // masterlist

humans have always irritated the king of curses— pathetic little vermin scurrying around, utterly oblivious to their own weakness.

so it came as quite a shock to him when he awoke after over a millenia, only to find himself trapped inside the body of some teenaged brat.

nearly 7 years later and he's positive there isn't a person he despises more in the universe. not even the cocky six eyes wielder can elicit sukuna's fury the way itadori yuuji so easily does.

that's why he resolved early on to kill his vessel's pretty little girlfriend, an act he hopes might satiate his spite. he's positive nothing would devastate yuuji more.

luckily for you, life has a funny way of working.

you and yuuji are standing at an intersection in the city, the pink-haired man staring at his phone as he tries to piece together the directions to a new sushi restaurant you've been wanting to try.

when the pedestrian sign on the other side of the street blinks, you step out onto the pavement without checking for oncoming traffic.

"what the-" yuuji's confused voice fills your ears just as a rough hand wraps around your wrist, yanking you backward violently.

a car barrels through the spot you'd just been standing, the driver clearly not paying attention to the traffic signal. you look back just in time to see harsh black marks fading from your boyfriend's arm, though the rest of his body has seemingly remained unblemished.

it's an odd sensation for yuuji because he's never lost control to sukuna in such a manner. he doesn't dwell on it long though, as anger blossoms in his chest.

"do not touch her," he scolds the curse occupying his body.

a mouth appears on his cheek and scoffs. "sure. i'll just let her die next time."

"it's okay, yu," you interject before he can retaliate. "thanks, sukuna. i, uh, appreciate it."

he grumbles something incomprehensible, his mouth quickly disappearing. your boyfriend looks at you bemused, but you only shrug. the fact that yuuji had lost control to sukuna doesn't make you feel nervous or threatened. you're grateful that he kept you from being run over, albeit a bit surprised.

as you continue your walk to the the sushi restaurant, you find yourself not quite able to meet yuuji's eye because... well... you haven't exactly been forthright regarding your relationship with the king of curses.

the first night it happens, you're laying in bed eagerly finishing the final volume of a manga you've been reading. yuuji is fast asleep and has been for hours, though you're used to being the night owl in the relationship.

you keep wiping at your eyes, the cheerful ending tugging at your heartstrings and tying the story together in a beautiful way.

"can you stop with your incessant sniveling? this idiot's brain is so rarely quiet and you're ruining it."

you look over to see the eye beneath your boyfriend's is open, staring at you scornfully.

"can you fuck off?" your tone is obviously meant to mock him. "i'm finishing one of my favorite mangas and you're ruining it."

"need i remind you of your place, brat?" he sneers. "it's dreadfully wretched, crying because you don't like the ending to some stupid story."

"since you're so clearly invested, i'll have you know i'm crying because i do like it."

"..and here i thought you couldn't get any more pathetic."

your eye twitches in annoyance. "just because you're mad about being stuck in 'some idiot human's body' doesn't mean you have to go around projecting your feelings of inadequacy onto other people."

you move your hand to cover the mouth on your boyfriend's cheek before sukuna can respond, hissing out in pain just a moment later.

"oh my god, you actually bit me." you inspect the teethmarks on your palm in disbelief.

"just wait until i win control of this body— the punishment you deserve for such insolence. you'd better hope you're miles away, but even then—"

"holy shit, enough already. i'll go to sleep. enjoy your peace and quiet," you growl angrily, flipping off the lamp and turning away from him. for some reason, you still find yourself mumbling, "good night."

sukuna's eye widens before promptly closing, the silence hanging in the air heavily. it's the longest conversation he's had in years and the first casual pleasantry he's heard in a millenia. he tries to feel satisfied that he got what he wanted in the end, before returning to his quiet solitude.

over the next few months, your late nights are graced somewhat frequently by the king of curses. he mainly complains— the friends you hung out with earlier were annoying, the tv's too loud, it took yuuji twenty minutes to exorcise a curse that sukuna could have dealt with in seconds.

it doesn't bother you nearly as much anymore and he's no longer able to get under your skin like he did that first night. it seems as if he's losing his touch, or perhaps he just isn't trying as hard.

it's around one in the morning, a book resting in your lap while your boyfriend snores softly beside you. sukuna's eye pops open, peering over at the text. "you're reading homer?"

your body jerks, startled by his sudden question, but you recover soon thereafter. "yeah, were you two friends or something?"

"no, you fool," he derides. "he lived far before my time."

though you don't comment on it, you find it amusing that your sarcasm had gone over his head. "oh, you're right. how silly of me to think you had friends."

"such profound witticism. i can hardly contain myself."

you sneak a glance over to find he's narrowed his eye at you and you actually giggle. "sorry."

it doesn't dawn on you how bizarre the interaction is, but sukuna abruptly realizes that something feels different. not once before tonight had he made you laugh.

he pushes the thought from his mind. "i did, however, indulge in his works during the heian period."

"really?" you perk up. it's not often you give him your full attention. "what'd you think?"

"i suppose i liked him well enough. one of my favorite lines comes from the poem you're reading."

you motion your hand for him to continue. "well don't be shy. i'm sitting here with bated breath."

he rolls his eye, but speaks nonetheless.

"men are so quick to blame the gods— they say that we devise their misery..." you realize for the first time how gruff his voice is, the deep reverberations sending a shudder down your spine. "but they themselves, in their depravity, design grief greater than the griefs that fate assigns."

his eye flickers between each of yours before you look back to your book, fiddling with the corner of the page. you're suddenly feeling rather shy. "does that mean you think humans are even crueler than you?"

he muses over your question briefly.

"if i recounted how men would flee the villages i burned, leaving their families behind in a selfish attempt to save themselves.. who would you find more revolting?

you swallow nervously. "i.. i don't know."

"what if i told you of the men who would eagerly offer their wives and daughters to me, hoping i'd spare them.. who would you deem more wicked?"

you're so busy avoiding his gaze that you don't see the way he carefully regards you. a question you're unsure you want the answer to tumbles from your lips before you can stop it. "did you accept? the.. the husbands' offers—"

"no," he responds. "i have little interest in unwilling partners."

"oh. well that's, um, good."

he hums in response, leaving you to process everything he's told you.

"you should stop," you blurt out eventually.

"stop what?"

"being nice to me." you wouldn't normally consider discussing literature then reminiscing about the egregious stories of his past life particularly kind, but then again, it is sukuna you're speaking with. "it's weird."

he rolls his eye again. "you're hardly in any position to be giving me orders, you insufferable brat."

"see? that's much better."

"why are you crying?" his tone is even, conveying neither annoyance or concern. truthfully, he has no idea what compelled him to ask in the first place.

you don't answer, hoping he'll leave you alone. you really don't have it in you tonight, even if sukuna's been much more tolerable recently. it's been weeks since you finished reading homer's epic poem.

the moon is already setting and it's just a few days before your date at the sushi restaurant.

when you sniffle again, he calls your name. you don't register that he doesn't say brat or idiot. it's the first time he's used your actual name.

"w-what do you want?"

"i seem to recall asking you a question."

you're laying on your side, facing away from yuuji and by extension, sukuna.

"i'm not crying," you declare.

sukuna briefly wonders why he's stuck dealing with you while yuuji sleeps, but his inward 'annoyance' is half hearted. "you're an awful liar."

you exhale and turn to look at him. the only light in the room is coming from the tv, but it's enough that he can see you clearly. "sometimes.. i can't help but worry about the execution."

yuuji has told you countless times that gojo has a plan, that he won't let anything happen, but you know what the higher ups are capable of.

and while it's down right shameful, you know that much, it's not only your boyfriend you worry about these days. sukuna's become so commonplace in your life, you almost look forward to talking with him at night.

"the thought of losing yuuji... of losing.. you.. it scares me," you murmur.

your words stir up feelings he's never once experienced and it's confusing to him. "i'd have figured you'd at least be pleased to be rid of me."

"well, i-i kind of thought we were friends now," you share without thinking.

"don't flatter yourself."

he regrets the words as soon as they come out of his mouth and the guilt he feels as he watches your face fall is unbecoming of a being so powerful. you apologize meekly, shifting (too late) to hide your hurt.

he can't remember a moment in which he's hated being trapped in his vessel's god forsaken body more. he wants to reach out to you, even if the idea feels entirely foreign to him.

but he can't, so he just sighs. "if you think i'm going to let a few feebleminded sorcerers execute me and the brat, you're even more foolish than i thought."

you peer at him, the smallest smile gracing your lips when you realize that's probably as close to an apology as sukuna would ever get.

"promise?"

for fuck's sake. he feels utterly pathetic. completely deplorable. laughable, even—

"yes," he states impassively. "now go to sleep."

"okay." your smile is just a little wider as your fingertips brush the spot below his eye and above his mouth. you wonder if he can even feel it. "good night, sukuna."

"...night, brat."

less than a week after sukuna saves your life at the intersection, yuuji kisses you goodbye as he heads out to a mission. he assures you he'll be early tonight, as he only has to exorcise a semi-grade one cursed spirit in roppongi.

though things don't go quite as planned because in addition to the semi-grade, he finds himself standing before two special grades. he manages to defeat one of the special grades, but the other two leave him badly hurt, his breathing labored.

he has to beg sukuna to switch out with him. the king of curses hasn't forgotten his promise to you and he's no fool— it's clear this is an ambush by the higher ups— but he'll be damned if he wasn't going to have a little fun with the brat first.

he makes quick work of the curses, each of them going rigid with fear as soon as he appears, and it soon becomes apparent that yuuji is too weakened to take back control of his body just yet.

at last, sukuna has his long yearned for freedom and a new world at his fingertips, but there's just one problem... all he wants to do is find you.

when the lock to your apartment clicks, your eyes shift to the door, an excited grin on your face. you can't hide your shock when it isn't your boyfriend that steps inside.

you don't say anything at first, simply following his frame across the room as he approaches you. he leans against the wall a few feet away from where you're sitting on the couch, folding his arms across his chest.

"seems your concerns about the execution weren't unwarranted."

"w-what?!" you exclaim, rising to your feet and taking a step toward him. "what happened?"

he relays the story to you, emphasizing how 'unimpressive' yuuji's power was and how 'terribly simple' it was for him to finish the job his vessel couldn't.

you narrow your eyes at him, only half joking when you ask, "what are you doing here, then? shouldn't you be off pillaging tokyo or something?"

he chuckles. "such a dark mind you have. it wounds me to hear you assume the worst of me."

you bite your lip to hide your smile. "just figured it'd save time."

he closes the space between you and though you can feel the heat radiating from his body, you don't shy away from him. instead, your eyes trail over the dark lines adorning his face and chest.

he reaches up and your breath catches in your throat when the back of his fingers ghost over your neck. his nails graze your skin and a sly smirk forms on his face. "aren't you frightened? it'd be all too easy to kill a little thing like you."

"but you won't."

he can't tell if your assuredness pisses him off, but it certainly makes his heart rate pick up. his hand now occupies the space where your neck meets your shoulder, his touch surprisingly gentle. "what has you so convinced?"

"well you saved me, didn't you? and.. and you kept your promise."

he hums in response and your hand seems to act of its own accord when it reaches up to rest atop his. any lingering sense of amusement is gone in an instant, the air now fraught with tension.

"so why are you here, sukuna?" you murmur.

the king of curses has never known goodness. he's wrought untold destruction and misery, his name inspiring fear even after millenia. he's a legend— a god, even— yet here you are staring up at him and he swears the look in your eyes is almost tender.

"i don't know."

"and you had the nerve to call me an awful liar."

you know you're taking a risk when you lean up and press your lips to his. he freezes for a moment before his mouth begins to move against yours tentatively. his arm stays at his side, so you grab his hand, moving it to your waist.

it's as if that flips a switch in sukuna. he backs you up against the wall somewhat roughly and you can feel him smile against your lips when you let out a squeak of surprise.

he uses the opportunity to take your bottom lip between his teeth, tugging at it before moving to your neck with the intention of leaving a trail of marks across your delicate flesh.

you know you should care, but you just can't bring yourself to tell him to stop. you're too preoccupied with the feeling. he revels in the little gasps he's pulling from your throat, in the way you grab weakly at his biceps.

"you are divine, kitten," he growls. "been waiting so long to touch you."

just as he finishes speaking, he pulls back a few inches and his body stiffens.

"damn it. not now, you stupid brat—"

the words die in his throat as the black lines begin to fade and you're met with the perplexed face of your boyfriend. he breaths out your name, clearly worried. "what.. what happened?"

[pa1nrema1ns]

𝐕𝐚𝐞 𝐕𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐬 || 𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐉𝐢𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐨 (𝟏𝟖+ 𝐎𝐧𝐞-𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭)

𝐅𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐆𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫! 𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐉𝐢𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐨 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦! 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

"𝐈 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝, 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝, 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐧, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐩𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝." – 𝐒𝐚𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐮𝐦 𝐆𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮𝐦 (𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐎𝐚𝐭𝐡)

⚔︎⛊ A/N: This piece began as a drabble but soon became more of a self-contained story. Although I wrote with the intention of creating a one-shot, I may expand upon the gladiator AU and include more hunters in future works if there's enough interest (I'm looking at you Baek Yoonho, Thomas Andre, and Liu Zhigang).

⚔︎⛊ Word count: 5.6k

⚔︎⛊ Content warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, concubine!reader, ancient Rome au, reader has a dark past (implied non-con), rescue romance, switch!Jinwoo, p in v, gratuitous praise, intimate healing (heavy focus on consent, words of affirmation, and the reader reclaiming her bodily pleasure and autonomy), abrupt ending/sequel hook.

⚔︎⛊ Dividers by: @fairytopea and @uzmacchiato

Impoverished and on the brink of starvation, Gladiator! Jinwoo willingly throws himself into the fire, volunteering his fate to the arena.

𓆩✧𓆪 Dressed in rags, hair matted to his forehead, and with nary a coin to his name, he stumbles through the streets of Rome. He is a scrap of a man, ill-suited for the rage of battle and the insurmountable odds that await him. Despite this, he is uncompromising in his decision. If there is even the slightest chance of securing a better future for his family, then he will gladly place his life on the line as many times as it takes.

𓆩✧𓆪 Jinwoo would go so far as to sacrifice his soul and his humanity for strength. No matter how high the cost may grow, he must become stronger for the sake of his mother and Jinah. He made a promise to his dying father that he would protect them, and he intended to keep his word.

𓆩✧𓆪 His desperation drives him to enter a divine covenant with a cunning magus known only as the Architect. Cloaked in mystery and with unknown origins, the sorcerer drives a deadly bargain. The binding agreement? Become a worthy vessel for the god of death, Ashborn, and he shall be blessed with overwhelming power and limitless potential. Refuse, and his life is forfeit. Desperate and with everything to lose, he does not hesitate to accept.

𓆩✧𓆪 Jinwoo rebuilds himself from the ground up. His days are filled with endless clashes against man and beast, his life an ever-present struggle for survival. Any moment may be his last, and yet, he perseveres. He flourishes in the bloodshed, weathers the pain, and as time passes, he acquires the skill and physicality of a formidable combatant. Gone are his boyish features, replaced by the sharp edges and pensive countenance of a man. Once frail and waiflike, his frame is now packed with heavily corded muscles. He cuts a fierce figure on the sands of the Colosseum.

𓆩✧𓆪 Jinwoo fights with all the fury of the gods. Concealed in a mask of anonymity with twin daggers in hand, he leaps into the fray, sparing his opponents no quarter. Anything goes on the battlefield. Yesterday, these men were his brothers in arms. Today, they are his enemies.

𓆩✧𓆪 Steel slams against steel in rapid succession, the vicious strikes reverberating loudly across the arena. A torrent of slashes rains down from Jinwoo's blades, each attack calculated and precise. He unleashes a terrifying display of efficiency, tearing his opposition asunder, dealing blow after devastating blow until none remain standing.

𓆩✧𓆪 Spectators are momentarily stunned into silence, awestruck by what they have witnessed. This pregnant pause is soon broken by a single round of applause, then another. Within seconds, the rest of the audience erupts in cheers, their excitement reaching a fever pitch at the unveiling of a new champion.

𓆩✧𓆪 Hours later, Jinwoo slips into the arena morgue under the veil of night. His newfound abilities as Ashborn's vessel have made him well-versed in the afterlife, and he can discern the chittering cries and lamentations of the dead. He hears their calls for revenge, liberation, and glory. All the fervent dreams they failed to achieve in life.

He takes a moment to honor his slain comrades, bowing his head as a sign of respect. After paying his dues, he parts his lips and issues a single command.

"Arise."

𓆩✧𓆪 Jinwoo’s feats of valor have become known far and wide. Dreaded by his fellow warriors and revered by the Roman populace, he is exalted. But the spoils of victory and hollow accolades mean little to him; as long as there is food on the table back home and his mother and younger sister are safe, then that is more than enough for him.

This changes when he encounters a reward far too tempting to resist.

Jinwoo's throat bobs when he first sees you.

You stand in near nakedness next to the overseer of the games, clad only in a sheer gown. The fine silk does nothing to preserve your modesty—it just accentuates your shapely thighs, round breasts, and the gentle curve of your hips. You're beautiful, he thinks, like a rose coming into bloom—delicate, soft, and oh-so-sweet.

He bets you taste delicious too, like nectar and ambrosia.

When you take your place up front on the podium for all to see, it finally dawns on him that the prize for emerging victorious this time isn't freedom, fame, or fortune—it's you.

For once, Jinwoo yearns for something beyond absolute power or dominance. He longs for the tenderness of a woman. Hardship and loneliness are all he's ever known throughout his young life, and now more than ever, he wants someone who can soothe his weary heart.

Shortly before the start of the gladiatorial games, an orator announces that the emperor has provided one of his finest concubines as a gesture of goodwill. Whosoever procures the most kills during today's bouts will be allowed to keep you as their whore. Excited and scandalized chatter breaks out amongst the crowd at this unexpected turn of events.

Over the commotion, your gaze meets his, and Jinwoo is instantly drawn into your eyes; they appear to tell a story, one drenched in sorrow and tears of blood. The anguish that mars your lovely face is palpable, and he feels a sudden surge of anger coursing through his veins.

A thing of beauty such as yourself would not have been spared from the cruelty of men, especially those in positions of power… You must have suffered greatly at the hands of the emperor. And now, that bastard was offering you up as a pleasure girl to a horde of violent fighters. You were a veritable rabbit in a den of wolves, exposed and completely defenseless!

His expression darkens, and he grips one of his daggers with such ferocity that its hilt shatters. He decides right then and there that he must have you.

Jinwoo refuses to idly stand by and watch as you're dealt a fate worse than death. He's noticed the way these brutes leer at you and overheard their crude remarks and lewd intentions. It infuriates him, and he vows to slaughter every last one of the competition. He'll dirty himself with crimson and gore, if need be; anything to claim you for himself.

Armed combat and melee commence posthaste, and immediately, Jinwoo sets about wreaking carnage. He slits throats, severs heads from bodies, and crushes organs, all with the cold indifference of a man scraping shit off his boots.

The usually bloodthirsty spectators gasp; even the overseer is rendered aghast by his savagery. You’re also left in a state of wide-eyed disbelief at the massacre, not quite grasping what you saw.

A single thought runs through your mind.

Could this really be the same man from earlier who gazed at me with such kind eyes?

Daylight bleeds into dusk, and at last, the dust settles. Jinwoo stands as the sole remaining contender in a sea of corpses.

He breathes deeply and exhales, and with that simple act, he seems to discard all sense of brutality. The man proceeds to nonchalantly twirl his daggers, flicking blood off the blades before sheathing them. Then, without missing a beat, he launches himself onto the podium, landing almost directly in front of you.

In an unprecedented event, an eerie quiet descends upon the Colosseum. There’s no raucous laughter, jeers, shouts, or the sound of hands clapping—only a collective feeling of apprehension.

The officials seated nearby are frozen in fear by his presence. They can merely gape in trepidation as he approaches. You inhale sharply, only to break into a sudden fit of coughing. The air around you has become saturated with dense magical energy, making it nigh impossible to breathe.

Panic-stricken, you begin to shiver. When his footfalls inevitably grow louder, you shut your lids and curl into yourself, preparing for the worst. However, what greets you is the sensation of a warm and calloused palm cupping your cheek. Your breath hitches, and you open your eyes in shock. You haven’t been touched this gently since being separated from your family. It was soothing and heart-achingly familiar.

You cast a glance at Jinwoo, and at this proximity, you can observe the subtle confidence in his cobalt blue eyes, the evenness of his features, and his long lashes. He’s startlingly handsome and younger than you expected. Your hackles lower ever so slightly.

Sensing your lingering unease, the man sends you a small, reassuring smile and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Then he speaks to you, his voice deep and melodic.

“Easy, love. I’m not going to hurt you—I’ve only come to claim my prize.” He then lowers his tone and leans forward until you can feel his breath tickling your neck. “You’ll be safe with me, I promise,” he whispers solemnly before adding, “I’ll take nothing from you that you aren’t willing to give. Your body and your heart belong to you and no one else. Remember that for me, sweet girl.”

You’re unsure how to react; the sincerity behind the man’s words contrasts drastically with his monstrous violence in the arena. It was jarring, but you found yourself desperately wanting to believe him.

Jinwoo soon steers his focus to the game’s overseer, and his docile demeanor quickly dissipates. He’s remarkably terse when addressing the feeble patrician, “I take it His Imperial Majesty is a man of his word, is he not? Then, according to the rules in place, this woman is henceforth bound to me. Unless you have any objections, that is?”

Your heart races wildly as you cling to Jinwoo’s every word. The emotions you’re experiencing right now are a mix of anticipation, amazement, and fascination. Never has a man gone so far to possess you. You were complete strangers, yet here he was, threatening the upper echelons of Roman society on your behalf. It was... oddly endearing.

“No—no! Not at all.” The overseer appeared as if he would faint at any moment. “It is just as you say, champion. To the victor go the spoils! You are free to do with her as you wish.”

“Hmph, then I’ll hold you to that.”

Jinwoo turns on his heel without wasting another breath, and a hint of a smirk tugs at his lips. He returns to your side and wraps his obsidian cape around your shoulders.

The raven-haired man chuckles at the puzzled expression you make—Gods, you were so damn cute. How could the emperor relinquish such a precious jewel? The old fool must have lost his mind to discard you so callously. Well, no matter—you were in better hands now.

“You must be cold in that flimsy dress of yours, little songbird,” he teases while coiling a robust arm around your waist. “I can feel you trembling underneath my fingertips… What say we head to the baths before retiring for the night in my quarters? A good soak and some companionship should warm you right up.”

You don’t miss the seductive glint in his eyes or the way his voice deepens as he purrs his sultry proposition. You blush and glance down at your hands, suddenly bashful despite yourself. How did this man manage to make you feel so shy with his flirtations? It was disarming and incredibly alluring, a sharp contrast to the unwelcome advances you had become so accustomed to while living at the palace.

“I—I… would very much like that,” you stutter nervously, still too embarrassed to look him in the eye. Fuck, you had a pretty voice too, like the soft chiming of a bell.

He imagines how divine you'll sound while screaming his name.

Jinwoo dispels any further reservations you might have by dipping his face into the crook of your neck. He mouths against the sensitive flesh, trailing feather-light kisses. The sensation of his lips brushing a specific spot behind your ear elicits a breathy moan from you, and you arch your back in surrender.

The gladiator smirks against your skin before slipping out his tongue and dragging it across your earlobe. He husks, “I can make it worth your while, sweet girl, but only if you agree. Say the word, and I’ll worship every inch of you with my mouth—” he emphasizes by nipping at your ear, “my hands—” he palms at one of your breasts, slowly rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, “and—” he presses his clothed cock along the swell of your ass and sneaks his hand down to cup your cunt, biting back a groan when he feels how soaked you are beneath the fabric.

A searing heat pools in your lower abdomen, and your eyes flutter shut at his ministrations. In the background, the audience is brought alive again, hollering and catcalling at you both, but the noise does nothing to stop the pressure mounting in your core; it only causes a fresh layer of slick to trickle down your thighs.

After what seems like an eternity, you finally regain some sense of clarity and beg, “Please, don’t stop! I want this; I want you! Please—”

Jinwoo gently turns your face and silences your ramblings with his lips. The kiss is initially tender and fleeting, a simple caress of his mouth against yours. However, he’s quick to pry open your lips with a smooth swipe of his tongue. He then slips inside your mouth, coaxing you to slide your tongue over his. You readily submit, grabbing the nape of his neck and deepening the kiss. The weaving of your lips soon devolves into something languid, sensual, and primal.

At the last moment, Jinwoo manages to reel in his lust and reluctantly parts from you. The gladiator's restraint hangs by a single, precarious thread, and he wants nothing more than to ravish you, but not here. Not in front of all these prying eyes.

Before you can fully register what’s happening, he grasps you firmly to his chest and rasps in your ear, “I'd say it's high time we take this somewhere more comfortable, huh, love? Hold onto me tightly; this will be a rather hasty escape."

'A hasty escape?' What could he possibly mean by—!?

"Exchange."

Darkness. The void that absorbs you is filled with nothing but darkness. Person, place, and time have no permanence in this pocket of space that exists somewhere between reality and the ether. Then, just as quickly as this inexplicable situation begins, it ends. You are present again, whole and in the flesh, as is Jinwoo. The packed Colosseum, however, is nowhere to be seen. Instead, your surroundings have been replaced by the entrance to a sprawling complex.

Upon second glance, you notice it is a bathhouse, and an opulent one at that, if its elegantly manicured gardens, marble structure, and decorative stucco are any indication.

Did he use his mana to transport us here? But how? Only an experienced mage could possess such skills. Just what manner of man is this?

You worry your lip between your teeth as you mull over your concerns, but before you can become too entranced, an abrupt squeeze at your waist breaks you from your train of thought. It was the gladiator, and he was grinning at you broadly.

“These are the imperial baths reserved strictly for victors. I hope it is to your liking…? Are you alright? You’re so pale.” He brushes his hand over your cheek and questions you in an affectionate tenor.

“Tell me, are you afraid? Were my words not enough to quell your fears, little dove?” His smile shifts into a thin line as he intently studies your face. Ashamedly, you nod your head and avoid his gaze.

“I see… Then what can I do to prove myself to you?”

The muscular arms that embrace you loosen enough for you to take a few tentative steps backward, away from him. You regard the gladiator with a twinge of suspicion, an action you could hardly be blamed for; magical prowess of this caliber could rival the elite mages of the praetorian guard. This man was undoubtedly dangerous, but he'd been nothing but amicable towards you.

Conflicted, you take a deep, steady breath before addressing him, this time by name, “Sung Jinwoo, who exactly are you?”

You raise your head as you speak to him, and there’s a gleam in his eyes: ravenous, predatory hunger.

He was trying to intimidate you, to cease your meddling. To entice you into compliance.

Yet you continue, unabated, “You slaughter others as easily as one draws breath, then you effortlessly demonstrate a type of magic that would take the most learned magi years to master.”

You walk back toward him, slowly and purposefully, stopping only when you both stand face-to-face.

“Do the gods favor you above all else, or are you born from divinity? Are you…are you human?”

A pang of guilt twists at Jinwoo’s conscience. He always knew that he would have to reveal his identity at some point, but not under these circumstances.

He sighs and provides you with a half-truth as an answer. He knows it won’t suffice, but at the very least, it might assuage some of your worries.

“I am human, but only just. That is the best explanation I can give for the time being. Please, do not ask or demand any further from me. Those are my only rules for you, love.” He leads his fingers down your spine as he implores you.

Your expression softens, and you splay your hands on his bare chest, above his beating heart. The rich texture of his skin, his earthy musk, and the pulse of vitality beneath your palms are all indicative of humanity.

In little more than a murmur, you speak to him, “Jinwoo, you command me not to be frightened, yet part of me is, and I resent myself for it. But how can I be at peace while alone with a man who wields power beyond all understanding? You could effortlessly break me if you so desire, yet you'd have me believe otherwise?"

You suddenly burst into a fit of tinkling, derisive laughter, making the gladiator swallow thickly. Even in scorn, you sounded beautiful. If only you were laughing for a different reason —a joyous one.

"Do not mistake me for some naïve, tenderhearted maiden, Jinwoo." You continue in a subdued tone, "I’ve witnessed evil and corruption by men much weaker than you. I know better than to let my guard down completely.”

Nonetheless, your touches become bolder and more sinful. Your hands drift lower, smoothing over the rippling planes of his torso; he exhales shakily through his nose, and you can’t help but admire the delicious flex of his muscles as he does so. You decide to see how far you can push him, tracing the veins along his V-line with your fingertips while sucking at his neck and collarbones.

He lets out a strangled noise when you bite down hard enough to break the skin. “And wh-what about the other part of you, hmm?” He manages to grit through his teeth, “For someone who claims to be so scared and jaded, you sure are handsy—oh shit!”

Rather than responding to his jest, you unlatch his belt with deft fingers and slip your hand into his loincloth. Just from the feel of him, his cock was painfully hard and leaking. Your mouth waters at the thought, driving you to free him from the confines of his undergarments. Jinwoo releases a hiss as his dick springs up and slaps against his toned stomach.

You drink in the sight of him, admiring how pretty and thick his flushed cock is. The shaft emerged from a soft thatch of curls, and it was a dark shade of pink that tapered into vibrant red at the tip. Creamy pearls of precum dribbled endlessly at his slit. Intrigued, you skim your fingers around the sensitive glans, coating them in his essence. Then, without breaking eye contact with him, you raise your hand to your mouth and lap up the salty fluid.

The gladiator groans appreciatively, and the sound shoots straight to your throbbing cunt. You press your thighs together to alleviate the ache, an action that does not go unnoticed by the perceptive, raven-haired man.

“Feisty little minx, aren’t you?” He croons sweetly, “And here I was, foolishly thinking you were so shy. No, no, wait—don’t pull away from me! I crave more of you! I need more of you! Unveil to me the smoldering temptress hiding within you, and I swear to tell the truth of my origins. I swear it.”

Jinwoo’s feverishness sends a thrum of pleasure throughout your body. It incites a dormant fire, a desire to take the reins. The roles between the two of you have been reversed; now, he is the one pleading for your touch, whilst you were in control. No longer were you a caged bird or a helpless little girl. You were a minx, a playful and vivacious woman, full of life.

At least, that's how you feel in the moment.

You smile and press a pacifying kiss to the gladiator’s lips, gliding your tongue in his mouth to savor his vulnerability. He moans and melts into you when you begin stroking his cock in tandem, alternating between fast, twisting motions near his head and long, languid pumps from base to tip. You breathe him in, sighing wistfully.

“We’ve only met, gladiator, yet you pine for me so fiercely… but why? I’ve done nothing to earn your devotion or reverence. I am not your goddess, your Domina, or even your lover; I am merely an outlet for sexual release.”

You’re interrupted mid-sentence by an arresting grip on your wrist. In an instant, Jinwoo had dispelled his lustful haze, swiftly reminding you that he was a deadly warrior, a far cry from the ham-fisted nobles who sought you only for their sexual gratification.   Your body draws taut, like a viper preparing to strike, and you ready yourself for what’s to come, awaiting punishment for acting out of line—

But you're greeted by kindness and comforting reassurance from Jinwoo instead.

“Enough, darling; say not another word of this nonsense. I will not tolerate any blemish on your character. You are not an object, a tool, or a treasure to hoard. You are as human as anyone else, and you are worthy of being cherished.”  

You falter under his intensity, unprepared for such an impassioned response. Sex has… always been mechanical for you, a perfunctory duty expected of a concubine. You lost the right to personhood the day the emperor vanquished your homeland. Spared solely for your beauty, you were stripped of all autonomy, reduced to being the unwilling bedmate of the very man who tore your life apart. The emperor stole your innocence, your family, your hope—everything.

You were sullied, made unclean, and defiled.

A calloused thumb swipes away tears you aren’t even aware you’re spilling.

“Shhh,” Jinwoo hushes you as he strokes your cheeks. “Oh, love, please don’t cry. These tears are not the type of wetness you deserve.”

You sniffle softly and try to avert your gaze, but he maintains a steady hold on your face. The gladiator locks eyes with you, piercing cobalt seamlessly transforming into an icy blue. There’s anger in Jinwoo’s expression; instinctively, you know it isn’t directed toward you.

“Did Antares feed you such lies about yourself?” He spits out the emperor’s true name, pure venom lacing his voice.

Your silence is answer enough.

The gladiator’s lip curls, and he internally fumes, That fucking bastard! How dare he torment you like this? I’ll kill him—I’ll kill him if it’s the last thing I do!

“Jin…woo?”

His rage recedes when you call out to him, his eyes regaining their original color.

Jinwoo exhales sharply and composes himself; he’ll have his vengeance in due time. Currently, you are what matters most to him.

“The emperor’s hold on your heart runs deeper than I thought,” he surmises. “I’ll have to cleanse you of his influence. Only then can you be free of him.”

You stare at him inquisitively, not quite understanding what he meant. Before you can ponder it for too long, you’re hoisted into a sudden princess carry by Jinwoo.

“It’s okay, sweet girl, I’ve got you, and I’m not going anywhere,” he coos, rubbing soothing circles at the bend of your knee. It grounds you, makes you feel safe.

“We can’t undo the past or deny that which has already happened. We can only move forward, forging a path of our own. So come, let us wash away your troubles together. I promised you warmth and companionship, and I am a man of my word.”

Jinwoo peers down at you expectantly.

You nod and nuzzle your face into his chest, basking in his body heat.

The corners of his mouth lift.

“Right, let’s get ourselves cleaned up then.”

“Ahhn—ah! There! Right there, Jin—augh!”

Your needy whimpering dissolves into a loud, wanton keen that bounces off the marbled walls of the bathhouse. Around you, scattered pieces of armor, leather, and the shredded remains of your garments lay strewn in a haphazard pile, a testament to the gladiator’s brute strength and utter lack of self-control when it came to you.

Plumes of steam waft from the heated water, turning the air dense with condensation. It has a dizzying effect, further intensifying the delirium brought on by yet another mind-shattering orgasm. You babble incoherently—a slurred mixture of Jinwoo’s name and pleas for more—as you come for the fourth time that evening. Despite this, you can feel the gladiator’s cock swelling inside you, virile and throbbing with need.

Gods, he was insatiable.

You adore this side of him.

It had been roughly an hour since you set foot in the large facility, and throughout this time, Jinwoo couldn’t keep his hands or lips off you. He’d all but mounted you the second you began to disrobe, pushing you up against the nearest pillar and impatiently tearing at the fabric concealing your body. He was a man starved, eager to devour, relentless in his pursuit of sustenance.

And his tenacity had at last borne fruit.  

“Oh, fuck!” He raggedly breathed at your bare and unencumbered form, eyes blown out and wild. You were perfect like this—incomparable in all manners.

“Beautiful—you’re so damned beautiful… Venus has not half your loveliness, nor a cunt nearly as sweet.”

The gladiator then drops both his hands by your hips and pulls you flush against his twitching cock. He maneuvers your body like a puppet, parting your pussy lips with his shaft and guiding you to glide your heat over the outline of his member.

A tremor runs down your spine when your clit grazes a particularly thick vein on his cock. You grind down on him, desperate to satiate the scalding need throbbing in your pussy.

“Jinwoo, please—mmph!”

He steals your voice by slotting his mouth against yours, earning a moan from you. Without pausing, he shoves a hand between the apex of your thighs, seeking out your slit. His dexterous digits are quick to roam over your glistening folds. He slides his index and middle fingers along the hood of your clit and toys with the sensitive bundle of nerves, lightly swirling at it before applying more pressure and friction. This earns a long, drawn-out moan from you, and you buck your hips into his hand, seeking further stimulation.

Just before you can lose yourself to him fully, Jinwoo pulls back from your lips, choosing that exact moment to delve both fingers into your tight, wet pussy. You choke and whine at the feeling of fullness, drawing a dark growl from the gladiator.

“Good girl, keep making those pretty sounds for me. Hell, you can scream if you want to. We have this entire place to ourselves; we can be as loud as we fucking want!”

He punctuates this with a rough curl of his fingers along the roof of your walls, effortlessly pinpointing your sweet spot. The effect it has on you is cataclysmic. Bliss, raw and in its most potent form, courses through your veins. A spring coiled tightly within you finally snaps, careening you over the edge of madness. You unleash a wail that unfurls into a high-pitched scream as Jinwoo ruthlessly fucks you through your climax with his fingers; the stimulation verges on being unbearable, blurring the line between pleasure and pain.

A sheen of sweat coats your writhing figure as you frantically scrabble for purchase, one hand scratching fruitlessly at the cold, polished surface of the wall as the other rakes its nails over the broad swath of the gladiator’s back. He relishes the sting, urging you to sink deeper by hiking one of your legs around his lithe waist.

Through the blood pounding in your ears, you hear his husky voice faintly in the background.

“That’s it! Come undone for me, love. Keep clenching around my fingers, moan my name—yes! Just like that! Gods, you’re everything I’ve ever wanted. Take whatever you need from me, sweetheart; I’m yours.”

He rewards you for your obedience with hot, open-mouthed kisses along your shoulders, the column of your throat, and the soft slopes of your breasts. The gladiator sucks harshly at the smooth expanse of skin, leaving splotches of purple in his wake.

As you descend from the exquisite ecstasy of your high, Jinwoo slowly pulls his hand from your sopping pussy, gossamer strands of slick clinging to his fingertips like honey. He brings his fingers to his mouth and laps at them, deliberately replicating your actions from earlier. A lascivious moan escapes him; your flavor is intoxicating, all-consuming.

He wants to drown in your arousal.

You startle when Jinwoo hoists your other leg around his waist, hooking his elbows under your knees to support your weight. He then prods his engorged tip along your entrance, smearing himself with your juices. You instinctively begin to buck your hips, and a small, involuntary whimper passes your lips. Although you were still sensitive in the aftermath of your climax, the absence of the gladiator’s fingers had you aching to be filled again.

“I know, sweetheart, I know,” Jinwoo murmurs, “I’m going to give you exactly what you need.”

No sooner had the words left his mouth than he began easing his cock into you, panting and grunting in your ear with his jaw clenched tight. The stretch burns, but only momentarily, and it isn’t long before you’re mewling and moaning his name. Once he bottoms out, Jinwoo drops his head to your shoulder and presses his hips against yours. He holds himself still, allowing you time to adjust to his size.

After a pause, the gladiator kisses your shoulder and pulls back his head, looking you straight in the eyes.

“I won’t be holding anything back from here on, darling. If it reaches a point where it becomes too much for you, I want you to say the word ‘dagger,’ and I’ll end this. Understood?”

You nod and press your forehead to his, casting the die.

With your assent, Jinwoo ruts into you with unmatched vigor. He fucks just as he fights, hard and unrelenting, as if his very life hangs in the balance. Yet even in his brutality, he worships you with each drag of cock along your fluttering walls. Your tits bounce under the force of his thrusts, enticing Jinwoo to take one of your nipples in his mouth. He suckles at the tender little nub until it stiffens into a peak before biting down on it, sending sparks of pleasure tingling throughout your entire body.

Your breath catches in your throat, and your legs tense up around the gladiator’s waist, drawing him deeper into you. The ridges of his cock shape you, creating a delectable friction that builds and builds with every push and pull of his length. Jinwoo’s grip on your ass turns bruising, the rhythmic movement of his hips faltering into staccato bursts as he reaches his zenith. An obscene groan sounds at the back of his throat when your cunt spasms and squeezes impossibly tight around him, careening the gladiator over the edge.

He completely immerses himself in your pussy, painting your walls with thick spurts of cum. You follow in his stead, wailing loudly as your own orgasm overtakes you. For several minutes, the room is enveloped in silence save for the catching of breath and the wet sounds of kissing. Once he feels your walls relax around him, Jinwoo slides out of you. You wince as his seed spills down your inner thighs, and you struggle to stand on your own two feet as you’re lowered to the ground.

Ever the gentleman, the gladiator holds you steady, one large palm lingering on the bruises that litter your lower back while the other sinks its fingers into the globe of your ass. He chuckles when you bat at his arm half-heartedly.

“Are you alright? I wasn’t too rough on you, was I?”

You shake your head tiredly, a fond smile gracing your lips. Unbelievable, this man.

“Jinwoo, you were incredible.”

His eyes widen in a rare show of vulnerability.

“I’ve never felt this way before,” you continue, “You’ve been so good to me, so attentive… I loved it.”

Jinwoo pecks your forehead. He was so proud of you, his strong, brave girl.

“Good, because I’m nowhere near finished with you, love. Now, be a good girl and spread those pretty legs for me so I can devour that dripping little cunt.”

⋆༺𓆩⚔️𓆪༻⋆ Tag list: @heyimkana @xxeclipze @princeizuku @kweenkatsuki-main @cocomanga @mydearestbeloved @minh907 @forbidden-sunlight @brillantradiance @crxscnt @katie5000

[hedwig221b]

I absolutely love all the fic recommendations you give and I think you are an absolute angel for doing them. And I feel really bad for asking for some but I’ve been searching and I’m coming up short on them so I wanted to ask if you (or your follows because the suggestions they leave on other asks always so good!) know of any good Viking or medieval type of Sterek stories. Please and thank you so much!

💐💐💐💐

Hello, my love, here you are, hope you like these

Medieval

Under the Wide Blue Sky by zeit

Crown Prince Stiles returns home after many long months away commanding his father's armies. He doesn't feel he understands the true motives of his enemies, but having ended the battle for now, he turns his attention instead, albeit begrudgingly, to finding someone who might sit at his side someday when he assumes the throne. His childhood affection for Sir Derek blooms anew when the man accompanies his younger sister, Lady Cora, to the capital to be presented as a formal suitor for Stiles's hand in marriage.

Weaving Peace, Stitch My Heart by Susihukka, wanderingeyre

After a generation of a devastating war, the countries of Triskel and Astoria have come to a peace agreement. The only son of Astoria, Stiles, will offer himself as a Peaceweaver in marriage to the second oldest child of Triskel, Derek. Stiles is nervous but excited to meet his new husband and start a family. Unfortunately, for Stiles, his intended wants nothing to do with him.

A Princely Knight by Dexterous_Sinistrous

He would stand by Stiles’ side, a constant shadow of protection until his death. A life for a life, one worth much more than an orphan turned thief turned royal guard could comprehend. In truth, Derek saw the one person he would gladly give his life for, because Stiles made this world better. ~*~ Or, Stiles is a prince and Derek is his knight.

Wolf Winter by DarkAthena (seraphim_grace)

Stiles is the legitimate omega son of King Deucalion, tricked by his brother Theo into running away he is trapped, ruined and unable to return home he finds himself stuck, captured as a poacher by the infamous Hale clan he claims sanctuary in their small chapel and Peter puts him to work, with Derek just returned from the crusades he needs a new healer and the only option they've got is the boy in the chapel who is pretending to be a beta

The White Hart of Winter by DarkAthena (seraphim_grace)

Sent to marry the Hale Beast Stiles finds himself alone in a castle left to ruin and watched over by Kate Argent, who he thinks is sleeping with his new husband and seems determined to destroy him.

A Devotion by TroubleIWant

There’s a boy exiting the doors as they approach. Where Derek is tan from hours outside, the boy is pale except for a few beauty marks on one cheek. He’s dressed in fine riding clothes, and flanked by a guard wearing the sign of the royal house. A noble, then. He’s younger than Derek, but, considering his higher station, a bow would be appropriate. Despite that, Derek can’t help looking curiously at the boy, who’s looking back at Derek with just as much interest. For a moment, their eyes meet - the boy’s are a deep amber in the sunlit courtyard, ringed by long, tawny lashes. A gloved hand smacks the back of Derek’s head and he instinctively flinches away, hunching his shoulders. He loses track of the other boy as they pass one another, and as he turns to get another look, the knight grabs his shoulder and marches him forward into the stable. “Keep your eyes to yourself,” the knight instructs. “And next time, show the proper respect to Crown Prince Stiles.” Or: A medieval AU that's a little Princess Bride, a little bit more Game of Thrones, and a healthy side-serving of gay erotica.

The Thorns of a Rose by Dexterous_Sinistrous

"You have your mother’s eyes,” Peter suddenly commented, his tone light in his observation. Stiles stiffened at the mention of his mother. “Honest eyes,” Peter added as an afterthought. “Sunlit like the golden embers of coal burning in a forge.” Stiles turned a soured expression on Peter. “Have you a point?” He asked. “Many men have struggled to have those eyes even spare them a glance,” Peter simply stated. “An honest but naive treasure that managed to fool a dragon.” He placed the crown on Stiles’ head, amused when the boy immediately pushed away from him once the ornament was in place. “Hopefully those eyes can fool the Seven Kingdoms into thinking you could love a wolf.”

an exaltation of larks by llassah

There are times when he feels as if they could fall into bed together, easy as breathing. If Stiles were not highborn, if he were an omega without connections, Derek would be sorely tempted. As it is, he resists. Derek wants, he yearns, but he resists. Still, the sight of Stiles in his cot is enough to test him, even now that it is familiar. At the end of each lambing season, he sleeps for a week, worn down by months of hard work, of relentless struggle. He doesn’t know how he’ll feel by the time Stiles leaves, how he’ll feel after long days and longer nights spent resisting the insistent tug of Stiles’s scent and the inclinations of his own foolish heart. All Derek wants is to get through the lambing season with his body and spirit intact. He had thought that the blizzards would be the main danger, not a highborn omega with beautiful eyes and a stubborn streak.

The Light in the Woods by DiscontentedWinter

To honour a treaty with the people of a strange land, Derek Hale, prince of the kingdom of Triskelion, has to marry Stiles.

bend bridges, mend bones by Thealmostrhetoricalquestion

They burst through the portal in a gust of stale air and violet light, landing hard on the outskirts of a swamp. Stiles feels his knees buckle, both from the magic required to keep the portal open and from the force of their landing, but he grits his teeth, determined to stay standing in the presence of Derek Hale and his pack. Christ, it would be just his luck to rocket through his own portal at neck-breaking speeds and collide face-first with a puddle of sticky, disgusting mud. Thankfully that doesn’t happen, which is good because Stiles can’t really afford to add useless to the list of things that Mage’s are; untrustworthy cowards, meddlers, monsters. (In which there's an awful lot of fighting, people learn to trust people, and Stiles saves the day. Repeatedly. Over and over again. And he would like some credit, goddamnit, Derek.)

The Demands of Duty by Reiya_Wakayama

With the threat of war hanging over them, Stiles and his people are caught in the middle and must chose a side before they get smashed between both and with the threat of winter and a bad harvest weighing them down, he must chose quickly.

Deflowered by astrugglingstoic

In which there is a prince, a knight, sequential sword fights, and an anecdote about pressed flower petals.

If I die before my time, bury me upside down by ElisAttack

The boy is all of sixteen years old, a too large crown of gold resting on his head. The boy is sixteen years old, and Derek knows he would die for him. Or the one where Stiles is a young King, barely holding onto power, and Derek is his most trusted knight.

The Vow of a Wolf by Dexterous_Sinistrous

"There’s a boy with alabaster skin, scattered with moles,” Jennifer explained as she thought about Stiles. “With large, dove-like eyes. He’s accompanied by this wolf—the one with fur as black as the night they travel by.” “Is it the boy or the wolf you want dead?” The hunter questioned. “Kill the boy before you end the wolf’s life,” Jennifer commanded. “Let the wolf smell the blood of the boy it loves. Let it howl in pain before you end it.” “Yes, my lady,” the hunter dutifully answered.

For the Love of The Game (It Made Me Love You) by Quirky_chemist

Stiles tugs on the arm braces of his armor, tightening the leather straps so that they were snug and in place. Scott was watching him with worried eyes as he finishes suiting up for the tournament. Every few minutes he would mumble under his breath about how Stiles’ father would kill him if he found out what they were doing. It was easy enough to fake the papers needed for an unknown knight from a rarely heard of territory, especially when you had the resources that Stiles did. He would ride as his true identity, but none would ever ride against him. Knowing that he was royalty, every knight would quickly and surely send one of their men to cover their shield with a white flag in withdrawal. It was an annoying truth that Stiles could not deny.

Moon Tribe Battles by 3rdgenderfromthesun

Derek was an alpha and a general of the Moon Tribe and he was fierce and unfaltering. This war had been going on for generations and Derek had grown up with blood beneath his claws. Beyond the stench of death, blood, gunpowder, and crackling magic was the unbelievably alluring scent of Derek's mate.

Faoladh by 3rdgenderfromthesun

Prince Stiles has always been in love with the legend of the Faoladh- skin walkers who use the pelt of wolves to transform into their feral counterparts- but he never imagined he would be kidnapped in order to lure out the supposedly mythical creatures. The legends said that they found and returned lost children to their families and guarded the woods surrounding his father's kingdom, but Stiles was long past being a child when a dark furred Faoladh came to his rescue.

When All the Pieces Fit BY NARKOTIKA

"Does he even realize? With the cooking and cleaning andandand—now this fucking baby?" Isaac fumes. Said baby waves its fist in the air, and Stiles bends to haul him onto a hip. The baby babbles something and Stiles nods his head with complete seriousness, as if everything out of its mouth is perfectly sensible and coherent. Then the kid starts mouthing at Stiles' nipple through his dress and everyone goes dead silent. "I'm going to wife him so hard," Ethan announces, and they all break out into argument over who has the best chance at mating the boy in the river.

Under the Golden Moon BY NARKOTIKA

Derek doesn't know how long he sits in his wolf skin, on his haunches, observing Stiles as the sunbeams slant through the trees and cast slashes of light across the omega's willowy form. The boy has his feet in the water, a babe on his hip, a bright smile on his face as the other younglings splash around and soak his garb. The creamy skin of his thighs peek out from the slits running down the sides of his draping skirt, and Derek has never wanted anything more than he wants this beautiful being of the woods.

also these are vaguely medieval so there

Incandescent

"You are trying to court our alpha,” sang Lydia. “Surely you realize that he does not reciprocate.” “He doesn’t stop it.” There was no point in lying. Paige was courting Derek. She would be a fool not to. “He doesn’t care to.” Lydia arched her thin eyebrow. “Why do you think he’s still searching for his mate, hmm? Why didn’t he stop once you were here? You think you can annoy him into sleeping with you?” Lydia laughed. “He is a born wolf, darling. He will not fuck you if you are not his.”

your fangs against my skin (the sound of your bones)

This was it, then, huh? It was that easy for Derek to invite someone to his den. Someone other than Stiles. He healed the wolf. Stiles killed his tormentor, mended his blood and bones, and let him sleep beside him. But none of it was enough. He wasn’t a spark, after all, but a witch — evil and alone, locked up in his tower. Witches didn’t get happy endings.

Resistance

How dare the wolf taste those lips, hold him, panting and soft, trembling and eager, so close to his chest? How dare he? Jordan could not move, even if he wanted to. The slick sounds of their kiss, of tongues sliding softly against one another, bitten-off moans, and muffled mewls interspersed with crackling fire — it was hell for him. Stiles was everything Jordan dreamed he would be in a moment like this — he moved just right, arched so beautifully, bared his throat, and grabbed the hand that pressed to his stomach, keeping it there. His smell seeped across the tent, sweeter than ever before and deadly because of it. Jordan’s eyes stung, his fists clenching the cold sheets. Yet, he could not even take a proper breath, for everything smelled of him. For three years, Jordan told himself to resist. Three years of catching Stiles only for the omega to seep from his fingers. Years without ever holding his waist like Jordan wanted to. A month was all it took for Stiles to give it to the wolf.

Viking

Open Seas and Boundless Skies by violet_vengeance

Stiles has been used and abused by his step-brother for more years than he can count. In a final act of cruelty, Stiles is traded away to a fearsome Viking warrior. Little does Stiles know that this strange and brutish man may just be the start of his freedom.

A house without kindness by DarkAthena (seraphim_grace)

Driven to the far north by hunters Derek finds shelter in the snow

like the old gods

A wolf in the woods, a raven in the sky. (fenrir!derek)

The Downed Dragon by orangecrow

A thunderous crash brings viking werewolf Derek Hale to the edge of his pack's lands four days before the last autumn moon.

[masterlist link]

[loredrinker]

Felassan's Role in Psychological Warfare

Some time ago, I wrote about Elgar’nan’s terrifying display of power - the act of erasing emotion from existence, burning it from the minds of every living being, and letting its spirits die out completely. 

This is the scale of the enemy Solas and Felassan were up against. When your enemy can unmake feeling, extinguish spiritual presence, and reshape the metaphysical architecture of your people, what choices remain? What kind of war do you wage against opponents like these? 

What Elgar’nan did was spiritual genocide - brute force on every level. From the war on the Titans, to the destruction of spirit communities, to the devastation he continues to unleash in Veilguard, Elgar’nan has ruled through annihilation. (I feel real sympathy for Mythal trying to placate this being.) And what’s more terrifying: he’s only one of the Evanuris.

This reframes Solas’s rebellion. It wasn’t just a fight against political oppression - it was a fight to also preserve the emotional and spiritual reality of the world. 

In that context, it’s no surprise the rebellion turned to psychological warfare. And this is where Felassan emerges not merely as a soldier or lieutenant, but as an architect - just as good at it as Solas. 

The Dread Wolf: A Weapon, Not a Hero 

The Felassan codices confirm their psychological campaign was deliberate and coordinated. The Dread Wolf myth was used as a weapon to frighten the Evanuris, inspire hope, and manipulate belief.

“Yes, we have to keep playing up the Dread Wolf. The people need someone they believe is strong enough to protect them… Don’t worry. I promise to mock you viciously if you ever start believing those stories yourself.”  - Felassan

This wasn’t about heroism - it was about mass mobilization under existential threat. These codices suggest Felassan played a far more integral and strategic role in the rebellion than often acknowledged. He wasn’t just Solas’ lieutenant; he was a partner in both ideology and execution. 

This was myth as infrastructure. Felassan understood that when your enemies are divine, survival requires more than tactics. You need narrative power - a symbol strong enough to counter fear. The Dread Wolf, once hurled at Solas with contempt, became that symbol. And Felassan and Solas wielded it with precision. 

It’s easy to see Felassan as a wry commentator or moral counterweight to Solas, espeically when taken in hindsight of his death. And yes, Felassan is those things - but the codices reveal he's just as much the strategist as Solas, someone who helped forge the emotional weaponry of the rebellion. He didn’t just believe in the cause - he helped shape how it would be remembered. 

This is especially clear in two parts of that codex: 

“Yes, we have to keep playing up the Dread Wolf.”  “Don’t worry…” 

It reads like a continuation of an ongoing conversation. The “Yes” implies Solas has raised a concern - maybe about the direction of the symbol, perhaps discomfort with what it’s making him become - who knows, but we have missed out on some initial conversation here because Felassan’s response is affirmation and reassurance. Yes, we have to do this Solas, it’s necessary for the rebellion. But don’t worry, I’ll pull you back if it starts to consume you. That casual “Don’t worry” does heavy emotional lifting. It acknowledges the toll already settling on Solas, and Felassan, aware of it, offers the only balm he can: I won't let it consume you. 

In this way, the codex isn’t just a strategic log - it’s a record of emotional triage. As the war escalates, the emotional and ethical toll begins to shift. Felassan becomes not just a planner but a witness to a conflict spiraling beyond anyone’s control. 

“The bad news is that Andruil and Ghilan’nain made a big show of putting down a protest… Andruil left a crater where the town stood, and Ghilan’nain is using the people taken prisoner as fodder for her experiments.” 

What follows next in that codex is the line that piqued my curiosity: 

“This isn’t your fault, but still, this is exactly what I was worried about.” 

That line marks a quiet, painful evolution in Felassan’s thinking. The emotional core is regret. 

He isn’t blaming Solas - he’s acknowledging that the symbol they created is now drawing divine wrath. Each act of rebellion is met with devastation so complete, even victory feels like loss. Yet “this isn’t your fault” stands out. He knows Solas is carrying the rebellion’s cost - perhaps already retreating inward, calcifying under the burden of the costs of war. 

But “this is exactly what I was worried about,” when read alongside the other codices, suggests something deeper: guilt. Felassan sees Solas changing. The man he once teased to not take the myth too seriously is now becoming it. The line between mask and self is blurring. And Felassan, who once promised to pull him back, may no longer be able to. Part of that guilt, perhaps, comes from the knowledge that he encouraged it - that he helped craft the myth, pushed Solas to wear it, and now must watch as it consumes his friend. 

In a war like this, no one remains untouched. The Evanuris long ago abandoned morality - experimenting on the living, erasing emotions, killing without hesitation. But the rebels, too, are marked by compromise: truths sacrificed, lies forged for survival. Felassan isn’t innocent. Neither is Solas. 

Felassan helped build the myth. Solas bore it. Now, both are shaped by it in turn. 

The tragedy is that when you wield psychological warfare, there's always the risk that the story you create to move others will begin to reshape you. That’s what Felassan feared. That’s what began to happen.

And when Mythal is murdered - well, we know what happens from there.

This is part of a larger series. The first being Solas and Psychological Warfare.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Cannibals [Chapter 6: Ladybugs and Dragonflies]

Series summary: You are his sister, his lover, his betrothed despite everyone else’s protests; you have always belonged to Aemond and believe you always will. But on the night he returns from Storm’s End with horrifying news, the trajectories of your lives are irrevocably changed. Will the war of succession make your bond permanent, or destroy the twisted and fanatical love you share?

Chapter warnings: Language, a bit of sexual content (18+ readers only), references to war-related violence, pregnancy/childbirth/etc., Red and Jace should go on Marriage Boot Camp, Lady Caro tries to bond with her weird replacement daughter, a little animal abuse??

Word count: 6.2k

❤️ All my writing can be found HERE! 💙

Tagging: @themoonofthesun @chattylurker @moonfllowerr @ecstaticactus @mrs-starkgaryen, more in comments 🥰

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“How many people has he killed?” you ask as Jace takes your arm—not like Aemond would, not crushing and bruising but gently as if you are a creature with thin fragile bones, a blue jay or a bat—and leads you out of the Great Hall. The men still gathered around the letter on the table glance at you without knowing what to feel. As Jace’s wife you are their princess, you are their future queen, and yet you are Aemond’s sister and perhaps much more than that as well. Why else would he have abruptly fled Dragonstone to ravage the Riverlands, leaving Criston’s army vulnerable and scrambling to catch up?

“Thousands,” Jace says. “And there will be many more who starve because he’s torched their granaries and livestock. He’s sending ravens to the noble houses swearing that the dying will continue until you are returned to him.”

Thousands of people? Women like Mother and Helaena, children like Jaehaera and Maelor. “Let me write to him. I’ll tell him that I’m safe in hiding and not to harm any more noncombatants—”

“You think the Greens care about them?” Jace snaps as he brings you into the castle library, sparse and dusty, and you cannot help but remember the long hours Aemond spent in the Red Keep studying history, war, suturing, High Valyrian, the heroes of legends, the secrets of your body. “Daeron and Tessarion are burning people alive in the Reach. The Lannister army is pillaging every town they march through as they make their way east.”

“Jace, please, let me try.”

“Aemond isn’t going to believe a letter just because it claims to come from you.”

“There are things I can say that no one else would understand, and so he’ll know it’s really me and that I’m not acting against my will—”

“You’re not writing to him!” Jace shouts, and then collapses into a chair of pale lavender velvet and rubs his face with both hands. And you know—because he’s not someone who can easily hide what he’s feeling—that Jace is not just exhausted and frustrated but afraid. Afraid of the devastation Aemond sows, afraid of the hold he evidently still has over you. “It’s difficult for you to love someone like me, I think.”

“Yes,” you admit softly. “But I’m trying.”

Jace glares up at you; you have disappointed him. You have proven his suspicions true. “I don’t want it to take effort.”

“Isn’t it difficult for you too, Jace? To have affection for me? To see me as your wife instead of a captive enemy?”

“No,” he says. “Not anymore.”

You stand in the small neglected library—dust motes wheeling in cold grey daylight, dim nausea still churning in your belly—and watch him, feeling disoriented, feeling guilty, knowing there is nothing you can say that will help. It’s just like when Mother or Grandsire used to hint at your relationship with Aemond, grimacing with revulsion; you cannot make the accusations go away, you can only deflect. “Why would Aemond think I’m in the Riverlands?”

Jace sighs deeply, slumps in his chair, and runs his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know. Maybe because Daemon’s at Harrenhal, and Aemond assumes he arranged your travel.”

Caraxes and Sheepstealer. Can Vhagar survive them both? “Aemond won’t try to take Harrenhal, will he?”

“He might!” Jace says, throwing up his hands with exasperation. “He’s reckless, he’s bloodthirsty, he’s insane, only the gods know where his lunacy will end.”

You don’t respond to this, though it is your instinct to. He’s not insane. He once promised to find me, and now he’s keeping his word.

“Isn’t he worried he’ll harm you?” Jace mutters, almost to himself. “If he’s attacking so indiscriminately, couldn’t he inadvertently burn you too?”

“He thinks he would be able to feel it if I was close by.”

Jace stares at you. “How would he possibly know that?”

“There are a lot of things you don’t understand.”

“About him?” Jace says spitefully, as if trying to decipher Aemond’s madness is beneath him.

“About us.”

Jace studies you. “What was the nature of your relationship?” he asks after a while, and then when you hesitate: “It must have meant a lot to you both. You’re still protecting him, he’s burning down the realm for you.”

“It’s in the past.”

“But it still matters.”

“I haven’t asked you about Baela.”

“She’s not a part of this war, she’s not here anymore. Aegon saw to that. He murdered her.” Jace’s expression softens, and his voice goes tender. “We need to learn to be truthful with each other. To respect each other, to be in harmony.”

“So you don’t repeat the sins of your parents,” you fling at him like a stone.

“Yes,” Jace agrees. “And because I love you.”

“Why do you keep using that word?”

“Because we’re married.”

“You don’t know who I am.”

“I want to. But you have to let me do it.”

“You won’t like the real me.” No one does. No one except Aegon, Helaena, Daeron, Aemond.

Again Jace asks: “What was the nature of your relationship?”

You look helplessly at the books stacked on the shelves, chronicles of plants, animals, ailments, battles, gods, heroes, dragons. Mounted high on the wall is Lady Forlorn, the Valyrian steel longsword of House Corbray, possessed by the elderly Lord Leowyn but no longer wielded by him. If you stood on your tiptoes, you would be able to reach it. Near the center of the room is a large globe of the world with the unknown reaches left blank. You walk to it, spin it slowly, stop when your fingertips land on the broken ruins of Old Valyria.

I wish we were still there. That’s where we belong. Aemond and I would be married, and Aegon would be unburned, and Jaehaerys would still be alive, and perhaps I’d even have a dragon.

“You and Aemond were close,” Jace says.

“Yes,” you confess.

“Mother said that Alicent told her you shared a flirtation.”

“We did.”

“And that entailed…what?”

“Just words, mostly.”

“You’re lying.” Jace stands and rages to you, his words halfway between a threat and a plea. “Stop lying to me.”

You can’t catch your breath, you can’t think. Your skull pulses hotly, your stomach roils, the scar on the left side of your chest aches where Aemond stitched you back together. Jace can’t hurt me, he can’t break our mothers’ pact and undo this marriage. Not if I’m carrying his child. “Jace, I don’t feel well—”

“You know about your body. The way you kiss, the way you move, the High Valyrian…you learned it somewhere.” And you can see in Jace’s face—the attractive yet unextraordinary face of a Strong—that he is terrified you learned it from Aemond. “What did you do with him?”

Your head feels like a shell struck with a mallet, splintering, shattering. Your arteries and veins have turned to currents of magma beneath the black volcanic rocks of Dragonstone. “Everything except what happened on our wedding night.”

Jace’s dark eyes widen, then drop to your breasts, your waist, your hips. “Everything…?”

“Except that, yes. What could result in a child was saved for my husband.” Aemond could never father a bastard. He would sooner die than debase himself like Rhaenyra did.

“You mean…surely you didn’t…” Still, Jace is gaping at you, his words slow and stunned. “I’ve heard stories from the soldiers, vulgar and wicked, strange ways of coupling, sins they commit with whores in brothels so they don’t leave children in their bellies to be murdered or abandoned…but…but you’re not…”

“Then you are adequately educated and we need not expound on it further. You got the truth you asked for. I hope you’re satisfied.”

Jace reaches for the sword at his belt, grips the hilt, then releases it. Instead he kicks over the globe—it hits the stone floor with a reverberating boom—and points to the door. “Get out of my sight.”

“Why are you mad at me?!” You are drained and dismayed, and then you’re furious. “I answered your questions, I was honest with you. You wanted to be in harmony and you believed this is what it would take. I tried to protect you from it. You insisted upon being hurt.”

“You told me you were a virgin.”

“And I was, you know that.”

“But he still fucked you,” Jace hisses. “In every other way. Things no decent lady would ever do. So that, what, he could rob your future husband? So he could degrade and humiliate you?”

“It wasn’t about that! He wanted to feel close to me, he wanted to please me, and perhaps you don’t care about pleasing a woman but I know for a fact Aemond did.”

Jace turns away from you. Again, his hand rests on the hilt of his blade. “You’re sinful, you’re disgusting. I can’t believe I’m fated to be bound to you for a lifetime.”

“You aren’t a Targaryen,” you seethe in High Valyrian, words you know he can’t comprehend, and you can feel your gaze scorching and cold mountain air on your bared teeth. “You can’t fathom the fury, the lust, the violence, the fire and the blood. We aren’t like the people of any other house. And we aren’t supposed to be.”

“Stop it,” Jace orders you.

“You’re not the blood of the dragon. You’re just some bastard built of ordinary things.”

“Get out!” Jace roars, and you flee from the library, from the castle, yanking on your boots and fox fur coat left by the entranceway and bolting out into the snow. It is halfway up your shins and coated with a layer of ice that crunches as you plod through it towards the tree line. You aren’t supposed to go into the forest of towering pines—not even with guards, and certainly not alone—but all your life you have been doing things you aren’t supposed to and it hasn’t killed you yet, and even if it did this time, what would be lost? Your imprisonment with a man who hates you? Cold snowbound misery here in some forgotten corner of the Vale?

I can’t save Aemond. Jace will never listen to me now.

Under the shade of the pines, so thick their dark green needles interlace like lovers’ fingers and blot out the sunless grey daylight, you find a felled tree and push snow off the trunk with the sleeves of your coat. Then you climb up onto it to sit, your boots swinging just off the ground, a frigid breeze billowing down from the Mountains of the Moon to make you shudder. Your right hand settles on your belly, where you are increasingly sure—now that you think back to how long it’s been since your last bleeding—that you are carrying Jace’s child. You don’t want it there, you have no maternal inclinations toward it whatsoever. You wonder if you can somehow sneak unnoticed into the storeroom of the maester here at Heart’s Home and find the ingredients for moon tea. But you don’t know how to brew it. You’ve never had any need of it before.

I’m not in the Riverlands, you think as loudly as you can, peering up into the trees and listening for the deep rumbling of Vhagar’s screams, the maelstrom of wind she stirs up. Aemond, I’m here in the Vale with House Corbray. Come find me. Come bring me home.

But you’ve never been able to make him hear you by your own volition, just like you can’t control your glimpses into his mind. And you fear Aemond wouldn’t want you back the way you are now.

Whether Jace or Aemond, either would be convinced the other ruined me.

You don’t feel ruined. You don’t feel like a different person at all; you don’t believe that any man has ever changed your strangeness, your desire, your love, your ferocity, your dreams of flying. But the world seems so fixed in its rules, and Old Valyria is gone, and perhaps now the Targaryens and their dragons are meant to be too.

There is the sound of crunching snow, and you look around expecting to see a bear or a shadowcat, something to maul you to death and drag your carcass away to be picked to the bones. Instead, it is Jace, and he has hurried outside in such a rush that he has forgotten his coat. He stops when he sees you and stands there silently in his black and red, the colors of his mother’s house, shivering but trying not to show it.

“You aren’t supposed to be out here,” he says at last.

“I know.”

“It’s dangerous.”

“And you’d be so devastated if I was devoured by a shadowcat.”

Jace sighs and pulls himself up onto the tree trunk to sit beside you. “My father had a temper,” he says, then flushes and gazes down at his own footprints in the snow, ashamed. “Harwin Strong, I mean. He had a temper.”

You are gentler with him now. It must be painful to lose a father who cares about you. “Yes, I’ve heard that.”

Jace looks over at you. “Did you have a choice in the matter?” With what happened with Aemond, he means.

Mother’s words echo in your throbbing skull: You don’t know better. You never had a choice. “It felt like I did at the time. Now I’m not so sure.”

“What kind of an answer is that?”

“Did you have a choice in loving Baela?” you ask, and Jace frowns thoughtfully. “She was your circumstances, she was beyond your ability to resist. But still you grew to love her as if she had been the wife of your choosing.”

“You loved him? That monster?”

“It’s very hard to explain.”

“Did he love you?”

“I don’t know,” you reply honesty. If he did, he never said it.

Jace reaches for your right hand and you let him grasp it. The motion is a bit awkward, but Jace is warm. Flurries fall from an overcast sky. “Neither of us wanted this match. I imagine we both fought against it with equal passion. But now it has happened, and nothing can unravel this bind we find ourselves in. We were wed in the eyes of the Seven. We consummated the marriage. You are my wife and I will never lie with another woman. And I don’t have any desire to. Whatever happened before, whatever we or our kinsmen did, we have to move beyond it. There was betrayal and death, and there was love too, and yet all of it must be worked through if this marriage is to succeed.”

“Not a simple task,” you murmur.

“No,” Jace says. “It isn’t. But I’ll try to do better. As your husband, it is my responsibility to protect and cherish you, not to be envious or cruel or wrathful. I shouldn’t have blamed you for what happened when we hated each other. I shouldn’t have ridiculed you for the effects of Aemond’s perverse influence. And I do want to know the real you, even if that hurts me sometimes.”

You watch the flurries whirl in the steel-colored air, feeling nauseous and dizzy and weary and fading away like the snowflakes melting into Jace’s dark hair. “I need to go lie down.”

Jace seems alarmed. “Are you ill?”

“I think it worked.”

He furrows his brow at you. “What worked?”

“Our efforts in the marriage bed. And in the stable.”

He blinks at you, startled, and then he smiles more luminously than you’ve ever seen him, and you think: I should be happy too. I should want this child. But I don’t, I don’t, I know I don’t. Jace rests his head against yours, his curls tickling your cheek, and whispers: “I am your family now.”

“Yes,” you say, a lie.

~~~~~~~~~~

Winter descends slowly, like a fever in reverse: cold that swims in your bloodstream, bone marrow turned to ice. Snow falls, ices over, melts on warmer days, is covered by a fresh blanket of powdery white. Daeron and the Hightower army wage war in the Reach. Aemond and the Lannister army besiege the Riverlands as Criston and his men march to join them. Aegon is missing. Sunfyre is presumed dead. Mother is still held in the dungeons of the Red Keep, along with Larys Strong, Tyland Lannister, Jasper Wylde, and a number of other political prisoners. Helaena is confined to her rooms but—as the result of Jace’s intervention—allowed to see her surviving children and walk in the garden under the supervision of armed guards. Rhaenyra rules over King’s Landing, a city that grows more restless and more hostile as Lord Celtigar’s taxes are levied and rumors of your disappearance spread. All over Westeros, people are starving and suffering and dying. And you are here, an island marooned in an ocean of mist and rocks, a remote land of the First Men and the Andals, earth you feel you do not belong on.

Jace and Vermax fly over the mountains and head south to King’s Landing, where Vermithor and Seasmoke circle high above the city and keep the riots from swelling to rebellions. You are left at Heart’s Home, and each night Sapphire flaps through the open window to visit you in your bedchamber when you are alone, and each morning you nurse your nausea and headaches in bed: mugs of cinnamon tea, toast with a thin scrape of butter and blackberry jam, nips of milk of the poppy that the maester allows you on particularly bad days.

“That is very skillful work,” he notes once when he spots your scar as he applies cold wet cloths to your throat and collarbones to bring down your fever. “Though I should not be surprised. I have heard that Maester Orwyle is among the best healers in the realm.”

“He is,” you say. “But Prince Aemond was the person who mended me.” After assassins sent by one of your Blacks beheaded a child and nearly killed me too.

But you know by the expression on the maester’s face—bewildered, disturbed, shrinking away from the unmistakable fondness in your voice—that you cannot speak of Aemond this way, that you should not speak of him at all, that no one here will ever see him as anything but the monster who murdered Luke and Rhaenys, who is presently raining dragonfire down on the Riverlands. And with each passing hour, day, week, month, you wonder if he really is a monster, and if you invented every soft moment you ever believed you shared, and if you would have chosen him if he hadn’t been the one who laid claim to you since birth.

By afternoon you are usually better, and Lady Caro drags you around trying to transform you into a woman of the Vale. She shows you how to tend to the goats and turn their milk into cheese and soap. She forces you to embroider dull scenes of snowcapped mountains and winding rivers. She sings—bellowing and off-key—the ballads of her childhood as you beg her to stop before it has some malevolent effect upon the baby. She brings you insipid-colored gowns tailored to accommodate your growing belly. She brushes your hair and tries out new styles constantly. She accompanies you for dinner each night and implores you to eat enough to make up for the breakfast and lunch you missed due to illness.

“I was horrified when my parents first told me I was to marry Lord Corbray,” she tells you one night as you dine on stew made from potatoes and peas and the meat of shaggy, black-haired yaks that roam the rugged terrain of the Vale, the fire crackling and her full cheeks ever-pink. Lady Caro is not one to ever run out of stories. She could have entire conversations all by herself, you are convinced. “I wasn’t even twenty yet and he was forty-five, and I thought that he was just…so…so old! But as it turned out, there are advantages to having an old husband. He treated me like I was the most beautiful woman in the world. He was too tired to chase after mistresses like all my sisters’ husbands did. And men with more experience…well…they understand how to please a wife in the marriage bed. Even if his male parts aren’t cooperating, he knows he has two hands and a tongue. And that’s all I’ll say!”

“I wish you’d say less,” you tease as you scoop up a spoonful of stew.

“And he was kind about it when we lost our children,” Lady Caro continues, soberly now. And she goes away, like she does sometimes, staring blankly at the window or the wall or the fireplace without seeing anything. “And then when Jessamyn was married and left for Seagard. Oh, that was an awful day for me.” Outside in the darkness wolves howl and owls hoot, and Lady Caro returns. “Do you know what Lord Corbray said to me last week?”

“What?”

“That my spirits are much improved since Prince Jacaerys brought you here. He thinks you remind me of Jessamyn, and so I get to be a mother again.”

“Did he really?”

“Yes! And of course I told him that he was absolutely mistaken, that you’re an odd and disobedient thing, always ruining your embroidery, sneaking off into the forest where you know you aren’t supposed to be, dodging all my kind words and soothing embraces. You’re nothing at all like my lovely sweet docile affectionate daughter.”

You smile mischievously. “I’m kind of like your daughter.”

Lady Caro snorts. “If you were my daughter, I’d walk straight into the ocean and drown myself.”

And you both burst out laughing, so loudly that Lord Leowyn Corbray overhears and ambles into the Great Hall to investigate the cause of the commotion.

When Jace returns, he is worn down: by the journey, by the tremendous suffering throughout the realm, by being overruled by his mother and her council. He tells you as you lie in bed together that night, Jace’s head resting on your belly and your fingers combing absentmindedly through his hair: “It never used to be this way.”

“Before the war, you mean?”

“Yeah,” Jace murmurs, kissing the place where his child lives. You wish you felt such devotion to it. You wish you felt anything. Mostly, you try to pretend it doesn’t exist. “We were able to speak kindly to each other. Mother was always reading stories and playing games with us. And Daemon…he and I were never especially close. But we didn’t quarrel. I respected him as my stepfather, and as the husband of my mother’s choosing. But he hasn’t earned that loyalty.” Jace is quiet for a while, and you assume he’s dozed off until he speaks again. “It changed all of us. Grandsire dying, Aegon trying to take Mother’s throne, Luke and Baela being killed. I suspect that in Nettles, Daemon sees Baela and my mother when she was young, and that’s why he’s grown so…attached to her.”

You wonder: Will Aemond find someone who makes him think of me?

Jace gets up to extinguish the candles. The window is closed so Sapphire can’t get in; you don’t think Jace would approve. Mosaics of the faces of your lost family hang on the walls, but when the candles are blown out no one can see them. You feel the feather mattress shift as Jace climbs back into bed and turns toward you.

“We don’t have to anymore,” you say. I’m already pregnant.

“No, you’re right. We don’t.”

But then in the darkness you reach for him—your body starving for passion, your bones cold—and this time it is slow and intense and brilliant, and Jace learns how to touch you, and although he is never as rough or as primal as you crave he does not leave you unsatisfied. And each time he and Vermax vanish into the mist-colored sky above Heart’s Home, you discover that you miss him more.

The Triarchy arrive with ninety warships at the mouth of Blackwater Bay—and you knew they were coming, but Jace didn’t—and the Sea Snake’s fleet repels them, but not before half his vessels sink to the bottom of the ocean and Seasmoke is killed by a bolt from one of the countless scorpions mounted on the Triarchy’s ships. Corlys, wounded in battle and having lost a wife, three children, a granddaughter, and a grandson, is unable to fight on and is brought to recuperate in the Red Keep. In the taverns of King’s Landing, Jace finds a Targaryen bastard called Ulf the White to ride Silverwing, who is claimed during a clandestine trip under the cover of nightfall to Dragonstone while Aemond is leagues away in the Riverlands. One less free dragon in the world, one more person judged worthy in ways you aren’t.

Without Jace’s knowledge or approval, Rhaenyra sends ravens instructing the loyal houses of the Riverlands to capture Nettles and bring her south to King’s Landing to be tried for treason. House Mooton of Maidenpool, fearful of Daemon’s retribution (as he and Caraxes are based nearby at Harrenhal), inform the prince consort of the plot. Daemon sends Nettles and Sheepstealer away—to where, exactly, no one knows—and then flies north to offer protection to Cregan Stark’s army so they will agree to invade the Riverlands. In his absence, Aemond and Vhagar take Harrenhal, and both the Lannister army and Criston’s men follow him there and dig in to wait for the Northmen.

When Jace is able to return to Heart’s Home to stay with you for a few days or a week, he tries to win your trust and show you that you have his. He tells you of the Blacks’ war strategies and that Rhaenyra has hidden Rhaena, Joffrey, and her silver-haired sons with Daemon, Aegon and Viserys, in the Eyrie with Lady Jeyne Arryn. And while Jace is here, you enjoy walking through the snow with him and visiting the horses in the stable, and at night you fall willingly into the shelter of his arms. But when he’s gone again, the pieces of yourself you have tried to smother come back to life.

You dream of being locked in a closet or a trunk and pounding on the wood for hours, but Aemond never returns to let you out. You startle when you see your reflection and don’t recognize yourself with your hair in the styles of the Vale. You recall Helaena placing ladybugs in your palms and watching them scurry up your forearms like blood drops. You feel your fingers yearning to swipe, to claw, to fight, to be pinned and overpowered. You remember when you taunted Aemond with words he once said in the garden of the Red Keep—“If I ran, do you think you could catch me?”—and he had bolted after you and chased you through the halls as you both laughed wildly, slamming each other into walls and doorframes as horrified onlookers gawked, dragging each other to the floor, until you had crawled on sore palms and knees into your bedchamber and Aemond finally caught you, rolled you onto your back, held your wrists to the floor as he climbed on top of you, and aching so badly it had put tears in your eyes you had begged for what you knew he could not yet give you.

You receive a vision through Aemond’s eye once, and only once, late on a night when Jace is hopelessly far away and you are petting Sapphire as he sits in your lap, his shiny black eyes gazing adoringly up at you and his fanlike ears twitching as they listen to your words. Abruptly you are in a different firelit bedchamber in another castle, and within Aemond’s skull is a turbulent sea of grief, fury, disgust, desire, and you see—who is that?—a flash of long dark hair.

Then Aemond is gone, but for only a few seconds he felt so close and so real that you are left breathless, broken, missing him more than you thought was possible now that you’re another man’s wife and carry his dark-haired heir in your belly.

Does he touch someone else? Does he love someone else?

You curl up on the cold stone floor and sob as Sapphire clings to your shoulder.

I can never go back to who I was before.

Then why is it so hard to forget her?

~~~~~~~~~~

Jace is gone again, and has been for weeks. You hope he is back before the baby is born. By custom, men do not enter the birthing chamber, but you still want him in the castle. It would make you feel less alone, here in the cold windswept Vale where Targaryens were never meant to be, here where an icy stream almost took your life when you were a child after Aemond pushed you in. Lady Caro and the maester say your labor will begin soon, but this seems impossible. The baby you carry has never felt real—not even when it kicks, not even when it puts aches in your spine and your hips—and you try not to think of it too much because what it makes you feel are only sinful things that anyone else would be horrified by: indifference, inconvenience, disconnection, disbelief.

You are in your bedchamber and Sapphire is here with you. He scrabbles clumsily around the floor as you work on your latest mosaic of shattered seashells. It’s the first one you’d made of Jace, and you are trying to figure out how best to place the black shards to mimic his curls. You are being a good wife. You are trying to believe that he is your family now.

The bedroom door opens and Jace sails in with his red cloak streaming out behind him, beaming now that he is home with you and his soon-to-be-born child. Before you can say anything, Sapphire takes flight and swoops at Jace, curious, benevolent, making new friends. Jace gasps and knocks him to the ground.

“Don’t!” you shriek, but it’s already happening: Jace stomps on the bat twice, but once would have been enough. Fragile bones are snapped and crushed, blood gushes out onto the grey stone floor. You’re wailing as you race across the room and cradle Sapphire’s limp body, his black and white fur a satchel of hemorrhaging organs and shifting bone splinters. His eyes are lifeless.

“What?” Jace is asking, desperate to help you but not realizing what he’s done. “What’s wrong with you? It’s a wild animal, it could give you diseases, it could harm you or the baby—”

“You know I love bats,” you sob.

“What?! No I don’t, what are you talking about?!”

“On the ship!” you shout, enraged now. “I told you on the ship when you brought me here!” When you trapped me, when you stole me.

Jace is blinking in disbelief. “That was nine months ago.”

He doesn’t remember. He doesn’t care. When he tries to comfort you, you push him away so violently his back hits the wall. You snarl at him in High Valyrian, words he cannot understand but a tone that is unmistakable: “You don’t listen to me. You don’t know me. Get out, get out, I don’t want you here.” And Jace storms out of the room simmering with his own disappointments, grieving that he will never have a wife who is sweet and compliant and comprehensible.

You want to burn Sapphire’s body so he can have the burial of a Targaryen, but the maids pour into your bedchamber and take him away as you try to fight them. They scrub his blood off the floor and make you change into a clean nightgown, and afterwards as you lie in bed with venomous tears snaking down your cheeks, you feel that everyone expects the person you were before to die and a new woman to reveal herself, but you can’t kill who you are—sometimes you wish you could, but you can’t—and there is a vague ache in your lower belly as you sink into dark, homesick dreams.

You wake at midnight in horrible pain, like the cramps you once had when you bled each month, but sharper and stronger and rather than letting up getting closer together until they are unrelenting. You stagger to the door, pink-tinged fluid leaking onto the floor, and call for the maids. They wake Lady Caro and the maester, then fetch linens and hot water and cold cloths. Lady Caro’s voice is calm, and her large hands are always there to seize with a crushing grip or help you stumble around the room. She tells you that Jace has been informed you’re in labor and that he is pacing in the library, where Lord Corbray is gamely trying to distract him.

I can’t be in labor. This baby isn’t real, this place isn’t real, I want to go home.

The maester thinks you should stay in bed, but you crawl down onto the floor and kneel there as contractions rip through you, and when he tries to urge you back into bed Lady Caro shushes him. The pain is very bad, and then awful, and then excruciating, and now you are convinced something has gone wrong and you cry out as your palms press into the cold stone floor.

“It’s not ladylike to scream,” Lady Caro says patiently, and you yowl at her and shove her away, and she laughs and comes back to cool your face with a cloth pulled from a bucket filled with snow. “It will be over soon. Right when you feel like you can no longer bear it, that’s when the baby will be born and the pain will subside.”

You look at her with sweated, exhausted terror. “Don’t pretend women don’t die doing this.” Rhaenyra’s mother Aemma did.

“Oh, they do, they do,” Lady Caro says. “But you won’t.”

Aemond would be here if I was his wife. “Please get Jace,” you tell her. “Can you bring him here? Please?”

Lady Caro glances anxiously at the maester and the maids. “Men aren’t usually permitted in the birthing chamber.”

“Please,” you moan. I’m dying. I’m afraid. I don’t want to be alone.

“Alright.” She squeezes your shoulder and then rubs your back reassuringly. “Let me go talk to him.”

It seems like Lady Caro is gone for a long time, but it must only be minutes. The maester is saying things you aren’t listening to, the maids are darting around franticly. It’s been a very long time since a baby was born in this castle. Then there are new footsteps in the room, swift and purposeful.

“I’m here,” Jace says, crouching down on the floor beside you. You clutch for him and he catches your hand, then kisses your knuckles. He chuckles nervously. “I don’t know what to do, but I’m here.”

“I’m sorry,” you whimper pitifully. “I don’t want to die with you mad at me.”

“I’m not mad,” Jace promises, and his lips travel to your cheek, your temple, your ear. “I’m not mad. I love you. I’ll get you new bats.”

There is unimaginable pain, and pressure, and blood too. Jace holds you as Lady Caro reaches beneath your red-stained nightgown and says you are almost done, a few more pushes and the baby will be here and the agony in the past; and while you still even now cannot fathom being a mother to anyone, let alone this child you cannot admit you don’t want, this encourages you. You shriek as the baby is born in a torrent of fire and blood, and Lady Caro catches him in a sheet that turns instantly from white to crimson.

“A boy!” Lady Caro is announcing, and the baby is crying as she and the maester clean him, and Jace is weeping ecstatically and asking to see his son, but you don’t even glance in his direction.

I don’t want this child, you think through the dissipating pain and the relief that the worst is over. I don’t want this life.

“Dear, you should hold him,” Lady Caro says gently, and before you can protest she places the child, no longer crying and wrapped snuggly in a blanket patterned with blue dragonflies, into your arms.

And although of course he does not look like a Targaryen—dark hair already twisting into curls, black eyelashes and Jace’s nose—when you gaze down at him it feels as if everyone you’ve ever lost has been returned to you, Aegon and Helaena and Daeron, Jaehaerys and Jaehaera and Maelor, a mother who understands you, a father who is present, Grandsire smiling proudly at you like he once smiled at Helaena, and even Aemond’s ghost (who haunts doorways and staircases, bedchambers and libraries); and when Jace marvels at the baby’s tiny wrinkled hands you know he is remembering Luke, and Harwin Strong, and Laenor Velaryon, and Baela, and he has forgiven you for all of it.

“We are your family now,” Jace says, and for the first time you believe him.

[synchodai]

When I say Tyland Lannister is my favorite character...

I am being 100% dead serious. Here is why I prefer this seemingly average nobleman over the many many many fan favorites in Fire and Blood.

Tyland Lannister is a second son in a story about second sons. Whether his feelings on this are as strong as Aemond's or Daemon's, we never know for sure in the books, but it's obvious that he's subservient to a mirror image of himself who only has more authority because of a few seconds separation between twins. It's a great display of both the arbitrariness and rigidity of succession.

His initial role in the Dance is as the master of coin for the greens. He's depicted as a typical Lannister: charming, comely, and cunning. He did what any savvy accountant would do and divided the crown's treasury amongst different allied regions for safe-keeping, ensuring that if King's Landing were sacked, their enemies wouldn't loot their coffers dry and they'd still have plenty of gold for their war efforts.

And of course, King's Landing gets sacked. Tyland is put in the black cells and ordered to be tortured by Rhaenyra to extract the gold's whereabouts. Winter is coming, people are starving and rioting, her army is dwindling, so she desperately needs that gold. Tyland is gelded, maimed, disfigured, and blinded but the torturers get nothing out of him.

Mind you, this man has been a rich, pampered bureaucrat all his life and he endured all that without breaking. When Aegon II releases Tyland from those cells, he has no fingernails, his eyes have been gouged out and/or sewn shut, this man who was once known for his good looks doesn't look human anymore — but he still manages to maintain his wits so much so that he plays an important role after the Dance.

Even with Rhaenyra dead, there are still armies raising their banners for her eldest surviving son, Aegon Trois. Tyland tells Adult Aegon to kill Child Aegon because obviously, the latter threatens the former's claim and Tyland's understandably angry over what his mom did. Aegon Dos is like, nah, I'll keep the boy hostage instead — that'll keep the armies at bay more than outright killing him.

So Tyland volunteers to go to Myr to hire sellswords for Aegon 2 since their armies are pretty much kaput after six years of this civil war. Tyland is blind at this point I remind you — there is a huge chance this man will never get to go home again. But he does it anyway, because even after years of fighting, he keeps his unwavering loyalty to the monarch he declared for.

Aegon II dies while Tyland is in Myr, and Tyland goes back to Westeros just in time to see Cregan Stark use his powers as the new Hand to marry Aegon III and Princess Jaehaera to unite the green and black sides. Cregan dusts off his hands, says my work here is done, warns the boy king not to trust anyone, then leaves for the North for everyone else to sort this mess out.

Now comes the part where Tyland shines as a character. He becomes the Hand of Aegon III and when you see his policies detailed in the book, it's clear that his goal is focused on repairs and renumerations. After what happened to him, he has every right to be spiteful and bitter against the blacks, but instead he "claimed a curious failure of memory, insisting that he could not recall who had been black and who had been green." He abolished the heavy taxes imposed on the smallfolk, sent out gold to lords whose holdings had been devastated during war, and set out to rebuild the Realm's granaries and fleet. Cleaning up is a tedious, unglamorous job — and because of his monstrous appearance and former allegiances, Tyland was looked upon with distrust.

And yet, while other regents grasped for power and tried taking advantage of the 13-year-old King Aegon III, Tyland seemed to be different. If he wanted power he could have married his twin brother's widow and convinced the boy-king to route more resources towards Casterly Rock and the Westerlands. But he didn't.

Instead, he genuinely seemed to be a father figure to Aegon III.

Tyland Lannister, blind and crippled, had always treated the king with deference, speaking to him gently, seeking to guide rather than command.

And for that, many lords saw him as a weak Hand. But Aegon, who cared for very little and never laughed and was always sullen, seemed to care for Tyland.

When the plague ravaged King's Landing, Tyland dutifully prioritized it over quashing the Ironborn raids at Lannisport. He was the last person to become afflicted with the Winter Fever, and the king sat by his Hand's side during his final hours. When the council starts discussing who should be the new Hand, Aegon (the boy who rarely ever speaks) says:

I would have Lord Rowan as my Hand. Ser Tyland thought well enough of him to offer him my sister’s hand in marriage, so I know he can be trusted.

This boy trusted Tyland, the man who only years ago wanted him dead.

So it's easy to imagine that this man saw Aegon III as the boy he was responsible for, as the son he could never have because of what the war had done to him. Tyland Lannister was a broken man who despite losing everything, his king and his brother and himself, kept a broken Realm and broken boy together when everyone else swarmed like vultures just trying to pick at carcasses.

What motivated this man's loyalty for a boy whose mother mutilated him? Did he regret pushing for the death of an innocent child and this was his penance? Did this man who gave everything for his cause think that this boy was something that could still give all that sacrifice and tragedy meaning? Was the mercy and kindness he afforded an apology for the horrifying trauma that scarred this boy — did he feel responsible for his mother's downfall and the failure to save his uncle? Did his disfigurement and blindness allow him to let go of the man he once was and become someone capable of seeing the folly of pride and power?

Here is his obituary in Fire and Blood:

Ser Tyland Lannister had never been beloved. After the death of Queen Rhaenyra, he had urged Aegon II to put her son Aegon to death as well, and certain blacks hated him for that. Yet after the death of Aegon II, he had remained to serve Aegon III, and certain greens hated him for that. Coming second from his mother’s womb, a few heartbeats after his twin brother, Jason, had denied him the glory of lordship and the gold of Casterly Rock, leaving him to make his own place in the world. Ser Tyland never married nor fathered children, so there were few to mourn him when he was carried off. The veil he wore to conceal his disfigured face gave rise to the tale that the visage underneath was monstrous and evil. Some called him craven for keeping Westeros out of the Daughters’ War and doing so little to curb the Greyjoys in the west. By moving three-quarters of the Crown’s gold from King’s Landing whilst Aegon II’s master of coin, Tyland Lannister had sown the seeds of Queen Rhaenyra’s downfall, a stroke of cunning that would in the end cost him his eyes, ears, and health, and cost the queen her throne and her very life. Yet it must be said that he served Rhaenyra’s son well and faithfully as Hand.

Tyland wasn't extraordinarily badass, noble, or even skilled. He was an excellent politician but no way the best. But I think that's what makes him compelling to me — that he's this down-to-earth depiction of a POW, a war veteran by all accounts, trying to pick up the pieces and slowly glue what remains of the Realm and himself back into something vaguely human.

We tell so many stories about the glory, the tragedy, and the losses of war. But I think it's important and beautiful to tell stories of those bravely and optimistically choosing to keep living in the aftermath as well.

[messiahzzz]

i have seen several posts around that addressed how discouraging gale from taking the crown of karsus is “keeping him from realizing his true potential.” that tara is merely upset at his choice, instead of being utterly devastated at the loss of her little love. that it’s not a bad ending per se because to get there he didn’t need to sacrifice 7000 innocent souls in the process. gale isn’t continuing the cycle of abuse either, he still appears to love tav and does come back for them to offer them ascension. he wants them to be equal, so it can’t possibly be an unhealthy dynamic, right?

but what of gale himself, his own convictions, values, and everything he holds dear? everything flawed and human that shaped him into the person he is?

player: are you saying you want to ascend? claim godhood?

gale: no, not like that. i don't want to join them. i want to better them. a god's powers, paired with a mortal conscience, a mortal heart.

gale’s motivation for acquiring godhood is that he will able to aid mortals in a way no other god has ever done before. he won’t hide behind pretense nor require blind devotion of his followers. he will understand and be able to empathize. he wholeheartedly believes that he will be different - he will act.

gale: [..] the gods could aid us if they wished, but instead they cower behind ao. so let us act ourselves.

gale believes that by becoming a god he will kill two birds with one stone: aid mortals and acquire enough power to quash any of his insecurities and enemies in the process. that by ridding himself of every perceived flaw he'll finally feel like he will have enough to offer - maybe, just maybe he'll even be content. his flaws are merely holding him back from becoming the best version of himself, and by ridding himself of everything fallible, he will be whole. maybe this is what all of his suffering has led up to. maybe the orb chose him. maybe the reason he had to endure all the pain, isolation, and excruciating loneliness was so that he could realize that he was meant for something even greater. after all, power feeds ambition. and what is more powerful than a god? his convictions were certainly naive, he possesses enough knowledge to know better. don't get me wrong, part of him definitely wants to spite mystra a lil. but his intentions at that time were mostly pure. a reflection of his self-hatred and feelings of inadequacy.

player: this is wrong, gale. that power will corrupt you, even if you can seize it.

gale: it won't, i swear to you. it's merely a tool - a means to an end.

once we meet gale at the party in his new godlike form, it is apparent that even with all the power at his fingertips, he has reached no greater knowledge about himself. his insecurities are still as present as before, he merely is less subtle in his compensation - repeatedly highlighting his grandeur and how dull life on faerun is compared to the wonders of elysium. it is also genuinely crushing to see how little he thinks of himself even now.

gale: i was nothing. a drifting dust mote of a wizard, abandoned by my goddess, my powers lost, my reputation destroyed. and look at me now. i'm their proof.

any perceived dismissal of his Greatness™ is met with immediate disdain.

gale: a bold decision to treat a divine being with such cold indifference.

nodecontext: aloof, annoyed you weren't impressed with him

gale: you mortals do love to live dangerously, don't you?

nodecontext: the slightest hint of a threat - you've probably made an enemy here today. or at least, you've lost a friend.

he is still desperate to impress. emphasizing what an honor it is that a new-born god chose to bless their little soiree with his presence. gaze upon all his divine glory! gale has now become the embodiment of everything he criticized about the gods. his original intentions and plans are discarded and long forgotten. he assuages his erstwhile companions by telling them to simply pray to him, in case they should ever require aid. if they're lucky and their ambition pleases him, he might even deliver.

player: what does the 'god of ambition' offer to his followers?

gale: i 'offer' them nothing. i inspire them to seize their destinies for themselves.

player: interesting, so you help mortals help themselves?

gale: precisely. though that isn't to say i'm averse to the odd bit of direct encouragement.

gale: [..] my aims are set a little higher than offering cursory blessings to just any half-decent spellcaster.

gale: regardless, ethical quandaries are more the remit of my mortal devotees. they do love to talk, and faerun is starting to listen.

aiding "any half-decent spellcaster" is unbefitting of his status. he isn't concerned with questions of ethics and morality either. deeming such matters beneath his divine capabilities.

once gale has ascended and established his domain, what remains of the gale we knew? what of his mortal heart?

minthara: your ambition is not cruel, but you fear that if you indulge it, you will lose yourself in the mysteries of the weave and unravel the world.

minthara: you are afraid of so many things, and it is that fear that keeps you true to yourself.

gale did lose himself and ultimately became one of his biggest fears. considering that his existence as a being of pure ambition leads him to constantly seek out greater heights, it isn't farfetched to believe that raphael's prediction will indeed come true.

player[astarion]: ambition? finally, a god i can get behind...

gale: i assure you, this is merely the prelude to a far grander vision. elysium's in for something of a shake-up.

all that remains of gale is a thin veneer of the person he used to be. what he presents is a hollow echo of the old gale. he does retain some of his mannerisms and quirks, but he is definitely a lot colder and more condescending. if his personality already changed that drastically after a duration of only 6 months, what will he inevitability turn into when he has eternity at his disposal?

essentially, you are aiding gale in the eradication of himself. eradicating everything about him that made him into the loveable, charismatic, awkward, kind, buoyant person he was. everything about him that he perceived as defective, flawed, and lesser-than. before, his hubris was merely an expression of his own discontentment and low self-worth, but now he is hubris incarnate. all of his worst qualities have been amplified.

gale: i am ambition incarnate. as indistinguishable from that most potent sensation as mystra herself is from the weave. and word is spreading.

nodecontext: palpable, almost unsettling excitement from him - hint of megalomania

he put his trust in tav, trusting their judgment and relying on them to nudge him in the right direction. after all, they had plenty of opportunities to show him that they are an ally worth following and confiding in. but in the end, the prospect of what he could be, the things he could give them, the enemies he could yet conquer, won over the desire to simply accept him and help him rebuild a life on solid ground. tav denied him the unconditional love he craves most out of their own selfish desires.

tara: you were looking out for him. i expected better of you.

as i've already mentioned, gale desires nothing more than to be seen, accepted, loved, and valued. having a partner who wholeheartedly supports and believes in him is enough to make him feel content. most importantly - he just wants to live. to enjoy life with everything it has to offer. his ambition can’t be quenched because he hungers still. believing that only by acquiring more power will he finally be enough and reach said acceptance.

we see in his good ending that his own contentment was even able to influence and (temporarily) sate the orb's ever-present hunger:

gale: [..] or perhaps the orb's hunger was fuelled by my own, and my contentment influences it in much the same way.

gale: that's how i feel with you - content. it's a rather unfamiliar feeling, i must say. not something gale of waterdeep ever craved.

it is devastating that he doesn't reach the same feeling of fulfillment if he chooses to pursue godhood, and is instead compelled to continuously surpass his own accomplishments. not being granted rest or reprieve.

gale: i achieved everything we hoped i would, and still i'm not good enough for you?

gale pursuing godhood isn't evidence that he "has been evil all along" or that he "just waited to be unleashed" either. we can't diminish tav's influence in this outcome, they are after all an extension of the player. able to steer every companion toward a path of redemption or to enable them in their worst traits. fandom has already established that by letting astarion ascend you are actively supporting him in becoming the very thing he despises most, putting your own ambitions and idea of what you want him to be above his healing, this is no different.

tara: the gale i knew wasn't like this. he recognised his mistakes. he was contrite. all he wanted to do was live.

tara: unfortunately, he fell into company that turned his gaze towards foolishness. yes, i mean you.

player: gale is his own man, tara.

tara: false. he was mine. though now he belongs only to his own pride.

yes, the epilogue cutscene is beautiful and there is something bittersweet and romantic about his love for tav being one of the few emotions that remained a constant throughout the past 6 months. he didn't need to come back for them, but he did cause he loves them still. no matter how warped his definition of love may be now. while it is abundantly clear that tav ranks lower on his priority list than they did before, his commitment remains.

gale fears isolation, hoping to never return to the time when he was hopeless and alone, stuck inside his tower. by heading in this direction he is once again creating a self-fulfilling prophecy.

tara: [..] if i pretended you hadn't turned tail on every lesson you set out to learn, i'd have no right to call myself your friend.

morena may as well have already resigned herself to her son’s death. elminster partly blames himself. for his lapse in judgment, as well as being the one who plucked him from obscurity in the first place. mourning the kind, bright-eyed boy who cried at the scorched roses in his neighbor's garden. tara won't be here anymore to care and look out for him either. he has lost his oldest and dearest friend, the one who witnessed his downfall from grace and never left his side. who believed him to be the finest mind AND the finest wizard she's ever had the pleasure to know. who was certain that he’d find a way out of any crisis no matter the circumstances. ...and if tav declines his offer to ascend with him? what does he have left?

gale: yes, i am rather radiant, aren't i?

tara: don't flatter yourself, gale. you've debased yourself in ways i could never have fathomed.

tara: goodbye gale, i hope the heavens are worth it.

gale’s godhood ending deals with the loss of humanity, the loss of oneself, and everything one holds dear. it is a devastating and bone-chilling narrative. it is a tragedy.

gale: i hope you don't think less of me. great ambition should not come at the expense of what you already hold dear. i see that now.

if gale could see himself, he would be horrified at the losses he deemed necessary to get here. he would be horrified at what he’s become.

[shelkore]

Invincible: Imagine/Idea

can someone tell me if a fic like this exists already?? i may have to write it myself but i can’t get this idea out of my head

Imagine;

..that 18 years ago, when Nolan first landed on Earth, Cecil was suspicious of him from the beginning. The GDA saw how powerful he was, how easily he defeated every enemy that threatened the planet. At the time, there was no weapon in GDA possession that could match the power of what they knew to be a Viltrumite.

..that they decided to create a weapon, just in case, anything ever went wrong with their newfound hero of Earth. A backup plan, only to ever be released under an immense threat to the planet by an unbeatable foe. This weapon grew for 18 years, raised by the defense agency; this weapon was you. How were you created? Classified GDA information.

..that instead, Nolan seemingly settled down, built a life and had a child. Except this child inherited the immense power of his pure-blooded father, training and paving a way towards his future as Invincible. The GDA, who’d been keeping eyes on the lives of the Graysons for years, now viewed a possible double threat, and introduced you to the Guardians of the Globe, integrating you into their team for higher-level training, ensuring your readiness if ever a threat were to come.

..that you’d been advised to keep the true expanse of your power a secret, only using a portion of the power inside you when fighting around spectators. Nobody knew you to be much more than another pet bought by the defense agency. Until Invincible started joining fights with the GOTG, and the clueless hero caught your eye immediately. You’d never admit it to Cecil directly, but something about the man you were told to be a possible enemy, pulled you in like invisible string and you wanted to know what else existed inside the boy other than Viltrumite strength.

..that you did just that, and the two of you slowly became close. Eventually, you knew each other outside of super-heroism, and your relationship was bordering on the line between platonic and romantic. You’d die before you’d let Cecil find out, though.

..that after you’re on a mission on the moon, you return to see the devastation left in the wake of Nolan and Mark’s fight. You find out that Nolan has vanished, and Mark stood against him in protection of Earth. This revelation made the feelings you’d been fostering for Mark spark even more, and you’d rushed to comfort him after returning.

..that for a while, your relationship with Mark only blossomed, until he received a visit from an alien from a different planet, urging Invincible to accompany him and save his planet from destruction. Upon Mark’s return, you receive yet another revelation that while Nolan has had a change of heart, he’s returning to planet Viltrum for his execution, and Viltrumites plan to give Earth a less than pleasant visit, expecting the planet ready for invasion under Mark’s guise.

..that, flash forward a bit, when a Viltrumite by the name of Anissa appears, and a bloody fight with Invincible ensues. When it becomes clear that Invincible cannot finish the fight alone, Cecil calls you in as a reinforcement- finally giving you the go-ahead to utilize your leverage.

..that a very tedious conversation with Mark ensues, and the GDA must explain that you were a weapon, created 18 years before, practically in a little test-tube, as a weapon against his father.

..that when a new Vilrtumite shows up in place of Anissa, a much larger, much older alien by the name of Conquest, whose size wasn’t intimidating enough, a fight is bound to take place. But how does this fight take place, when the GDA has a weapon that Viltrumites can’t even begin to understand?

i NEED this in a fic, basically mark grayson x (weapon against Viltrumites) reader. i need it BADD you don’t understand.

if it doesn’t exist then ig catch me in the lab cus ill be cookin’.

[calypsocolada]

THE PROPHECY | t. shigaraki

synopsis: tomura doesn't want to be your enemy anymore. authors note: hi hi hi. been working on this fic for a few weeks. it's sort of a continuation of the first kiss fic with him in it. also I'm working on a few other fics and requests and hope you enjoy this one in the meantime. it's a lot longer than I thought it was gonna be. also with the release of tswifts new album expect a few little nods to her songs... cw: blood, gore, suggestive, enemies to lovers, lovesick!tomura, obession, fem reader wc: 5k

click here for my masterlist

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He watched you from afar. He watched your television broadcasts and studied your face as though he’d missed something the first hundred times. He remembered your smiles, and could decipher whether real or fake. He’d visit places you had been and imagine you there now. Future number one hero. His number one. Tomura was sick. Sick in the head, sick in his chest, his heart, dark and decrepit only beat for the sun. His days were dark and gray until he saw your shining face. So bright sometimes it made his stomach turn. He wouldn’t call it an obsession. It was something far worse. He didn’t just want you. He needed you. He needed all of you. Wanted your things in his room. Wanted your body sprawled over his bed in one of his worn t-shirts. Wanted you eating at his kitchen table, something only he cooked for you. He wanted to hear you talk to him. To say his name. Wanted your eyes on his and your hands on him. He wanted your time and your heart and your being. He couldn’t have it though. The prophecy that encircled him was stuck on its unwavering path. Even you couldn’t deter his fate.   

Sometimes he thinks about the first time he saw you. Only when he’s alone and no one can see just how far gone he truly is. 

Him in company with the shadows as you were announced as the next pro hero. You were standing on some podium. The microphone was taller than you as you reached for it and it yelped with feedback. You had laughed it off and cleared your throat. You looked radiant, with glowing skin and bright hopeful eyes. You were signed to Endeavors squad. Tomura knew you were stronger than that bumbling fire breathing idiot. But still you smiled just as bright. 

All that untapped potential within you. Those powers could cause devastation if in a villain's hands. Which is why All For One asked Tomura to keep an eye on you in the first place. To see when the time to strike and steal those powers would be. But Tomura was past that. You had far more meaningful things he wanted rather than your powers.

You had thanked Endeavor after he gave a speech introducing you, your hand wrapping around the mic. Tomura fed off the shadows, after all they were giving him the ability to see you in person. It was an unreal feeling. Your speech wasn’t too long and you ended it before your eyes could well up with tears. The last words of your speech swirling around in Tomura’s head. 

“I have always wanted to do good. I’ve always wanted to be a hero. Thank you for giving me the chance to do just that.” 

He could see that good in you. Could see that swirling hope, that devotion to all things just. He unfortunately could see All-Might's influence. Endeavor walked over and placed a hand on your shoulder and Tomura felt something sick churning. He didn’t like people touching you. He knew you were nice, maybe too nice to say anything but he’d gladly be your voice if you needed it. When it was over you had walked out to meet people. Tomura watched you still. You were like some drug he couldn’t fend himself off of. He followed you at a healthy distance through the crowd. He wanted to see if he could corrupt you. See if he could drive you to the edge. See if those powers could be used for more than just causes. He could grab the man standing beside him and use decay. He could create mass panic. He could see your powers up close, could feel the weight of your stare. But as he got closer he saw you bending over to smile at a little girl. He heard your laugh and melancholy voice telling the little girl that if you could be a hero, anyone could. His reaching hand paused when you straightened and turned, almost like you felt the heat of his piercing eyes. Like you had a feeling creeping down your spine. Good intuition. He turned to leave just as your eyes found his. Just that split second of eye contact sent him pushing his way through the crowd and towards the exit as though he had just committed some atrocity and needed a quick exit. 

You two crossed paths many times after that day. Tomura did learn the full force of your attention and it completely turned himself in on his once well sought after goals. Because now… you became his goal. His ultimate end. He wouldn’t mind dying if only it was by your hands. There was no saving him, no redemption for you to give him but death. He could see it in your piercing eyes. Could feel it in the way you fought him. You didn’t fight like other heroes. You had something to prove. Most heroes in your position would be cocky. But not you. No you were calculating and smart, but above all… you were vicious with him. Those powers were something to fear and Tomura loved them more for it. The one person that could end his endless suffering was also the root of it. 

And the moment had finally come for him. After fighting, Tomura’s endurance wavering, he saw a thirst for blood in your eyes. A hunger so deep he knew you could never feel the same for him in a million millennia. And when the time came he accepted the death you’d grant him with open arms. 

But you didn’t grant him a thing. 

You had every opportunity to but you hesitated. Tomura saw it. Saw the quickest of uncertainties pass your heavenly face. Your eyes flitting up to him. The eye contact was nothing like he’d ever experienced before in his miserable life. You weren’t looking at him with anger or contempt. But something else. Something he wishes he could ask you to explain. He watched your lips part and heard you suck in a breath, not realizing he’d been holding his own. 

“Well… what’re you waiting for, hero?” He asked. This moment like something right out of his stupid daydreams. You tightened your grip slightly at the sound of his voice but that uncertainty stayed. Tomura couldn’t help but glance at your lips. After all this was probably the last time he’d ever see them this closely. And he couldn’t help but get caught up, to just stare and drink in his fill before his demise. You flinched when he looked back up and right then and there he knew you couldn’t kill him. He didn’t know what it was but he could feel it as deeply as he felt for you. 

“I can’t.“ You affirmed his suspicions. Tomura’s stomach clenched. He’d never heard your voice this close, speak this softly. He melted at the moment. You let out a ragged breath and there was a moment shared before Tomura saw Dabi’s blue flames travel towards your unguarded back. Tomura acted without even thinking. He gripped you by the shoulders and spun you out of the line of fire. You felt the heat graze against your shoulder before your back hit the ground, Tomura shielding you with his own body. He was burned badly with that little move. He groaned above you, shooting a glare back at Dabi. You stared at him above you in utter shock and confusion. He’d just saved your life. He stared at your mouth then saved your life. And you couldn’t kill him. You had every opportunity to end everything right here and now. He was already injured, you could finish it all here and now. But when Tomura turned and your eyes met again you couldn’t do it. Tomura reached for you, his thumb just barely wiping dirt from your cheek. It was surprisingly intimate. Until you realized the hand touching you was the same one that could easily turn you to dust. You were quick to act, quick to fire up your powers and send Tomura back towards the fire. Something burned in you, some feeling of guilt as you struggled to your feet and ran off towards the rest of the hero’s that had started to fall back. Tomura hit the ground hard, slightly startled by the force in which you sent him flying. He rose and watched you meeting back up with the rest of the hero’s. Watched Hawks run over and meet you halfway, grabbing you gently and looking you over for any wounds. Tomura felt his stomach twist in a sickening way. Jealousy like a vice around his chest. 

You had tossed and turned all night. Unable to turn your mind off. The events of the day played in a loop. Fighting Tomura, taking him to the ground. The curious way he looked at you. The curious way you looked back. The inability to kill him after everything. You could justify trying again if he hadn’t saved you. He saved you. Tomura Shigaraki saved your damn life. He took a burn for you. And then he touched your cheek. Without evil intent. And the look in his eyes when he did it. That’s what haunted you so stunningly and consistently for the entire night. You sighed heavily, turning over in your bed, running a stressed hand through your hair. 

Was this a thing now? That hesitation that took such deep root, that act of kindness to keep you from the flames. What if he had done it to confuse you? To test your allegiances. If so you had failed sort of spectacularly. Letting him touch you and feeling something when he did. You sat up instantly. You felt something when he touched you. You felt something when you watched his eyes watching your lips. You pushed out of bed and felt the cold flooring beneath your feet as you rushed from your room. You needed to do something… anything to get your mind off of him. In your haste you slammed right into Hawks. 

“Woah… hey there you alright?” He asked, steadying you. You cleared your throat. 

“Y-yeah, just hungry.” You lied. Hawks slightly cocked his head as he surveyed you for a moment. 

“You seem… rattled.” Hawks says. You look up at him a little too quickly. You shake your head. 

“I’m fine.” You say and slightly cringe because you did not sound fine. But Hawks wasn’t one to pry. He just gave you a small smile and nodded his head. 

“Well… you know where to find me if you aren’t actually fine.” He says before walking off to his room. You turn slightly as you watch him walk away. You suddenly wished he was who you were laying up at night thinking about. Wished you could chase him down now and release the pent up energy that swirled within you. But that wouldn’t be fair to him because you’d be thinking of someone else. You ran a stressed hand down your face and proceeded to the kitchen. After you ate and calmed down a bit you were able to wrangle in those unruly thoughts. Just because he saved you once doesn’t mean he deserves to take up rent in your head. The man was evil. You’d spent the better part of a year facing off with him and his followers. He doesn’t deserve your hesitation or confusion. The next time you faced off with him would be the last.

Tomura could only watch as his mind was stolen, watching his body being overtaken by a force he wasn’t strong enough to stop. All for One’s control taking over. He knew he had seconds left before he’d no longer cease to be himself. You burned with hatred beneath him, your left arm broken and useless, your right hand holding some sharp shrapnel that you’d plunged desperately into his side, your powers flickering weakly within you. He didn’t feel the pain. Your eyes flashed, his hands around your neck, squeezing. Someone was going to win here but… it wasn’t going to be him. 

He pulled you hard, the fire in your eyes licking and burning his own but he couldn’t care less. If he was going to die he was going to make one last grave mistake that might send him to the grave earlier than expected. He leaned down where you were pinned beneath him and with impressive force, smashed his lips against your own. 

The kiss was like a fight. Like all your other fights. But lips instead of fists. With breaths instead of words. With groans instead of screams and growls. His hands gripped your face hard to keep you where he wanted you. You, in a fit of confusion and pure survival instinct twisted the shrapnel in his side. He gasped in pain but that only spurred him on, his mouth cracking yours open in a feverish attempt to be as close as humanly possible. He had no indication whether or not you wanted this until the pain ceased and he felt your tongue brush against his. His breathing hitched, muddled with pain and sorrow and complete obsession. He pulled you off the ground roughly and kissed you until you both  were gasping for air. When he pulled back the state he left you in was enough to satisfy him for years. Your lips were kissed pink and wet, your cheeks had a wicked blush across them as you stared at him with utter bewilderment and something else that had his stomach tangling in knots within him.

He resigned himself to death then. He was guilty as sin.

Your hand was still on the hilt of your shrapnel that was embedded in his side as you stared at each other. Breaths heavy. Tomura didn’t know how to be kind. He didn’t know how to be soft. He’d never kissed anyone before and it should’ve been pretty damn suspicious when the first person he’d ever felt the need to devour with his lips was the one standing opposite of him in this endless war. The one he needed to destroy. And to say he wanted to devour you was almost an understatement. He wanted to climb into your body and live in your ribcage, safe and tucked away. He wanted to be inside you, wanted that mind of yours to only know him, wanted those pink lips to only speak his name, those pretty eyes to only meet him. The obsession was endless. He wanted it more than ever right now. Death knocking down his rotted door. So bad that he hadn’t even noticed his own tears before they fell and hit your cheeks. You blinked a few times, slowly coming back down from the clouds. Tomura reached for you a last time, the pad of his thumb swiping his tears off your cheek. 

“Save me, hero.” He breathed out before everything went black. 

Your breathing staggered as you watched Tomura change before your eyes into something else. You had been warned about Tomura’s connection to All For One but you let yourself get caught up in the moment. You were able to take advantage of the moment and put a little distance between you and the hijacker. You could hear Hawks calling for you somewhere but you weren’t leaving this. Tomura had asked you to save him. With tears in his eyes. And god dammit you were going to save him if it killed you.

“I know you're still in there,” You call out, voice steadier than it had been all day long. The hijacker looked up and the smile was pure evil. All For One. You’d never met him in person and without Aizawa here to cancel his quirk you were dead in the water. But you weren’t leaving.

“Tomura’s not here, girl. But he sends his condolences.” Even his voice didn’t sound the same. You kept your head high and even though your body screamed in pain you got ready to fight. 

“Get out of his head.”

“You sound like you care, hero?” You flinched at the nickname. It didn’t sound as good coming from him. 

“I can’t ignore someone in trouble.” You say, your heart speeding slightly as All for One laughs. 

“Is that so?” He asks, cocking his head. “As though you weren’t seconds away from killing him before I took over.” You were slightly relieved he didn’t seem to know what had transpired moments before he took over.

“He asked for help.”

“Does he deserve your help?”

“Everyone deserves help.” You shoot back defiantly. All for One just laughs, walking towards you. Your powers flickered weakly within you and you felt overwhelming fear, felt the urge to run. But you stayed put. 

“How about a trade, hmm?” He asked. You stared at him. He wasn’t to be trusted, you know that. But still… 

“A trade?” You echoed.

“I’ll give him back to you if you hand over those powers willingly.” All for One stated. You stared at him. All you ever wanted in life was to be a hero. You were blessed to have powers like these and as much as you wanted to save Tomura, these powers in All For One’s hands would only cause death and destruction. 

“I- can’t.” You said and watched a sympathetic smile spread across All for One’s stolen features. 

“Some hero you are.” He said. “And to think this host pathetically loved you for years.” Your eyes cut to his. 

“What?”

“You heard me. What an idiot he was, thinking you could save him.” You saw red. You charged without even thinking, your powers flaring up as you hit All for One square in the jaw. He lost a few steps, blood dripping from his lips as he laughed and laughed and laughed. “You’re bold.” He said and you burned. You only had one good arm and you hit him again and again until you couldn’t feel your knuckles, your hand bruised and battered. You screamed to let Tomura free but your words fell to uncaring ears. All for One caught one of your punches and sent you flying. You crashed into some loose debris. You coughed up blood and dizzily tried to push yourself to your feet. Your endurance was gone, at this point you’d been fighting for hours. You were past your limit, undoubtedly bleeding externally and internally. But still you pushed to your feet only to be caught by the throat and slammed into the wall. All for One pinned you there, with your feet not touching the ground you gasped and sputtered for air. You kicked hard but All For One just laughed it off. “You’re a strong one, hero. I’ll give you a valiant death.” Fear gripped your heart and in a last ditch desperate act you grabbed the closest thing you could find and sunk it into the flesh of All for One’s arm. He didn’t budge. With his hand around your throat, blackness danced around the edge of your vision. You had no strength left. You were going to die. 

“Tomura-” You struggled to breathe, your voice coming out in a choking gasp. Somehow… you’d grown to care. “Come…back.”

When you woke up it was a startling affair. You sat up quickly, gasping and reaching for your throat, you felt the tender flesh there, undoubtedly bruised. Warm covers fell from your body as you looked around. You were in some small cabin, a fire burning in the hearth, a soft orange glow lightening the room. You were bandaged up pretty thoroughly, your arm in a sling. You pushed the covers from your body and swung your legs around to the edge of the bed and that’s when you saw him. Sleeping soundly in the wooden rocker beside your bed was Tomura. His hair was damp and falling in stringy curls around his face. You stared at him, unable to look away. What had happened? It was clear to you that some time had passed since fighting All for One since it was dark outside. But how you got here and with Tomura was a complete mystery. You silently move to your feet and wrap the cover around your freezing body. You move towards the door, hand inching towards the door knob.

“Leaving without a word?” You flinch hard at his sleepy voice. Hand stopping before it touches the knob. You don’t turn to face him, ashamed after everything.

“Where am I?” You ask over your shoulder. You hear Tomura sit up in the chair.

“A cabin, safe.” 

“Not good enough.” You snap, turning slightly. Your eyes meet and you instantly regret turning. Tomura is looking at you in a way that makes your stomach flip. Tomura stands and you pull the covers tighter around yourself. He walks to you and you take a step back. Was All for One still in control? Was this an act? As though he read your thoughts he held up his hands in mock surrender.

“It’s me.”

“How?” You question, keeping up your guard. Even if it was him the air between you two would still be foggy. He kissed you when you thought he was going to kill you. You weren’t sure at all where you stood. 

“I heard you.” He says softly. “I heard your voice and it… gave me purpose.” He doesn’t reach for you but a part of you wishes he had. You hazard another look in his eyes. What was this spell that suddenly had such a tight hold over you? This feeling that only sprung when he first touched you. Just looking in his eyes made your knees weak. But you were good at maintaining a poker face. 

“Purpose to finish the job yourself?” You ask. Tomura doesn’t react to your venom, it was as though he expected it. He looks away from you.

“I won’t ever kill you. Not even if my life depended on it.” He says. You stare at him.

“I don’t understand.”

“You… affected me, hero. It’s not something I can… explain exactly.”

“Try.” You say sharply. Tomura looked slightly stressed, he ran a hand through his hair, his shirt popping up slightly. You blush and turn away. Tomura couldn’t even imagine this moment in a million years. You, standing mere feet from him, cheeks pink, moments from a confession he didn’t even know how to word. He was sure his kiss spoke volumes. 

“It’s rather simple,” He starts, taking a hazardous step towards you. Your eyes cut up to his, watching his every move. “I don’t think of you as my enemy.” You suck in a silent breath, your lips parting in surprise. You didn’t have to ask what he meant by that. You were sure that kiss was a power move and that he’d gotten the better of you. But it seems you have had the better of him for quite a while. You pulled the cover closer as though it could shield you from something you didn’t quite understand just yet. But… you wanted to understand.

“You saved me. From Dabi’s fire weeks ago. I… never got to thank you.”

“You being alive is thanks enough.” Tomura says. Your heart skips in your chest. You breathe in somewhat unsteadily.

“How long… How long was I out?” You ask, clearing your throat.

“Just a few hours. After I got control back everything sort of fell into chaos so I just grabbed you and ran.”

“You patched me up too?” You ask and Tomura nods his head. 

“You should rest some more. No one’s going to hurt you here.”

“I don’t trust you.” You say. Tomura looks hurt by that but more so he looks like he understands, after all this was all sort of new territory. Tomura had no intention of forcing you to do anything, after everything you two had been through he’d be delusional to think you’d up and change how you thought about him in one day. He never thought that could even be possible, that someone could trust him enough to love him. That someone could look at him, perceive him and know him to his very core and choose to stay. He’d stay for you. But he didn’t expect you to stay for him. 

“That’s okay. Are you hungry?” He asks softly. Your eyes meet again. This time tension builds properly and you're reminded how he kissed you. How he grabbed you like a starving man and slamming his lips against your own as though he’d rather do that than breathe. You blush at the thought.

“I need to go. I need to tell my team I’m alive.” You say.

“Stay. Just this one night. I’ll even leave. Just stay, eat something, rest and leave in the morning.” Tomura says, almost like a plea. You swallow, something in his tone had your stomach twisting. You were in trouble. Deep trouble. 

“I… I can’t stay.” You shake your head, dropping the cover and reaching for your clothes but Tomura catches your wrist. His grip is gentle and he’s stepped much closer to you.

“Don’t go.” He pleaded. You couldn’t even speak, not with him this close. You're not sure where your composure had gone but you sorely missed it at this moment. “Just one night-” You cut off his sentence, pressing your lips to his. He got to surprise you once, now it was your turn.  

A curiosity burned inside you, a need to feel the way you felt when he kissed you that first time. Tomura melted at your touch, he groaned against your lips and stepped fully into your space, gently walking you back against the cabin door. A heat burned in the pit of your stomach, only his touch satiated it. Your body ached from the earlier fight, scar and bruises stinging with every movement. But you didn’t care. You dragged Tomura to the bed and pulled him down on top of you. You kissed him hard, kissed him with a need to understand him. To crack him open and live inside. He pulled back just slightly.

“Do you really want this-” You grabbed his shirt and showed him exactly what you wanted. All those sleepless nights, thinking of him. You could solve all the mysteries now. You wanted him horribly bad. Clothes were shed, breaths shared. Tomura was careful with you because of your injuries and although you didn’t exactly want that it was nice not being in complete pain during all this ecstasy. Tomura kissed everything he could, he mapped you out. Wanting to carve the sight of you beneath him into his own skin. To remember this night for years to come. He didn’t expect this lapse of judgment to be a recurring thing. He fully expected you to come to your senses and be gone in the morning. The vicious cycle back in effect. But he wouldn’t fight you any longer. If you wanted to win all you needed to do was ask. Tomura kissed his way back up to your mouth. Your eager touches almost sent him over the edge. Tomura wanted to take things slow but it felt achingly slow, he was just as eager as you. He wanted to see the reactions on your face when he touched you there, wanted to catalog every sound, every noise that escaped your pink lips. He wanted to be rough, it was in his nature but he just couldn’t, he just wanted to kiss you, you were very dear to him. To be close to you. He wanted the soft touches, but above all he wanted the reassurance, even if he knew he could never have it. You could feel it, so you flipped around and pressed him into the covers. He gasped beneath you. If this was anything like your fights you’d come out on top. You leaned and kissed his lips, you trailed kisses to his neck and savored his labored breaths and small whimpers. You barely moved your hips against his, just to amp up the tension. You wanted so badly for years to hold a win over his head, to conquer him but you never thought it would be in such a different context. You tangled a hand in his hair and left marks on his neck. He twitched beneath you, his gentle grip on your hips slowly tightening. You could tell he was holding back. Maybe because you were so injured.You had realized you had been moving sort of fast, consumed by the moment. So consumed that when your hurt arm hit the bed it sent a sobering pain through you like nothing before. Tomura sat up, gently helping your arm back into the sling, careful hands brushing your hair from your face.

“We should stop… I don’t want you injuring that arm anymore.” He says softly as you nod in agreement. He rises from the bed and disappears into the kitchen for a moment before coming back with some food and medicine. As he watched you eat he thought about what he wanted. He wanted you to be the one to stay. To break his curse and change the prophecy. He’d beg and plead if he needed to. Pray to anything above that would hear his desperate pleas. He just wanted you to stay.

“This is good.” You said. “Didn’t know you knew how to cook.” You say, realizing you really don’t know much about Tomura on a personal level. And that you did want to know him. 

“I’m glad you like it.” He says, but it was clear his mind was somewhere else. He watched you with this sort of wanting expression.

“Have you eaten?” You ask and when you look up he leans just slightly to press a soft kiss to your lips. Your breath hitches as he presses his forehead to yours. 

“Will you stay?” He whispers to you. You nod your head and his hands slide against your cheeks as he deepens the kiss, hand tangling in your hair as he drinks you in. How could you not stay?  

[typewritingyip]

The Arcturus Missions

Part Forty One - Crash Site

Part Forty

Warning: Gore, Violence, & Vomit

———

Mech emergency evacuation systems, M.E.E.S; which to be perfectly honest is not the worst acronym in the army. Was initially designed and regulated by the US Army armored suit branch, to bring down the number of pilot deaths and suit destructions.

In its first year of operation it prevented three suits from having catastrophic failures and saved the lives of seven pilots. The initial system was a massive power sink, likely to drain the suit and put it out of commission until new batteries or reactor or core could be sourced.

MECHA’s number one researcher went on to redesign the system as a whole, it prevents 99.1% of suits from experiencing catastrophic failures when experiencing devastating attacks. It saves the pilot around 17.8% of the time. This system saves the governments of the world billions in suit production costs each year.

It costs them millions in wrongful death lawsuits.

Lawsuits are rare when nearly the whole world is living under martial law.

The switch to Shockwaves system’s has become the typical followed path with his rapid advancements and improvements for the integration technologies.

Even if the outcome is less than desirable, his advancements are the fastest and most consistent. His advancements ensure steady income for MECHA, along with free reign to find the path forward.

To end the war. To design the best suits. To be willing to take the steps that some refuse to.

His version of the M.E.E.S is the most used in the world, ensuring the safety of the suit.

Of Arcturus One, two of the four pilots have that system integrated.

—

He slams into the side of the Quintesson, bringing his gun up and firing point-blank, splatting himself and the ground in green gore. It splashed against some of his lower field cameras, but it was easy to reroute the needed angles, shoving against the Quint with his now empty shoulder while digging the gun into the hole he’d made, firing several more times.

Shifting the gun and activating some of the magnets in his platting, it locked in place on his forearm while tearing the Quint in half. Grunting with the effort of it as one arm laid useless on the ground somewhere behind him, the other at present pulling out the entrails of the Quintesson in front of him. Honestly if he hadn’t been a pilot for so long and spent those first few years doing exactly what he’s doing now, he’d probably find the whole situation rather disgusting.

Of course they’d all seen the slightly sideways glances Breakdown gave them when they got covered in the remains of the enemy, tankers rarely got as close as they did or as Breakdown did now.

None of that mattered at the moment though, just thoughts to keep him occupied while trying to ignore Sideswipe’s painfully loud, blaring music.

The music of the bar had been nice and quiet most of the time, nostalgic for a time he’d hardly know but still one he’d been around for. A connection to home and his life before all of this mess.

Sideswipe’s taste in music was significantly louder and less familiar to Hound. It pained him to admit it, mainly because it made him sound incredibly old, he wasn’t partial to the music. He didn’t particularly dislike it, but sometimes the pitches made his ears ache from going through speakers twice. Wincing as a particular note tried to slice his ear drum, Hound turned down his audio receiver even more, “God.” The concussive blow from moving to the next Quint wasn’t nearly as bad.

Spinning on his good foot, Hound crouched for a moment to survey. Sideswipe was still to his left, dealing with a Quint who had managed to wrap its tentacles around his suit, and there were only a few left though he could just see one starting off towards the crashed ship, the same direction the rest of the pilots went off to.

Slowing his breathing, Hound takes a deep breath, shifting his gun back to his hand for now and standing, moving to the next Quintesson in line. He could hardly hear the gunfire now, less from his turned down audio and more from the repetitive action. Sideswipe slams into the Quint in front of him, spraying them both with green, “Ugh, these things are horrible.”

With a glance, Hound shrugs the best he could, “The sooner we get splattered with green, the sooner the fight is over, come on.” There were only a few left, “When we’re done here, we go to the crash site.” Shaking his head, Sideswipe chuckles, “No shit.” Closing his eyes for a long moment, Hound was reminded why they were split up, again, they would get each other killed even if it was just from the banter.

—

Sunstreaker had grown used to knowing there was a sniper at his back, it had been a safety net of sorts, and with only one arm it was turning his stomach unpleasantly. Even with Jazz at his side, the uneasy feeling just wasn’t going away.

After watching some of the fighting on New Kaon, he’d asked Blue for some help with something that he was now very grateful for. Sure, he had the blades on his bracers, but now he was thrilled to have sharp; effectively, claws.

Taking apart the fingers of his suit had been a pain, they had sensors in them that were entirely unfamiliar and magnets like his assistance suit, but they weren’t activated. It had never been his thing, to try and stick to things. Whether buildings or the light armor the enemy sometimes wore.

Blue had been a massive help to get the plating on his fingers off and reshaping them, then filing them, apparently it had been a somewhat regular practice during the last war. Not among the autobots but certainly among the decepticons. It was still a regular practice for them, but more for aesthetics than practical use now.

Sunny knew for him that there was no real aesthetics to it, it was all practical use, use that he was using now.

His hand dug into the side of a Quint, just enough to ensure his bracer followed, why he had never thought of this before he’d never truly know. Slicing upward, it through through the dense mass of the Quintesson and he laughed, pulling his arm back as his enemy basically popped.

Splattering him and Jazz with it’s gore just as another Quint came and wrapped it’s tentacles around his legs. With the missing arm, his balance could have been better, “Fuck!” He was jared in his piloting seat as his suit slammed face first into the ground, groaning as he shoves up and grasping at the ground as it drags him.

Jazz moved in fast and grabbed hold of the Quintessons tentacles and started pulling, twisting his arms around them and pulling, “Where are the others?” Sunny throws himself around and kicks the Quint in its beak like face, “I don’t know, coming eventually.” They both struggled with it, Jazz pulling the tentacles free of the body as Sunstreaker caves in its face.

He breathed heavily, jumping when the booms of Breakdown’s cannon reached his ears, turning briefly to see him before looking back at the army they were trying to keep inside the crashed ship.

The ship, thankfully, had landed on the road and had yet to do tons of damage to the nearby buildings. Earthlings were skilled in taking down their ships, but they were far more fragile than they appear. Keeping it from falling apart of exploding was key at the moment, the surrounding buildings appeared to be residential but thankfully evacuated.

Sunstreaker had no idea where everyone went, but he was glad there were no cybertronians nearby to see the state of their suits. He knew he wasn’t the only person to think they looked like the walking dead.

His vision blurred for a moment, the Iacon street fading into New Kaon sand and he swore.

Swinging back out, he still connected with the approving Quintesson, both in memory and in reality. His head swam and his stomach turned again, gasping as he tore off his oxygen mask desperately, “Jazz, help!” He kicked the Quint back and stumbled.

It took several painfully long seconds for his vision to clear, Jazz in front of him, tearing apart the enemy. Taking several deep breaths and grabbing his water pouch, Sunny gags and tries not to throw up.

He really wished Blue was there, watching his back, he sat on the ground trying his hardest to not throw up. It was bad enough he got alien gore on his suit, it would be even worse to throw up in his cockpit.

—

Hound could hear the booming of Breakdown’s cannon in the distance again as he and Sideswipe moved closer to the crashed ship, the bar had been cleared and Hound had his fallen arm tucked up under the one remaining. He’d have to leave it once they saw Quintessons again, it was too cumbersome to carry around but he wasn’t just going to leave it behind.

Sideswipe was to his back, watching behind them and the sky as the seekers still screamed overhead, “You know, this is very different from any of the times I had to defend Miami.” Nodding a bit, Hound kept his gun up, scanning the surroundings.

”It’s because they're just scouting Earth, they are actively trying to invade Cybertronian space.” Sideswipe glanced over his shoulder at Hound, “Yeah, but why? They’ve been on Earth for thirty years as of today.” Sighing, Hound shrugs again, holding his fallen arm tightly to his body.

With a glance around, Hound leads them between buildings, “We’ve been holding them off for thirty years, I think if we had an army like this, an army of pilots it would be different.” He nearly stops at the sight in front of him, but instead drops his arm and brings his gun up.

The ship had crashed, but Quints were still trying to work themselves out of the gaps in its armor, screeching and clawing at the metal.

His vision was pinging him with each one trying to escape, along with ways into the ship that he could have hardly fit through, now though without an arm those gaps were slightly more doable. His skin itched with the prospect, with the hunt, and he grinned behind his oxygen mask.

Sideswipe’s hand landed on his shoulder, “I’m going to move in to help Jazz and have Sunny fall back towards you.” But Hound was already shaking his head, “No, have him fall back towards Breakdown, I’m going in.” There was a pregnant pause, “Are you nuts?” Shrugging again, Hound chuckled, “Well, slightly.” He glanced at Sideswipe.

They shared a look, “Alright, but you’re not going to have help in there.” He nodded and turned up his comms, “Did everyone hear the plan?” Breakdown grunted with the effort of keeping his suit upright as his cannon went off, “I think it is a stupid plan.” Sunstreaker nodded in the corner of his vision, “Hound, were strikers.”

Chuckling filled the comm, “You guys really should know more about pilot history, Hound used to be a hunter class. This is what he initially tested into.” He paused, “And Prowl says the backup is about twenty minutes out, so it’s now or never that we try to end this ourselves.” Hound hardly had to spare a glance to Sideswipe before running for the ship, gun coming up again.

The comms of course were loud then, “Well, how was I supposed to know he was a hunter class? Since I’ve known him, he’s been a striker and class jumps are rare.” Jazz tore out the throat of an approaching Quintesson while Sunstreaker cut off several of its tentacles, “Hey, welcome to the chaos that is being a soldier then a pilot!” Jazz’s voice was light, even as his foot collided with the beak of the enemy.

Hound was trying hard not to laugh as the intense focus drew in, “Only ones who’d understand that process are Breakdown and I.” His voice was slightly gruff now with concentration, slamming into the side of the ship for a moment to catch his breath. Sideswipe came up fast so he effective wall sat, giving the younger pilot the leverage he needed to jump up towards where Jazz and Sunstreaker were fighting the worst of the hoard.

He breathed deeply for a moment, watching the shadows of his friends on the ground and looking to Breakdown, braces against the corner of a building while his cannon glowed red hot. He’d have to stop soon to prevent it from blowing up in his face, again. Each shot sent his head wobbling slightly.

Yeah, they were going to look like hell after this fight.

Catching Breakdown’s eyes, he nodded for a moment before turning and forcing his way through one of the gaps. As soon as his cockpit was lodged inside, his comms cut out. Sending him into a near silence, “Okay then,” It wasn’t the first time he’d been aboard an Quintesson ship, nor would it have been most of their first times, but this one was four or five times larger than any that had been spotted on Earth.

The ones they’d taken down on New Kaon had all but disintegrated on impact.

Kicking against the slide, he falls to the floor, or in this case the wall, of the ship and sighs. They needed answers and every time they tried to get them, something happened. They also needed to handle the Quintessons that were likely hiding throughout the remains of their vessel.

Hound brought his gun back up and started moving in slowly, bringing up his sensors and different camera settings, he was going to handle all those who remained in this ship. No matter the outcome. He was just thankful his gun didn’t need to be reloaded regularly or he’d be left with just his suit.

This was going to suck.

—

His head was pounding and the only relief he had was honestly the fact that they were in the dark, Bluestreak and Prowl were sitting together speaking quietly. He should probably try to get up to be a part of that conversation, but right now he has hardly been able to drag his corpse over to Optimus.

The last time he’d been caught in a collapsed building hadn’t been so bad, but he also hadn’t been diving onto another person to try and save their life. Primus, he was fragged.

Now Hound was up on the surface somewhere with the other humans dealing with the Quintessons alone. It tore at his spark, he’d had the mechs back for around a stellar cycle now and it had become second nature. Their senses were so different between the species.

There had been more than one occasion where Hound just hadn’t seen the enemy, where any of the humans had, so he’d handled it. The slight lightening to Hound’s visor indicated the appreciation or at least that’s what he figured each time it happened.

Which was a lot.

For sparks sake, the mech could miss the enemy but always find him, invisible or not and that shredded his spark. Looking over to Prowl and Bluestreak, he could see the same worry he felt etched into their faces as well. The humans moved their ways into their sparks with an ease that was almost unsettling, but then again he’d watched the same sort of thing happen with Optimus Prime and Megatron.

That was even after a million years of war, whereas the humans had been nothing but helpful and loving, and nearly perfect. His head was swimming.

Fragging damnit, he loved the mech, and as many times as he had saved Hound’s life, Hound had saved his. If Hound hadn’t found him in the rubble, it might have been cycles before anyone did, because of course Hound would find him.

He’d always find him, because he was human and that’s just what they seemed to do. Full of enough confidence and ego to manage it. Primus, he needed to be with him.

Mirage stared at the ceiling a bit stupidly as his head swam, not moving still, his head pounding.

—

They were able to stand together again, back to back while Sideswipe slashed open the enemy, “Sunny, you should move back.” His voice sounded far away, like his head was under water and Sideswipe was shouting down to him.

Overuse was hitting him like a truck, trying to pull him back again, away from the edge of getting past it, “No, we need to handle this.” He turns and Sideswipes hands land on the shoulders of his suit, “Dude, you have one arm and are out of it. Other than Breakdown and Hound, none of us have guns.” It was the simple fact of being a civilian pilot.

Sideswipe shakes his head a bit, glancing up, “The seekers are covering the stragglers we missed, I think, but for now Jazz and I got this.” He gives Sunny’s suit a bit of a shake, he looks to the camera and watches Sideswipe tilt his head slightly.

”You look like you did after Savannah, take a minute to catch your breath before the backup arrives. Alright?” Nodding a bit, he pats Sideswipes shoulder carefully.

Today has been hell, for both of them. First it was Simon having an overuse-induced panic attack and now he was on the verge of throwing up, his chest hurt and he could hardly breathe. Whatever was going on was far from normal for either of them. So, instead of arguing, he nods a bit.

It was easier than bickering with his brother. With a pat to his shoulder, Sunny turns a bit uneasily towards the back of the ship. Maybe the front and carefully makes his way to a spot where he slides back down the edge, glancing back towards Jazz and Sideswipe again.

The pair were cutting through the Quintessons that squeezed through the gaps in their falling apart ship. He didn’t want to stick around any longer than he needed, turning and running the best he could towards Breakdown. Sliding slightly on the sidewalk before taking his flank, “You doing alright over here?” His stomach turned unpleasantly when he came to a stop.

”As well as one can, how are things looking in there?” Shooting another glance towards the ship, Sunstreaker sighs a bit, “Not great, Hound went in I think. We really need that backup.” Breakdown hummed and stared at the ship, “We’re hurting more than we let on to our allies, yes?” Shrugging a bit, Sunny sighs, “Of course we are, but what else were we supposed to say? Let the Quints invade while we wait for backup?” Nodding slowly, Breakdown shakes his head, “They’ll have our heads.”

Smiling a bit, Sunny shrugs, “Well, yours is almost off anyway.” Breakdown shoved his shoulder and he lost his balance, crashing to the floor with a groan. They both chuckled even as his stomach turned over again.

So much for keeping his cockpit clean, Sunny at this moment was just glad to have taken his oxygen mask off as he curled up in his piloting seat. Getting miserably sick.

—

The halls were disgusting, seemingly to be alive in a way that was hard to explain. Even Hound was having a hard time just looking at them, turning down his main visual feeds and changing to infrared.

Every time he came up on another Quintesson, his gun came up and fired rapidly before moving in. They probably already knew he was here, there was no sense in staying quiet.

Tearing into them was never easy, but the practice had made perfect. Whether grasping at the edge of their jaws, fighting a grip on one of their tentacles, or blasting a hole through its side, ripping a Quintesson apart was the easiest way to kill it. It left nasty, sticky and stinking hot gore in its wake.

Greener than anything should be, it would splatter and cling to the suits, after long enough the joints would stiffen up.

Tonight their apartment's bathroom was going to suffer and be excruciatingly hot, but that didn’t matter at the moment.

His gun comes up again and fires rapidly as three Quints come screaming from around the corner, “Shit!” They slam into him even as he keeps firing, the barrel of his gun turning red from the heat. One of them, or more than one he really couldn’t tell, was quick in wrapping its tentacles around him. Thrashing, Hound continues to swear and fire his gun.

Even opening comms just left his head full of static.

Shouting out of anger, he drops his gun and grabs one of the tentacles, then pulls as hard as he can. Everything narrowed down into an eerily calm focus, life or death, hunt or hunted. And he would not die here.

The tentacle gave way with just the first tug and the grip around him loosened instantly, catching his feet under him before spinning, Hound took one breath before moving back in. Fist colliding with the side of the Quintesson nearest, rupturing its eyes and his hand grasped the socket.

Blood squirted across its companions as Hound threw it into the wall, tearing off some of its shell with it. It broke the light that had at one point been in the ceiling and sent them into near darkness, but their heat signatures wouldn’t escape his view. Not now.

Diving forward, he grabbed a set of tentacles and pulled hard, slamming the head of his suit into the aliens beak with such force Hound could hear the bones or platting under its shell crack and break.

His foot then collided with its already broken face, sending it crashing to the floor and he stomped on it, hard. Breaking the last of its exterior and splashing the floor and walls with its insides. The heat rapidly dissipated before he turned to the third one, which made the fatal error of both lunging at him and existing.

It manages to wrap its tentacles back around him, but Hound hardly noticed, hand digging into the soft more mailable limbs and ripping open its skin there. Breaking through what were likely arteries and spraying the last bit of nearby clean floor with its blood.

The thing shrieked in pain, letting go enough for Hound to swing around, kicking it in the side and sending it colliding with its dead allies. It continued to shriek as Hound picked up his now disgusting gun and fired into its face, caving it in.

His breath was ragged, gasping against the mask for a moment, his heart was racing as his senses came back with a brutal force.

Stumbling into the wall, Hound presses his hand to his chest, gasping for air for a moment more.

This was one of the many reasons why he gave up being a hunter class, you lost yourself to the suit far too easily. But it’s exactly why he missed it. With another few deep breaths, his heart rate comes back down and he looks down on the mess he’d made of the alien hall.

If he could have spit on them, he would have, instead he made do with storming through their corpses. It wasn’t nearly as satisfying.

There was this grotesque element to being a pilot, to killing these things they didn’t know or understand, but they were some of the first things in Hound’s life he didn’t want to know or understand. To alien and to vile, the things that were trying to take away both of his homes.

The people he loved even. For a moment, just a moment, Mirage’s werey face flashed through his mind just as sharp as any overuse halicunation.

Shaking his head a bit, he took a breath and glances back at the pile of bodies he was leaving behind. They had chosen to come here, to hurt his friends, he was just returning the favor. Looking back down the hall, he starts to stalk towards the end, staying to one side, gun low but ready.

Someday, when the war was over, if he made it to see the end of this damned war, he’d go back out to nature and just wander in the expanse of it all. What brought him to the hunter class in the first place, the desire to track what was unusual. To understand things that weren’t human, even if it was just trees and plants.

For now, he raised his gun and turned right at the end of the hall.

———

A/N

So, I will be honest. I did not feel great about this chapter until I wrote the last part with Hound. When I wrote Mirage’s scene was probably when I started to feel properly in the grove but Hound’s last scene is just *chef kiss*. I love writing fights from his perspective.

Tuesday’s update might be part 42, it might also be the next part of Arcturus 3 or the sequel to Arcturus Negative One, explains what happened with Soundwave. All of those things will be written at some point. At this moment in time I have 0% written for any of them.

So yeah, you can let me know if you have a preference on what gets updated next.

TAGS

@lunarlei68 @whirlywhirlygig @loop-hole-319 @pixillandjester @alek-the-witch @not-a-moose-in-disguise @goddessofwind8water @neurologicalglitch @dersereblogger @pixel-transformers @mrcrayonofdoom @wireplaces @twilightfreefaller @original-blog-name-2 @devilangel657 @robbin-u @miniartistme @starwold @tea-enthusiasm @valeexpris606 @celticdoggo @bird599 @agentsquirrelsgotrobots @aquaioart @thatwandercat @artdagz @seisha974 @halenhusky309 @leethepiper @cat-cassette @sirassban @cosmique-oddity @garbageenthusiast @xervias @azulabutterfly @fryseem @spring-mc @echo-circuit @aghostsnail @wooblewooble @ask-glory-haddock-and-others @nonsscrapheap @magichats @iminahole247 @omgflyingderpywhale @thetrexartist @naaaafam @elegantmantaray @emichusai @waterlilykitty @diabolichare @ham4ponyo @osqindaxend @sunnyvibesanddoodles @ratatatata248 @ijustneedausernaneplease4444444 @sprook-children @fooolisher 

And once again thank you to @Keferon for this amazing AU

[oldaccount-cheese-n-crackerjacks]

re: the ‘breakup’ au w/ the tf2 comics im just imagining after the fight Fred takes Engie to the side like ‘you know there are other folk out there son, fella’s who’ll treat you right. I just want what’s best for you’ and Dells just gotta say ‘thanks dad, I’ll keep that in mind while Aunt Bea is drillin new holes into my head’. Back to Fred like ‘that’s all ask’.

meanwhile Bea on the other side of the door has Spy by the neck because yeah Dell may be on the enemy team but the classic team has still known that kid since he was knee high to a grasshopper, what do you MEAN someone broke his heart???

GOD YES AMAZING, what a terrible way to meet your in laws.

also had to make something for it so here’s the entire story line in a nutshell…

Also omg Fred would be so pissed that his son dated a Spy but he’d be overjoyed to find out they broke up. And even more happy to beat the living daylights out of Spy with ‘Aunt’ Bea

Fred is of course devastated when they reconcile, especially since Spy knocked him out and handcuffed him to a pipe during all the fighting

[katetcake]

I was having JazzWave thoughts and they quickly got out of hand.

JazzWave in that they're forced to work together towards a common goal. And it's the pettiest thing imaginable. JazzWave in that Soundwave's a jealous best friend and Jazz is a paranoid mofo and both of them are trying to sabotage talks between Optimus and Megatron.

AKA: They decide to "work together" as an excuse to keep an eye on each other and each other's faction to make sure there's nothing fishy going on.

B/c neither of them believe the other side is being sincere. And b/c neither of them see the obvious flirting as flirting, instead see it as some manipulation tactic the other is using (aka the jealous friend dynamic between Soundwave and Megatron. Jazz constantly doing the dirty work so he thinks OP can't see the 'blatantly dirty tactics' being used on him).

Jazz who is horrified to see Prowl going along w/ it b/c quote "Starscream is actually quite intelligent under all the screeching and narcissism. It just seems logical to start building good relations w/ him now instead of waiting until later."

Ofc Jazz is devastated. How could Prowl do this to him. Starscream of all people! And maybe he complains abt it to Soundwave who's like 'hold up, what exactly did he say?' And drops the bombshell of "you should be more worried about Shockwave." Jazz obviously thinks he's crazy, but he gives in and asks Prowl abt Shockwave. And he feels so fucking betrayed when Prowl gets all embarrassed. Like all fluttery wings and shy smile b/c "Shockwave? Shockwave?! Are you serious, Prowl?!" And Prowl just doesn't understand what the big deal is, "I mean, you've been dating Soundwave since Peace Talks ™ practically began."

So now Jazz is paying a little more attention to what's going on around him. The Autobots do seem to be more confident about talking to Decepticons when he's around. Jazz hasn't talked about what he's doing w/ Soundwave for operational security reasons, and he knows how much actions speak louder than words. And okay maybe once he took care of watching both sets of twins b/c Ravage was sick and Soundwave had to take him to a medic, but that doesn't mean anything! He just needs to gain the enemy's trust to gain access to more information! That's like Spec Ops 101.

On the other side, Soundwave is constantly hearing gossip about himself and Jazz. Some people even voicing their jealousy that Soundwave managed to snatch Jazz up before any of them even had a chance. And b/c he knows words spoken in private are often the only truthful ones, he refuses to answer any questions whenever someone asks him how things w/ Jazz are going, or if he has tips on how to woo an Autobot.

They both get really paranoid about their own words/actions whenever they're together now. They're constantly second guessing themselves and tension just keeps getting worse until they're having an argument about it. Jazz is upset b/c Soundwave's acting weird all of the sudden. He doesn't play music anymore and barely talks whenever they're together (like less than usual). Whenever he does talk, it's strictly about their work. Soundwave also accused Jazz of being weird too, he hardly plays with the cassettes anymore. He doesn't lounge around like he usually does whenever they're not working on their plan.

All in all, their argument ends on an awkward note as neither of them win. Soundwave doesn't want to talk (words in private are the truth). Jazz refuses to be responsive or take things seriously (actions speak louder than words).

Everyone thinks they broke up. Everyone is treating it like a break up. Big meetings are just a touch more tense. Starscream is always making comments about it.

Blaster starts hitting on Soundwave like right after. Jazz is immediately offended cuz like dude! They were never dating, but if they were it's rude for Blaster to immediately hit up his friend's new ex. Like come on! In Blaster's defense, he always thought Soundwave was hot, even if he hated that Soundwave made his cassettes fight in the war (he doesn't make them, he lets them choose). And somehow Jazz ends up more offended cuz that's such a low bar. Like Blaster could at least like Soundwave cuz “He's got a wicked sense of humor. He's really damn smart. He's got great taste in music! He's– you get my point! If you just want a pretty frame, there's plenty of other mechs!"

Starscream, taking any opportunity presented to him, starts immediately bullying Soundwave. Starts talking about how surprised he was that someone like Jazz would even bother with Soundwave. But considering how quickly Jazz dropped him, clearly he was just interested in figuring out how he worked. Soundwave would never confirm he and Jazz were together while Jazz was adamant they weren't together. Was Soundwave ashamed to be dating an Autobot? No that's preposterous. Everyone knows Soundwave's the actual one without emotions. Clearly it was Jazz who was ashamed to be dating Soundwave, however briefly it was.

All in all, everyone thinks they're having a messy breakup. Which is insane because both of them are clearly not over each other. Jazz is quick to anger and quicker to vanish whenever questioned. Soundwave and Starscream get into physical fights whenever the seeker starts pushing buttons.

Megatron and Optimus start having more private meetings. Sometimes they'll even abruptly change meeting times so that neither Soundwave or Jazz will be present. Overall acting extra suspicious.

Despite whatever mess is going on between them, they can work together for their initial goal. And whatever these extra, super secret, meetings are, there's more of a risk of Optimus or Megatron using it's secrecy to attack the other.

Except when they finally find out about one of these 'private meetings' in time to spy on it, they're not prepared. Over half of it is just Megatron lamenting that Soundwave doesn't talk to him like he used to. That the war has gone on so long and has changed them all so much that Soundwave no longer trusts Megatron enough to tell him he was dating Jazz. Megatron didn't believe it at first because Soundwave never told him, but now he's not so sure b/c Soundwave's been more depressed than usual.

Even Optimus expresses his own regrets. Cuz while he and Jazz don't have the same history that Megatron and Soundwave do, Jazz has always gone out of his way to treat Optimus like another person and not an infallible leader. They were friends and he hates to have failed his friend so entirely like this.

Jazz and Soundwave are left with the realization that there was no ulterior motive from either side during the Peace Talk™ negotiations. Soundwave thinks back to all the times Megatron commended Optimus. All the times he praised the mech's intelligence. The times he outright waxed poetic about Optimus to Soundwave. And Soundwave realizes that somewhere along the line he stopped listening. Jazz sees all of Optimus' actions in a whole new light now. Every time he thought Optimus had been annoyed into silence, he realizes that Optimus was flustered. That Optimus was taking better care of his appearance to show off to Megatron. Jazz realized that despite being head of spec ops for his observational prowess, he was completely blinded by his inherent mistrust of other.

And now Jazz and Soundwave are left with the very uncomfortable truth that they almost ruined everyone's future for petty reasons. That they almost sabotaged the very real prospect of Peace. And all they have left is to have a long overdue awkward Talk.

And Soundwave has to admit the reason he and Starscream keep fighting is b/c Starscream keeps saying he might try courting Jazz just to see what all the hype is about and Soundwave was jealous. That the reason he never said anything when people questioned him was b/c to play along would be to lie and he doesn't like lying, but he also didn't want to admit it wasn't real.

Jazz is absolutely floored. But now that he thinks about it, the signs were all there. Not just from Soundwave either. Jazz liked listening to Soundwave's playlists. He enjoyed Soundwave's dry humor. He liked spending time with the twins. He liked idly cleaning and straightening out the plates on Laserbeak and Buzzsaw's wings. Jazz even got cosmetic work to redistribute his weight to more effectively hold and catch the cassettes whenever they wanted to be held. Though at the time he kept telling himself it would be useful for whenever the war started back up.

They try to give dating a genuine shot and both of them end up dying of embarrassment b/c almost nothing changed and they're both absolute idiots. Though they're loving the perks of actually dating.

Soundwave loves the fact that he gets to touch now. He loves holding Jazz' hand. He loves sitting on the couch or the floor with Jazz pressed to his side or sitting on his lap. He loves that Jazz' tactile nature doesn't disappear when they're in public. He loves being able to kiss Jazz.

Jazz loves listening to Soundwave talk about his day. He loves making Soundwave laugh, how his frame starts shaking before the laughter bubbles up quietly. He loves that Soundwave doesn't mind his tactile nature. He loves going out with Soundwave and the cassettes and doing inane group activities together. Jazz absolutely loves being able to kiss Soundwave now too.

No one believes them when they say they only started dating recently. It's not until they admit to working together to keep an eye on the other side in case of danger/sabotage during Peace Talks™. And that's when their friends/colleagues actually start believing that they weren't actually dating before.

Idk I just want an absurd and hilarious JazzWave comedy. They're smart and capable at their jobs. Unfortunately they're also dumbasses.

Edit: Oh, and every plan they try to implement (whether separately or together) fails in increasingly absurd fashions. Like Mr Bean absurd coincidences that causes them to continuously fail. Milo Murphy's Law cartoon level of absurdity. Believable but stupid

[glenscowboyhat]

i never lie (t.owens)

hi omg this is my first full-length tyler fic! actually my first full-length fic in like 3ish years so pls be kind 😭 this one is based off of the song i never lie by zach top, with a few little changes! i recommend listening to it beforehand but i don’t think you have to to understand what’s happening! i hope you like it 🥹

warnings. a few curse words, implied female reader but no actual pronouns i don’t think, implied smut but it’s like one sentence, and general bad writing lol, plus i really like commas apparently. lmk if there’s anything i missed!

pairing. tyler owens x reader, slight scott x reader

word count. 2k

꒰ well, it’s been some time, you still look like an angel ꒱

꒰ i heard you’re doin’ fine, got promoted back in april ꒱

it had been four months since you’d seen the infamous tyler owens when you spotted him across a random bar in nowheresville, oklahoma. “oh, hell,” you said, spinning your stool towards javi’s at the bar and putting a hand over your eyes.

“what’s the matter?” he asked, glancing behind you. “oh,” was all he muttered as he silently got up from his stool.

“wait, where are you going?”

“you’ve got company, darlin’,” he murmured before slipping behind you and out of sight. you spin your stool once more, confused, when you see him. “tyler,” you sigh.

“long time no see, honey.” he settles onto what was once your friend’s stool with a frustratingly beautiful smirk. “don’t you look gorgeous as ever.”

“did you need something, tyler?” you ask, trying to gather yourself. seeing him here four months after your breakup was jarring to say the least. you figured he’d probably be in this area. there were some massive storms that were supposed to come through within the next few days. you just didn’t know he’d pick this bar to grace with his presence.

“just surprised to see you here is all,” he said. “can’t believe they finally let you out of the office and into the field.”

just a month after your breakup with tyler, you started a job working with storm par. even though you hated what they stood for, all you wanted to do was help victims in the aftermath of destructive tornados. now that you obviously weren’t working with tyler and his crew anymore, you moved on to the next best thing, making it your mission to help instead of hurt. through everything, you had remained close with the rest of the wranglers, keeping them updated on your life. when tyler heard of your new position, he was absolutely livid. he couldn’t believe you’d move on to ‘sleeping with the enemy,’ as he called it, just one month after the devastating, explosive fight that ultimately ended your relationship.

you’d been working in storm par’s offices, planning each chase, for nearly a month before you were promoted in early april to join scott and javi in the field. once again, tyler was pissed when he found out. you’d already hurt him by even agreeing to work with the exploitative company, but now you were putting yourself in danger on top of that, and he wouldn’t be around to protect you. it killed him to think about anything happening to you, but he was so angry and resentful towards you about the whole situation. he let his pride and his hurt block out how his heart truly felt about you.

꒰ and you met someone, your dad says he’s okay ꒱

“and you met someone, i hear.” you had. well, kind of. about a month after starting at storm par, you were still torn up over tyler. just as you were now, though you’d never admit that to him. he’d really hurt you all those months ago. anyway, scott was there to help you forget about the tornado wrangler. you both knew he was just a rebound, but scott quite enjoyed the late nights he spent with you in dingy motel rooms, and, more than anything, he really loved pissing tyler off. he knew that being with you got under tyler’s skin in a way that nothing else did, and you relished in the attention he showed you. though, it would never compare to that of the arkansas cowboy you’d grown to love so much.

“yeah, i guess so,” you meekly nodded. being so close to him again was making your chest burn and your eyes sting, and this conversation was terribly awkward. you wished the sticky floor of the bar would just open up and swallow you whole.

꒰ well, i’ve never been better, things are going my way ꒱

you were beginning to wonder what his motives were for coming over here. that was, until he began to speak again. “well, i just wanted to tell ya that the fans really miss you on the streams. although, did you hear we hit a million subscribers?” boone had excitedly told you about it the day it happened. you were thrilled for them, but you couldn’t ignore the pang in your chest that stemmed from the reminder that you wouldn’t be there to celebrate with them all. “yeah, ty. looks like things are really going your way,” you smiled. you were happy for him. you had to be.

꒰ i sleep like a baby; i never show up late for work ꒱

꒰ i don’t drink whiskey; i don’t know how it feels to hurt ꒱

“mhm,” he hummed. “i barely know how it feels to hurt anymore. i sleep like a baby, and we’ve caught every storm we’ve been in the area for for weeks now.”

you will the tears from your eyes as you force a smile. “that’s really great, tyler. i’m glad to hear you’re doing so well.”

꒰ oh, and i ain’t been lonely since you said goodbye; i wish i could say i miss you, but you know i never lie ꒱

꒰ yeah, i met somebody too, she’s a model out in l.a. ꒱

꒰ and she’s begging me to move, she says malibu is really great ꒱

꒰ ain’t decided if i’m going or not, but at the end of the day…꒱

“thanks. i met someone too, you know. her name’s emily. she lives in the dallas area, does modeling for a couple magazines out there. she says it’s really great.”

your throat squeezes even tighter; you know he’s trying to get a ride out of you on purpose now. you know, deep down, that you’ve hurt him by going out with scott. you steel yourself before responding. “oh, yeah? you gonna sell your place in little rock?” he half scoffs, expecting a different reaction. “ain’t decided yet. but at the end of the day, i’m good wherever i am.”

you give him a half-hearted grin, already starting to slip off your stool. “i’m happy for you, ty.” you say before subtly bolting out the entrance of the poorly lit room.

the second you hear the heavy door slam behind you, you begin gasping for air. hearing how well tyler was doing without you was quickly sending you into a tizzy. you try to stall your tears and calm your breathing, but the air around you is too thick, your skin too warm, and the hurt too intense. your chest feels as if it’s closing in on itself and you’re not sure what to do, and then you see them. the other wranglers are suddenly surrounding you. “y/n? are you alright? what happened?” lily asked. you shake out your hands, trying to control your breathing. “it’s-” deep, shaky breath. “it’s nothing. i’m fine. i’m fine.” they all continue to eye you, not quite knowing what to say, until boone speaks up. “oh, shit,” he whispered, mostly to himself, though you all heard it. “what?” dani asked. boone looks at her with wide eyes, “tyler’s been in there for a while already.”

you finally get your breathing semi- under control and nod. “i’m okay, i just- tyler was telling me how well he and you all are doing and it just.. kinda threw me. but i’m alright.” they all share a puzzled look before looking back at you with furrowed brows. “he told you he was doing well?” you nod once more. “yeah, said he sleeps like a baby, and that you guys haven’t missed a good storm in weeks,” you explain. they all collectively scoff before boone shakes his head. “that’s such bullshit. i had to share a motel room with him a few weeks back, he didn’t stop tossing and turning ‘til nearly four in the morning.” your brows raise. “yeah, and we literally missed what would’ve been a stunner just last week cause he couldn’t get his shit together in time,” lily adds. you shake your head in disbelief. “he told me he met someone. emily, i think?”

“oh, you mean that girl he went on three dates with before he decided she wasn’t what he wanted and sent her back to texas?”

now it was your turn to scoff. “what? why would he lie?” you had a little bit of an idea, but you didn’t want to get your own hopes up for no reason.

“y/n. you and i both know that he told that girl it wouldn’t work out because he’s not over you,” dani said. your eyes blur again. god, you really wish they’d stop doing that. “i- i don’t know why he’d tell me he found someone else if he hadn’t,” your voice breaks as dexter quietly slips away from the group and into the crowded bar. “who knows why tyler does anything? all i know is that he loves you more than-” she’s interrupted by the heavy door behind you busting open. “y/n,” tyler breaths. you’re frozen, eyes glued to him. “i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to upset you. i’m not with emily, and i haven’t slept properly in months. i miss you like crazy,” he steps toward you hesitantly. “i promised you i’d never lie to you and i broke it. all i ever do is hurt.”

the dam finally breaks and your tears begin to soak your reddened cheeks. “nothing is going the way i want it to now that you’re not with us, with me. i just wanted you to miss me the way i miss you but i went about it all wrong. i’m so sorry.”

you laugh humorlessly, “tyler, scott and i were never serious. he and i both knew that i never got over you. i miss you more than anything. i miss all of you guys,” you go to gesture behind you, suddenly realizing that the rest of the wranglers had disappeared, leaving the two of you to work this out. you turn back around with a small, watery smile on your lips. tyler has a twinkle in his eye as he takes another step toward you, hesitantly reaching for your hands. “honey, what’ll it take for you to take me back? i’m miserable without you.” his eyes are teary now, too.

your smile grows. “i’ll take you back, ty, as long as you promise to never lie to me again.”

he grins, his smile brighter than you think you’ve ever seen it as little tears drip from his eyes. “never again, baby. i promise, for real, this time.”

your laugh is genuine as you lean in to press your lips against his for the first time in far too long. as you pull away, your brows furrow once more. “how’d you know i was out here, anyway?”

tyler lightly squeezes your hips before answering, “dexter came into the bar just a few minutes before i came out here. he found me and told me that i better get my ass outside and try and get my girl back before it was too late. told me i had upset you pretty bad. i ran through the crowd as fast as i could to get to you; i had to tell you that i hadn’t meant to hurt you.”

you place your hands on top of his, running your thumbs over the tops of his knuckles. “it’s okay. i didn’t mean to hurt you either. i was just… having a hard time functioning without you and scott was there to take the edge off. i should’ve known it was a bad idea.”

he places a hand on your cheek, squeezing your hand with the other, still on your hip. he brings your lips to his again, putting all of the unspoken words and wasted time into the sweet kiss. “everything’s okay, now. but you gotta tell scott that it’s over between you.”

you giggle. “i’ll text him the minute we get back inside.” he lightly pinches your hip as he grins. “good. now come on, sweet thing. i’ve got a lot of time to make up for.” he slides his arm around your waist as the two of you begin to make your way back into the rowdy bar.

“hey, ty?”

“yeah, baby?”

“can i come back to the wranglers? storm par is so boring in comparison.”

he laughs loudly before proudly answering, “absolutely, honey. it’s great to have you back,” he responds before leaning in for one last sweet kiss.

꒰ wish i could say i hadn’t missed you, but you know i never lie. ꒱