#control panel restrictions | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

brookghaib-blog · 9 days ago

Text

Silent arms

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x reader

Summary: After a harrowing traumatic past and struggling to control her recently discovered powers, Y/N finds an unexpected refuge in Bob. Through patient care, quiet moments, and gentle love, Bob helps her rediscover trust and hope, and together they begin to heal from their broken pasts.

Warning: Death, depression, mentions of captivity, human experiment

Word count: 7,2k

Note: Based on this request!

The Watchtower had been quiet all morning, save for the gentle hum of machinery and the occasional groan of settling metal. Bob stood in the kitchen, cradling a chipped mug between his large hands, waiting for the coffee to finish brewing. His hair was pulled back, messy and damp from a recent shower, the sleeves of his grey sweatshirt rolled up to his elbows. The scent of dark roast and burned toast lingered faintly in the air.

His days had all started to blur together—quiet, uneventful, almost sterile in their stillness. Ever since the incident on the last mission, Valentina had restricted him from going out with the team. “Until you learn how to keep it in check,” she’d said, avoiding eye contact with him as if the Void was leaking through his pupils. Bob understood. But the silence was eating him alive. The longer he stayed behind, the more he worried he was just becoming the ghost of the man they needed him to be.

The sharp hiss of the security doors pulled him out of his head.

Footsteps. Heavy boots, dragging feet, murmurs of exhaustion.

He poured himself a cup of coffee as he heard voices echoing down the hallway.

“Jesus, I need a week of sleep,” Walker muttered.

“Make it two. I think one of them bit me,” Yelena grumbled back.

Bob smiled faintly, ready to greet them like he always did, but when he turned—his mug halfway to his lips—he saw her.

A girl.

Someone he didn’t recognize.

She stood just beyond the threshold of the hallway, half-shadowed in the entry. Her clothes were worn, blood-spotted in some places, her sleeves too long and swallowing her hands. There was dirt on her cheek, and she looked young—but not in age. In the way her shoulders hunched forward. In the way her eyes flinched at the lights above. In the way she stood slightly behind Bucky like she didn’t know if she was allowed to take up space.

Her eyes flicked around the Watchtower slowly. They widened just a little at the towering ceilings, the holographic displays, the sleek walls and gleaming glass that looked almost out of place for people like them—warriors, survivors, broken things trying to pass as functional. She looked like she’d never seen anything like it. As if she wasn’t sure she was dreaming or not.

Bob lowered his mug. His body stilled, sensing something unspoken, something delicate.

Bucky, ever gentle when the situation called for it, turned back toward her.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, voice a touch softer than usual. “Come meet Bob. He’s—uh—he’s one of us. Just… stays behind sometimes.”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t even nod.

Her head dipped, chin touching her chest. She stared at the floor like it had more to say than the people around her.

Bob felt something cold twist in his chest.

She wasn’t just quiet. She was shutting down.

He took a step forward but stopped himself. She looked like she’d bolt if someone moved too quickly. He knew that look.

He had worn it before, standing on trembling legs in an NA meeting, feeling the entire room's gaze pin him down like a moth under glass.

“She okay?” Bob asked quietly, glancing at Bucky.

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck. “Long story. We found her during the mission. Her… situation’s complicated.”

That word. Lab. It hit Bob like a slow, spreading bruise. He looked at the girl again, saw the way she flinched when a panel on the wall blinked too bright. Saw the way her fingers twisted the end of her sleeve over and over, like she was trying to make herself smaller. Like if she was still enough, no one would notice her.

“She safe here?” Bob asked again, quieter this time.

“She’s safe now,” Bucky said, and though he meant it, even he sounded like he wasn’t sure if it would be enough.

Yelena passed by them both, gave Bob a nod, and paused briefly next to the girl. “We told her she’s welcome here. Even if she doesn’t believe it yet. We need to...understand somethings before she goes on with her life.”

Walker just grunted and disappeared down the hallway, muttering something about needing ice and a nap.

Bob looked back at the girl.

She still hadn’t said a word.

She wasn’t looking at him. Just… down. Her face was unreadable. No anger. No fear. Just an eerie stillness that reminded him too much of his own reflection during the worst nights. Like she had locked herself in a room inside her own mind and thrown away the key.

And yet… she was here.

He took another step toward her, carefully, until he was standing just a few feet away.

“Hey,” he said gently.

She didn’t flinch.

“I’m Bob,” he added. “This is my coffee. It’s terrible. You’re not missing much.”

Nothing.

But something in her lips twitched. Almost like she wanted to smile but forgot how.

He didn’t push. He didn’t ask questions. He just nodded slowly and said, “We’re glad you’re here. Take your time.”

Then he stepped back and returned to his spot at the kitchen counter, pretending to sip his lukewarm coffee. He didn’t need to see her eyes to know she heard him.

He just hoped—maybe—that she would eventually speak back.

They gave her a room. Not just any room—a suite. A palace, by her standards.

The ceiling stretched high overhead like it belonged in a museum. The floors were smooth and cold under her bare feet, too clean, too sterile. The bed was massive, with soft grey sheets and more pillows than she could ever need. There was a bathroom of gleaming porcelain and glass, the kind she used to only see in hotel commercials—those brief flickers of comfort on the lab's grainy TV screens when the power didn’t cut out.

Here, everything smelled like lavender and something faintly metallic. She couldn’t decide which scent unsettled her more.

But she didn’t move.

She laid in the bed, motionless. The plush mattress cradled her like an open palm, and still, her body remained stiff as stone. Her arms stayed locked over her stomach, her legs curled inward. The hoodie someone had given her felt too soft, almost wrong against her skin.

She hadn’t taken a shower. Hadn’t explored. Hadn’t even touched the books neatly stacked on the shelf beside the window, the ones that looked like someone had chosen them with care. Maybe it was Bob. Maybe Yelena. Or Bucky.

The others. Her brothers. Her sisters. She missed them.

The ones who died screaming.

She closed her eyes, but her body didn’t soften. Sleep wouldn’t come. She didn’t think it ever would again. Even in this quiet, safe place, her thoughts were loud—deafening. Her chest barely moved as she breathed, shallow and rhythmic, like she could convince her body she wasn’t really alive, just... resting.

No one had knocked all day. She didn't expect anyone to.

Until now.

A soft thud at the door. Just one knock. Gentle. Not urgent.

“Hey,” came Bucky’s voice. Muffled, tired. Kind. “Just letting you know there’s dinner downstairs if you’re hungry. No pressure.”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t dare make a sound.

A pause.

“…Okay. Just… yeah. Whenever you’re ready.”

She heard his footsteps fade down the hall, his voice calling out to someone else. Probably Yelena. Or maybe Bob, still hovering somewhere in the kitchen.

She wondered if Bob hated her. She didn’t know why that thought haunted her, but it clung like a shadow. He hadn’t said much. Just looked at her like he understood something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to say.

The room returned to silence.

And still, she laid there.

The ache in her chest spread, a quiet hollowness. The kind that came not from one wound—but a thousand little ones. The kind that accumulated over years and years of being nothing more than a number in a cold, white cell. She remembered her brothers laughing in low whispers after lights-out. Remembered how one of the girls used to sing lullabies in to comfort the younger ones. She remembered holding someone’s hand while they screamed as their bones as punishment.

She wanted a quiet mind. But it seemed something she wasn't blessed for.

She appeared in the doorway like a ghost.

Everyone at the table stilled for a moment, glancing toward her with a mix of surprise and quiet unease. Her silhouette was sharp against the soft light of the Watchtower’s dining hall—tall, stiff, and hollow-eyed. She hadn’t showered. Hadn’t changed. Dried blood still clung to the sleeves of her torn, sweat-soaked hoodie. Her pants were caked with dirt and the dark rust of old wounds. Her boots left faint, crusted footprints on the clean tile floor.

Even her hair looked forgotten—matted to one side, strands stuck to her temple where sweat had dried hours ago. Her arms hung by her sides like dead weight. Her face was pale, her expression unreadable.

She didn’t say a word.

No one dared say anything at first.

Yelena, mid-conversation with Ava, froze with her fork halfway to her mouth. Ava gave her a look and set his utensils down slowly. Even Walker, usually smug and oblivious, leaned forward in his chair like he’d just sensed something wrong and couldn’t name it.

She just stood there.

Frozen. Like she didn’t know if she was allowed in.

The smell of food hung heavy in the air—roasted potatoes, garlic bread, some pasta thing Yelena had made that actually smelled decent. The room buzzed with the leftovers of laughter and tired banter. But none of it reached her. Not really.

It was Bob who finally spoke, his voice careful. Soft.

“Hey... Y/N. You hungry?”

She didn’t move her head. Just blinked slowly, like the words took too long to register.

It was Bucky who stood up, crossing the room to meet her halfway.

“You can sit,” he said gently. His voice was warm, but there was an edge to it—worried, protective. “Come on. We saved you a spot.”

She followed him like a shadow. Silent. Her boots barely made a sound.

He pulled out the chair between him and Bob and nodded toward it. She sat mechanically, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Her fingers were still stained with grime. Under the table, her knees were pressed together like she was bracing for impact.

Everyone tried to act normal after that.

Conversations resumed—awkwardly, at first, then slowly finding rhythm again. Ava cracked a joke about the mission. Yelena complained about how the mutant hybrid bit her arm. Even Walker grunted some half-assed remark about having to do everyone’s job for them. Laughter returned, hesitant but real.

But Bob didn’t laugh.

He sat beside her, arms resting on the table, his plate half-eaten. His eyes kept flicking to her face.

She hadn’t touched her food.

Not a single bite.

Bob cleared his throat quietly and turned toward her. “Is it not something you like? We can get you something else.”

She didn’t answer.

His brow furrowed. “Y/N… are you just not hungry?”

Still, nothing.

Then—barely above a whisper, without even looking up—her voice cracked through the silence.

“I’m not allowed to take an action without an order.”

It was flat. Hollow. The words didn’t seem to belong in a room like this—a warm room, filled with people, filled with life. It was a sentence born from a place none of them had lived in. A place that stunk of steel and bleach and obedience. A cage with no light.

Everyone went still again.

Yelena’s fork clinked against her plate.

Bob’s stomach twisted painfully, a low, rising ache.

Bucky didn’t hesitate.

He placed his fork down, leaned toward her with the calm steadiness of someone who’d seen the same kind of hell. His voice was quiet. Clear.

“You’re allowed,” he said. “You’re allowed now.”

Her eyes finally moved, just barely, to glance at him.

“That's not how it works.” she whispered.

A pause.

Bucky nodded once, then said gently—but firmly, “Then take this as an order. Eat your food, soldier.”

It wasn’t unkind. It wasn’t even cold. It was the only language she seemed to still understand.

Her lips parted. Her hands moved slowly, like they didn’t belong to her. She reached for the fork. Her fingers trembled.

Bob watched her closely, his chest heavy, throat tight.

She didn’t bring the food to her mouth right away. But she held the fork. She looked at it. And something in her posture—just a tiny shift—unlocked.

She wasn’t okay. None of them thought she was.

But she was trying.

Bob leaned a little closer, his voice a quiet thread just between them.

“You’re not in that house anymore.”

She still didn’t look at him.

But her fork finally touched the food.

Y/N sat in the metal chair like a statue carved from ash. Her hands were folded in her lap, her legs uncrossed and still. Her eyes stared at the table in front of her—blank, unmoving, unblinking. She hadn’t spoken since she walked in. Hadn’t even looked up.

There were no windows in the room. No clock. Just the buzz of the overhead light and the steady, eerie hum of silence stretching out between her and the two people seated across from her.

Bucky sat on one end, arms crossed, a subtle crease of worry between his brows. He wasn’t leaning in. He knew better. He just watched, quiet, waiting.

Valentina De Fontaine, however, was not quiet.

She’d circled the table once before sitting down, setting her tablet and a thick file down with a heavy thud that echoed louder than it should have. Her eyes were sharp. Her tone calm, but dangerous.

“So,” she began, flipping open the file. “Let’s talk, sweetheart.”

Y/N didn’t move.

Bucky’s jaw tightened, but he stayed still.

Valentina went on, flipping slowly through the documents. Photos. Notes. Surveillance images. Her red fingernails tapped on the metal of the table. “You were the only one left alive in that facility. According to our intel, that place was rigged to self-destruct the second your team breached it. But not only did you survive—you walked out without a scratch.”

Still no response. Just the low hum of the light above them.

“We found blood,” Valentina continued. “Burn marks. Torture devices. Dead ends and shredded files. You know what we didn’t find?” She leaned forward slightly. “A single living subject. Not even one.”

Y/N blinked, but her stare never shifted from the table.

“You were part of it, weren’t you?” Valentina’s voice softened, turning nearly maternal. “We just want to know what was done to you. And what you know. For your safety.”

No answer.

“Who were your handlers? What was the lab producing—was it purely super soldiers or something more specialized?” She tapped again on the folder. “You’re the only lead we have.”

Y/N didn’t flinch. Didn’t breathe differently. She looked less like a girl and more like a void taking shape in a chair. Bucky frowned.

Valentina leaned back and exhaled.

“Okay,” she said casually. “Let’s talk about your family.”

Still nothing.

“You had a lot of brothers and sisters, didn’t you? Some real, some made in that compound. A little broken home of modified orphans.”

A flicker. Y/N’s fingers twitched slightly.

Valentina caught it.

“Funny thing about trauma bonding,” she said lightly, “it doesn’t mean what you think it does. You didn’t love them. You loved needing them.”

“Stop,” Bucky warned lowly.

“They died screaming, didn’t they?” Valentina pressed, her voice turning cruel under the sweetness. “One of them burned alive, didn’t he? I read it in the report. You left that house standing and we had to send a clean-up crew three days later to collect the remains.”

Y/N’s eyes widened—just slightly. Her knuckles tightened on her lap.

Valentina leaned forward.

“The girls. The boys. The ones who used to hold your hand while they cried at night. They screamed for help. Where were you?”

Tears welled up in Y/N’s eyes, silent and hot. Her lips trembled, but no sound came out.

“Did you hear them crying, Y/N?” Valentina asked, almost a whisper now. “Did they beg you? Did you run away while they were still alive?”

“Shut up,” Y/N whispered.

Valentina didn’t stop.

“They died for nothing. They died because you survived. That’s the kind of girl you are, isn’t—”

“Shut up!”

The table rattled. And in an instant—before either of them could breathe—a side table by the door lifted clean off the floor and hurled through the air like a missile.

It screamed past Valentina’s head—fast, invisible hands throwing it with enough force to crush bone. Bucky lunged forward and caught it mid-air, his vibranium arm ringing with the impact. The force shoved his chair back a few inches with a loud scrape.

Valentina went deathly still.

Y/N was shaking.

Her arms were at her sides, her jaw clenched, her breath ragged. Tears poured down her face now, soaking her shirt collar. Her chest rose and fell in heaving waves. A low, vibrating hum filled the air around her—something unseen moving, flexing, tightening like a thousand invisible limbs.

“Don’t.” Her voice cracked. “Don’t talk about them.”

Bucky was on his feet now, carefully setting the table down behind him. “Y/N. You’re okay. Breathe.”

“They were my family,” she choked, eyes flashing with fury and grief. “They were all I had.”

“I know,” Bucky said gently. “I know.”

“They didn’t ask for that life. They didn’t choose it—”

“No, they didn’t,” he said. “But you loved them. You tried to protect them. That means something.”

Valentina stood, brushing invisible dust off her sleeve. “We’re done here.”

Bucky didn’t look at her. His eyes stayed on Y/N—her hands still trembling, her shoulders shaking, her soul bleeding all over the table.

“Y/N,” he said quietly. “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”

She nodded weakly, biting her trembling lip.

And without another word, he guided her out of the room.

No news blaring from the TV, no coffee brewing, no clanking of dishes in the kitchen. The team had gathered after Valentina stormed out of the interrogation chamber, tension thick enough to choke on. Bucky stood by the window, arms crossed, staring out at the clouds drifting around the tower's upper level. Bob sat hunched over on the couch, brows furrowed, a half-drunk cup of coffee cooling in his hands. Yelena leaned against the far wall, arms folded, chewing nervously on her thumbnail. Alexei paced back and forth across the room, muttering to himself. Walker sat in one of the armchairs, stone-faced, one leg bouncing slightly with nerves he didn’t show on the surface.

Nobody spoke at first.

They were all trying to process it.

Not just the flying table—though that alone would’ve shaken any of them—but what came with it. Y/N’s scream. The anguish behind it. The force that tore through the air like grief made solid.

“She has powers,” Bob finally said, voice low, as if saying it too loud would crack something fragile.

Bucky turned slowly from the window. “Telekinesis.”

Walker scoffed under his breath, rubbing a hand across his jaw. “You’re telling me she nearly took Valentina’s head off with a side table, and no one knew she had powers?”

“She didn’t use them,” Bucky replied. “Not once. Not in the field. Not even when she was injured or scared.” He paused. “That’s not someone hiding power. That’s someone terrified of it.”

“She’s just a kid,” Yelena muttered, voice brittle.

“She’s not,” Bob said quietly, staring into his coffee. “Not after what she’s been through.”

Alexei stopped pacing. “So what the hell was that? Some suppressed mutant gene or…?”

“No,” Bucky said. “No, it wasn’t that. I… I read her file. What little there was in it. She was raised in that house, which also had a huge underground lab. One of those… unlisted government-backed projects. But she wasn’t meant to survive.”

The room went still.

“What are you saying?” Yelena asked.

“She was a prototype,” Bucky said grimly. “The first and only success of some military offshoot project—some kind of rogue operation that wanted to build controllable weapons. Not people. Weapons.”

Bob looked up, eyes narrowing. “Like Red Room?”

“Worse,” Bucky said. “They weren’t trying to create assassins or spies. They wanted living, breathing weapons of mass destruction. No minds of their own. Just power and obedience.”

Yelena’s mouth tightened. “And they used children.”

Bucky nodded. “She was the only one who survived the experimentation phase. Telekinetic powers. Strong enough to lift a car without blinking. Maybe more if she let herself go.”

“She hasn't let herself go,” Bob said. “That’s the point.”

Yelena glanced at him.

“She barely looked at anyone. She waited to be told to eat. To speak. She doesn't act like someone with that kind of power. She acts like someone who’s afraid of being punished for using it.”

Walker leaned back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling with a sigh. “So what—now we’ve got another unstable super on our hands? Great. Just what we need.”

“She’s not unstable,” Bob snapped, surprising everyone with the sharpness in his voice.

He stood slowly, placing his cup on the coffee table with a quiet clink. “She’s traumatized. She lost everything. Her brothers and sisters. Her home. Her identity. And now we’re interrogating her like she’s some kind of threat.”

“She is a threat if she loses control again,” Walker shot back.

“She wasn't out of control,” Bob said, stepping forward. “She was being tortured.”

“No one laid a hand on her,” Walker argued.

“No,” Bucky cut in. “But Valentina laid every word on her like a blade. And don’t pretend you didn’t hear it.”

Bob’s jaw tightened. “She thought she was safe here.”

“She is safe here,” Alexei said firmly. “We’ll make sure of that.”

“How?” Yelena whispered. “When she doesn’t talk? Doesn’t tell us anything? We didn’t even know she could do what she did until she almost killed someone.”

“She didn’t want to kill Valentina,” Bucky said. “That was grief. That was defense.”

Everyone went quiet again.

Bob rubbed his eyes. “She told me once,” he murmured, “that she didn’t know what it felt like to make a choice. That her whole life, everything she did, every movement, every thought—it had been ordered. Programmed.”

Bucky nodded. “She’s more like you than you realize.”

Bob looked at him, expression unreadable.

“You both survived something you shouldn’t have. And you��re both still trying to figure out who you are now that you’re free.”

That hung in the air.

“Freedom doesn’t feel like freedom when you’ve never had it,” Yelena said softly.

Walker stood, sighing. “So what do we do now? Treat her like one of us? Let her walk the halls like a normal person? She’s dangerous, whether she means to be or not.”

“She needs someone,” Bob said. “Not handlers. Not interrogators. Someone who’ll sit with her in the dark and not expect answers. Someone who won’t ask her to be useful. Just… present.”

“And who’s gonna do that?” Alexei asked.

“I will,” Bob said without hesitation.

Everyone looked at him.

“I know what it’s like to be afraid of what you are,” he continued, eyes distant. “To think your existence is a mistake. A danger. I know what it’s like to hear people call you a weapon instead of a person.” He swallowed. “If she’s going to stay here… if we’re going to give her a life worth living, someone has to believe she deserves one.”

Bucky met his eyes and nodded once.

The hallway outside her room was dim, the only light coming from a small wall fixture flickering faintly overhead. Bob stood in front of her door for what felt like forever, a hand hovering mid-air as if knocking might shatter something sacred—or fragile. Or both.

He’d never felt this type of fear before.

Not the kind that clawed through his chest in battle, not the kind that came from the Void whispering in his mind, tempting him with power and chaos. This was a different kind. The helpless kind. The kind that made you ache for someone else so badly your own ribs felt like a cage.

He finally knocked—softly.

There was no response. Just like the last time.

Bob leaned his forehead gently against the door.

“Hey… it’s me,” he said, voice barely more than a whisper. “Bob.”

Silence.

He exhaled, his breath shaking. “You don’t have to say anything. I know you don’t want to. But I just wanted to be here. In case… I don’t know, in case you’re tired of being alone.”

Still nothing.

His fingers brushed over the doorknob, but he didn’t open it. He wouldn’t. Not unless she let him.

“I heard what happened earlier,” he continued, staring down at the ground. “I wasn’t there. But I wish I had been. Not to stop you… but to stop them. You didn’t deserve that, any of it.”

Behind the door, she was still curled on her bed. Legs tucked into her chest. Head resting against the mattress like she was trying to disappear into it. Her eyes were red and swollen, face stained with silent tears that hadn’t stopped for hours. She heard his voice. Every word. She didn’t want to. But she did.

Bob leaned back against the opposite wall, sliding down until he sat on the floor across from her door, long legs stretched out in front of him. He rubbed his hands together, anxious. His voice cracked when he spoke again.

“When I first got out… after everything that happened to me—after the serum, the Void, the isolation—I didn’t speak for days either. I didn’t know how to be around people without being terrified I’d hurt them.”

He chuckled dryly. “Hell, sometimes I still don’t. I used to think silence was a punishment. That being ignored meant I was too dangerous to even be acknowledged. But you… you’re not being punished. You’re protecting yourself.”

Her eyes flicked toward the door, barely.

“I get it,” Bob whispered. “I really do. Because sometimes… people don’t leave you bruised. Sometimes they leave you obedient. And that’s worse, because you think it’s your fault for not fighting harder.”

She flinched, chest tightening, arms wrapped around herself. Her body remembered. The orders. The consequences. The stillness.

Bob swallowed hard.

“I know you miss them,” he said gently. “Your brothers. Sisters. Even if that place wasn’t kind to you, it was still home. They were your family.”

A tear slid down her cheek.

“I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you this,” he continued, “but you’re allowed to be angry. You’re allowed to grieve. You’re allowed to be human.”

He took a shaky breath, trying to keep his voice even.

“I don’t think you’ve ever been allowed anything in your whole life.”

She clenched her eyes shut. Her nails dug into her skin. That word—allowed—it ripped her open.

Bob stood slowly. “I’m just going to sit out here for a while. You don’t have to open the door. But I’m not leaving.”

His voice lowered, almost inaudible now.

“You don’t have to be alone in the dark anymore.”

He slid back down, pressing his back to the wall, hands clasped in front of him. Minutes passed. Maybe hours. He didn’t know. He just sat in silence.

And then, without warning, there was a click.

He didn’t move. Not right away.

The door creaked open—just slightly.

Just enough for a sliver of light to spill out onto the floor where he sat.

She was standing inside, pale and trembling, still dressed in bloodstained clothes. Her eyes were wide and glassy, cheeks blotched with dried salt trails. She looked… terrified.

Bob stood slowly, making no sudden moves. His hands stayed by his sides.

“Hi,” he said softly.

She didn’t say anything. She just stepped back, wordless. It wasn’t an invitation. Not really. But it also wasn’t a dismissal.

So Bob stepped inside.

The room was dark, curtains drawn tight. The bed sheets were untouched. No sign of movement or comfort. Just stillness. She’d been lying there for hours without ever really being there.

He didn’t speak again. Just closed the door quietly behind him and stood there, waiting.

She turned her back to him, as if afraid that facing him would make her crumble.

Her voice cracked when she finally spoke. Barely more than a breath.

“I’m not… good.”

Bob felt something in his chest shatter.

“You don’t have to be,” he replied gently. “You just have to be.”

A sob slipped out of her before she could stop it. Her shoulders shook. She tried to stifle it, but it was too late. The tears came like rain—silent at first, then with thunder behind them.

Bob didn’t rush her. Didn’t touch her.

But when she turned and looked at him—eyes full of sorrow, guilt, shame, and desperate need—he opened his arms.

She didn’t think. She just moved.

Fell into him like the sky was falling and he was the only solid thing left.

He held her. Not tightly, not possessively—just enough. Enough to make her feel the warmth of another body. Enough to remind her she existed.

She buried her face into his chest, sobbing so hard her knees buckled. Bob lowered them both to the floor, his arms never leaving her. Her hands clutched at his shirt, her body shaking with grief she didn’t have words for.

And Bob whispered:

“You’re not a weapon. You’re not a project. You’re not broken.”

“You’re here. And that’s enough.”

The weeks that followed moved slowly—like dawn breaking over frost-covered earth. Gentle. Hesitant. Painfully quiet at first, but with every passing day, a little more light crept through.

She remained quiet at breakfast. Her eyes still darted with suspicion anytime someone entered the room too loudly or spoke too harshly. She rarely sat near anyone except for Bob—and, occasionally, Bucky. Even then, she only truly looked at Bob. Only responded to him. Only listened when he asked something of her.

The others noticed. Of course they did. But they didn’t say anything. It wasn’t like they resented it—it was just… unspoken. The way she would be completely still, withdrawn, until Bob walked in. Then her shoulders would lower. Her fingers would unclench. Her eyes, once so glassy and numb, would soften, ever so slightly, at the sight of him.

It started with simple things.

Like how she wouldn’t eat unless he told her to. Not ordered—told. Kindly. Softly. “You should try the strawberries,” he’d say, nudging the bowl toward her with a shy smile. “I think you’d like them.” And she would—just because he asked.

One morning, when he handed her a mug of warm tea, her hand brushed his. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t retreat. She just looked at him. Almost like she was trying to remember what safety felt like.

By the second week, she began sitting in the corner of the living room when the others were gathered, legs curled under her, a book in hand that Bob had picked out. She didn’t read it. Not really. But she liked the smell of the pages and the comfort of being near him, near his voice as he joked with Bucky or talked about something simple, something normal. It anchored her.

He had started learning the rhythm of her silences.

There was a difference between the quiet that meant fear, and the quiet that meant peace. He learned when she needed space—and when she needed to be reminded she wasn’t invisible. Sometimes he would just place a little chocolate on her table without saying a word. Other times, he would play music faintly outside her door, letting melodies do what words couldn’t.

Bob never pressured her. Not once. But he was persistent.

He would show up with little gifts—things she didn’t know she wanted until he gave them. A hoodie two sizes too big. Socks with tiny stars on them. An oversized blanket that felt like it could swallow her whole. She didn’t say “thank you” at first. But she always kept them. Always wore them.

One afternoon, he knocked on her door and, when she opened it, he stood there with three shopping bags.

“I, uh… didn’t know what you liked,” he said, sheepish. “So I might’ve gone a little overboard. But there’s snacks in here. And clothes. I thought maybe you’d want to pick what feels good to wear. You don’t have to wear the same thing every day anymore.”

She blinked at him.

Then, for the first time, she smiled.

It was small. Barely-there. But it cracked through her like light through a crumbling wall.

Bob swore his heart stopped.

From then on, things shifted.

She started speaking again. Slowly. Carefully. Her voice was soft, hoarse from disuse, and barely rose above a whisper—but it was there.

One night, curled up in a corner of the couch beside him, knees drawn to her chest, she whispered, “I didn’t know I had those powers.”

Bob, stunned by the confession, set his coffee aside.

She looked at her hands. “I didn’t know they were inside me. Until the table moved. Until I felt it. It scared me.”

He reached out gently, hand hovering in the space between them. She hesitated. Then placed her hand in his.

“I think you were scared because no one ever told you it was okay to have that kind of strength,” he said. “But you’re not dangerous. Not to us.”

Her lips trembled. “I didn’t mean to scare anyone.”

“You didn’t,” he said softly. “You protected yourself. That’s not the same thing.”

After that, their physical closeness began to grow. Subtle, at first. He would nudge her shoulder lightly if he made her laugh. He would drape a blanket over her if she fell asleep near him. When they walked together in the garden, he let his fingers brush hers, barely touching, just enough to see if she pulled away.

She never did.

Sometimes, when they sat together and the team’s chatter became too much for her, she would lean her head against his shoulder. Her eyes would close, and she’d breathe in the scent of him—coffee, pine, a hint of cologne—and for a while, she’d feel grounded.

Bucky noticed, of course. He would shoot Bob a look now and then. Not angry—just… aware. Protective. But he saw how Bob looked at her. Like she was something he’d never believed he was allowed to love.

One quiet evening, just before lights out, Bob knocked on her door again. This time, she answered almost immediately. She was wearing the hoodie he bought her—navy blue and soft from the wash—and fuzzy socks that mismatched. Her hair was slightly messy, her eyes tired.

“Can I sit with you?” he asked.

She nodded.

They didn’t talk much that night. She curled into his side as they sat on the floor beside her bed, and he held her close, hand drawing light circles on her back.

“Why are you so kind to me?” she asked into his chest.

Bob rested his chin atop her head.

“Because someone should’ve been,” he whispered. “A long time ago.”

She didn’t reply. But she cried. Quietly. And he didn’t try to stop her.

Because healing didn’t look like screaming. Or grand confessions. Or miraculous recoveries.

Sometimes it looked like tears soaking into a borrowed hoodie while someone who cared held you through it.

The training room was bright, sterile, and silent—too silent. The kind of silence that echoed with past screams. Ghosts clung to the walls like breath on cold glass.

Y/N stood in the center of the room, the polished floor cold beneath her bare feet. She wore a new training outfit Bob had picked out for her—simple, black, flexible fabric, soft on her skin. She didn’t feel powerful. She felt like a child wearing adult armor.

Her fingers trembled at her sides.

Across from her, Bucky stood with his arms crossed, expression calm but unreadable. He was always careful with her. Not gentle—but not patronizing either. He treated her like someone who’d been through hell. Someone worth helping out of it.

“Alright,” he said, his voice even. “Let’s see what you can do.”

She didn’t respond. Not with words. But her eyes flicked to the corner of the room, to where Bob sat on a bench, watching her intently.

He gave her a nod. A small smile. His eyes told her what his voice didn’t need to say: I’m here. You’re okay. You’re not alone.

Bucky picked up a small weight and placed it on a pedestal a few feet away. “Start with this. Don’t think about lifting it. Don’t force it. Just feel it.”

Y/N looked at the weight. Her throat tightened.

“Focus on your breath,” Bob said softly from his seat. “In through the nose, out through the mouth. Just like we practiced.”

Her eyes fluttered shut. She breathed in. Counted to four. Out. Counted again.

She felt it first as a tremble in her chest—a strange, hollow vibration. Then, a tightening in her temples. Her fingers twitched as if something wanted to unfurl from within them.

A sudden crack echoed through the room.

The pedestal groaned. The weight trembled—then slid off and thudded onto the floor.

Y/N flinched. She stepped back like she’d broken something.

Bob stood quickly. “No, no. You didn’t fail.”

Her eyes darted to him, wide and wet.

“You moved it,” Bucky said, his voice edged with quiet pride. “That’s progress.”

“I didn’t mean to,” she whispered. “I got scared.”

Bob stepped closer now, slowly, like approaching a deer in the woods.

“But fear doesn’t mean you’re broken,” he murmured. “It means you still care. And even with that fear—you did it. You moved it. You controlled it.”

She looked down at her hands. Her breathing grew shaky.

“What if I lose it?” she said. “What if I hurt someone again?”

Bob’s fingers grazed hers, featherlight. “Then we start over. As many times as it takes. I’m not leaving.”

The gentleness in his voice cut through her like warmth against old ice. She blinked fast, swallowing the lump in her throat.

Bucky stepped back and motioned toward a small stack of targets on the wall. “Let’s keep going. Focus on one at a time. You don’t need perfection. Just control.”

Y/N nodded. This time, her eyes didn’t waver. She stared at the far-left target and raised her hand—not to point, not to aim, but to allow. Her fingers trembled… and then from the air, a shimmer of invisible force began to manifest.

One of the targets exploded off the wall, shattered by an unseen blast.

Bob let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “That was amazing,” he said, stepping forward, smile growing.

She turned to him, still breathing hard, face flushed with effort—but in her eyes, something new. Not panic. Not despair.

Pride.

Tiny. Flickering. But real.

She stumbled slightly, still dizzy from the exertion, and Bob was there instantly—his arms steadying her as if by instinct. He held her close, his hand resting just at the small of her back.

“You did so good,” he whispered against her temple.

“I didn’t kill it,” she mumbled weakly, voice thick with disbelief.

“You didn’t even crack the floor,” he said, grinning now. “Progress.”

She let out a tired laugh—choked and half-sobbed, but it was a laugh nonetheless. She leaned her forehead against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath her cheek.

Bucky gave them space. He turned away, pretending to check something on the console, but the ghost of a smile played on his lips. He didn’t mind the attachment. He understood it. In another life, he’d needed someone like that too.

“You hungry?” Bob murmured after a long moment.

“I might be,” she whispered back.

“I brought cookies,” he said. “The ones with the sprinkles you said you liked.”

She tilted her head up to look at him, eyes glassy. “You remembered?”

“I remember everything you tell me,” he said. “Even the quiet things.”

And just like that, she melted into him again.

The nights in the Watchtower were quieter now. After days of patient work, training, and recovery, the team found a rhythm. But for Y/N, the quiet wasn’t peace—it was space for thoughts she hadn’t dared to face. Except Bob made it different.

He had become her safe place.

Every evening, after training with Bucky and hours of him gently encouraging her to control her powers, Y/N found herself gravitating toward Bob. He always waited. Always had that soft, patient look in his eyes like he knew she needed him even if she couldn’t say it. He never pushed—he just made space. And she filled it, slowly.

Tonight was one of those nights. The others were asleep. She stood outside his door barefoot, her hoodie two sizes too big, sleeves covering her hands. Her knuckles hovered before she knocked. Bob had already sensed her.

The door opened before her hand met it.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, his voice low, gentle.

She shook her head.

He stepped aside wordlessly, letting her in.

Bob had always been quiet with her. He understood the weight silence could carry, and how sometimes words just broke things. Tonight was no different. She sat on the bed while he made tea for them both, something herbal and calming. She wrapped her hands around the mug but didn’t drink, just stared at the steam until it blurred her reflection in the glass.

“I used to think…” she whispered suddenly, not looking up, “that no one would ever see me as anything but… a monster.”

Bob didn’t respond with platitudes. He didn’t rush to deny it. He came to sit beside her, not touching yet, waiting for her to lead.

“But you look at me like I’m… human.”

“You are,” he said, so softly she almost didn’t catch it. “More human than anyone in this damn building.”

Her lip trembled. She hated crying. Hated the weight of tears. But he reached out gently, brushing one away with his thumb.

“I don’t know why you keep showing up for me,” she whispered.

“Because you showed up for me too. Even if you didn’t know it.”

She finally looked up at him.

“You make me want to be better,” she said, voice cracking.

Bob smiled sadly. “You already are.”

When he kissed her—tentative at first—it wasn’t fireworks. It was safety. It was healing. It was something warm breaking through something cold. She let him hold her then, really hold her, curling into him as his hand ran through her hair.

That night, they didn’t speak much after that. They didn’t need to. She fell asleep in his arms for the first time. And Bob didn’t move once—not even when his body ached. Not even when the shadows of the Void whispered at the corners of his mind.

Because she was there. And for once, that made it quiet. Peaceful.

#robert reynolds x reader #thunderbolts #bob thunderbolts #bob reynolds #marvel #robert reynolds #thunderbolts x reader #mcu fandom #sentry x reader #thunderbolts*#bob reynolds x reader #marvel x you #mcu x reader #marvel x reader #sentry x y/n #sentry thunderbolts #sentry x you #lewis pullman x reader #void x reader

496 notes · View notes

muletia · 3 months ago

Text

✧˖° 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔, 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍

[tfp] synth-en!obsessed!optimus prime x human!reader 18+ content/valveplug

cw: possessiveness, jealousy, top!optimus (he can top you once. as a treat <3), subish!optimus (kinda...), reader matches his freak, explicit valveplug, rough sex, overstimulation, breast play, no aftercare?, mention of ratchet's human partner (which is actually different reader lmao)

word count: 5100

sorry it took me so long to write this bitch; i had to rewrite everything three times before I was satisfied. also, don't expect an overly toxic optimus. i decided to stick as close to canon as possible while giving him just a pinch of freakiness, horniness and aggression

Optimus's servo smeared with energon shoots forward, locking around the helm of the nearest Vehicon. Behind him, Bumblebee and Bulkhead fire at the enemies guarding the energon cubes deeper within the cave, forcing the Decepticon soldiers to focus on them rather than on the exposed Optimus, whose servo grips the helm in a death embrace. Prime presses the enemy further against the cold, unyielding wall, just as unrelenting, securing against any escape before tightening his digits. They tremble for a moment, battling against metal, but it does not remain defiant for long. It yields to his strength, bends, gives way, until at last, completely crumples beneath his bare servo, spraying energon straight onto Optimus’s masked faceplate.

Violence is an inescapable shackle of war. Unyielding and inevitable. Optimus loathed violence, despised it, resisted using it, forcing himself only in the rarest of circumstances.

But there was not a trace of reluctance in the way he killed the Vehicon. This was not a wartime obligation or a fight for survival — it was murder. A deliberate act, cold and devoid of sympathy for mere cannon fodder, judging by how nonchalantly Optimus shakes the still-warm energon off his servo, all the while scanning for his next target.

“Bossbot?” Bulkhead asks, but the concern in his voice does not reach Optimus’s audials.

The Autobot leader’s entire focus is on the three remaining Vehicons, bravely defending two carts loaded with energon. On future victims, sacks to unload his uncharacteristic aggression upon. He wants to feel metal yielding beneath his servo again. To plunge his arm into a chassis and tear out a still-beating spark; to experience warm energon coating his entire frame. To break his own moral backbone, free himself, to finally taste victory in an era of failures.

He wants to live, to be free, rid himself of the restrictions he imposed upon himself eons ago. Optimus wants to kill Megatron and bring you his helm impaled upon his blade, for he is finally ready for absolute victory. But he also wants you. To devour, drown in, possess. Now, while the energon on his frame is still warm, while he can allow himself to indulge, while he feels like a god.

The fact that he cannot have you only stokes the unrestrained aggression further.

A storm of emotions swirls within him, spinning through his processor, through spark, and behind the interface panel, tormenting the spike swollen with thoughts of you, until Optimus finally lets rage and hatred win. Allows them to consume him completely and take control over every fiber of his being, including the most hidden, most private parts.

“Cover me!” he throws out a scrap of rationality before charging forward with a speed unsettlingly unnatural for a being of such immense power and height.

With only a few strides, he closes the distance between himself and the promise of liberation, dodging blaster shots raining down from ahead and behind, until he reaches the soldiers still fighting valiantly. He grabs the nearest one in his servo while seamlessly switching the other one to the blade, effortlessly slicing through the helm of a second Vehicon. Digits clench, repeating the sensation of his strength from before, still relishing in the pleasure of breaking free from the chains of nobility. More hot energon splatters onto his tainted frame.

The last surviving Vehicon fights bravely to the bitter end, trying to aim his blaster straight at Optimus’s exposed helm, but he is not granted the chance to strike. Prime releases the headless body of the other soldier and immediately turns his attention to him, predator locking onto his next prey. Before the shot can fire, his blade plunges directly into the Vehicon’s spark, snuffing out his meager, meaningless existence.

Optimus watches the body slide off his energon-coated blade and crumple onto the ground. Only then does it cease to interest him, to hold any value.

Yet, he does not feel satisfied. He still has the strength to fight, craves more enemies to extinguish. He is ready to face Unicron himself, the synthetic energon coursing through his lines whispering that he would win such a battle. He would triumph over anyone. Unstoppable. A god.

“Is that all of them?” he asks, a flicker of hope for more lingering in his voice. He needs to release this energy, to focus his pulsing, muddled processor on something simple. Something that will grant him relief from his hunger, no matter its origin.

“Yes,” Bumblebee replies. Despite his unease over their leader’s state, he adds, “All the energon is ours.”

“Bossbot,” Bulkhead tries again, “are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

“Exquisite, Bulkhead,” Prime responds, his tone bored, completely uninterested in continuing the conversation.

His thoughts have already shifted to someone else. Someone softer, sweeter.

His spike throbs irritatingly, demanding attention it will have to wait a little longer for.

Optimus presses his digits to his audials, unbothered by the energon staining them, and adds, “I am sending coordinates for the ground bridge. Be quick.”

He retracts his battle mask and turns toward his teammates.

“Gather as much energon as you can carry,” he instructs them, but the words are not truly for them. He is absent, lost in unreachable contemplation.

His optics, now a furious green, stare ahead, fixed on the point where the ground bridge will appear, each nanoklik of delay eroding his fragile patience. He clenches his servos into fists, trying to focus on that sensation, to concentrate on anything that will quell the irritation of waiting. Waiting until he can return to you and see you again.

Yet, he would not refuse one more Decepticon. The energon on his frame is beginning to cool, becoming nothing more than an echo of the euphoria of unchained rage. He had felt its effects for too short a time. Was not granted the full release of all the filth accumulated over eons of functioning on traditional, insufficient energon — and he wants more. Needs more. Wants to hear the clang of metal against metal again, to see the sparks and feel them ignite another fight; to witness how easily his enemies break beneath his might.

He tilts his helm slightly toward Bulkhead. A strong soldier — he would surely pose a challenge. Perhaps he could toy with him for a moment before hurling him across the cave with a single strike, indulging in his restless need to move, to act.

Their gazes meet for a brief moment, and Optimus sees hesitation in Bulkhead’s step. Uncertainty. A shadow of fear that reassures him of his own invincibility. He smirks triumphantly, even though their battle was only a fantasy.

But it could be real. Would you be proud of him if he took Bulkhead down with one hand? Finally proved his strength, impressed you with his power? He imagines you praising him. A simple “my good mech” rings loud in his processor, but its electrifying effect quickly travels downward, teasing his spike, reminding him just how much he needs you. How desperately he wants to be with you.

His pedes shift impatiently.

He prays to Primus that you are in the base right now. He does not trust himself at this moment to believe he could endure even a few more kliks apart without killing someone with his bare servos.

At last, the darkness of the cave is swept away by the flash of the Ground Bridge. Without waiting for the others, Optimus strides through first, each impatient step bringing him closer to you — until he is met with the familiar sight of the silo. And in the middle of it, standing on a lower platform, is you, seemingly engaged in a pleasant conversation with Arcee, judging by your warm smile.

You say something to the femme, a few words before your attention shifts to him, and you freeze upon seeing the energon staining his frame. As if you were afraid of him, though it is not your shock that truly irks him.

No, it is the fact that you were talking to Arcee, smiling at her, giving her attention that she does not deserve. Because it is he who is your partner, your lover, your soulmate, your future conjunx, and it is he who deserves your affection. He should be the only bot in your life, and this determination, this jealousy pricking at his spark, leads him straight to you, ignoring Arcee’s greeting and attempt to ask a question.

With measured gentleness, a fleeting echo of his former self, he scoops you into his servo and lifts you to his faceplate.

“Optimus, wait!” you plead, but your words do not reach him.

He presses you against the warm, energon-free metal along his intake, securing your back with two digits to prevent any attempts at escape. Like a cat seeking affection, he nuzzles against you a few times, rubbing your entire body and ruining your clothes and hair in the process.

The softness that envelops him soothes his jealousy. Not completely, for he would prefer a far less innocent form of touch, eagerly anticipating that moment, but it is enough to satiate, if only slightly, his hunger for you.

But only for a moment, because he quickly grows bored of simple cuddling. With his thumb, he tugs your shirt upward, revealing a stretch of beautiful, velvet skin, immediately pressesing his intake against it, leaving small but eager kisses.

“Optimus! Optimus, wait!” Your sweet voice quells the hatred and fury within him, but it awakens a different craving, one that has nothing to do with ripping Decepticons apart with his bare servos.

The way you call his name is beautiful. Desperate. But in the mania of his desire, he cannot tell whether it is pleasure or fear that laces your voice. What he does know, is that he needs to hear it again, but in a more private setting. In the seclusion of your quarters within the base, where the only interactions you would be allowed to have would be with him. Where only he would be granted the privilege of experiencing your melodious voice, your laughter, and your pleasure.

With his goal clearly defined, his pedes carry him towards your quarters of their own accord. He forgets about the energon still splattered across his frame — the deadly harvest of synthetic energon — and about his teammates, who continue to watch him in silent horror. His world narrows to you, to the sound of your voice still calling his name, to your occasional laughter whenever his intake tickles a particularly sensitive spot on your stomach. That is all that matters to him in this moment. That is the only thing of importance.

The only problem he is willing to concern himself with right now is the spike pressing painfully against the walls of its cage.

"Optimus!" You try once more. More forcefully, with enough anger and accusation to tear him from his trance of desire. His optics break away from your stomach, and he looks at you with a distant gaze. Yet he has no intention of stopping the way he’s caressing your body. Primus, he wants to devour you so badly. "Can you finally stop?!"

He obeys your demand, watching with invisible amusement as you sigh in relief. His intake remains on you, lips brushing against skin with feathery delicacy, dangerously close to your crotch. He knows he's overstepping, going too far, but he can't pull himself away from you, lost in visions of the future, in mass displacement, in the full-fledged idea of drowning in you.

His glossa, as if it had a mind of its own, slips out from his intake. The tip of his Cybertronian tongue grazes your navel, timidly trailing downward—but before Optimus makes a mistake he will regret for the rest of his life, he feels a kick against his cheek.

Your kick.

Weak, faint, one easily mistaken for an angry kiss, but firm enough to make him retract his glossa. And most importantly, it finally gives you a chance to say something longer than just sweetly crying out his name.

"Christ, why are you so pent-up today?"

"I have dreamed of you for an entire solar cycle. I withered with longing, waiting until I could finally hold you in my servo." He opens up to you, finally gathering the strength and courage to do so. Even if his boldness is artificial.

"I'm glad to hear that, but you've gotten a bit ahead of yourself, my love."

Love. His optics widen slightly, as if that pet name were entirely new to him. And in a way, it was. Because its use reignites the urge to rush to your cozy four walls and beg you to feed him "dearest," "beloved," and "sweetspark" until he goes mad.

"Optimus." A foreign voice pierces through the veil of sweetness, pulling him away from you. Something he cannot accept. His faceplate, unusually expressive today, freezes with irritation because he does not want to be Optimus for anyone but you right now.

Debates ignoring the bitter call, returning his thoughts and attention to you, but a quick assessment of your irritated and rather dissatisfied expression convinces him that, this time, he should at least pretend to care about his teammates. He sincerely hopes you will reward him later for the magnanimity he is about to show them.

Still holding you close to his faceplate but covering more of you with digits to shield his treasure from prying optics, Optimus turns to Arcee, the one who had called him earlier.

"What matter requires my immediate attention, Arcee?" he asks in a sharp tone, so unlike the familiar and beloved gentle giant that it chills your blood.

Arcee must have felt something similar, as she narrows her eyes warily but does not yield under the pressure of her leader's anger.

"Ratchet left the hangar a few Earth hours ago. I can’t locate him, he’s not appearing on the radar or responding to comms."

"So he's with his partner," Optimus replies as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, clearly bored with the conversation.

"What makes you so sure? He mentioned going after Megatron himself. He could just as easily be dead or held prisoner on Megatron’s ship!"

"Arcee is right," you interject. "This isn't something to dismiss so easily."

Optimus sighs, exasperated. This is not how he envisioned spending his time with you. Did not expect to find so many obstacles standing between him and the sweet reward for reclaiming the mine.

"Check his human’s home first," Prime insists. "If he isn’t there, which is as close to impossible as can be, only then do you contact me. Is that clear?"

Arcee studies Optimus with a watchful gaze for a moment but, finding only cold, impenetrable stone, gives up on further argument. For a brief second, her optics shift to you in gratitude for speaking up for her, something that Optimus does not entirely approve of. He shields you further with his servo, a possessive movement, blocking you from any foreign gazes or interaction. At the same time, he straightens his back to appear even larger than he already is.

Today, you belong only to him.

"Fine," Arcee hisses. "Who should I take on recon?"

"Anyone," Optimus says. He ends the conversation by turning on his heel and continuing down the corridor.

His intake returns to nipping at your stomach, but this time, he does so more aggressively. Faster, as if trying to rid himself of the frustration gnawing at him while ensuring that all of your attention remains solely on him. The tip of his thumb starts to toy with the waistband of your pants, attempting to make up for the seconds lost discussing his best friend. In response, you deliver another kick to him.

This time, he finds it utterly adorable.

"Do you really not care what’s happening with Ratchet? You know, your best friend?"

"I feel no need to concern myself with Ratchet’s condition when he himself informed me of his whereabouts."

"What makes you so sure he got held up there?"

"Because I now understand how he felt, rushing home to his beloved when they accidentally called him. Because I feel exactly the same way at this very moment."

His keen optics do not miss the faint blush that blooms across your cheeks.

Primus. Grant him the strength not to devour you right here and now.

"Wait." You speak. You breathe a sigh of relief when he obeys your command, stopping right in front of the newly installed Cybertronian showers. He lifts an optical ridge, prompting you to continue.

"Could you at least wash the energon off yourself?"

"I am heading to the washracks," he states calmly. "I assume you wish to join me."

You nearly choke on your own saliva.

"Later. I have a feeling I’ll need them more later," you reply, and Optimus has to resist the sudden urge to abandon the washracks entirely and rip your clothes to shreds right here and now.

Divine intervention (your words) is the only thing preventing him from completely destroying both his and your reputation.

One last time before your brief separation, he presses a kiss to your stomach.

"I assure you, I will not take long. Wait for me in your quarters."

"As you wish, Opti."

Primus once again tested his self-control.

You shut the door and immediately press your back against it, needing even a second of respite from everything that just happened.

"I have dreamed of you for an entire solar cycle…"

Oh god.

Oh fuck.

Overwhelmed by his unusual assertiveness, you cover your burning cheeks with your hands. But you don’t stay in that position for long, realizing that your blush is nearly as hot as his intake, his glossa. You can still feel the remnants of his kisses on your stomach and the desperation he poured into them. The hot breath that, over and over again, enveloped your bare skin.

You can’t escape from those thoughts, drifting on the edge of madness, wondering what happened to your dignity that his hunger made you feel like a lovestruck teenager.

Who swapped your Optimus for this pent-up, horny beast?

And most importantly, why didn't you mind at all?

In an attempt to regain control over your body and thoughts that were drifting into the near future, you decide to occupy yourself with something. Anything, as long as it is quick and allows you to gather yourself while you wait for his return.

Once again, your mind returns to the searing heat of the glossa working on your stomach. Taking a deep, reassuring breath, you head towards the cabinet and pull out a glass.

Yes, water will do you good, cooling the fire and restoring clarity to your thoughts. Especially since it is only now that you realize the dryness in your throat. Then, you will unpack your clothes from the suitcase. Mhm, that’s a good plan, you think, taking a sip of water. You will certainly have enough time to change out of your old hoodie and sweatpants into something more befitting of Optimus Prime — even if the concept of fashion was still an enigma to him, not entirely comprehensible.

Reaching for the bottle again, planning to pour yourself another drink, you freeze with the glass at your lips as the door suddenly swings open. And through it steps none other than a mass-displaced Optimus Prime, leaving you dumbfounded.

"It hasn't even been five minutes!"

Now free of energon but still dripping water in a few places, he closes the door behind him. "Forgive me, my dearest, but I was compelled to hasten my return," he says.

You finish your water and place the glass at the far end of the counter, cursing internally that your plan has just crumbled due to his untamed excitement. "It’s fine. But seriously, you could’ve at least given me two more minu…tes."

The words die in your throat as you feel hundreds of kilograms of living metal pressing against your rear, pinning you to the kitchen counter. Apparently uncertain of the effectiveness of his trap, Optimus places a servo on the cold marble as well, blocking your escape from the side.

Not that you were planning to escape, really.

"I could not wait any longer for us to be alone," he whispers directly into your ear, warm breath subtly stirring your hair. "I need you, sweetspark."

The unfamiliar passion in his deep, thick voice plays with your skin, sending a wave of goosebumps down your spine.

You should feel alarmed — you know this well. Instinct urges you to try and flee, to break free from the predator, but you cannot. Because the truth is, you do not want to move. You want to take advantage of this small shift in your dynamic. To channel his fervor toward your own needs, burning, pulsing, demanding his spike.

"I need you too," you say, adopting a low, raspy tone that does not contrast with your quickened breath. You turn to face him, only to be immediately consumed by the green glow of his optics, which seem to burn even brighter than usual. Optimus presses his hips against you more firmly, and even through the layer of sweatpants, you can feel that he is on fire.

He leans over you, a servo curling around the back of your head, and finally, he devours you, his heated intake sealing over your lips. He kisses you ravenously, greedily, as if he had been starving for centuries, setting a pace you struggle to keep up with. You try, chasing after his intake as it leaves kisses on your lips over and over again, but it proves futile when Optimus decides to trace a path downward. He attacks the corner of your mouth, your chin, and the edge of your jaw before moving to your neck, leaving several quick kisses before pausing for a moment.

"I can endure no longer," he whispers, and to confirm his words, he gently bites the skin on the side of your neck, only to immediately soothe the mark with the tip of his glossa. "[Name], I beg you, if I do not ram my spike into you this instant, I am convinced I will explode," he confesses.

With processor turned to mush and need surging through his circuits, Optimus opens his interface panel. His engorged spike, already dripping pink transfluid from its tip, presses against your stomach, rubbing against the fabric and leaving, thankfully washable, rosy streaks. You cannot tear your gaze away from this pathetically shameless display, basking in the heat of his desire.

"Are you particularly attached to your current coverings?" he asks, snapping you out of your trance.

"No, um, not really. Why?"

"I am pleased to hear that," he replies.

He grips the loose fabric of your sweatpants and, with a single motion, tears them in half, leaving you clad only in your ruined, slick underwear. But not for long. Your panties meet the same fate as your sweatpants, joining the shredded fabric on the floor beneath your feet.

The sight of your heat shatters the deadly seriousness of his faceplate as Optimus smiles, satisfied. At last, he has reached the climax of his journey, having pushed through the jungle of team complications and the forced visit to the washracks. But for a sight as breathtaking as this, for the intoxicating scent of your desire seeping into his intake and clouding his processor, and, above all, for you, it had all been worth it.

"Exquisite," he murmurs, unable to tear his optics away from your valve, even as you struggle to remove your hoodie and bra. "I am the most fortunate mech in the history of Cybertron."

Without warning, he grips your thighs and lifts you into the air, ignoring your startled yelp, which quickly transforms into a delighted giggle. And Primus, if that was not the most beautiful sound in the universe… Optimus would have crushed every Decepticon into dust if it meant you enjoyed this mere glimpse of his strength.

He aligns the tip of his spike with your burning entrance, teasing your wet lips with a single subtle touch that nearly drives him to overload. But he wants to last. He must, though he knows his stamina will not grant him mercy tonight.

"Optimus," you try, "maybe we could move to the bed, huh?"

"Forgive my impatience, my dearest," he responds, "but I fear I can endure no longer."

"Mhm, alrighhh… ah!"

With a fluid motion, he slides his thick spike into you, fitting two puzzle pieces into perfect unity.

"Primus, [Name]!" he gasps.

His sharpened senses push him down the path of madness.

Your walls tighten around his spike, welcoming your lover with affectionate reverence, and Optimus is overtaken by a profound sense of belonging and rightness, as if, after a long day’s work, he has finally come home. Buried deep within you, lost in the nearly claustrophobic sensation of your tight heat enveloping his spike, he dares to believe that this place is more comforting than Cybertron itself. And if this were to be your daily reality, he would have no objections to remaining on Earth for eternity.

"Opti, ah, fuck…" you try, slightly dazed by the sheer enormity of him stretching you out. Secured by the servos gripping your thighs, you allow yourself to wrap your arms around his neck, bringing yourself closer to the ocean of green. Being this near, you have the impression that the alien color of his optics is about to swallow you whole. Which is not far from the truth when Optimus begins kissing your collarbones, lightly nipping at your skin, trying not to lose his mind while waiting for your magic words.

"You can move, sweetheart."

The roar of his engine makes it clear — he is beyond delighted to hear that.

"As you wish," he growls against your skin.

The liberation he feels at finally being able to pump his spike into your heat is exquisite, yet treacherous, for Optimus cannot restrain himself from setting a fast pace. His hips ram into yours over and over, savoring the sight of the slight bulge moving across your stomach and the wet sounds of transfluid mixing with your juices — the most intimate union of two species. He is burning up, overheating, but even that pales in comparison to the molten lava that sears him inside your valve. If he cared enough, he might worry that you would melt him, truly fusing you both into one.

"Holy Primus," he pants, digging his digits deeper into the flesh of your rear. In response to the slight sting, you tighten your arms around his neck. "I am not pulling out of you tonight. Not even for a single nanoklik."

"Hah, w-what the hell did that synthetic energon…" you start, but a single powerful thrust momentarily robs you of speech. Seeking balance and clarity, you press your forehead against the cool glass of his chassis, but the tremors Optimus sends through your entire body do not allow you to stay there for long. "…do to you? Where did my mech, the one who begged for the strap, disappear to?"

"He is… s-still here," he assures you, purring with delight as he feels your slick, gummy walls clench around his spike, practically milking him with every drag. With such encouragement from your body, he cannot afford to slow down, determined to grant you a climax that will make you see stars. Or rather, one of your first orgasms. "If you so desire, hrrn, you may see him later."

"I don't think I'll, fuck, have the strength for anything later," you reply, words constantly broken by moans or gasps for breath.

"A-a pity, hah! I had hoped that you, too, might manage to wear me out."

You feel the shape of a smirk against the skin of your neck, where his faceplate is currently nestled. Bastard — you think, but cannot stay angry at him for long when every thrust sends waves of pleasure coursing through your body. From the crown of your head to your curled-up toes. Optimus is lucky that his spike is so impossibly large. Otherwise, he would be treading on very thin ice tonight — something he proves moments later that he is more than willing to risk.

"My dearest," he murmurs into your neck. The involuntary clench of the softest valve he has ever known in his long life tells him that you enjoy his possessiveness. And what kind of servant would he be if he did not fulfill his master's every desire? "My most beloved. Mine to converse with, mine to kiss. Mine to interface with. Mine. Mine."

His greedy litany is abruptly cut short when your valve clamps down tightly around his spike.

"Ah, Opti!" you cry out. "I'm about to—"

"I as well, ah, I…"

He buries his spike deep inside you, pressing his hips against yours and pulling you even closer. Sticky transfluid spurts from his spike, and you reward him with your own release, now fully sealing your union. And though Optimus fills you perfectly, a few stray drops of your mingled love manage to escape your stretched cunt, soiling the insides of your thighs.

Chasing the divine bliss of overload, Optimus does not grant you much time to rest. He starts moving his hips once more, pushing his transfluid deeper into your body in preparation for a refill.

And at that exact moment, amidst the wet, filthy sounds of his spike plunging into your valve, a faint knocking echoes through the room. Barely audible to you over your own panting, moans, and his loudly revving engines, but Optimus has no trouble detecting the intruder. Their presence disrupts his complete surrender to pleasure, irritating him, bursting the fragile illusion that the world ends with you.

"Frag off," he growls loudly, never ceasing to frag your heat.

Your gazes meet for a brief moment, but Optimus does not hold eye contact for long, too agitated to acknowledge your questioning expression. Instead, he directs his intake toward your chest, stuffing your soft flesh into his mouth. His glossa immediately gets to work, gliding over your swollen nipple, licking and sucking to suppress the stream of curses and sins threatening to spill forth. To ensure you do not collapse backward, one arm wraps around your back, delighting in the discovery that he can afford to gather your other breast into his servo as well. Which he does, kneading the soft flesh like a stress ball.

"My dearest," he repeats his mantra between the worship of your nipple and breast. "My [Name]."

"My Opti," you return the sentiment, stroking the back of his helm. "My good mech."

An involuntary honk of his horn and an exceptionally deep thrust convince you that you have chosen your words well. Even at the cost of losing the ability to walk tomorrow.

#muletia writes #transformers x reader #transformers x human #optimus x reader #optimus prime x reader #obsessed!optimus #valveplug

479 notes · View notes

rav1377 · 2 months ago

Text

Call the Fire Department!

Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader

pt. 2 of But Sir!

pt. 3 Not There!

pt. 4 Oh Please!

tw:uh more smut? Sorry guys-smut smut smut. Johnny being evil, conspiracy, fear of elevators, poly 141, piv, blowie, recorded,etc.

it’s been a week from your encounter with John, and no one’s said anything. nothings gotten out that’s ruined your career. John had said things, mainly of dirty content about you, but hadn’t touched you since. you were beginning to get looks from the other men of the 141. hungry looks.

you continued your work, trying to ignore them, filling out reports and running errands. Kyle had asked you to run up to the second level of the base to grab a form he needed you to fill out, and you were more than happy to oblige him. heels clicking with each step you took to the elevator. as you approach the hall, you see Ghost turn a corner as well, and he stares at you beneath his balaclava. he grunts out your name and hits the button on for the up button on the elevator with his knuckle. your eyes linger on his hand a little too long, but you step into the elevator with him stepping behind you. you hit the up button and look back at him “you going up too?” you say softly. he nods, and you lean away from the door, resting on a wall. the ascent begins and Ghost crosses his arms. but then, something rumbles all around you, and the elevator screeches to a halt.

you brace your hand on the rail and gasp. “are you kidding me…” you murmur, eyes widening. you look around frantically, and look at the panel, a button blinking red, indicating it’s broken. you also wouldn’t ever admit this out loud, but you’re a tiny bit afraid of elevators. maybe more so of being stuck in them. you let out a low whine and say “no no no no-are we stuck? i got things to do, we can’t be stuck oh god-“ Ghost is still staring at you while you panic. “wot, you scared, luv?” he says, moving off the wall. “no! i just don’t wan to be stuck!” you cry, searching for the button to call for help, groaning when you can’t find it. “do you have your phone? call the fire department!” you whip around and face Ghost, only to find his chest level with your eyes. “don’t fret, already messaged John about wot happened, they should be on the way.” (he didn’t text anyone.) a breath of relief leaves you, and you think John must be working to get you two out. (he isn’t.) you lean against a side of the elevator wall, tilting your head back, eyes shut. nausea from anxiety was plaguing you and you were overthinking every bad thing that could happen. you stand back up and begin to pace the small area in the elevator, Ghost trailing you with his eyes.

“what if something happens, the elevator could fall, if i get hurt i can’t fix it, we can’t control the elevator from here, what if the fire department messed it up more, what if-mpmh!” your rant is cut off with a heavy hand as your pressed against a wall. “you are scared, aren’t you swee’eart.” his dark eyes inspect your own, and drift down to your chest, restricted by a silk tank top. “it’ll be olright. you just need something to distract you, right?” his hand comes off your mouth and cradles the right side of your face. his right hand comes and lifts up his mask so his lips are exposed and you’re frozen. his chapped lips press against your plump soft ones. you sigh, and your arms hang limply as his hands cup your cheeks. you feel his knee coming up in between the legs of your trousers, pushing upward until they apply pressure where you need it. you hands lift up and you press them to his neck, tucking them under his ears, fingers dipping under the mask. he flinches at that, pulling away briefly, like he wasn’t expecting you to touch him. your eyes search his, pleading for something to happen. god, you know you shouldn’t want anything to happen, but you do.

his brown eyes soften, and growls out lowly, “oh to hell with it.” before ripping off his mask, shoving it down in between your breasts. flinching back, you stare down at it, sitting there, before looking back up at him. but you don’t get long to inspect the rough plains of his face before his mouth is on yours again, desperate. his hands undo the zipper of your trousers before yanking them down with your knickers just enough. lifting you up and pinning you against the wall, your head tilting back. he kneads your ass in his much larger hands and your legs wrap around his waist. “you’re such a minx, y’know that, luv?” you moan when his hand makes contact with you cunt, screwing your eyes shut. beginning to move against your most sensitive spot. his teeth peck at your neck, and little gasps leave you. your hands find his cropped hair that you now know is blond, tugging on it. he groans loudly and you turn red. out of all the men of the 141, you thought he’d be the least vocal.

“christ, dear, gonna kill me, huh?” his lips curl into a smile, and you jaw goes slack, staring at him with glazed over eyes as he rubs your clit furiously, bringing you over the edge. you keen, hiding your nose behind his ear. he smells so good, like musk, gunpowder, cigarettes, and something minty. you continue to whine as you ride out your high. his hands leave you to undo his own cargos before fishing out his member before pressing it against you. you feel him twitch against you and something like a shiver runs down your back. he’s looking up at you slyly, grin still on his face. rubbing your hand over his forehead, pushing hair back from his temple, you can see a sheen on his pale skin, sure that it matches you own, it’s warm in the cramped elevator.

you didn’t know this, but you’re the first person to see his face (besides Price) this close. you admire him silently, all the scars and flaws. he’s not handsome by any normal means, but to you he’s beautiful. all the boys are. they’re always so brave, going out to save the world a little bit at a time, always returning to you. you also didn’t know that you were what they fought for. you were what they rubbed themselves to late at night, your name is what they whispered against each others lips when their callused hands weren’t enough. and for Ghost, you were the only pretty thing in his life, and he took care of the nice things given to him. given to him you were, practically plopped in his lap, pretty clothes and all.

you kiss his nose and whisper “please, Ghost. want it so bad. will you give it to me?” he almost melts, but make sure you stay firmly against the wall. “‘m not Ghost luv, not to you. not anymore. call me Simon…please.” he gazes right into your throat, not wanting to look you in the eyes. you nod, murmuring okays into the crown of his head. something softened in him. he wanted to come and do this all tough, command you in so many different ways, but that needs to wait. “you sure about this swee’eart?” he says, hand reaching down to line himself up. your head bobs, and you mumble out, “want it Si, please.” with that he starts to push in and you mewl. he’s bigger than John, a lot longer. you try to push off of him but he keeps you firm. “it’s okay, i got you. just take it, darling.” he murmurs, pushing in until he’s fully snug against you. you both groan when he bottoms out and you feel so full. you slump against his shoulder. “mgh-feels good, Si. you feel good, doin’ so good, cmon please, need more.” he groans and begins to move. you grip him like a vice, clenching with each thrust. he moves faster, more desperate. you changed something in him, altered something in that head of his. he might as well never look at a woman again, you’re the only one he’ll think about from now on.

he pushes and bullies you against the wall, but you’re not complaining. each thrust pushes you closer and closer until you’re spasming around him, completely pushed over the edge. his head gets buried in your neck as he squeezes your waist and moans into the skin, spilling inside you finally. you whine right along with him, the sensation fills weird when you’re already stuffed. “too good f’me luvie.” his words are muffled by your skin but you smile, kissing his temple. “thank you Si.” you repeat over and over again until he presses his lips against yours. “stop. should be thanking you..”he trails off, running his hand down under your ass, lifting you off of him before placing you on your feet. once he’s sure you won’t fall, he buttons your trousers up nice and neat before doing up his own. you feel his seed pooling in your knickers, and you reach down to coat your fingers in the mix, his eyes baring into your soul as he watches you lift them to your mouth, sucking them intently. he chubs up right again, groaning. you smile, blissed out, before reaching down your shirt to pull out his mask. he leans down, and you slip it over his head before pressing a kiss to his clothed cheek. he presses one right back over your mouth. he holds you in his arms after that, and you stand quietly. “such a good secretary f’us. do so much.” he says, petting your hair.

a bang sounds on the door, and you hear a muffled voice say, “oi, just figured out the issue, fixing it right back up now, get you moving in a bit!” you quickly remember the situation you’re both in, and giggle at the predicament, looking up at his eyes. you see them crinkle together in a smile before he calls out, “hurry up with it yeah, got things to do!” a laugh is heard on the other side before heavy steps walk away. not even two minutes later, the elevator resumes, and they open to the second floor. “thank y’ dove, I’ll see you ‘round, yeah? or just come see me in my office, you know where it is, right?” he chuckles before sending you on your way with a firm pat on your ass. you gasp and blush, walking on sore legs to get Kyle’s form.

little did you know, Kyle didn’t really need that form. just like you didn’t know Johnny had messed up and fixed the wiring so you and Simon would get stuck in there on purpose while Kyle watched the whole thing from the camera in the elevator, making sure to cut off anyone else on base watching it. of course he sent the video to John before making the feed return to normal once you and Simon were out. Johnny had been rock hard while watching it all, whining about how he wanted a turn. Kyle simply laughed at him, patting his head as he unbuttoned his own cargos to give access to Johnny to put his mouth to use, tutting as Johnny spilt into his own hand, before allowing his mouth to be filled by Kyle’s own spend. John had merely sat in a corner, watching the two other men, smoking a cigar and smirking, finishing up another little report for you to entertain yourself with.

#Simon Ghost Riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #Simon Ghost Riley x you #simon ghost riley x you #Simon Riley x reader #simon riley x reader #Simon Riley x you #simon riley x you #Ghost x reader #ghost x reader #Ghost x you #ghost x you #cod x reader #tf141 x reader #poly 141 x reader #poly 141 #Kyle Gaz Garrick x Johnny Soap MacTavish

233 notes · View notes

edenesth · 1 year ago

Text

[8:54 PM]

"You okay, baby?" Mingi asked softly, instinctively wrapping an arm around your shoulder as he guided you into the elevator of your apartment building just as the doors opened. You hummed, leaning into his side for comfort. "I've been better."

You had been feeling a little under the weather all day, and being the paranoid type, your boyfriend quickly picked you up from work after noticing your less enthusiastic replies during lunch break. After a visit to the nearest clinic and grabbing some food, you were finally home. All you wanted now was to clean up, crash on your bed, and bask in his embrace, forgetting everything else.

"Just hold on a bit longer. We're almost there," he reassured you, murmuring against your forehead and pressing a lingering kiss on your skin after selecting the floor of your shared home.

Fluttering your eyes shut, you melted into his hold, the familiar hum of the elevator climbing to your floor offering a moment of peace. You could already picture the sweet scene of home welcoming you both after a long, tiring day. So close. So close to being home, so close to paradise, so close—

Until it wasn't.

Your eyes flew open and a yelp escaped your lips as you felt Mingi tense, his grip tightening around you. The elevator had jerked to a sudden, unnatural stop. Eighth floor. So freaking close, just two more floors and you would have been home, but nope—

No, no, no, no, god, no.

This can't be happening. This isn't happening. You were stuck. Panic surged through you like a tidal wave, and before you knew it, you were hyperventilating. Mingi cupped your face, forcing you to meet his eyes, pressing his forehead gently against yours. "Hey, hey, hey. It's gonna be okay, I'm right here with you. Look at me, baby. Just focus on me, hm?" You nodded, tears welling up as your heart pounded in your chest. Claustrophobia clawed at you, turning this moment into your worst nightmare.

"Okay, good job. Do you remember the breathing exercises we always do?" he asked gently, his fingers caressing your cheeks and wiping away stray tears as you nodded. "Be a good girl and keep doing it for me, yeah?" You nodded again, taking deep, steady breaths as you had practised with him countless times for moments like this.

While you struggled to focus on breathing, he quickly moved to the control panel, pressing the emergency button and urgently communicating with security to send help as soon as possible. Thankfully, the handyman had already been alerted by the guards who noticed the situation through the live CCTV feed. Reassured that help was on the way, he turned back to you, his heart aching at the sight of tears once again streaming down your cheeks, your eyes squeezed shut, and your fists pressed tightly against your ears.

Seeing your distress, he stepped towards you, careful not to overwhelm you with his presence. He gently wrapped his arms around you, offering a secure but non-restrictive embrace. "I'm right here with you," he whispered, his voice a soothing balm against the rising tide of panic. "Focus on my voice, baby. Just breathe with me."

The elevator felt smaller by the second, your breaths coming out in shaky gasps despite your efforts to stay calm. Mingi's soothing voice and gentle embrace were the only tethers keeping you from spiralling completely, but the suffocating fear was relentless, gnawing at the edges of your sanity. You felt trapped in a nightmare, the walls closing in as your heart pounded wildly in your chest.

Carefully, he guided your head into the crook of his neck, his hand gently cradling the back of your head. He began stroking your hair in a calming manner, his touch gentle and rhythmic. "I'm right here, my love," he whispered, his breath warm against your ear. "I'm never leaving you. You're not alone. We're in this together."

His words wrapped around you like a comforting blanket, each a lifeline pulling you away from the edge of panic. "You're safe with me," he continued, his voice filled with love. "I won't let anything happen to you. Just keep breathing, baby. Nice and slow."

With each stroke of his hand through your hair, you felt a small measure of calm returning. His presence, solid and reassuring, became your anchor. The walls of the elevator seemed to recede slightly, the oppressive fear easing its grip on your mind. You focused on the steady rise and fall of his chest, matching your breathing to his. His calm heartbeat thrummed gently against you, a soothing rhythm that eased your frantic pulse.

Your boyfriend's whispers continued, a steady stream of loving reassurances. "I love you more than anything," he murmured. "You're so strong, and I'm so proud of you. Just focus on my voice, on my touch." He pressed soft kisses against your temple, your cheek, and your forehead, each one a tender reminder of his support.

Gradually, your breathing slowed, the frantic gasps giving way to deeper, steadier breaths. The panic that had threatened to overwhelm you began to ebb, replaced by a fragile but growing sense of calm. Mingi's arms around you felt like a shield against the world, his love a powerful force keeping the fear at bay.

"That's it," he soothed, his hand never ceasing its gentle movements through your hair. "You're doing so well. Just a little longer, and we'll be out of here. I'm right here with you, always."

With his words and touch guiding you, the nightmare began to lose its hold. You clung to the lifeline he provided. The sensation of his steady breathing, his calm heartbeat, and the soft kisses he pressed against your skin comforted you deeply, making you feel truly safe and loved in his embrace.

He had done such a good job consoling you that the next thing you knew, the elevator doors were being pried open and the guards quickly ushered you both out. Knowing better than to take the next elevator, your boyfriend guided you up two flights of stairs and finally, you were settled back home.

While he got to work putting your things aside, the sight of his sturdy back was all you could see. You walked up behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist, hugging him tightly. His actions paused, and he covered your hands with his, turning to face you over his shoulder. "What is it, baby? Are you alright?"

You nodded against his shoulder. "I will be if you stay with me forever, Song Mingi."

He turned fully to face you, his eyes softening as he cupped your face in his hands. "Forever and always," he whispered, leaning down to kiss you gently. "I'll always be here, no matter what."

Normally, you would have cringed and teased him for the cheesy words, but at that moment, surrounded by the warmth of his love and the safety of your home, your heart fluttered with a deep, undeniable happiness. You knew you could face anything as long as you had him by your side.

ATEEZ Masterlist

This is based on a dream I had of our princess comforting me in such a situation because I do have a severe case of claustrophobia and this would be an absolute nightmare to me. But y'know, if I had a Song Mingi to comfort me, maybe I wouldn't mind it as much🤧

HAHA anyway, hope y'all enjoyed this random little timestamp and as always, let me know your thoughts! <3

General ATEEZ Tag list:

@aurasblue @marievllr-abg @itsvxlentine @minghaoslatina @huachengsbestie01 |

@evidive @weedforthoughtz @minkiflwr @cheolliehugs @ho3-for-yunho |

@the-kpop-simp @itstheghostofmypast @vantediary @green-agent @skzline |

@sharksandminhos @writingwieny @heyitsmetonid @tinyteezer @hollxe1 |

@pandabur666 @vampzity @tournesol155 @lilactangerine @oddracha |

@haven-cove @idfkeddieishot @vic0921 @vnessalau @apriecotte |

@bangtannie7

#edenesth #ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez fanfiction #song mingi #ateez mingi #ateez timestamps #mingi x reader #mingi x you #ateez drabbles #mingi drabble #mingi fluff #ateez fic #ateez imagines

516 notes · View notes

revelboo · 5 months ago

Note

He's here! A little shaken but in great condition! Another fun assembly~

I love the tiny mega vehicle...

Another TFO Star! My tracking fell off the face of the earth 4 days ago 🥲 He’s somewhere.

But aaaaaah!

No Strings Pt 2

Rainmakers x Reader

• Sliding you down into the box with the rest of your supplies since he’s almost sure you can’t climb back out, he heads back to his own transport ship. Can hear you chirping at him from inside the box, distressed at not being able to see out? “Sorry, but I’m busy right now,” he murmurs. Because he’s not sure he can pilot, keep a hold of you, and suppress his outlier abilities all at once. Not entirely sure what his toxic nature might do to something as soft as you are, but he can’t imagine it’d be good. Hears you rattling around in the box, chirping insistently and he reaches to tip the box, startling you as you slide, indignant eyes staring up at him when he fishes out Swindle’s little bottle and subspaces it so you don’t get into it by accident.

• Listening to the big monster grumble at you, his voice is low and gruff when he reaches back in and rubs a servo against your jaw. And the urge to swat him is there, but staying on his good side seems like a good idea for your continued survival. Stumbling when he withdraws his hand and the box rocks back down flat, you find and yank a blanket free to wrap around yourself, turning your attention on the rest of the stuff. And holy crap, is that a fun sized bag of Reese’s cups? Your captor had been force feeding you gray, tasteless bars and water. And he’d had candy the whole time? Another reason to hate him. Ripping open the package, you stuff one in your mouth and start digging through the rest of the supplies.

• Setting the ship on auto once he’s free of Swindle’s ship, he looks in on you and stifles a growl. Because he’d left you alone for barely a klik and you’d gotten into your training treats. Big eyes stare innocently up at him as you chirp your sweet nonsense at him and shove another treat in your mouth. So much for not handling you. Scooping you up, he shifts you to a thigh, gently tugging at the blanket you’ve wrapped around yourself and you tug back, giving up when he almost lifts you off your feet trying to get it away from you. Little shoulders hunching when he brushes a servo against soft skin, examining you. “I can’t believe Cybertronians are fragging you guys,” he says, venting softly. “You’re too fragile for that, aren’t you?” Tapping his servo against you to make you chirp and grab him. Of course, you’re just a gift. A little pet to hopefully distract Nova from his new duties. And the restrictions placed on their whole Trine as high-risk former Decepticons. Peace or no peace, outliers are an endangered species now. Monitored and tracked. Controlled. Touching the little leash dangling from your harness, he carefully unhooks it and you look from it to him. “I don’t like being caged or bound, either.”

• Deciding he’s not going to molest you, you turn and crane your neck toward the control panel. Breath catching when you see the window above you and the huge world you’re approaching. That’s not earth. You’d guessed that you’d been beamed up, that they were aliens, but having it confirmed sends tremors through you. How far from home are you? How can you get back when they can’t understand you? He’d taken the harness off, though and you flinch when he drapes your blanket over your head. Aware that those red optics are watching as you wrap it around yourself, because you’re so sick of being cold and naked.

• Head resting in his hand, Nova Storm scrolls through the list of rules and restrictions being levied on his trine. At least they’re not being outright imprisoned, but this isn’t really a lot better. Hearing the door to their shared habsuite opening, he vents. “We’re to report for monitoring implants within the next solar cycle,” he calls out, head lifting to see if it’s Ion Storm or Acid Storm returning. “Where were you?” Because sneaking off now? If it was noticed, their energon allotment will be cut. Again.

• “I thought we needed something to liven up our habsuite,” Acid Storm murmurs, shifting the box with you in it in his hands. He’d been toying with names the trip back, finally settling on Rain Storm since you’re as soft as rain. Hoping the name will help endear you to Nova as part of their trine, because they need something. Their purpose, their hopes and even their freedom slowly being stripped away. Watching Nova’s optics narrow, he reaches in and pulls you out, setting you on your tiny feet on the desk and Nova leans back with a frown. “It’s cute right? I named it Rain Storm.”

• There’s another one, almost identical to the big green one who’d taken you, but almost a burnished golden color. Twins? Can giant, alien robot monsters be twins? Looking from the new one to yours, it’s the frown on Goldie’s face that you fixate on. Because those alien faces are eerily human and you’re almost positive this one isn’t happy with you or Green. What happens to you if he won’t let Green keep you? Do you go back to the cage and the porn vids? Or do you just get turned loose on a strange alien world to fend for yourself. Terrified at that thought, you wonder closer to Goldie. Not knowing what they want from you, what’s expected, you reach and touch the back of his hand. “I really, really don’t want to go back to the cage,” you whisper, smiling weakly. “You’re warm.” Pressing your palms more firmly against him, because he’s a lot hotter to the touch than Green is.

• “Rain Storm,” Nova mutters, staring at those tiny little hands on his. And looking at his brother’s hopeful expression, there’s no denying him. You can’t be that much trouble. Chirping up at him, you bare tiny teeth at him in what almost looks unsettlingly like a smile. “Please tell me this thing isn’t sentient.” Relaxing when Acid shakes his head, because getting caught keeping another sentient as a pet? They’d lose what little freedom they have. “Alright, but you’re cleaning up after it.” Turning when Ion Storm returns, arms loaded with energon cubes and their brother pauses spotting the organic, wings lifting. “Come meet our new pet,” Nova says tiredly.

#transformers x reader #rainmakers x reader #acid storm x reader #nova Storm x reader #Ion Storm x Reader

180 notes · View notes

woradat · 9 days ago

Text

HALL OF RECORD

SUMMARY – once he was chief advisor, once you were archivist. Now they are not

PAIRING – sentinel prime x reader

NOTE – I read this fanfic and oh my god, the concept is so awesome?? I really couldn't help but have to write this one out after I finish reading

—

“You always talk this much?”

“Only when I’m not being appreciated properly”

—

The restricted archives of the Hall of Records didn’t have doors

Instead, a shimmering energy curtain flickered in the threshold—neither entirely solid nor passable without resistance. It hummed faintly, a curtain of containment and silence, casting the interior in a calm, undisturbed glow

Inside, You was standing at the center of a semi-circular array of holographic control panels. The light from them cast soft reflections across your plating, washing your frame in gentle hues of blue and gold. Your optics were narrowed, fingers dancing across the controls as lines of Proto-Cybertronian text hovered and rotated before being carefully sorted into branching timelines. Names, eras, battles—entries from the Age of Origins that most bots only heard of in myth or prayer—floated across the air in spectral luminescence

You were so focused you didn’t notice the energy curtain shift. Didn’t hear the quiet approach of footsteps echoing off the polished floor outside. But you did hear him “It’s so quiet in here, I half-suspected you'd unplugged the whole room just to keep people like me out”

That voice. Smooth as always, laced with that specific flavor of smugness only one bot had perfected into an artform. You didn’t turn around, just kept your optics on the console

A voice followed. Predictable as clockwork “You know, if you're trying to make this place uninviting, you're doing an excellent job. It feels like a tomb in here"

“Then do us both a favor and leave the tomb” You tapped a glyph to dismiss a particularly long-winded transcript, expression unreadable – the tone was dry as sand

The kind that scraped slightly on its way out

“Oh, temping” Sentinel replied easily, his silhouette now visible beyond the flickering field. He stepped closer, the energy parting around him in a faint shimmer. Every movement he made was deliberate—graceful in a way that suggested performance, not necessity. His arms folded behind his back as he glanced around, as if pretending to study the room when it was obvious who had his attention

“but I’m waiting for Alpha Trion. He told me to collect a report from you” He paused, letting silence settle, then added in a quieter, almost conspiratorial tone “Though... I suspect he meant for me to wait. Probably figured you wouldn’t hand anything over unless someone stood here breathing down your neck”

You sighed—long and theatrical—and flicked a glowing folder through the air toward him. It hovered just beyond arm’s reach, daring him to step through the last layer of distance

“Fine. Take it” But instead of grabbing it, Sentinel stepped into the room. Through the field. Through the silence. He walked with the sort of casual confidence that suggested he was used to testing boundaries—and getting away with it

Your shoulders stiffened “I said—”

“I heard you”

He smiled that smile—the one that never reached his optics but somehow always reached your nerves

“I just had to wonder... Do you archivists actually read all this? Or is the dramatic lighting part of the job description?”

That made you turn

You pivoted slowly, lifting your gaze with the kind of patient menace that suggested this was not the first time you’d had to deal with him while resisting the urge to throw a data-pad. Your voice, however, was calmer than expected — not fast, not irritated. Just a calm, evaluating glance—like a scholar measuring a hypothesis before entertaining it

“Sometimes we don’t have time”

You glanced past him at the glowing panels, timelines shifting silently in the background “But I make time. Because if we don’t read the past... the ones building the future will start thinking they were the ones who invented counting"

Something in your voice held weight. Not anger, not sarcasm—but purpose. A quiet kind of conviction that echoed beneath the words. Sentinel, for once, didn’t speak right away. His optics dipped to the floor for a breath, then lifted again—expression softer. The faint smile remained, but it was... tempered. Less a smirk, more a trace of something else. Maybe thoughtfulness

“Tell me this, then. All these hours poring over the past—do you honestly think it’ll change what happens next?”

“No. But if we don’t remember where we’ve already walked, we’ll keep falling into the same holes. Just with better boots”

“You sound like Alpha Trion when he hasn’t recharged in a week"

“That’s rich” you muttered “Coming from someone who thinks leadership is about dramatic speeches and hero poses"

"I do not pose”

"You paused in the middle of a battle to stand on a cliff"

“It was tactically advantageous!” Sentinel protested “The high ground—”

“It was sunset, Sentinel"

He made a strangled noise—equal parts indignant and caught "…Alright, maybe the lighting was good"

The silence that followed wasn’t sharp. It was still. Reflective. As if the room had paused with them—time stretching between two minds not in agreement, but in rhythm

“You know.." Sentinel finally reached out and took the data-folder from the air, fingers brushing the edge of the projection with practiced ease

“You’re probably the worst assistant Alpha Trion’s ever had…”

He turned the file over in his hand, optics skimming the surface—but he didn’t leave “ and he once told me you’re the only one who reminds him he’s not a god. I thought he meant it as an insult. Now I think it might’ve been gratitude”

You blinked. Your gaze flicked to him, surprised—but not in disbelief, didn’t say anything. But your stance eased. Just slightly. Like a string that had been pulled too tight for too long had finally loosened a notch — Sentinel turned then, walking toward the exit. He passed through the energy field, static dancing across his armor—but paused, halfway through. One foot out, one still in

“Next time, could you maybe not sound like you hate me so much? ease up on the open hostility? Some of us bruise easily” He turned his helm slightly, optics glinting with that old familiar mischief

You raised an optic ridge, mouth twitched “Is that what you’re calling your ego now?”

Sentinel chuckled—low, and far too pleased with himself “Among other things” he replied, already vanishing into the shimmer

“But good luck getting rid of me, I haunt well" with that, he disappeared through the barrier and the room was quiet again. But it wasn’t the same kind of quiet anymore. It lingered differently. Like the space between pages, before you turn to the next

Like a history book left open

Still waiting to be finished

—

The Hall of Records was supposed to be a place of reverence

KEYWORD: SUPPOSED TO

Vaulted ceilings soared high above, ribbed in glimmering alloys and etched with flowing script older than most functioning civilizations. Stained-glass data channels cast shifting patterns of cyan and violet across the marble floor, and the soft hum of ancient servers echoed like distant chanting

It was a place meant for quiet awe, for scholarly silence. It was not designed to accommodate Sentinel’s ego. Ever since he’d discovered that the shimmering energy curtain at the entrance didn’t shock intruders—merely issued a stern sonic warning in a disapproving librarian voice—Sentinel had made it his personal mission to stroll in whenever he pleased. No authorization. No warning. No respect for the rules of spatial awareness

Usually mid-shift. Always mid-sentence

“You changed the lighting layout again”

His voice preceded him, gliding in a split second before his tall frame breached the energy field with a dramatic flicker “What is this now, mood lighting for monologues?”

You didn’t look up

You sat in the central alcove, surrounded by a web of holographic panels arranged in concentric arcs, your fingers flicked through three overlapping treaty records—each with footnotes, post-conflict amendments, and suspiciously contradictory date entries. A headache wrapped in bureaucracy, topped with illegible seals "It adjusts based on optic strain”

“You wouldn’t know anything about that"

Sentinel grinned as he sauntered in, clearly unbothered. His stride was the kind that echoed on purpose—heels angled just enough to produce a satisfying click with every state

“You wound me” he said, placing a hand over his spark in mock offense

“I have very sensitive optics, thank you"

He attempted to lean against one of the translucent crystal data pylons that jutted from the floor like frozen lightning. There was a sharp snap of static, and he jerked back with a hiss as a warning glyph lit up in disapproval

Again

You didn’t even flinch

“Stop touching things” you muttered, still scanning through sub-clause annotations

“Every time you lean on one of those, it reroutes a quarter of the data flow”

“Oh?” Sentinel said, perking up like a mech who had just found a big red button labeled Do Not Press

“So this one messes with the stream?” he asked, already reaching toward a pulsing glyph marked in ominous red. A symbol that all but screamed catastrophic protocol override — You looked up, finally. Your optics widened “Sentinel—!”

Too late

His fingers brushed the glyph. There was a soft ping, a hum like an engine hiccuping, and then— All the lights dimmed to a dull amber. The panels around you flickered, rippled... and then recompiled. All at once. Every menu, every label, every command—rewritten in looping, sharp-edged characters

You stared “You rewrote the interface in Old Vosian" It wasn’t even a living language anymore. Not really. Mostly used in ceremonial inscriptions and bad poetry

Sentinel blinked, stepping back with a shrug and zero remorse “…You’re welcome?”

“GET OUT" Your’s shoulders tensed like they were physically restraining themselves from launching a stylus across the room

“Too late” Sentinel said, lowering himself into the spare console seat like he absolutely belonged there “I live here now”

He leaned back with that satisfied sigh he always made when he thought he was being hilarious. One foot kicked up against the base of the pylon. The interface flickered again, this time turning the archive’s auto-index into a rotating wheel of Vosian proverbs. You slowly, very deliberately, pinched the bridge of your nasal ridge

There was no reverence left in the Hall of Records today

Only Sentinel

The worst part wasn’t that he kept coming back It was that somehow, he always managed to bring food This time, it was a ration cube with what looked suspiciously like hand-scraped energon drizzle—artisanal he’d claimed, from a street vendor in the lower spires “Do you even like these?” you asked, eyeing the cube on their desk with wary suspicion

“Not particularly” Sentinel shrugged “But you get weird when you don’t recharge or eat”

“I don’t get weird”

“You cataloged two hundred years of war records in reverse chronological order because you were cranky”

“That was for cross-referencing purposes—!”

“You growled at a light”

Some days, Sentinel brought things that absolutely, unquestionably, did not belong in the Hall of Records

One cycle, it was a cleaning drone the size of a knee joint, scuttling around your workstation with a high-pitched hum and a sensor that kept mistaking ancient dataplaques for dust "To help you declutter” – Sentinel had said, setting the bot down with the enthusiasm of someone who hadn’t read a single regulation about archival containment. Another time, he’d arrived with a battered datapad in one hand and a suspicious grin on his face

“Found this under a floor panel. Probably cursed. Or priceless. Or both"

You barely looked up from indexing screen “You can’t just bring things into the archives without logging them"

“What if it’s historically significant?”

“It’s a receipt for wing wax. From a Seeker bar"

Sentinel had held it up like a trophy “Exactly! Cultural anthropology"

You pinched the bridge of your nasal ridge and sighed, the kind of sigh one developed only after multiple encounters with the same brand of madness “One day you’re going to knock over a whole building”

“Then you’ll just have to yell at me until I help you rebuild it" He said it with a smile so falsely innocent it could have been carved from polished smugness. You didn’t respond—not with words, anyway. The silence you gave him was honed, practiced, and about 80% ineffective now and yet. For all the chaos he trailed behind him—misfiled reports, rerouted light fixtures, at least one energy spike traced back to an extremely suspicious pastry— You had long stopped trying to keep him out

Somewhere between the first complaint logged and the thousandth ignored intrusion, his presence had settled into something else

Routine

A break in the quiet

A reminder that not everything needed to be orderly to be valuable

That cycle, the ambient light had dimmed to its evening hue, fading into soft golds and purples that streamed through the stained dataglass and washed over the polished floor. The archive felt half-asleep, hushed and slow – Sentinel’s voice came from the doorway, framed by the low gleam of the setting shifts “You’re staying late again"

He leaned one shoulder casually against the frame, his figure lit from behind in dusky silhouette “Trying to impress the scrolls?”

You didn’t glance up—still combing through a data tangle from the war of the Thirteen Clades, most of which seemed written in ego and coded pettiness. But your voice lacked its usual bite

“Trying to make sense of a thousand years of ego and bad handwriting" There was a pause, and then— “You’re included in that”

“Naturally”

Sentinel stepped inside

This time, no jokes, no data pylons knocked over. Just the quiet tap of his footsteps and the warm scent of a synth-brewed energon cube he placed gently beside them. You looked at the cube first—steam curling into the low archive air – then at him – then... they just shook your helm with a faint huff, like amusement trying not to be seen “…You’re not as intolerable as you were”

Sentinel smirked, folding his arms and leaning slightly closer “I’ll take that as a heartfelt declaration of affection”

“Take it as a warning. You’re wearing me down”

“Good” Sentinel murmured, pleased “Makes it easier to sneak into your schedule”

You didn’t tell him to leave

And he didn’t ask to stay

They just worked. Side by side. Occasionally brushing data windows toward each other, occasionally sharing quiet that didn’t feel like silence. Like this was normal now. Like somehow—without anyone announcing it—he’d become part of the footnotes in your day

—

The archives had always been quiet. But this… was too quiet

You sat before the central validation terminal, optics narrowed as lines of processed data ran across the screen. Normally, your work involved verifying temporal consistency, cross-referencing source authenticity, and cleaning up language input from field bots who treated historical reporting like casual gossip — but this wasn’t gossip

This was a timestamped field report. From a Prime-tier outpost. And it didn’t match the report Alpha Trion had handed them this morning

Same event. Same operative. Different wording. Different outcome

And this was the fourth time this week

You brought up both documents—parallel, floating side by side. At a glance, identical. But not quite. The phrasing was just clinical enough to avoid suspicion. The numbers… just plausible enough to escape casual audit. Some were altered more subtly than others. Some inserted new information. Others erased things. Patterns began to form—certain names vanishing from records. Certain decisions scrubbed clean of dissent. A slow, deliberate redirection of narrative

But You didn’t read casually, you read like the future depended on it. Because sometimes, it did

You leaned closer. Opened the metadata. Something flickered – an override signature

Sentinel

Not the full one. Not overt. But his code was in the chain. A sublevel authorization ping—probably buried deep in a rerouting command. Too clean to be a mistake. Too careful to be a coincidence

And why is that? That is the question

—

The chamber was silent but it wasn’t the silence of order and it wasn’t peace. It was the kind of silence that came after something broke— Suddenly – Violently —So completely that even the echoes didn’t know where to go

You sat alone in the central atrium of the Hall of Records. The room—once alive with soft lights and quiet, rhythmic humming—now felt vast and hollow, like the inside of a broken bell. The archive’s main lights had dimmed themselves hours ago, following protocol that couldn’t tell the difference between motionless focus and simple absence. Holographic glyphs still hovered faintly above the console. Fragmented, flickering. Half-rendered thoughts waiting for a directive

They pulsed softly in the darkness, as if uncertain whether their purpose remained

You hadn’t moved. Not since the message came through. Not since the declaration hit them like a blade made of code and finality

The Thirteen Primes have been lost

No battle. No footage. No grand sacrifice — Just... a report. One sentence. Cold, clean, absolute and a follow-up notice:

They will not return

Not “they cannot” Not “they may not” they will not. Your hands had been still on the console ever since. Locked in place. Not gripping—clutching, with pressure that only now began to tremble from strain. You hadn’t moved. Not from disbelief. You had seen enough in your long life to know that nothing—no matter how vast—was immune to destruction. Not even from grief, not yet. The pain hadn’t taken shape. It was numbness. Cold, static-lined void. Not like losing a person. More like watching the stars themselves turn off, one by one, and not knowing if you were next

If someone had asked you yesterday whether the Primes could die, you would’ve said no. Not because you were naive. You had never been one to place blind faith in divine myth. But the Primes were not just icons — They were anchors — Mountains, carved into the structure of Cybertron itself. Fixed points around which history rotated. You didn’t believe in them, the way you believed in stories

You relied on them and now? Gone

Gone, without a trace. Without a last word. Without even a record. Like they had never been

You hadn’t noticed the way your joints had locked until you finally loosened your grip on the console. One finger twitched first, then another. The sensation returned slowly, pins and needles rippling down your arm as you exhaled for the first time in what felt like megacycles. The silence pressed back in

And then—

Footsteps. Slow. Unhurried. Too measured to be uncertain. Too composed to be innocent You didn’t need to turn. You knew

“You’re still here”

The voice came low, as though reluctant to break the stillness—but unable to resist doing so. Controlled, almost gentle but not quite — Sentinel stepped past the edge of the darkened corridor and into the atrium, his frame outlined in the cold ambient glow of the failing terminals. Even his footsteps sounded louder than usual here, every contact with the stone floor ringing too sharp, too deliberate “Everyone else has gone to the Spire"

You didn’t answer, didn’t even blink. Your gaze remained fixed forward, eyes dim and distant, staring through the projections as though trying to read something that hadn’t yet been written

Something that should have been there

Sentinel’s footsteps echoed again as he moved closer—slow, even, deliberate

“The official rites are being drafted” he said, after a moment “They want you to verify the final accounts. For the records"

He didn’t phrase it as a command. Not exactly. But the weight behind it was undeniable. At that, Your helm dipped slightly. Not in obedience. Not in agreement. Just… acknowledgment. Your voice came a moment later. Quiet. Hoarse in a way that had nothing to do with their vocalizer

“They’re dead..” A beat “All of them”

The words didn’t echo, simply fell, flat, lifeless, like corrupted data hitting a locked node

Sentinel didn’t respond right away. He stood behind them now—just a few paces away—but made no move to reach out, no pretense of comfort. Only the silence, shared “Yes”

One word. Heavy as a headstone

The word lingered. Not in grief. Not in reflection. Just—confirmation. Neatly clipped. Perfectly balanced. As if he had been waiting to say it

You didn’t move at first. Only optics shifted—quietly tracking the flickering remains of the central display. The soft wash of light from the terminal painted shifting glyphs on the metallic floor, but no new data came. No emergency alerts. No last pings from the outer sectors. No autologs from the Primes. Nothing — Your hand moved slowly, brushing a few dormant glyphs back into focus. The last outbound transmissions. System traces. Anything

But the logs were clean

Too clean

“They didn’t send anything” you murmured, the words soft, but weighter “Not one of them. No burst signal. No fail-safe ping. Not even a corrupted echo"

The words turned brittle. The disbelief was not loud—but it was cutting. You turned—just slightly. Enough to glimpse him standing behind, his figure still and controlled, as though carved from the archive walls themselves. Hands clasped behind his back. Shoulders squared. That same unreadable expression he always wore like armor

But now… it felt wrong —Too smooth. Too complete. Like a statue placed just a little too soon after the funeral

“And you…”

“You’re very calm”

There it was: a twitch

Not obvious—just the faintest narrowing of Sentinel’s optics as he turned his helm slightly toward them “Would you rather I fall to my knees?” he said. Tone level. Not mocking—but not grieved, either

If it was meant to soften the moment, it failed

Your optics didn’t waver “I’d rather you look like someone who just lost everything"

The air between them was thin now. Like atmosphere stripped bare. Sentinel stepped forward, one pace only. Careful. Measured “The rites must be prepared. The Council needs stability. Cybertron needs structure. If I crumble now, what will they cling to?”

“Structure..?” The word tasted sour on your tongue. You turned to face him fully. The low light caught the edges of your frame, casting a faint halo over the lines of wear fatigue had etched over long hours

Your voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to “Funny how fast structure came together... considering how sudden this all was"

Something flickered across Sentinel’s face. Too brief. A pause, like static between signals. He recovered quickly. But you had seen it “You think I planned this?”

“No" They took a step closer, boots clicking softly against the stone floor “I think you expected it”

Sentinel didn’t reply. So you pressed forward, calm as a scalpel’s edge “The sealed Spire. The rites drafted before the message even reached all districts. The in memoriam archives already preloaded" your optics glinted now, cold and sharp

“You don’t prepare that fast, Sentinel”

Silence. A heavy one

Sentinel’s gaze held steady—but his stance had shifted. A subtle set to the jaw. A flicker of tension behind the shoulders “There are contingency plans” he said at last

“But you didn’t react like this was a contingency – You moved like someone whose schedule had simply... advanced" you weren’t shouting. This wasn’t anger. Not yet. This was worse. It was the kind of quiet that cracked glass — you took another step forward. Sentinel didn’t move “You knew”

You said it not as a claim—but as a data point “You knew something. And you didn’t say anything. Not to me. Not to the Archives. Not to anyone who might have asked why”

Silence stretched again, pulled thin between them like a wire ready to snap. Even the terminals seemed to hold their breath

Then— “Knowing…” Sentinel said slowly “isn’t the same as choosing”

“Then whose choice was it?”

That stopped him. His expression didn’t break—but it no longer looked composed. It looked constructed and still, he said nothing. Which, perhaps, was the loudest thing yet

The Spire bells had long gone quiet. The mourning banners were still up, but the tones of grief had already begun to shift—less raw now, more ceremonial. Official. Muted into symbols

In the weeks that followed

Sentinel did what he had always been best at: He moved forward. Quietly. Confidently. Like a mech simply answering a call no one else could. No one declared him the new Prime. Not at first. But decisions began flowing through his office. Emergency coordination. Transition logistics. Security restructuring. Public reassurance. Every corridor that once ended in silence now echoed with orders signed in his glyph. And no one stopped him. Because no one knew what else to do

At first, it was small. A council meeting held without you—an oversight, you were told. A briefing rerouted to a secondary terminal—misfiled, the assistant claimed. Requests for archival access began to be reviewed then delayed then quietly ignored. One by one, your permissions shifted. Not revoked—restricted. Not banned—just... paused, pending Sentinel’s authorization “Just protocol” he said with that same calm smile “We’re all adjusting to new parameters”

And yet—those parameters always seemed to shift in one direction. His

The chamber above the New Arc Circuit was always cool, always dark. A half-circle of open air overlooked the hall below—a place once alive with debate, bright with the thrum of Prime-forged voices. But now, like so many places in recent cycles, it stood hollow. The ancient lighting had dimmed itself to a low ambient hue, cool silver washing over the stone and metal in shadows and soft reflections.

You stood near the edge, hands resting on the curved railing polished smooth by centuries of counsel. Below, the great speaking floor stretched wide and silent, a ceremonial space untouched since the Spire bells fell quiet. You didn’t turn when you heard the footsteps. Didn’t need to

They had learned the cadence of his walk. Smooth. Steady. Never rushed. Never loud. The stride of someone who believed he already belonged in every room he entered “You’ve been reallocating my permissions"

No anger in your voice. No shock. Just cold, deliberate observation — The kind of truth that left no room for denial. Sentinel didn’t slow. He crossed the polished obsidian floor behind them, his reflection a ripple of dark armor and gold filigree beneath their feet

“Temporarily” His tone was light. Gentle, even. But too balanced to be mistaken for casual

“You didn’t inform me” your gaze fixed on the empty floor below—an echo chamber now. The ghosts of the Primes no longer stirred. Sentinel stopped a short distance behind you

“I didn’t need to” he said quietly “The system recognizes my authority now — Your position, on the other hand, is being... redefined”

That made you turn. Sharp. Controlled. But sharp, optics caught the low light, glowing brighter than he remembered—like you had finally reawakened from grief, only to find anger waiting behind it

“Redefined?”

“By whose decision?”

“By necessity” he replied so so simply

“Your role was constructed under the old paradigm. The Primes are gone”

He took a step closer—not threatening, but deliberate “You served history well”

He meant it. He did. He had watched them work for vorns—methodical, incorruptible, brilliant in ways few ever saw. You had been the voice behind the curtain. The invisible measure by which even the Primes were kept honest. He respected that even… envied it.. But it couldn’t remain

"But I am building something new”

Now he looked at them fully. Not like a subordinate. Not like a rival. Like a problem that used to be a person “And history… isn’t what we need right now.”

You didn’t respond. Not with words

But he saw the tension in your jaw. The stillness in your hands—too still. Like someone holding a thought so tightly they feared it might shatter if spoken aloud. He waited a breath. Two. Then smiled. Just barely “Let it go” he said, voice low. Not mocking. Not cruel. Just… final

“Let the past rest” He took one step more. Just near enough to stand beside you. His voice dropped even lower. Almost a murmur and for a moment—just a moment—he thought they might yield. That the weight of it all—the grief, the isolation, the slow, quiet cuts to your place in the world—had finally worn you down “You don’t want to turn yourself into a relic chasing ghosts”

He didn’t want to erase you

Not like he had erased others

He remembered the way you used to speak in the early days, side by side during cross-era briefings. He remembered the dry wit. The spark of challenge in your optics. You had once made him feel watched. Not in the paranoid way—but in the way that reminded him to stand taller. To be better. But this wasn’t then and if you couldn’t see the necessity of what he was doing…

He would have to act, eventually

But not yet

“Let the archives sleep a while” he added, almost soft “We’ll find a better use for you”

He turned then, the floor catching his reflection as he walked back across the chamber and you remained behind, silent at the rail, watching as your world—your work—shifted underfoot like sand in the tide. They said nothing. But in your chest, something clenched. Because they could hear it now. You quiet, subtle shape of a lie forming in every document you weren’t allowed to see

And it carried his glyph

#transformers #transformers one #transformers x reader #transformers x cybertronian reader #sentinel prime x reader #cybertronian reader #reader insert

123 notes · View notes

callmemonster68 · 1 month ago

Text

throne of shadows - part 2 | p.sh - sunghoon

Now, the world kneels… or burns.

First part: throne of shadows - part 1 | p.sh - sunghoon

paring: sunghoon x fem!reader 18+ | masterlist

wc: 4,065

warnings: nsfw, unprotected sex, crying, gore, blood

Mentions of murder, blood, self-harm. Read at your own risk.

Jaemin's body was still on the ground, but Y/N and Sunghoon were no longer looking at him. He was past.

The future was now before them.

Sunghoon looked up at Y/N, his breathing still heavy, his heart racing with the adrenaline of revenge.

Sunghoon: And now? (his voice was hoarse, uncertain)

Y/N ran her fingers down his face, gently.

Y/N: Now, we finish what we started.

Sunghoon blinked, confused.

Sunghoon: What do you mean?

She squeezed his hand, her eyes shining with determination.

Y/N: The man who sold you. The museum owner. (his voice became colder, cutting) He's still there. And it's not just you he arrested, Sunghoon.

Sunghoon was silent for a moment, processing her words.

He never thought about others. He was never allowed to do that. His world was small, restricted to his own pain and servitude.

But now he saw.

I saw the other creatures locked in those luxurious showcases, displayed like works of art, used as toys for the richest.

And he couldn't let it continue.

He held Y/N's hand tightly, his eyes darkening with something new.

Sunghoon: Let's make him pay.

The luxurious building stood imposingly against the night, golden lights shining through the glass windows. Everything there was exquisite, opulent.

But behind the luxury, horror was hidden.

Y/N and Sunghoon passed through the security gates effortlessly. Jaemin's money still gave them access to many things.

But this visit would not be like the others.

They walked through the marble hallways, the shop windows lined with beautiful, exotic bodies. Empty eyes stared at them, souls trapped in perfect shells.

Sunghoon felt something stir inside him.

He knew that look.

Because one day, he was one of them too.

The museum owner was in his office when Y/N and Sunghoon entered.

Owner: Mr and Mrs Na! (he smiled widely, unaware of Jaemin's fate) What can I do for you?

Sunghoon moved forward first.

He grabbed him by the neck and lifted him into the air, effortlessly.

Sunghoon: You might die.

The man's eyes widened, his hands desperately trying to free themselves.

Owner: W-what is this? Let go of me!

Y/N approached slowly, taking a golden key from his pocket.

Y/N: Where are the collar controls? (she asked, with a sweet but dangerous voice)

The man did not respond.

Sunghoon gripped your throat tighter.

Sunghoon: I would only ask once, but Y/N is more patient than me.

The man pointed to a drawer, his breathing hitching. Y/N opened it and found a panel full of buttons.

She squeezed one of them.

Downstairs, a sharp sound echoed.

Then, silence.

And then… screams.

Screams for freedom.

The windows opened. The collars fell off.

The mutants were freed.

Chaos spread throughout the museum. Beautiful creatures, once submissive, now ran and screamed, their powers manifesting in suppressed fury.

Y/N and Sunghoon went downstairs, observing the scene.

The museum was hell.

And they loved every second of it.

The museum owner tried to escape, but the mutants surrounded him. His eyes, once empty, now glowed with anger and vengeance.

Sunghoon held Y/N's hand, pulling her closer.

Sunghoon: Now it's over.

She smiled at him, running her fingers along his wings.

Y/N: Come on, embora.

They left as the museum collapsed behind them, engulfed in flames and chaos.

Sunghoon looked up at the night sky, feeling the wind against his face.

Sunghoon: Where do we go now?

Y/N squeezed his hand.

Y/N: Anywhere. You are free now.

He pulled her into a kiss, deep, intense, filled with everything he never knew he could feel.

Sunghoon: No. (he whispered against her lips) I'm yours.

And for the first time, freedom meant exactly what he wanted

The fire was still consuming the ruins of the museum when the freed mutants gathered around Y/N and Sunghoon. His eyes shone with admiration, absolute devotion.

They were free. But they didn't know where to go.

And so, they needed a leader.

Sunghoon rose before them, his black wings spread in an imposing display. Her beauty was something divine, ethereal.

Y/N stood next to him, her eyes carrying the fire of the destruction they left behind. She ran her hands down Sunghoon's bare chest, feeling his racing heart beneath her fingers.

Y/N: Do you want to be free? (her voice echoed in the silence of the night)

The mutants looked at each other. They have never known freedom.

Sunghoon tilted his head, his eyes icy and intense.

Sunghoon: Or do you want something bigger?

They held their breath.

Y/N: You can wander the world like purposeless ghosts... (Y/N continued, running her fingers along Sunghoon's chin, her eyes fixed on the crowd) Or you can follow us. Be strong. Take what has always been denied to us.

Sunghoon: And we will take it. (Sunghoon completed, his voice full of desire and power)

There was a moment of absolute silence.

Then, one of the mutants knelt down.

Then another.

And another.

Within seconds, everyone was on their knees before them, bowing as if they were before deities.

Mutant 1: My gods… (a voice whispered in the crowd)

Y/N and Sunghoon's eyes lit up.

They had created something much greater than they imagined.

And now, the world would belong to them.

The days became nights, and the nights became debauchery.

The clan grew quickly. Mutants joined them from everywhere, drawn to the power and fear that Y/N and Sunghoon's name now carried.

They took cities silently, seducing the powerful, destroying the weak, spreading their shadows everywhere.

And as the world bowed before them, Y/N and Sunghoon fell deeper and deeper into each other.

The desire between them was incessant, something voracious, forbidden.

Sunghoon was no longer a servant.

He was a king alongside his queen.

But in front of her… he was still hers.

Always hers.

And he loved every second of it.

Y/N: My dark god... (Y/N whispered against his lips, her body pressed against his)

Sunghoon shuddered under her touch, his eyes completely filled with lust.

Sunghoon: Just yours... (he gasped, burying his fingers in her hair)

She pushed him against the black velvet throne, her nails digging into his hot skin.

Y/N: Show me how much you belong to me...

He obeyed.

And that night, the palace shook with the screams of pleasure and power.

They were on top of the world.

And no one could stop them.

The world burned in chaos.

Cities fell. Kingdoms were destroyed. And in the midst of the collapse, two gods built their empire.

Y/N and Sunghoon.

They were no longer just a couple. They were a living legend. A symbol of fear and desire.

Mutants had spread across the continent, dominating territories, subjugating kings, and reducing civilizations to submission. Their name was whispered like a forbidden spell, a call to pleasure and terror.

And in the heart of that empire, there was the Dark Palace.

A temple of excess, where lust and power walked side by side.

The hall was immense, lit only by the blue glow of the magical flames that burned in the black stone walls. Cushions were spread across the floor, bodies intertwined in pure pleasure, whispers and moans filled the air.

No throne elevated, Y/N and Sunghoon observed.

He was sprawled against the dark velvet, his wings spread, his bare chest shining in the flickering light. Y/N's nail marks were still on her skin.

She, beside him, was wearing only a thin, almost transparent fabric, which slid dangerously over her hot skin.

His fingers lazily played with Sunghoon's hair, while his eyes were fixed on the scene in front of him.

A kneeling king. One of the rulers who dared to resist their domination. Now, he trembled before the divine couple.

Y/N: Say... (Y/N's voice was sweet poison) What would you do to survive?

The man swallowed hard.

Sunghoon smiled, trailing his fingers up Y/N's thigh, his eyes shining in pure excitement at seeing her in control.

King: Anything… (the king murmured)

Y/N slid off the throne, walking over to him. Her cold fingers cupped the man's chin, forcing him to look at her.

Y/N: Swear?

The king nodded desperately.

Sunghoon leaned forward, his voice soft yet lethal.

Sunghoon: Then kneel to your queen.

He obeyed.

And that night, a king became a slave.

The battles didn't stop. Mutants advanced like shadows, took territories, corrupted leaders and seduced those who previously oppressed them.

Human resistance was futile.

Y/N and Sunghoon were on top of the world.

And in the midst of war and destruction, their bodies were in pure desire and addiction.

He adored her.

Each night, Sunghoon proved his devotion by kneeling before her, touching her as if she were holy. His lips covered every inch of her skin, his moans filled the palace as he lost himself in her, gave himself to her.

She was his queen.

And he was the most loyal servant.

Y/N: You are mine, Sunghoon. (she gasped, scratching his back as he held her against the bedroom wall, their bodies melting together)

He groaned, his gaze dark and glassy.

Sunghoon: Only yours, my goddess… forever.

The world burned.

But they just sank into each other.

Dominating. Seducing. Destroying.

Night fell like an omen.

The Dark Palace burned with fury. Y/N was missing.

Sunghoon, kneeling on the floor of the great hall, felt his head spinning. Her scent was still on the sheets. It was still embedded in his skin. But she… she wasn't there.

He tore out the throat of one of the human guards with his bare hands.

Sunghoon: WHERE. SHE. THIS?! (his voice echoed like thunder)

Nobody knew. But he felt it.

A strange smell in the air, a trail of power. Someone dared to take her. Someone who wanted to see him go crazy.

And they succeeded.

When Y/N opened her eyes, everything was darkness.

His wrists were chained to a metal frame, his body weak, his breathing heavy. A suffocating energy surrounded her, as if it was sucking something out of her.

?: You finally woke up.

The voice came from the shadows.

She didn't recognize the man. He was tall, dressed in dark clothes as if he were part of the darkness. His face was marked by deep scars, and his eyes… his eyes were the same as Sunghoon's.

A mutant.

Y/N: Who… who are you? (his voice was hoarse)

He smiled, approaching.

Mutant Creator: The Creator.

His heart raced.

Y/N: Breeder?

Mutant Creator: I was the one who made the mutants. I did Sunghoon.

Her blood ran cold.

He bent down, grabbing her face roughly.

Mutant Creator: I saw what you are doing... I saw your empire growing, I saw how Sunghoon knelt to you. This cannot happen.

His eyes flashed with fury.

Mutant Creator: Sunghoon was not born to love. He was born to be a weapon. And you corrupted him.

It was then that she understood.

He wanted Sunghoon back.

And for that, she needed to die.

The pain came like an overwhelming wave.

The Creator injected something into his neck, a dark, flaming substance that burned every cell in his body.

Y/N screamed, arching her back, feeling her soul shatter.

Sunghoon…

She wanted Sunghoon.

His body was turning off, life draining from his eyes.

But then, at the final moment, he came.

Sunghoon invaded the place like a demon released from hell.

He destroyed everything in his path, tearing flesh, breaking bones. Nothing else mattered.

When he saw her… trapped, injured, dying, the world around him simply ceased to exist.

He held her in his arms, shaking.

Sunghoon: Stay with me… please…

His blood fell onto her skin.

His lips touched hers and he made a decision.

He would make her like him.

He would give his essence.

And then, he tore his own skin and let his mutant blood drip onto Y/N's lips.

Sunghoon: Baby.

His voice was a whisper, a spell.

Y/N felt the iron, hot taste. And then…

Everything changed.

Her eyes opened. Dark.

The Creator flinched. He felt it.

She had become something beyond what he imagined.

Mutant Creator: No... that's not possible... (he muttered, backing away)

Sunghoon sorriu.

Sunghoon: My queen… you look different.

Y/N felt her own body vibrate.

And then, the surrounding shadows began to move.

They came out of the walls, out of the cracks, like black snakes that danced around her.

She was the darkness.

And now, she would destroy the one who hurt her.

The Creator tried to escape.

But there was no longer any escape.

The shadows rose, enveloping him like a dark tide, squeezing, crushing, suffocating.

Y/N: You were wrong to make me reborn.

Your smile was the last thing he saw before darkness completely consumed him.

The news of Y/N's return spread like a whisper of terror and ecstasy.

The mutants knelt before her.

Sunghoon: My queen.

She ran her fingers over the black throne, feeling the power pulse through her veins.

Sunghoon approached her from behind, wrapping her in his arms.

Sunghoon: And now? (his voice was filled with lust and adoration)

She turned around, her eyes shining.

Y/N: Now, let's burn the world.

The first city fell in three days.

The second, in less than one night.

By the time humans realized what was happening, it was already too late. Y/N and Sunghoon weren't just kings. They were deities.

The mutants, once enslaved and humiliated, now marched under a single banner: The Dark Symbol.

With every step they took, countries crumbled, empires fell.

And at the center of it all, them.

The black castle rose above the wreckage of ancient humanity.

In the main hall, Y/N sat on her throne, dressed in a black cloak, her skin marked by the dark glow of the shadows that danced around her.

Sunghoon knelt before her.

Submissive. Devotee. Full.

Sunghoon: My queen… the world already belongs to us. What do you want now?

His eyes rose to hers, full of adoration and lust.

Y/N ran her fingers under his chin, pulling him closer.

Y/N: I want them to fear us.

She ran her fingers down his bare chest, feeling his muscles tighten under her touch.

Y/N: I want them to know that we are the gods they should never have defied.

Sunghoon's smile was dark.

Sunghoon: As you wish.

They didn't just rule. They made a point of demonstrating their power.

A huge hall was set up, with the remaining human leaders kneeling before them.

There was a long table. Luxurious. Perfect.

But the dishes served something much crueler.

The hearts of dead rulers.

Y/N grabbed a glass of wine and stood up from her throne.

Y/N: Let's toast a new world.

The surrounding mutants roared in response.

Sunghoon looked at her, fascinated.

He didn't want anything else. Just be by her side.

When night fell, the royal hall was empty.

Only the two of them remained.

Y/N was sitting on the throne, leg crossed, staring at Sunghoon.

He stood before her, waiting, waiting…

Wanting.

She smiled slowly, running her fingers down her body.

Y/N: You are mine, Sunghoon.

He shuddered.

Sunghoon: I always have been.

She stood up, slowly walking towards him.

Y/N: Show me.

He fell to his knees.

His lips touched her skin as if it were sacred.

And for him, it was.

With every kiss, with every touch, he murmured words of adoration.

Sunghoon: My queen… my goddess… my only reason.

Y/N grabbed his hair, pulling him closer.

Y/N: I adore mais, Sunghoon.

And he obeyed.

The world was already fallen at their feet. But eternity was not yet theirs.

Y/N knew her body still had limits.

She wanted more. I wanted to be an entity without end.

And Sunghoon… would do anything to ensure that.

Sunghoon: My queen… we can find a way.

Her eyes sparkled.

Y/N: Then find it. And when we find…

She smiled, cruelly.

Y/N: Let's play with the gods.

World domination was just the beginning.

Y/N wanted more. I needed more.

Eternity. Immortality. Absolute power.

Sunghoon didn't question it. He never questioned.

If she wanted it, he would make it happen.

Deep beneath the castle, a circle of runes pulsed with dark energy.

The most powerful mutants were gathered around, murmuring chants forgotten by time.

No center, Y/N and Sunghoon.

She sat on a throne made of bones and shadows. Pure, immaculate and corrupted at the same time.

He knelt before her, ready to offer everything.

The blood of a thousand kings bathed the altar.

To achieve immortality, the price needed to be high.

Sunghoon: My queen... (Sunghoon's voice was a reverent whisper) I am your offering.

Her eyes sparkled.

Y/N: And what do you want, Sunghoon?

He looked up, panting. Devotee.

Sunghoon: Be yours forever.

The shadows stirred. The circle burned in black fire.

Y/N sorriu.

Y/N: So, my love… Let's play with the gods.

The heavens tore apart. The veil between the worlds has been destroyed.

The gods fell to the earth, furious, screaming, ready to destroy everything.

But it was already too late.

The sovereign couple had already become more than themselves.

Y/N raised her hand, and the shadows swallowed the gods one by one.

They begged.

They cried.

They promised the impossible.

But she just laughed.

Y/N: Don't you understand? The world is already ours. Now, it's your turn to serve.

And then… they knelt.

Even the gods belonged to them.

The castle shone with a new splendor.

It was the capital of the universe now.

The mutants toasted with the red wine, bathed in pleasure and lust.

Y/N was on the throne. Untouchable. Omnipotent.

Sunghoon was kneeling at her feet, his body pressed against hers, his black wings spread across the ground, like a fallen angel who had found his true divinity.

He kissed her devotedly, his low moans filling the silence, his hands tracing every inch of her.

Sunghoon: My goddess… my sovereign… my doom…

She smiled, pulling his chin up.

Y/N: Say, Sunghoon. Or what are we now?

His eyes shone with pure ecstasy.

Sunghoon: The beginning and the end.

And then, pleasure and destruction consumed the world.

Y/N's black throne dominated the room, shadows dancing across her skin, pure and corrupt at the same time.

Sunghoon was kneeling at his feet, as he always was. But she watched him with something different in her eyes.

He belonged to her. And it would always belong.

But… he wasn't just hers.

He was the king.

Y/N: Get up, Sunghoon.

He blinked, confused. His submission was absolute.

But Y/N didn't just want blind devotion anymore.

She wanted him strong, imposing, dominant.

As obsessive as she is.

As cruel as she is.

He hesitated.

Sunghoon: But I'm yours. I've always been yours. All I know is… serving you.

She smiled, stepping down from the throne and pulling her chin up.

Y/N: And you will always be mine. But not as a servant. Like a king.

His eyes sparkled. Hesitation. Confusion. An uncontrollable desire.

She climbed onto his lap, straddling him, pressing their bodies together.

Y/N: You are my king, Sunghoon. My. Single. King.

He swallowed hard. His hands shook before steadying themselves on her waist.

Sunghoon: If I am your king… then you are my goddess.

She smiled. Exactly.

Y/N's shadows spread across Sunghoon's skin, sliding, caressing every part of him.

He groaned, throwing his head back, giving in to the pleasure she offered him.

Sunghoon: No one has ever… ever touched me like this.

Y/N smiled, licking her lips. She knew.

Y/N: And no one will ever touch it.

She moved down his body, her shadows wrapping around his member, squeezing, massaging, teasing.

He was so hard, so desperate.

When her mouth enveloped him, he almost begged.

Sunghoon: Y/N… my goddess… kill me like this.

She giggled against him, sucking harder, as their shadows played, squeezed, dominated.

Sunghoon got lost.

His eyes were red with lust, his breathing ragged, desperate.

When Y/N climbed back up to fit him, he no longer hesitated.

He held her hips and sank her into him in one fell swoop.

Y/N's scream mixed with his. Pure ecstasy. Pure pleasure.

The shadows enveloped her, his wings opened, beating the air, crushing reality.

They were no longer human.

They were no longer mortally limited.

And when he held her by the hair, kissing her with fury, with devotion, with pure obsession, Y/N knew...

Sunghoon understood.

He was no longer a servant.

He was a god.

And he would destroy everything to stay inside her.

The shadows began to become an unbearable weight for Y/N. At first, she believed it was just exhaustion, the cost of such great power. But as the days passed, the whispers grew louder, more seductive, and his own mind began to fragment. When she closed her eyes, she saw unfamiliar faces, distorted figures whispering her name, calling her into the darkness.

Sunghoon noticed the changes. At first, it was just distant looks, moments when she seemed lost. But soon came the tremors, the insomnia, the moments when his body seemed not to respond to its own will. And then, the worst came.

During a battle against the last remnants of human resistance, Y/N lost control. The shadows expanded beyond any limit, swallowing everything around. The entire army, its allies, its enemies—they were all swallowed into darkness.

And she disappeared.

Sunghoon fell to his knees, feeling the cold emptiness where Y/N had been. His heart roared in despair. He couldn't lose her. Not now. Not when they finally had the world at their feet. He tore the veil of darkness and dove inside without hesitation.

Within the shadows, time and reality did not exist. He found her slumped on a black throne, her eyes empty, her skin cold. She no longer recognized him. Darkness had taken over everything.

But Sunghoon wouldn't accept that.

He knelt before her, holding her pale face in his hands.

Sunghoon: Y/N... I know you're still there. I know the shadows want you, but they can't stop me from bringing you back. I don't let it. You made me understand who I am, and now, I will remind you who you are.

She blinked, her breath hitching for a moment. The shadows trembled.

Sunghoon sorriu.

Sunghoon: I'm yours. But you are mine. And I won't let anything take you from me.

He kissed her—a desperate kiss, full of need, of hunger, of devotion. The shadows screamed in protest, trying to pull him away, but he didn't let go. He held her tighter, letting the heat of desire and love between them burn through the darkness.

Y/N gasped against his lips. His nails dug into Sunghoon's shoulders as his body shook. The shadows tried to fight, but he didn't let go. He would never let her go.

The dark world around them began to crack.

And then, with one last heartbreaking scream, the shadows were broken.

When Y/N opened her eyes, they were still black as night, but this time, filled with something more. Power. Understanding. And love.

She smiled, running her fingers down Sunghoon's face.

Y/N: You brought me back.

He pulled her closer, his eyes shining with obsession and adoration.

Sunghoon: Because you are my queen. Forever.

Their world was reborn there, in the shadows. But now, Y/N was the absolute ruler of darkness. And the world... still had no idea what was coming.

Sunghoon watched the horizon ravaged by the power they had released. He never knew what freedom was. All his life he thought that being tied to someone was his only option. But now, alongside Y/N, he realized that this arrest was voluntary. It wasn't submission. It was devotion. He could go wherever he wanted, but nothing outside of her interested him. The only freedom he wanted... was to remain by her side, dominating everything, together. And for him, that was more than enough.

✿If you don’t reblog and comment, you can be sure I’ll be showing up in your dreams tonight… and I won’t be as sweet as in the story✿

50 notes · View notes

ottersul · 25 days ago

Text

Cyclops & The Phoenix Force Pt.1

So first post gonna do something big and write without restriction like Twitter has. So this is just my mind going wild.

Let’s talk about Scott Summers’ relationship with the Phoenix Force. I’ll start with how it connects to Jean, from the very first time she became Phoenix. I’ve talked about this on Twitter before, but it deserves a proper dive.

So In the 1970s, Scott was at the height of his obsession with self-control. Being worthy, to him, meant being a good leader and protecting others, especially the people he loved. Add to that mix the abandonnment issues he has after a childhood on the orphanage, he feels for other to care or love him he has to be up to expectations.

All that explains why he’s so protective of Jean and why he spirals into guilt after she sacrifices herself and becomes Phoenix.

Now Scott has always been someone who seeks control—not just over his powers, but over his environment and relationships. Jean’s cosmic transformation threatens that. When she returns after the shuttle incident and tells her parents about what happened (Uncanny X-Men #101), we get a haunting panel of Scott watching through the window, detached. Nightcrawler remarks they’re taking it hard. Scott replies, "Wouldn’t you?"

It’s a subtle but powerful moment. That quiet distance, that calm expression he's—repressing. But more than that, it shows the shift: Jean is now something unpredictable.

This becomes even more evident in Uncanny X-Men #114, when Scott tells Ororo that Jean isn’t "the girl [he] loved anymore." Not because she changed emotionally, but because her power made her unknowable to him. That power destabilized their dynamic. He loved Jean Grey, the girl he could hold, protect, lead beside. Phoenix? That’s something else. Scott doesn’t just lose the girl he loved—he loses the illusion of safety, predictability, and emotional grounding she once gave him.

But he doesn't understand that, he can't make that process, he keeps trying to connect with her because he stills love her, but here, as he sees Jean's powers he wonders "why do I find that so disconcerting?"

And because Scott is someone who equates control with self-worth, Jean’s evolution breaks his framework. She doesn’t need his protection. She doesn’t fit in his emotional logic. So he starts losing grasp on what their relationship even is.

He blames himself—for not being able to keep up, for not knowing how to talk to her, for not being strong enough to ground her. He doesn’t fear Jean’s power because he’s intimidated by it; he fears it because it takes her away from him, and he can't do anything about it after all he's just a man.

That’s the heartbreak. Scott isn’t afraid of Jean’s power because it threatens his masculinity. He’s afraid because it changes her, and with that, threatens the emotional intimacy they shared. Her transcendence—becoming something vast and divine—makes him feel small, obsolete, unable to relate, unworthy. That emotional dissonance is what eats away at him. And he doesn’t have the tools to process it.

Of course this is later taken in Whedon's run exactly the same scene than before but adds a more explicit layer

Scott tells Jean: "I just want you to know, I understand about power that has to be controlled." He’s trying to connect, to say, "We’re the same. I get what it’s like."

Jean smiles sadly and says, "Scott, love, you’re just a man."

That response isn’t cruel. It’s quiet heartbreak. It’s her saying, gently, that the gap between them is real. Scott fights his power every day. He wins by suppressing. Jean is becoming something beyond human, and she knows that no amount of discipline or empathy can change that.

She still loves him. You can see it in her eyes. But she also knows he can’t follow her where she’s going. And Scott, deep down, knows it too.

That’s what makes his later bond with the Phoenix so fascinating—but also why it haunts him. Because for Scott, the Phoenix is tied to guilt, failure, loss of connection. It’s the moment he lost Jean, emotionally and literally.

When she dies, all of that is left unresolved. Their last arc together ends in tragedy, and Scott is left carrying the weight of unspoken fear, love, and guilt. That becomes his trauma with the Phoenix.

That trauma never left him. Not when he carried it. Not when he became its host himself. And not now in current comics Buuuut that's spoiling so that's for the first part

Next is trauma in the 80s/90s and New X-men Phoenix Jean which leads to... the affair

#cyclops #scott summers #Phoenix #Jean Grey #Jott #X-men #comics #character study

35 notes · View notes

sanerontheinside · 5 months ago

Text

On the basis of my own comment, "I fully missed this because I cannot handle the news except in ‘weekly postmortem’ format", I've decided to do a write-up of everything I've been reading about the crash over Washington, D.C.

If this isn't the sort of posting you'd like to see from me in the future, please feel free to block "#the post mortem". I'm not sure how many of these I have in me, but if I ever find myself struck by the fancy to do another, that is the tag I will be using.

I'd also like to thank Canary (canary_lux on Discord) for help gathering, scanning, and organizing sources, and for their insight on flight training.

Throughout this write-up, I will refer to the current president by number of term (45 or 47), mostly to differentiate policies enacted during his first term from the present.

Intro

On the night of Wednesday, 1/29/25, 67 people died in a collision between an American Airlines passenger aircraft and a military Blackhawk helicopter. This tragedy was immediately followed by outcry and the usual hunt for someone to hold accountable. This was also the first fatal air crash involving a US airline since 2009—a 16-year safety record.

While it’s tempting to assign blame to various politicians, parties, and policies for the accident—and in fact many do (FAA blames trump, trump blames DEI, FAA, Biden in particular and democrats in general, etc.)—sole political ownership cannot be assigned. The initial outcry drew attention to a hiring freeze for air traffic controllers, and to curt dismissal of FAA personnel, but the problem has been brewing for far longer.

This post mortem seeks to provide some context for the incident at Reagan National Airport by looking back at policies of the last two presidential terms, as well as the reality of local air traffic in Washington, D.C.

The Shortage

Before addressing the current shortage of air traffic controllers, it is important to note that since the accident all reports indicate the air traffic controller on duty that night gave proper instructions.

Both planes and military aircraft are equipped with Automatic Dependent Surveillance-Broadcast (ADS-B), but this system is suppressed at low altitudes because of the high likelihood of false alerts. At last reporting, the Blackhawk was at an altitude of 375 ft. For helicopters, the permitted flight ceiling over Washington, D.C. is 200ft.

With that established, however, there is still value in drawing attention to the national shortage of air traffic controllers (henceforward ATC's).

In 2021, the US Bureau of Statistics ranked air traffic control as the 4th most stressful job among all. The position has a high employee turnover rate due to transfers, resignations, removals, deaths, and attrition. An ATC's skills are unique, and costly to replace both in money and time, as candidates go through 2-3 years of training and must pass a rigorous exam.

During the COVID 19 pandemic, lockdowns drove down the volume of daily flights, putting many air traffic controllers out of a job. Agencies worldwide let go of trainees, stopped hiring, and stopped training new hires. In many cases, academies closed outright. Many air traffic controllers were offered early retirement.

Once travel restrictions were lifted, demand bounced back—and the aviation industry suddenly faced a bottleneck. A 2 or 3 year one, in fact. Flights haven't really bounced back perfectly since the pandemic; many airports experience serious delays—not least because they don't have enough ATC's.

In June 2023, the DoT inspector general reported that 77% of air traffic control facilities were understaffed. In December 2023, after a series of high profile near-misses, the FAA named a panel of experts to address air traffic controller fatigue. Reuters reported that air traffic controllers work mandatory overtime and 6-day weeks.

The FAA's response to these findings was to appoint a three-member panel to "examine how the latest science on sleep needs and fatigue considerations could be applied to controller work requirements and scheduling" until more personnel could be hired. Furthermore, the FAA Reauthorisation Act of 2024 expanded air traffic controller training capacity and required the FAA to update the training process.

Unfortunately, the near-misses and flight delays are likely to continue under recent policy changes.

The Policy of 45

The main reason for addressing the shortage itself at the top of this write-up is that a lot of early outcry held the 47th President's recent hiring freezes, cuts, and firings responsible for the accident.

Context is critical. Obviously, trump’s hiring freeze in no way helps this issue, and neither does the dismissal of people in leadership positions. Even the panel he dismissed was the Aviation Security Advisory Committee, which is geared towards TSA operations moreso than air traffic control.

But on the ground, it's probably his policies as 45 that did the most lasting damage.

In 2018, the proposed budget cut funds to the DoT by 13%, or $2.4 billion. The proposal eliminated funding for the Essential Air Service, a program that guaranteed continued commercial air service to small communities in the US which would not otherwise be profitable. Air traffic control would also be privatized under the proposal.

This 2018 post by Democracy Forward provides a good summary of 45's policies. (It's also an interesting read if you've been following the recent changes in regulation of airline fees. In brief, the struggle to regulate fees and accessibility has been ongoing since before 2013, and trump's policies are unsurprisingly airline company-friendly.)

By contrast, in 2021 the proposed budget for the FAA included $11.4 billion (increase of $432 million from FY21) to oversee the safety of civil aviation, and to provide for the operation, maintenance, communications, and logistical support of the air traffic control and air navigation systems. There were additional requests totalling over $8 billion to improve airfield infrastructure and grants for Aviation Workforce Development programs.

The final 2021 budget, the American Rescue Plan Act of 2021, passed with $15 billion for airlines and airline contractors for a third extension of Payroll Support Program which would otherwise have expired at the end of March 2021. The extension prevented the furlough of more than 27,000 aviation employees. There was an additional $8 billion for U.S. airports.

As a result of 45's budget cuts, the FAA was forced to lay off many people. “He slashed our budget and a lot of people, including myself, were laid off. So, we’re just waiting to see what programs will continue,” a longtime FAA contractor, rehired under the Biden administration, told What A Day.

Former House Transportation and Infrastructure Chair Peter DeFazio also notes, "The unnecessary government shutdown [in 2019] shut down the Aviation Academy, and a number of people did not come back after the academy closed down." He cites this as a crucial interruption that was then followed by a yearlong closure due to the lockdown.

Congested Airspace

In his interview with Politico, DeFazio puts Congress front and center: "Every senator in particular wants a nonstop flight to and from wherever they live. As you saw, [Kansas Sen.] Jerry Moran said this was a flight which he had encouraged or otherwise supported. The last FAA bill, [Texas Sen.] Ted Cruz said he needed a direct flight to [San Antonio], so he engaged in a lengthy battle."

The bill referenced here is S. 1939, the FAA Reauthorization Act of 2024, which contained many positive items. This was the bill that required air carriers to provide a full refund for a cancelled or significantly delayed flight; it expanded air traffic controller training capacity and required the FAA to update the training process.

This bill also increased the number of daily round-trip flights allowed at Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport (DCA), despite protests from the airport authority. (Though it should be noted that the new flights added to the airport's schedule by this bill have not yet been fully implemented.)

DeFazio has words for the military, as well: "And it’s one thing, when there’s an urgent need or a security issue, to move people by military helicopter to the White House or from one base to another in the D.C. area. It’s another to do it for convenience for generals and “very important people” who don’t want to sit in traffic. […] for training, they should be doing that in the hours when there are way fewer flights coming into National Airport."

The flight rules over Washington, D.C. are very complex, developed to manage civilian, military, and government traffic. It is simultaneously the most restricted and the most congested airspace in the country. Pilots have been complaining about the complexity of flight rules for years.

This stretch of the Potomac in particular is designated a Special Flight Restricted Area. In the words of Senator Tammy Duckworth (D-IL), "You don't get to fly in that without additional flight training." All crew members aboard the Blackhawk were experienced, having logged 500-1000 hours. Transcripts of the air traffic control instructions and responses from the pilots in the minutes before the accident show that the Blackhawk crew twice confirmed visual of the plane with the ATC, including approximately 25 seconds before impact.

But in multiple stories published since the crash, there are quotes from pilots who had similar experiences in that area, and recall near-misses with passenger aircraft coming in to the same runway. One retired Army National Guard helicopter pilot recalls that he lost sight of the jet in the city lights and descended to an altitude of 50 feet to avoid collision with an unseen flight. There are at least two reports of near-misses under very similar conditions from 2013 and 2015.

The Post Mortem

The President's flurry of executive orders, hiring and funding freezes, have dominated the news cycle for the last 12 days. There isn't currently evidence to support that various budget and staffing cuts, including those attempted by 47 two days before the accident, directly contributed to the incident on January 29th.

However, cutting personnel, funding, and abolishing positions once vacated will increase the risk of accidents going forward. Many US government services have not recovered from the combination of 45's policies and effects of the pandemic. They are presently in a state where funding and personnel cuts will result in direct consequences to the American people, and likely very quickly.

As for the Washington, D.C. crash itself, it is indeed a tragic loss of life. In all likelihood, it could have been prevented by appropriate response to prior near-misses, addressing concerns voiced by pilots and professionals, or perhaps a less entitled Senate.

Sources

https://webcf.waybackmachine.org/web/20250120173159/https://simpleflying.com/us-atc-shortage-analysis/

https://www.reuters.com/business/aerospace-defense/panel-review-us-air-traffic-controller-fatigue-after-near-miss-incidents-2023-12-20/

https://www.tumblr.com/gunsandfireandshit/774138773393063936?source=share

https://www.tumblr.com/huffy-the-bicycle-slayer/774137554059575296?source=share

https://democracyforward.org/work/sidebar-airlines-and-the-trump-administration/ (published 2018, edited 2022)

https://www.politico.com/news/magazine/2025/01/31/defazio-plane-crash-blame-00201767

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2018_United_States_federal_budget

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_Rescue_Plan_Act_of_2021

https://phys.org/news/2017-06-pros-cons-privatizing-air-traffic.html

https://www.tsa.gov/sites/default/files/asac-charter-september-2022.pdf

https://www.wdsu.com/article/pilots-worried-dc-airspace-crash/63626297

https://www.cbsnews.com/news/experts-ask-why-black-hawk-helicopter-may-have-been-flying-above-allowed-altitude/

https://www.cbsnews.com/news/tammy-duckworth-american-airlines-crash/

https://commons.erau.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1910&context=jaaer

#the post mortem #don't call me shirley #current events #reagan national airport #washington dc plane crash

64 notes · View notes

jks1uv · 2 months ago

Text

𝐼𝑡’𝑠 𝑁𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑂𝑣𝑒𝑟 ; mcu!peter parker | one-shot |

summary: peter believes the world would be ideal if you forgot about him, your world isn't ideal without him in it.

pairing: fem!reader x mcu!peter parker.

trope: best friends to lovers.

genre: fluff + angst.

warnings‼️: mentions the multiverse + peter’s inner turmoil (bless him).

word count: 2,131.

You’re all dolled up in your favorite dress. Your hair is perfect, makeup done just the way you like it.

You’re beautiful he thinks. You’re so incredibly beautiful, the perfect woman to earn my heart.

And so devastatingly sad.

It’s poetic how beauty can shine through such adversity.

Peter can’t look at you, he can’t look into you.

Your stare pierces his heart and shoots straight through his soul.

You’re disappointed because you can’t believe what he’s saying.

“I’m going to… to forget about you?”

How small you sound, how sad. Your voice guts him like a fish.

He wants to kick himself down the way he kicks down the deserving assholes of New York.

Can he technically count himself as one? He does so anyway.

“I’m really gonna forget you?” You repeat, clearer and a bit louder now.

Peter nods and repeats himself. “You’re gonna forget who I am.”

Now that he’s said it, it hurts more. It's so much worse because he’s saying it out loud.

You don’t care to stop the tears from rolling down your cheeks. They flood your eyes and you’re not strong enough to blink them back.

“Are you serious?” Your voice wavers and you hate how weak you sound.

You think you look and sound pathetic but is it pathetic to be crying over something he can control?

There’s no one like him and there never will be.

He snatches his mask off and you see the redness in his eyes contrast with the suit.

“It’s the only way I can ensure your safety, Y/n. You, Ned, and MJ can’t get the lives you deserve as long as you’re tied to me.”

You nods slowly, letting your sadness simmer slowly in reserved anger. “So you think giving me an explanation before you leave my life would make me feel better?”

Peter shuts his eyes and looks to the side, a big window catching his eyes.

He thinks about everything going on outside of it, all the noise and people. Just outside that big, clear panel is a world of pain and suffering.

Inside this wall of glass is a possible opportunity of endless joy and hope. Joy because he's always happy with you, regardless if the two of you are doing anything or nothing at all. Hope because you give him that everyday, all the time.

He's at a crossroad in his life, the biggest one yet. He knows what he should choose and why but he doesn't know if he wants to.

Of course, he doesn't want to but does that matter? Does it matter, what he wants? Has it ever mattered?

It doesn't help knowing that in every single universe, you are the woman he chooses to cherish for the rest of your lives. You pick him every single time without fail and now, this time he's supposed to let you go?

It doesn't make sense to him, he shouldn't do this! But he must. He has to.

“Please, Peter.” Your plea rings in his ears like Green Goblin's pumpkin bomb. “Can’t you just make another spell? One that’ll make everyone who doesn’t need to remember, forget?”

You feel your heart break as he shuts his eyes once again and refuses to make eye contact with you.

He's fighting himself, you know he is.

You shakily exhale, wiping your tears with the back of your hand.

“Okay.”

Peter eyes you wearily. “What?”

“Okay.” You repeat, nodding twice to yourself.

He doesn't believe you, you know he doesn't.

It takes a special kind of bond to know those kinds of things.

“After all of this is over and by some miracle I forget you...” You breathe in. “You won’t come find me and I’ll be okay with that.”

Peter ignores the heavy grip around his throat that restricts him from crying. Instead, he chooses to nod in quick motions.

“But you have to show me.”

You're serious. Your reddish eyes contain a glimmer of hope but it's caged away for its own protection.

“I have to show you..?”

“Yes. Show me how to forget you.”

He scoffs in disbelief and feels your bitterness scorn him. His false bravado starts to fade away.

“Y/n, please don’t do this right now.”

“I’ve known you our whole lives.” Your tone grows loud. “You used to babysit me despite being the same age, Peter. Now I’m supposed to be okay with you leaving me?”

His eyes threaten to well up and he’s trying his best to hold his own.

“You’re my best friend,” You whisper sadly. “And I love-” You get a hold of yourself.

Peter’s eyes widen and he steps closer to you. “You… you love what?”

You look away and sigh in frustration, not wanting things to go this way.

Peter cups your face, his gloved fingers softly caressing your face to soothe you.

“Tell me. Please.”

You open your eyes and look straight into his, to hell with the planning and execution.

If this is there is the slightest chance you’re gonna remember anything from tonight, you want it to be this.

“I love you.”

Peter hugs you close, his cheek pressed against the side of your head and his arms bind you tightly.

A sob bubbles out of his mouth and you hug him back just as tight, crying with him.

“I’m sorry- I’m so, so sorry.”

His throat hurts from trying to clamp down the rest of the sobs in his chest.

He pulls back and holds you face in his hands again, feeling the newfound confidence graze his heart.

He nods softly, a trying smile on his face. “I’ll remind you.”

You softly gasp at his words.

“I’ll remind you. I don’t care how long it takes but I’ll find you and tell you everything.”

He brings your foreheads together and your hair fills the spaces between his fingers.

He thinks of the other Peter's and remembers their conversations.

Their love lives aren't spectacular but it's proof that you exist. You're out there, somewhere to be discovered.

“It's... complicated.”

“I lost Gwen... she was- uh, she was my MJ.”

You're not Gwen, or MJ or any other woman every other Peter Parker falls in love with. You're you, and he loves you.

They've made their marks and have stayed, exited or were left behind.

He won't give fate the chance to separate you from him now that's got you. Peter won't make that mistake a third time.

The sound of the bell chiming grabs your attention.

You look up and make eye contact with a shining pair of eyes, ones that are hopeful.

You think he’s cute.

You look away and busy yourself with wiping the counter with a damp rag but you have a great memory.

Nice, brown eyes that match his hair; tufts of soft curls and gelled back.

His button nose reminds you of a bunny. His lips slender and pink-ish red. His cheeks a similar rosy color from the biting cold breeze outside.

The cute stranger makes his way to the counter, not once breaking contact you despite you doing so.

“Hi, how are you?” You recite the greeting with your best customer service smile.

“I-I’m good. How are you?” He smiles back sheepishly.

“I’m great, thanks for asking. So, what can I get for you?”

You take out your notepad and pen, preparing to write down the cute guy’s order.

A few seconds go by and you look up from your notepad, not expecting the silence.

He stares at you— no, through you.

His eyes hold an inexplicable sadness, one that is conflicting.

“Do you need a minute?” You ask not able to hide your concern.

He smiles but it doesn’t feel genuine. Shaking his head, he deeply inhales.

You note his eyes seem water, like he’s tearing up but he blinks a couple of times; making them dry up a bit.

“My name is Peter Parker and I…” Peter trails off when your necklace comes into his view.

A single black dahlia petal, from when he accidentally broke it fighting Quentin Beck, also known as Mysterio.

But he knows you don’t remember that. You probably don’t even remember how you got the necklace or what it’s supposed to be.

You look at him expectantly, waiting patiently for him to finish his sentence but something tells you he’s not here for that.

“Peter?” Your soft voice brings him out of his trance and for a split second, he believes you recognize him.

“You were saying?”

Oh. Right. I told her my name.

Peter thinks about telling you everything right then and there but he ultimately decides against it.

It isn’t the right place or time.

“I’d like a coffee. Please.”

He can’t complain about a broken heart if he’s the one that broke his own.

You nod. “Okay, what kind?”

“An espresso with vanilla cold foam.”

That’s one of your favorite coffee’s and you can’t help yourself.

“I love that for you.” You say as you scribble away.

He smiles. I know. “Why?”

He just wants to hear you talk about something you’re fond of. He’ll never get tired of that.

“It’s one of my favorite drinks, I thought of it randomly one day and thought why not, you know?”

You recall the memory but something’s missing. It feels fuzzy but you can’t break this feeling of knowing. How else can you explain the memory?

“Huh.” You say. “I can’t remember ever making it. You smile but you still feel kind of uneasy.

Peter can feel a pit forming in his stomach. “You will.”

His encouragement feels cryptic.

“Is that all for you today?”

He nods and takes out a 5 dollar bill.

You cash it in the register and give him his change.

As you turn away to make his coffee, you can’t help but feel drawn to him.

He feels familiar somehow.

It’s crazy, you’ve never been the love-at-first-sight type and don’t believe in it.

What about him is making me feel this way?

It’s the way he looks at you. With longing, hope. Like he’s been waiting forever to come by this café and speak to you. Like he knew you’d be here.

You sigh, not believing yourself.

I mean seriously, I sound fucking stupid.

Shaking your head, you place a cardboard slip in the middle of the cup along with the lid on top and hand it to him.

“Here you go.” You smile.

“Thank you.”

Peter stands in front of you, opening his mouth to say something— anything.

He hesitates to turn away, it’s now or never.

He waits a beat before giving in.

“Are you going to MIT?”

He cringes internally, great now you look like some stalker idiot.

“Yeah, actually. I am.”

Something told you, you didn’t have to lie to him.

He nods. “Cool, same.”

Peter thinks he’s so fucking awkward and he wants to die but you think he’s awkwardly charming, endearing even.

I am so not crushing on him right now.

Yes you are.

“Alright, well… I’ll uh see you around?”

Why did I have to make it sound like a question?

It’s not like he’s unsure. He knows he’ll see you around because he has to.

You chuckle lightly at his attempt of making himself scarce. “Sure, have a good day.”

“You too.” He says quickly before ducking out of there.

You watch him leave through the window and feel an emptiness get ahold of you.

His presence made you feel something close to nostalgic but now it’s been multiplied tenfold.

“What is happening right now.” You murmur, dazed.

Peter lets his tears fall in an alleyway close by.

It hurts, seeing your loved one and not being able to say a thing because you’re unsure they’ll be untouched.

He doesn’t want to plague you with his curse, doom your life with dread.

May barely made it out alive and he’s living that aftermath, too.

It’s during times like this he wishes Tony were alive. He’d know what to do.

Peter remembers the night you said you love him.

You said it with an unwavering honesty, like you’ve been sure of it your whole life. And you were.

Peter shakily inhales and holds up his coffee, his name written in black sharpie on the coffee holder in your handwriting.

There’s a smiley face drawn next to his last name and feels a surge of motivation jittering in his bones.

He can’t be selfish and allow you to feel disoriented about your entire life.

He wants to be selfless but seeing your face drop when you can’t remember how one of your favorite drinks was born makes him reevaluate.

He’ll be selfish just this once, just for you. He’ll make good on his promise.

33 notes · View notes

saphronethaleph · 2 months ago

Text

Shakedown Breakdown

“In position above Kijimi, Captain,” Milon Lenwith reported. “We are in range.”

“Good,” Captain Sabrond replied. “Superlaser charge status?”

“One hundred percent,” Lenwith replied. “First Order personnel evacuation under Protocol 13 is complete… we can fire on your command.”

Sabrond paused, savouring the moment.

The Final Order would rise.

“Fire,” she said.

Lenwith depressed a button, and the weapons systems of the Derriphan lit activated – ready to fire in anger for the first time.

Then all the lights went out.

“...what?” Sabrond asked, by the dim light reflected off the Kijimi surface, and swallowed as she realized the gravity was out too. “What happened?”

“I’m not sure, Captain,” Lenwith admitted. “But, uhm… it… doesn’t look good.”

“Then make sure that it is good,” Sabrond replied.

Lenwith coughed.

“That’s… not really an order I can obey, Captain,” he admitted. “If I don’t know what to do then just telling me to fix the situation won’t actually do anything.”

He poked at his controls, which had excellent tactile feedback on the keys but were singularly useless for actually doing anything right now. “But… if I had to guess, and I’d like to remind you that it is a guess, it looks a lot like there’s been some kind of massive failure of the power distribution grid.”

“...why?” Sabrond asked.

“I’m not sure,” Lenwith stressed, again. “Captain, I’m doing the best I can – I’m just basing this guess off the fact that all the lights went out and Kijimi is still there.”

Sabrond clenched her fist, wishing that she could strangle people from a distance.

It would be nice.

“Then sort this out as fast as possible,” she insisted. “And tell me when you’re done.”

“I can’t do anything by myself, Captain,” Lenwith pointed out. “My control panel doesn’t work.”

Sabrond scowled, but had to admit that that was… a good point.

“Then let me know the first time you have anything,” she said, trying not to drift out of her command chair.

Twenty long and exceptionally awkward minutes later, the emergency lighting came on, and Sabrond looked over at Lenwith.

“Well?” she asked.

“Checking now,” Lenwith replied. “Computers have booted into restricted mode owing to the long power outage… let’s see… all right, the internal messaging system is working…”

Lines of text scrolled up his screen, then he winced.

“Ah,” he said. “So… well, if I can summarize this, Captain, it appears my guess was correct. Only, it’s a little worse than originally assumed.”

“Explain,” Sabrond grated.

“Energizing the axial superlaser involved placing too high a load on the power distribution system,” Lenwith explained. “It’s… well, if I’m understanding this correctly, the issue is that the construction testing system involves a pulse load before acceptance, but the engineers think the cause of the failure is holding the system at above a threshold load for at least four consecutive seconds. The housing heats up enough to cause expansion in places where there aren’t any expansion joints, because earlier models didn’t require it, and that exceeds the insulation tolerance of some of the separator systems… the result was a catastrophic cascade failure in the power distribution system, meaning that right now every surge-vulnerable system on the ship has either melted, exploded or welded shut.”

“I didn’t come up through engineering,” Sabrond said. “What does all that mean in practical terms?”

“Well, we can’t actually do much of anything,” Lenwith told her, still reading through the engineering notes. “The reactor backfed and ejected all of our coaxium to prevent a runaway reaction, which could have destroyed the ship entirely in an uncontained hypermatter explosion, so that’s something – but we don’t have a means to generate more than emergency power. And if we had power, we couldn’t get it anywhere because most of the S-con cables on the ship melted. And if we got all our systems fixed, we still wouldn’t be able to do much of anything. We could go to hyperspeed or use the weapons or run the engines at full power or endure significant attack on the shields, so long as we don’t try to do more than one of them at once. And the main battery is simply unable to function, it has a higher power draw by itself than the destruction threshold.”

“How did-” Sabrond began, then stopped.

Frowned.

“...this is the shakedown cruise, isn’t it?” she asked. “It hadn’t occurred to me before – these ships were built to specifications, but the specifications were never tested.”

“Ordered off the drawing board, yes,” Lenwith agreed.

“So this isn’t a failure of the Derriphan, but of the whole design,” Sabrond said, then groaned. “And none of them will work any better. We’ve… at best, we’ve got to refit the whole kriffing fleet because none of them can fight as they are now. At worst they’ll need to be scrapped and rebuilt to a new design from scratch.”

“And we do still need to have that new design,” Lenwith pointed out. “Based on how long it took to iron out the original design… the work could start in a year?”

“I think maybe Lord Sidious should have blown up a planet before throwing down the gauntlet,” Sabrond said, as much as it pained her to admit it. “Can we get in touch with Exegol?”

“Give us a few hours and maybe,” Lenwith replied. “So far as I can tell the engineers are working on getting gravity back online, unless the gravity generators melted. Then it’ll be the docking engines, unless the control software melted… if they focus on it, they might get comms online, unless-”

“-the comms array melted, yes, I get the idea,” Sabrond said. “Do it. Get me comms so we can warn Exegol about this.”

“Everyone stay cool!” Poe called. “Alpha Squadron, on my wing! Beta squadron, Delta squadron, clear the way for Finn’s landers! We’ve got to stop the launch!”

“Copy, Alpha Leader!” Aftab Ackbar replied. “First torpedo volley, away!”

A dozen proton torpedoes rocketed forwards from the Y- and B-wings of Beta Squadron, then Delta Squadron sped in after them with their laser cannons firing. The Final Order ships responded with a hail of turbolaser fire, and two X-wings and an A-wing went down in the flurry of defensive fire.

Then the Star Destroyer they’d targeted unceremoniously blew up, with a flash that sent a concussive echo through the skies over Exegol and flung Poe into a corkscrew dive.

As he pulled out of it once more, head on a swivel, he noticed that more and more of the Star Destroyers were… breaking. Suffering massive, electric-arc-spewing system failures, or major reactor containment breaches, or just shutting down completely and dropping out of the sky.

“...uh,” he said. “Finn? I guess your mission’s cancelled?”

“Oh, come on,” Finn complained. “I know it’s good that you don’t need us, but, really? I was looking forward to using cavalry on a spaceship!”

#star wars #finn #poe dameron #the rise of skywalker #ordering off the drawing board with experimental tech is bad mmkay

44 notes · View notes

argentnoelle · 1 year ago

Text

The Impact of Light Yagami's Time in Confinement

This meta draws from the Washington University Journal of Law and Policy paper Psychiatric Effects of Solitary Confinement by Stuart Grassian.

While solitary confinement is generally used in TV shows as a less extreme method of torture or interrogation, since it does not involve physical violence, it is actually quite brutal. People who undergo solitary confinement may experience perceptual distortions up to and including hallucinations involving multiple senses, as well as paranoia and obsessional thoughts, and difficulties thinking and concentrating, along with violent outbursts and self harm. "Prisoners confined in solitary confinement for no longer than one week were oftentimes found to have acute psychotic breaks," and there is a group of symptoms that tend to show up in cases of solitary confinement that are quite distinct, and some of the hallucinatory symptoms are ones that commonly show up in neurological illnesses.

Solitary confinement was first popularized in the American prison system, with the idea that it would allow criminals to think and repent—however, what was instead found was a baffling pattern of mental illness that correlated with the people who were put into such sensory restrictive states. After this was realized, the extreme measures of solitary confinement in prisons were scaled back, but solitary confinement continued to be used as a method of torture.

Not every person who undergoes solitary confinement will have the full range of symptoms. Some people deal better with it than others, and there are a few underlying reasons why that is. Firstly, "an individual who receives clues which cause him to experience the isolation situation as potentially threatening is far more likely to develop adverse psychiatric reactions." How does this apply to Light?

For the first seven days Light spends in confinement, he still has all his Kira memories and knows that he is locked up because he wants to be, as part of his grand plan. He seems quite in control and generally even-keeled. Then, he loses his memories. Instantly, he panics, because he suddenly believes he's been framed and unjustly imprisoned for the crimes of Kira, and he has no clue if he'll ever be freed. Light's isolation immediately becomes a threatening experience. Canon glosses over the full fifty-three days of his confinement, but we can see a little bit of how it wears on him in the few panels it cuts to him, as he progresses little by little over the days to increasingly apathetic postures.

Going into more detail on the symptoms of solitary confinement, adjustment to isolation tends to take one to three weeks. This will include anxiety and hyperactivity. But gradually, the prisoner "gives up all spontaneous activity within his cell and ceases to care about personal appearance and actions. Finally, he sits and stares with a vacant expression, perhaps endlessly twisting a button on his coat." This is something we canonically observe in Light's time in confinement, as the Light at the end of his confinement spends his days apparently lying on the floor and staring into space, when L isn't interrogating him.

There is another reason that doesn't bode well for Light's time in solitary confinement, and that is his personality. The people who do the worst in solitary confinement include psychopathic individuals and people with ADHD. The reason, the study surmises, is that solitary confinement is in effect extreme sensory deprivation, and these personalities already suffer from being chronically understimulated. Without diagnosing Light, I think it's possible to surmise that he would do badly in solitary confinement, as he is canonically "unable to tolerate routine and boredom" similar to those who suffer the most in solitary confinement. The quoted paper makes this remark: "Individuals with high needs for novelty and new sensations, ... who are emotionally unstable, or who are unconcerned with social approval seem unsuited for ... such environments ... The opposite [traits are found in] those who adjust well." Bad news for Light all around.

On the plus side, Light is educated and functioned quite well in day to day life before confinement, which are some of the traits found in those who do the best in such a situation. Even so, although individuals who do the best in this situation don't suffer the same psychotic states, they still experience perceptual disturbances, anxiety, panic attacks, and difficulties in cognition and memory with frequent mental fog.

Fortunately, the acute symptoms of solitary confinement quickly disappear the moment a person has been released from the situation. Unfortunately, there are also many long-term effects such as PTSD including pervasive feelings of hopelessness and depression, hypervigilance, withdrawal, and personality changes including intolerance with social interaction.

I would argue that Light canonically shows evidence of some of these long-term effects, as the Light we see in part 1 is social, friendly, and outgoing to all appearances (despite his inner thoughts) and even while being suspected of murder, is a generally optimistic and happy person. Yotsuba arc Light is rarely the focal character, and is mostly seen "performing" for the rest of the task force and L, but in part 3, after the time skip, where Light is again the main character, we can see that he lives a remarkably different life.

Despite quickly rising through the ranks of the police and growing the scope of his Kira activities, Light spends most of his days in one single apartment, interacting with the same five people. He does not seem to have any social life outside of this. He is markedly less social than his younger self, and frequently blindsided by events that one can assume his younger self would have taken in stride. He spends plenty of time gloating about his superiority over Near, yet Near is able to easily undermine him again and again—and I argue that it's not that Near is so much smarter than L, or even that Light is in a worse-off position now than he was back then. At least not to start.

The real difference is in the way Light reacts to threats and the fact that he spends so much less time cultivating his social image and disregarding his allies.

There are many possible reasons for the difference in Light's character pre- and post- timeskip, but one I've never seen brought up is the potential effect of the solitary confinement he underwent.

#death note #meta #my meta

296 notes · View notes

get-whumped · 4 months ago

Text

as promised: my notes from the writing action scenes panel at comic con

Here are the notes I managed to furiously scribble in my lap in the front row while I wasn't busy watching the demonstrations. A lot of this is information you may already know if you’ve studied martial arts at all. The presentation had to be cut down from over 2 hours to 45 minutes so the presenters briefly covered a wide range of topics from types of fighting ranges, to why someone might lose consciousness, to “defanging the snake”. These concepts may not be new info for you if you are familiar with fighting but, if you aren’t, I transcribed my notes from the panel below:

Some big things the presenter’s talked about were ranges of fighting and being inside or outside of a fight or a range.

Ranges -

Projectile weapons (gun, bow and arrow, throwing knife, grenade)

Kicking

Punching

Trapping (close quarters, elbows, knees, head butts)

Grappling (choking, joint locks, ground fighting)

From what I gathered, being inside or outside of a fight or range has to do with being in the direct line of an attack and moving outside of the area that the attack can hit. A kick can be dodged by moving backward but this doesn't always offer as much control as side stepping and getting out on the outside of the kicking leg which allows for more responses/counter attacks and can be harder for an attacker to adjust for because they can’t just keep advancing on the person they are attacking.

When someone is outnumbered, it is important to get on the outside of the fight. This means not standing in the middle of a group of people. Get on the outside of the fight and fight from there, put opponents in each other's way so it is more difficult for more than one to attack at once. The presenter’s referred to a Jet Li interview where he talked about something he called “noodle time” which is when in a movie, if the main character is fighting a group, often everyone sort of stands back and waits to fight the character one at a time and how in a real fight this doesn't happen so making it difficult for more than one person to attack at once is important for realism.

One of the the things I was most excited to learn about in this panel was this section right here:

Reasons someone might lose consciousness -

Lack of blood flow to the brain ○ Multiple things can cause this like blood loss but the presenters focused on something called a “blood choke” which causes someone to go down FAST but they also will come back very quickly. This is different from an “air choke” which is your classic Choking Someone So They Cannot Breathe and involves restricting arterial blood flow. It utilizes a sort of triangular choke hold where the person choking places their elbow on someone’s chest from behind and squeezes the person's neck on both sides with their bicep and forearm. Google blood choke or sleeper hold for a visual example. The presenters said this works surprisingly quickly and the person being choked may think they have more time to get out of the hold than they actually do because it's a sort of “I’m fine this is fine” to boom they’re out in seconds.

Lack of oxygen ○ This is your classic Choking Someone So They Cannot Breathe. It can take 30-60+ seconds for this to cause someone to pass out depending on their oxygen saturation before they start being choked but coming back from this is a bit slower than from the blood choke.

Vagus nerve response ○ If you read that and thought “nerve strike” you’re exactly right. If a person's vagus nerve is suddenly over-stimulated by something like a brachial plexus it can cause vasovagal syncope which means that a persons heart rate and blood pressure drop suddenly and it causes them to faint. You can also get a similar effect if a person experiences acute trauma to their carotid artery like from a neck chop which causes a sudden blood pressure drop similar to a blood choke. This, similarly, takes someone out very quickly but very briefly. Vasovagal syncope can also be caused by things like heat stroke and psychological stimuli which may cause a person to faint.

Concussion ○ Ye olde classic noggin bonk

All of these reasons should cause temporary loss of consciousness and if the injured party remains unconscious for more than a few seconds to a minute something is seriously wrong and that person should be considered to be actively dying. These are all things that can buy a person a moment of reprieve in a fight or end a fight by putting the unconscious person at a disadvantage where they can be further hurt with no defense or restrained physically or chemically while they cannot resist. In real life if someone is knocked unconscious by being hit in the head and they stay out that is VERY BAD.

(Also this a side note that I could rant about forever that was not part of the panel but being shocked with a stun gun or a Taser DOES NOT cause you to pass out! It's painful and with a Taser it WILL cause you to fall to the ground where you may hit your head or injure yourself further but the shock does not knock people out! In police training there are tests where they will Taser officers and those officers have to get up and chase or fight someone the second the current stops. And stun guns won’t even knock you down necessarily they just hurt like hell for a few seconds.)

The presenters also referred to a concept called “defanging the snake” which had to do with disarming an opponent. Instead of attacking the weapon or directly trying to wrestle a weapon away from someone it is best to attack that person's ability to hold or maintain control of that weapon, attacking fingers and wrists and trying to push the weapon away from or counter to the strength of their grip. The presenters also talked about how in a knife fight everyone gets cut not just the person losing and how anyone who knows how to fight with a knife will know how to turn any blocked attack into a slash. It is better to redirect or get outside of a knife attack than to simply block it.

Adrenaline can help in a fight but it can also work against the person fighting. There is a common conception that adrenaline stops a fighter from feeling pain and while this can be true a large surge of adrenaline can cause someone to flag or become tired more quickly. It is best to try to stay as calm as possible.

On the topic of not noticing injuries: many times a persons singular focus on the fight can cause them not to notice injuries like minor broken bones (like fingers or fractures), cuts, or twisted ankles, until after the fight when they are able to zoom back out and take in more information than just exactly the moments and movements in front of them.

In a fight a less experienced opponent will literally move and think slower than a more experienced one. A less experienced, outnumbered, or physically smaller opponent will need to fight dirty and be fast. A larger opponent who is over confident or less strategic may choose to fight on the inside. This means they may choose not to dodge and just tank some hits in order to close the distance, save time, or gain a physical advantage over their opponent. A smaller or less experienced will need to “steal a beat” which the presenters described as using techniques like closing range or getting outside of a hit and knocking the attacker off balance. When fighting an opponent with more range (in any category) closing the range can take some power out of their attacks before they hit. If someone is kicking or punching suddenly moving closer and causing them to make contact sooner than they intended. It may still hurt but it can take a lot of power out the hit by interfering with its momentum. A less experienced or smaller opponent can also steal space by getting outside the attack and extending the range.

They also had some general writing tips for action:

Consider the purpose of the fight. Are the character’s fighting to the death? Testing each other? Sparring for fun or sport?

Dialog tends to happen at further range (outside of kicking range) and closer range (inside of trapping range)

Avoid traumatic injury (major broken bones, concussions) until end of fight for realism because these injuries are so disabling/put the character at such a disadvantage they are likely to end the fight

Consider keeping the scene short, fights are quick, often keeping sentences short can create the effect of everything feeling sped up. Have a couple of snapshots of moments you want use bullet time on and really go into detail for and rest of the fight flow between those snapshot moments

Other things referenced or which the presenters recommended looking up:

Dan Inosanto videos on youtube

Wolff’s Law (which has something to do with bone density?)

Jonathan Maberry’s action writing workshops (the presenters highly recommended an upcoming workshop he is hosting for $50 online which they said is extremely worth it)

If you are knowledgeable in martial arts feel free to correct me this is just what I remember and what I was able to write down. The panel was moving at breakneck speed and I don't know if I copied it all down accurately.

#writing #whump #i wouldve sat through a several hour long version of this panel it was very interesting and I could tell they had a lot more to say

40 notes · View notes