#inner hangar

[sw5w]

Engulfed

STAR WARS EPISODE I: The Phantom Menace 02:02:56

[keferon]

I stand by the belief that Drift/Deadlock and Hot Rod would be friends in any universe. Much to the terror of everyone else.

———————————————————————

Deadlock was loosing his mind.

Deadlocks face plates were starting to hurt from the strain of manually stopping himself from reflexively smiling. And why did he have an overwhelming compulsion to smile?

Because: This. Tiny. Minuscule. Absolute Fragging SPECK of a human was somehow radiating more emotion out of his EM field than any other mech that Deadlock has ever met in his life.

And what was that emotion?

"THIS IS THE COOLEST SHIT IVE EVER SEEN IN MY FUCKING LIFE!"

Joy. Pure. Unfiltered. Unrestrained. And completely unreasonable levels of joy.

"RATCHET. RATCHET. HE'S SO COOL."

The mini nuclear reactor was currently shaking the medic by the shoulders, practically vibrating with unspent energy. Seconds ago, Hot Rod had seemingly slagging materialized next to him in an explosion of emotion that damn near knocked Deadlock on his aft. He was currently tempted to swat the little fragger halfway across the hangar to escape the onslaught of unexpected emotions except-

Ratchet had personally brought him in. Even now, the medics field remained calm and collected in the face of what to Deadlock felt like a fragging Sun. He kinda envied humans field numbness right now because it was definitely starting to screw with his processor.

Case in point, Deadlock had to take a click to refocus on what the squishes were talking about.

"No fucking way. Really?!"

“Yes, he really did take down those three quints near the wind farm by himself. Ate one of 'em too.”

"YOU EAT THEM?!?"

Deadlock was expecting disgust, but instead all he could feel was overwhelming awe. His resolve to remain aloof and detached was quickly beginning to crumble before the blast furnace of Hot Rods personality.

A manual override finally failed and Deadlock broke into a wide grin. At least he kept his fangs on prominent display. Equal parts smile and threat.

"Drink, actually."

Deadlock made a conscious effort to take on a more relaxed posture, one that would convey predatory pride and confidence.

"Dude. Dude. Dude."

Hot Rod held his hands to his face, leg rapidly bouncing up and down.

"YOU'RE A FREAKING ROBOT VAMPIRE FROM OUTER SPACE?!"

Before Deadlock could ask what a vampire was, Hot Rod had begun jogging away while screaming incoherently.

"What. What is happening?" Deadlock leaned towards his human, listening to Hot Rod get fainter as he rounded the corner of the hangar.

"About what I expected.” Ratchet grumbled, setting his hands on his hips.

“Roddy is intense as they come but he’s a damn good pilot and an even better friend."

Ratchet pointed a finger at Deadlock.

"Don't tell him I said that."

Hot Rod had become almost inaudible by now but was slowly gaining volume again.

"Right now kid, it's just been you and I. And trust me I enjoy the arrangement. But we can't fight every battle by ourselves. Sometimes you just need help. Sometimes,"

The screaming was quickly gaining decibels.

“You just need a friend.”

A friend.

Huh.

The scarred, defensive, self preserving part of Deadlock protested the thought of being pried open any further. Ratchet had started the process. But, c'mon. It's Ratchet. He scolded his inner self. Ratchet always left things stronger then before. So, maybe. Just a little bit. Deadlock could at least see what was so great about this squishy human.

The screaming returned to its initial volume as Hot Rod rounded the corner and mech. They were pretty sure humans normally breathed more often than that?

Hot Rod came to a stop before the two of them.

Finally gasping in fresh air. His field was absolutely roiling, pretty much all positive emotions but the screaming lap around the building had clearly vented a lot of energy.

"Can you turn into a bat?!"

Deadlock reset his optics, an idea spreading across his processor as he finally let his Em field reciprocate with giddiness and mischief.

Who cares if it's sparkling behavior? It’s fun. He told the Deadlock part of himself.

"Nope. But do you want to know what I can turn into?"

Hot Rod nodded so fast Ratchet looked concerned.

Che-che-chu-klunk.

Hot Rod started screaming again.

This time when when his EM field hit Deadlock he took it all in and reflected it right back. He revved his engine so loudly it shook the windows. Hot Rod was running and jumping in a tight circle around the two of them, radiating Joy Joy Joy Joy. Deadlock swore his field was even effecting Ratchet at this point from the way happy seemed to bounce between the three of them in various shades.

"Can we go for a ride?!"

Hot Rod had stopped by Deadlocks passenger side door. Rapidly looking between Ratchet and Deadlock, clearly uncertain who's permission to ask for.

"Well Doc, do you trust us not to get into trouble?" He wriggled his tires.

"You two? Staying out of trouble? Hell no."

Ratchet rubbed his chin the way he always did when he was trying to stop himself from smiling.

"But as long as you both come back in one piece and before dark... Well I don't see the harm."

Hot Rod gave his loudest "WOOP!" Yet. A feat in it of itself. A scrambled into Deadlocks cabin, forgoing the door entirely to throw himself bodily through the window.

They tore away from Ratchets hangar with a chorus of thanks and a spray of gravel.

———————

It was well after dark by the time the duo rolled into Ratchets hangar. Hot Rod stumbled out into a semi controlled summersault that left him spread eagle on the floor, laughing and panting. While Deadlock smoothly transformed and promptly rolled flat on his back in a similar state of delirium.

They had so much fun. He had so much fun.

When was the last time he'd ever felt like that?

When had he ever felt like that?

Ratchet was upside down frowning at him. No, wait. Smiling.

Happy. Fondness. Proud.

Love.

Deadlock cleared his vents and put a hand over his spark before his chest plates could do something very stupid.

Ratchet turned to the hot mess on the floor.

"I got the couch set up for you. Figured you're gonna stay the night."

Hot Rod stuck his arms straight up, palms open.

"Woo, sleepover!"

His field had finally simmered down to something like coals. A bone deep exhaustion that made Deadlock feel heavy by proxy.

They both gracelessly shuffled onto their respective resting arrangements, Ratchet taking the recliner after dimming all the lights.

Soon enough, all three were in recharge or asleep.

———————

Deadlock started out of recharge with tightly trained silence.

Something was wrong.

Threatened. Stressed. Afraid.

Deadlock seemed dead to the world still. But internally, his systems quickly synced to kill. A skill he had honed over many millennia of unsafe homes and attempted assassinations.

What surprised him was how he already mentally mapped out how to maneuver the humans into the safest location in a fight. Deadlock finally onlined his optics, casting the hangar in an amber glow. His processor clicked and Deadlock realized what was triggering his fight response.

Threatened. Stressed. Afraid.

Hot Rod.

Limbs twisted in fabric, face buried in the crook of the couch. Posture contorted. Breathing uneven. Field pulled in so tight it felt suffocating.

Deadlock loosely knew what a nightmare was.

Ratchet got them sometimes, though he wouldn't admit it until Deadlock made it clear the lack of context was freaking him out a little.

The way Ratchet explained it was that it was essentially a way for the brain to process excess information. Basically the same as defrag but with some weird human side effects because of course there were weird human side effects.

Like whatever was currently happening to Hot Rod.

From previous experience, nudging Ratchet awake usually resulted in a snort or other cut of vocalization. But if there was anything Deadlock had learned it was that Hot Rod did not do anything quietly.

Ratchet was still sleeping on his recliner, but there was a subtle shifting and a pinch to his face. Not a nightmare, Deadlock had learned the pattern, but something was bothering the medic and it threatened to wake him from his much needed rest.

Help.

The wave of desperate emotion spilled out like an overfilled cup.

Right, Hod Rods EM field was freakishly strong. It was restrained for now but Deadlock dreaded what it’d feel like if the dam broke.

He watched Ratchet stir again and. . . Wait.

Could humans pick up on EM fields?

Can’t a deaf mech still feel the vibrations of a song? Couldn’t a blind one still feel the warmth of the sun?

What if?

Deadlock moved as silently as death. Cupping a servo over the pilot. He stopped restricting his field and focused.

Calm.

Hot Rod made another almost vocalization. Like he was trying to yell without enough air.

Calm. Deadlock tried again. Comforting anyone was so, so far from his normal area of expertise. Did he even know what calm was supposed to feel like? What safe was supposed to be? He wracked his memories as Deadlock and abandoned that immediately.

Calm. Safe. Ratchet.

Okay. Deadlock didn’t know how to comfort someone, but Ratchet did. He focused his field again, this time on trying to mimic what he always felt from Ratchet as closely as possible.

Care. Fondness.

Deadlock vented slowly. It felt hollow coming from him. The new field was there but it was weak. Unsupported. Deadlock worried his lip with a fang. Hot Rod simmered.

He vented slowly. Deadlock opened the box at the back of his mind named Drift. He knew what he needed. Everything else could stay but he needed this one feeling. Just one.

The stars were out over Dead End. A brown out had swept the area, leaving everything in the dark. Drift didn’t know the sky could look like that.

The others were gathered around in silent awe. Nobody dared to break the spell. Tomorrow, everything would suck again. Scraping money for the next meal, the next hit, the next chance to live just a little longer.

But for a few fleeting moments, Drift was okay. They were all okay. Because the circles of light around Cybertron said so.

Peace.

Drift let the feeling fill his field. Calm and fondness meant something again.

He thought of his time with Ratchet and Hot Rod. Finding something new in himself.

Protect.

It was like smoke clearing all at once. Hot Rod exhaled deeply in his sleep, field going soft and gentle.

He kept it up, at some point his engine had started purring without him knowing. A pleasant white noise within the hangar. They were okay. Everyone he cared about was okay. He felt peace. Just for now. Just for them.

“Didn’t know you could do that.”

Ratchets voice was thick with sleep. One eye barely cracked to look at him.

“Me too.”

—————————

Part 1

This is long and it’s getting late. Deadlock has an emotional breakthrough and Hot Rod dreams about I dunno, pancakes or something.

-SSTP

Infinitely entertained by the mental image of Ratchet trying to pick someone who he can trust but who will also get along with Kid. And then looking at Hot Rod and being like Yep. That one.

ALSO. Hot Rod having an EM field equivalent of a nuclear fucking reactor is just so👌👌👌 YES HE WOULD. ABSOLUTELY YES HAHAHKFNGM

I never get tired of reading about Roddy and Lock losing their last brain cells when they are together. Anon. Anon look at me. I LOVE YOU ANON. I WILL CHERISH THIS PIECE FOREVER IT BROUGHT ME THE UNMEASURABLE AMOUNT OF JOY THANK YOU FOR SHARING IT

[bumblebeezer]

“Prove It.”

Prompt:  kissing each other to prove there’s nothing there, even though it’s a lie, and the kiss proves it

Pairing: Din Djarin/Reader

Word Count: ~2200

Warnings: potentially ooc, reader is shorter than Din, idk please please please lmk if i’ve missed something that you feel needs a warning!!!

Summary: Peli’s meddling leads to some kissy kissies. Shy Mando. Giving me season one vibes honestly??? Imagine season one setting (literally just the Razor Crest) with season 3 relationships. Hope y’all enjoy!!!

Mando’s frustrated grunt echoed off of the paneling of the Razor Crest, followed by a muttered curse, his voice crackling through the modulator. 

“Dank farrik.” 

Peli, who was currently watching as her repair droids dutifully attempted to complete her share of work (and taking their sweet time, if you asked her), snorted and raised her brows.

“What’s eatin’ at ya, Mando?” 

The Mandalorian growled, the noise low, coming from the back of his throat. As much as he…appreciated Peli, her commentary left much to be desired. 

“Kriffing panel…” Din muttered, his gloved hand tightening around the wrench as he briefly entertained the thought of throwing it as far as he could. Peli groaned and rose from her chair, dramatically rolling her eyes. “Well, maybe if you weren’t flying something pre-Imperial, you wouldn’t have these problems!” 

Din sighed behind the beskar helmet, the puff of air crackling through the modulator. There was no point in retorting, especially when Peli got to work beside him, inspecting the paneling with an unimpressed look. She opened her mouth to speak when the sound of a familiar pair of footsteps drifted into Peli’s hangar, accompanied by the shrill giggles of the child. 

Mando straightened at the sound of your voice, his helmet barely concealing the way he nervously cleared his throat. 

“We’re back!” You chirped, the child echoing you with a delighted chirp of his own. “The markets were kind of dry, but little guy and I still found some supplies.”

You turned the corner, said little guy in your arm, your other hand holding a few bags, a wide, genuine smile on your face. 

“…That’s good,” Mando replied, the tension in his shoulders melting away at the sight of you holding his foundling. Your smile somehow brightened. Din felt his knees going weak. 

Unaware of the Mandalorian’s inner turmoil, you stepped forward, chattering with Peli about the market’s outrageous prices, and gently placed Grogu into Din’s waiting arms, your smile softening as he gave his foundling a nod.

“I’ll go ahead and put these up,” you hummed, holding up your bags and giving the two a nod of your own before turning and briskly walking up the ramp, disappearing into the Razor Crest, Din’s t-shaped visor slowly following your movements along the way. 

Grogu’s little clawed hand was reaching for Din’s gloved fingertip when Peli snapped him from his reverie, clearing her throat. 

“…Well,” she drawled, not even bothering to brush the Tatooine dust from her hands before clapping Mando on the back. “Look at you, Mando! I knew there was a heart somewhere inside all that beskar.” 

Din’s helmet whipped around, his glare palpable even through the opaque t-visor. He scoffed and shook his head, as if her claim wasn’t even worth dignifying with an audible denial. Truthfully, he was just convinced he’d prove her point if he opened his mouth. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he grumbles, turning to face the Razor Crest’s faded paneling, Grogu still balanced in his arm.

Peli merely scoffs, her voice loud and carefree as always. “Oh, come on, Mando! You perk up whenever they come around like an ectotherm in the twin suns. If you don’t have feelings for her then I’m next in line for Daimyo of Tatooine.”

Din stiffened and whirled around to glance at the open gangway, his heart pounding within his armored chest. 

“Lower your voice,” he hissed, modulator crackling beneath his helmet. 

“Pft, it’s not like they’re gonna overhear,” Peli waved a hand, unbothered by Din’s distress. “And besides, Mando, they probably already know. You’re not exactly subtle—“ 

A pair of footsteps stomping against the gangway interrupted the mechanic as you rejoined the two at the base of the ship. 

“Subtle about what?” You asked, eyeing Mando with a suspiciously amused look. Beneath the helmet, Din floundered for something to say, barely managing to mutter a soft “Nothing,” at the same time as Peli exclaimed, “His feelings for you, obviously!” 

You merely laughed, placing your hands on your hips and turning from Peli to Din. “Peli, I don’t know what they put into your Jet Juice, but Mando and I are just…work associates.” 

Your amused smile faltered for a moment. Could you call Mando a friend? Would he allow it? 

“Strictly professional,” you continued, like the two of you didn’t co-parent Grogu on a daily basis, falling into the routine as if you’d been doing it for years. “I could probably kiss him and get no reaction.” Your smile turned smug, baiting Peli, who, to Din’s horror, took the bait with a smug smile of her own.

“Alright, then,” she placed her hand on her hips. “Prove it.”

You scoffed, your cheeks warming, but otherwise appearing the picture of confidence. 

Time slowed for Din as you approached, striding toward him with purpose. He tensed, Grogu cooing curiously in his arms, as you reached up with gentle hands, cupping the carved cheeks of his beskar helmet, careful not to jostle it. 

Din held his breath as you slowly stood on your toes, pressing your forehead to his. After a moment, his shoulders relaxed and he tilted his head downward, returning the gentle headbutt.

Pulling away, you turned to give Peli a smug look.

“See? No reaction.”

Peli threw out her arms, gesturing toward you three. “What kind of a kiss was that?” 

“A Mandalorian one,” Din grunted through his helmet, carefully placing Grogu back into your arms before turning back toward the paneling, getting back to work as if nothing had happened.

He was vaguely aware of Peli walking away, grumbling something that sounded suspiciously like “not even a real kiss” under her breath. But he couldn’t focus on it too much. Not with the way his heart was stuttering in his chest.

~

The twin suns of Tatooine had gone down by the time the Mandalorian retired into the Razor Crest, watching as you and Grogu showed off the goodies you’d snagged from the markets earlier that day while he cleaned his blaster. 

He typically gave you his full attention, responding to the child’s interjecting coos and gurgles. But this time, he was noticeably quiet (well—quieter than usual), giving you nods instead of his usual dry-humored one-liners. 

With a faltering smile, you cleared your throat and picked Grogu up, stroking the wiry hairs atop his little head as he yawned. “I’m going to put him to bed,” you hummed, watching as Mando gave the child’s clawed hand an affectionate squeeze. 

Making your way toward the bunk Din and Grogu shared, you gave the little green guy a strained smile. “Maybe I took things too far earlier. Do you think so?” 

As if in response, Grogu gave you a little frown, gurgling softly, his large eyes drooping shut. 

Bidding the little one goodnight, you made your way back to the table to find that Din had disappeared. Frowning, you climbed up into the cockpit to find the Mandalorian in question setting up the ship’s shields. Grunting, you pulled yourself up and crept closer, crossing your arms. 

“Alright, Mando. What is it? Credit for your thoughts?” 

The Mandalorian didn’t turn to face you, keeping his visor trained on the controls instead. “You can’t afford ‘em, cyar’ika,” he muttered, no real heat to his voice. He was teasing you, then.

“Was it the Keldabe kiss?” You continued, lips pulling into a frown. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed it was alright—“

“It’s fine,” he interrupts, voice gruff as he distracts himself with the control panel. “Peli was right, anyways. Wasn’t a real kiss—“

“Mando—“

“Wasn’t much of a Keldabe kiss, either—“

“Mando-“

“You’ve got to really headbutt your partner so they know that you mean it—” 

“DIN!” 

The Mandalorian paused and finally turned to meet your gaze, the t-shaped visor of his helmet as imposingly neutral as ever. 

Your cheeks were warm as you stared up at him, eyes narrowed in some sort of exasperation. 

“…Would you like a real kiss?” 

Now, Din’s heard all kinds of jokes and taunts as a result of the Mandalorian armor he wears. He’s heard accusations that he’s made of tin, that he’s inhuman, a mere droid beneath the armor. All untrue, of course. But in that moment, he may as well be a droid with the way his brain short circuits at your words. 

“…What?”

You sauntered forward, arms loosely crossed over your chest, and shrugged, as if this were totally normal. 

“Did you want a kiss? Not a Keldabe kiss, but a—a standard kiss.”

You held the Mandalorian’s gaze. At least, you held the gaze of his t-visor, unable to see his shocked face within. You noticed the way his back straightened, his shoulders tensing nervously, but you pressed on. 

“Just to prove Peli wrong, of course,” you shrugged again. “I mean…we certainly can’t kiss in front of her without her seeing your face. But I could blindfold myself and she’ll just have to take our word for it—”

“Yes.” 

The words are barely out of your mouth before the Mandalorian is agreeing, so quick that it leaves you reeling for a moment. 

“I—” “Yes,” Mando repeats, already standing in front of you, his helmet tilted downwards. “To prove Peli wrong,” he adds, his voice sounding a little strained. 

You give him a nod, producing a blindfold in the form of an old scarf. It’s as you’re tying a knot at the back of your head that Din realizes what he’s just agreed to. His thoughts begin racing. What if he’s bad at it? What if he’s noticeably bad at this? He’s never kissed anyone before, and, oh, Maker above, this is his first kiss—

“You alright?” 

Even with the blindfold on, you can sense the Mandalorian’s nervous energy, and you give him a little smile. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” you murmur. 

“I want to,” Din murmurs, still looking down at you, blindfolded and smiling nervously and waiting and all for him. You hear the sound of something leathery hitting the floor of the Razor Crest, and then you hear the hiss of the decompressor as he removes his helmet, and suddenly it’s your turn to swallow nervously, your hands clenching and unclenching at your sides as his hands—no gloves—are cupping your jaw, his left thumb gently stroking your cheek. You hold your breath, the anticipation making your chest tight in a way that’s strangely pleasant, and wait for Din to move. After all, you’re the one wearing the blindfold, the ball’s entirely in his court. 

He takes a moment, just staring down at you, his eyes wide and his lips slightly parted, just openly admiring you without the haze of the filters in his helmet, noting the exact tone of your skin, the pink pout of your lips, the color of your hair. 

Leaning in, he presses his lips to yours, barely suppressing a hum of pleasure at the way you gasp against his lips. Otherwise, you don’t move, standing stiffly while he kisses you. It’s a chaste thing, really. Just a peck that goes on a little longer than it usually would. But you’re just as breathless when you pull away, panting slightly. 

“See?” You grin, eyes crinkling beneath the blindfold as you desperately try to even your breathing, to calm your racing heart. You open your mouth to say something else—probably some stupid joke—when Din’s pressing his lips against yours again, one of his hands leaving your cheek to tangle in your hair. You moan softly against him, eyes fluttering closed beneath the blindfold, and practically melt into him. He mirrors your moan (though it sounds a little more desperate than yours, more of a whimper than a moan, perhaps) and presses himself against you. He’s forgone his helmet for this kiss, but the rest of his armor remains attached to his flight suit, and you steady yourself against his chest, your palms warm against the cold beskar. 

When you pull away, you’re both properly panting, your lips blindly chasing after him. “Din…” 

You murmur his name, silently asking for more, lips pouting when he doesn’t immediately give you another kiss. 

“Cyar’ika…” 

His voice is gravelly even without the modulator, and delightfully pitched, like he’s silently begging you for more, too. 

Suddenly, you feel his forehead against yours, your breaths mingling as his hands find and cup your jaw, gently holding you close. 

“Cyar’ika, I…” 

Din sighs, his eyes closing, his shoulder slumping in some sort of defeat. 

“Cyar’ika, there’s something I need to tell you,” he breathes, watching your face for any sign of disgust or rejection. “Peli was right,” he mutters. “I…I…care for you. More than an associate. More than a friend. You mean so much to me—you and the kid. I don’t know what I would do if…if you weren’t here with us.” 

He swallows, the sound audible in the quiet of the ship, shoulders tensing as he waits for you to pull away and tell him you don’t feel the same way, to demand that he drop you off at the nearest spaceport once the Razor Crest is fit to fly again. 

Imagine his surprise as you merely grin up at him (eyes crinkling beneath the blindfold yet again), cup his cheeks and pull him down for another kiss, murmuring two words against his lips: “Prove it.”

[winkofcharm]

Spinning, Spinning, Spun - Chapter 3

Uhhhhhhhhhh

I'm sorry it's short and kind of jumps around,

but I think you'll love this anyway. tw: blood, swearing

batfam x reader [platonic]

[previous] Stephanie and Damian find the private jet easily enough. It’s in a private hangar at a New York airport, hidden away from public view. From the outside, it looks normal. Not a thing out of place - no signs of forced entry, of a struggle outside. It isn’t until Damian activates the biometric scanner and opens the door that they find anything wrong. 

The smell of rotting copper and iron hits them full force. Stephanie is grateful her mask muffles the smell, Damian doesn’t have her luck, and as used to the smell of blood as he is, still finds it too much. However, it’s not just the smell that is too much, it’s the amount as well.

Brown blood, well oxidized, is soaked into the carpet, into the curtains, into the chair by the far window - where it has not soaked in, it has splattered. There are still bright red spots, but only where there is so much that it hasn't yet dried. It is not simply a crime scene, but a horror show. 

Damian moves quickly to look for clues, even if it means stepping into a puddle of your blood, he is determined to find anything he can that may lead to you. The chair at the far window is your favourite place to sit, he knows, from your many snapchats from that exact place. No doubt it was where you sat when the attack began, as the blood outlines a body of your size. Beneath that seat he finds his first clue, your phone. 

It’s dead, likely having been for several days at least, but if he charges it, he may find some sort of idea or hint as to what may have happened. It’s unlikely you wouldn’t have at least tried to call for help, and he hopes you may have tried to describe your attacker in such an emergency plea. 

Stephanie has moved towards the cockpit, the jet is pilotless, fully automated, but there are cameras aboard - just in case. They’ve never really had reason to look over them until now, and she hopes that whoever took you didn’t know about them. Her hope is dashed, when she realizes the cameras had failed. The few moments of footage were of you, sitting quietly as the plane landed and pulled itself into its dedicated hangar. You were on your phone, texting or scrolling, just getting ready to unbuckle and stand when it cuts off. 

It’s a clean cut, no static, just a cut to black. There is no sign of who approached the jet from the outer camera, and no sign of you being assaulted on the inner one (which is both a relief and a pain, she didn’t want to see you getting hurt, but then, at least, she would know who did it). 

Damian is still in the rear of the plane when she hears it - sirens. All approaching quickly to their location. They need to move quickly, lest they be caught, and investigation hindered. They move as quickly as they can, taking with them your phone, and leave, disappearing into the night - back to Gotham. 

Stephanie can’t help but wonder, how, or rather, why, the police were only showing up now. At this exact moment. Why had they not come earlier, but rather once the scene was disturbed? Had it been a trap? A trigger of some sorts they had unknowingly pulled, that had called them? She doesn’t know, but she will find out.

Tim has no idea who you are. He knows of you, knows about you, but knows nothing of who you are as a person. It’s usually an easy job, finding out who holds a grudge against who, but with you it’s nearly impossible. He follows internet trolls, paparazzi reporters, your fellow celebutantes, trying to find anyone that may have hated you, may have held even a drop of enmity - but there’s nothing. He’s used to stalking people, it’s what landed him the role of Robin, after all. He’s able to find out anything, about anyone. 

You… you are a perfect mask. Even better than Batman, he surmises - because he was able to track down and identify Batman. He cannot identify you. 

There are no scandals, no rumours, no drama or fights or fallouts. You seem to be exactly what you appear. A wealthy philanthropist with a side job of modeling for haute couture brands. He tries to dig deeper, moving on to shitty celebrity gossip blogs that exist only to throw mud - and still, there’s nothing. Perhaps Babs did her job too well, and wiped a little too much from the internet regarding you. 

Speaking of Barbara -

Oracle: Check the news 

The ping drives him to do as she commanded, and he is overwhelmed immediately. 

“Wayne Heir Missing!”

“Gruesome crime scene at centre of Wayne Heir disappearance!”

“Cover up? Wayne family silent as Heir missing for days.”

The headlines are flooding in, and with them come your fans, your friends, your coworkers - all saying the same, that they miss you, hope you’re found safe, that they haven’t heard from you in days but thought it was just a brief get away. In minutes, your pages are flooded with concern - and Tim knows immediately he’ll be in for a long night when his own social media starts getting attention. So does Bruce’s, Dick’s, Damian’s - everyones is starting to be overrun, but unlike the kindness that pours onto yours, he sees the vitriol first hand. 

The public is demanding to know why nothing was found earlier, how you could be gone for so long before they noticed, how could they go about their daily lives without a shred of despair regarding your disappearance. Did they not notice? Or did they not care?

Wayne Enterprises and Drake Industries stocks are already beginning to plummet. He’s getting calls from every member of the board of each company, the free-fall and ramifications are piling up, and he’s doing his best to ignore the outside world. He’s trying to focus so hard on finding you, that he almost blocks out the alarms.

Reporters are flocking to Wayne Manor, newspapers and tabloids, from The Daily Planet, to the sleaziest of sleazy mags. He tosses his phone aside, and rubs his hands on his face. He and the others had hoped to keep this under wraps, out of public scrutiny for as long as possible and yet, in the 24 hours they had known you were gone, the secret had already been blown. 

Tim groans as he pushes away from the Batcomputer, and heads up out of the cave to the main Manor - he’ll have to change, something dark to impress how seriously he was taking your abduction. Bruce is with Dick, dealing with the Red Hood stuff, and Damian is still heading home with Stephanie, so Tim will have to be the one to release a statement. 

What will he even say? 

“Yeah, no, we had no idea they were gone, and could be dead??” Especially if that amount of blood in the pictures Damian sent over was all yours. “Sorry, I know we look like besties online, but I have no fucking idea what happened?” Not like he had actually laid eyes on you in the month leading up to this. “Half the time I forget they even exist, so how was I supposed to notice???”

Alfred waits for him in the foyer, as Tim puts the finishing touches on his suit. Best to play this as formally as possible, best to lie his ass off and hope no one calls him on it. 

Alfred’s eyes are rimmed in red, he hasn’t cried, but he wants to. A stiff upper-lip, Tim thinks, is expected of the man. He wouldn’t blame him, however, if he did cry. Alfred was the closest to you, and everyone knew there was a special bond there. The older man was always extra gentle with you, gave extra care and attention - perhaps to make up for what the rest of them didn’t give. Tim does feel a little guilty in thinking that Alfred’s distress will make whatever snake oil he’s about to sell easier for the press to buy. 

They walk side by side down the long drive that leads from the Manors front gates to the actual building itself. The crunch of their footsteps slowly being overwhelmed by the chatter of the reporters waiting for them, and Tim is temporarily blinded when they finally spot him and start snapping pictures. He keeps walking forward, until finally he is in front of the grand gates, with only a few feet between him and them. 

He waits for the rapid fire of first questions to die, for the cameras to start rolling and pictures to stop clicking, before beginning his address. 

“We were made aware yesterday of the disappearance of one of our own -,” Tim starts, “We have since been made aware that they may have been gone for longer than initially thought. Currently we are working with the police and investigators as they work towards finding them. We are certain they will be found soon, and brought home, and only ask that whoever did this comes forward and releases them.” 

It’s an automatic speech, one he’s practiced, but never thought he’d have to ever give. Sure you’d been taken before, they all have, but usually that was solved and you were home within the day, long before any of this sort of attention was demanded. 

“We ask that you give us our privacy at this time, and allow us, as a family, to work through this. We appreciate your concern, and please rest assured, that the police are doing all they can.” He finishes his statement, and the flurry of questions and cameras starts up again. It’s only polite to answer a few questions, and will project a better image of the family to do so. He scans over the crowd, trying to decide which reporter he will answer when his eyes land on a familiar face. 

Lois Lane stands beside a cameraman for The Daily Planet, her face set in a frown as she listens to Tim speak. She’s met you several times, mostly in passing, but enough to know that whatever happened to you is bad, really, really bad. You’ve always been kind to her, and sweet to Jon whenever he visited Damian. Clark had even brought you home once for a meal after a kidnapping, she remembered how you laughed and smiled, how polite you had been - so when she learned that you had been taken, violently, she had immediately volunteered to be the one sent to Gotham. She studied everything she could on her way, including your latest posts and had only one question - 

“Drake, according to their post history, you were the last one to see them -,” She began, but she knew the truth. You and Tim hadn’t spoken in weeks, despite what you had posted. Lois had left her phone number with you the second or third time you’d met, so had Clark, mostly just in case - but you messaged back and forth frequently about little things. 

You’d often send her clips of Jon and Damian together, running about in the back of the grounds, but sometimes you’d ask her questions. Questions that let her know everything wasn’t as it seemed. Questions about what to do when you felt ignored, or unwanted. Things a mother or father should have talked to you about, not an almost, but not quite, stranger. 

Tim ended up dodging her almost-question, made an excuse about how you had met up shortly before getting on the plane but he hadn’t heard from you since. It was enough to plant a seed in the rest of the reporters though. That maybe you weren’t as close as your posts made you seem, that maybe Tim was lying, or you were. It was enough, Lois decided, and she turned back to her cameraman. They’d leave as soon as this impromptu Q and A was over, and she’d be contacting her husband. Maybe he’d be able to help find you, or at least try and convince the Batman to let him help. 

—----------------------------

Jason and Red Hood.

Red Hood and Jason.

His son is alive, alive and filled with rage the likes he has never seen before. Perhaps that is why he took you? For revenge? Another way to throw Bruce’s failings back in his face, to hammer home the point that Bruce has done nothing but hurt those he was meant to protect. He hopes at least that Jason has been kind to you, that your brother may have still held some warmth towards you, despite how he had tried to drive you apart. That Jason may recognize you for what you are, a civilian, an innocent caught in the line of fire. 

He has followed his lost son, to a warehouse where the freshly beaten Joker lies, where his son points a gun at his head, and where you, thankfully are not (but where are you?). 

Jason lashes out, demands his pound of flesh, demands he kill Joker - but Bruce knows he cannot, that if he were to kill, even once, he would be lost in a flurry of violence and death.

There is no perfect time to ask about you, to demand Jason send you home safe and sound - but he does anyway - forces out the words, demands to know where your brother has taken you, and in doing so, he’s made another mistake.

“The fuck you mean Bruce?” Jason demands, “You think I’d hurt them? That’d I’d go after them just to get to you?” He sees Jason get angrier as he talks, as he realizes that Bruce has lost another kid. “You did it again, didn’t you? You fucking lost another one of us! But unlike me, they’re untrained, they’re weak, because you left them defenseless, and now look at what you’ve done!” 

Jason doesn’t have you, never even thought of using you against him.  Joker didn’t take you, he had been in Arkham up until this final confrontation. He doesn’t have time to ask anything else about you, not when the clock is ticking.  Bruce refuses to kill the Joker, and Jason escapes, leaving him alone. 

Joker is brought back to Arkham, and he turns his comms back on, and is overwhelmed immediately by all that has occurred outside his crusade.

You are still gone.

Joker doesn’t have you. 

Jason didn’t take you.

The police are swarming the jet.

Reporters are flooding his driveway. 

The internet is rife with speculation, with rumours and tales, some of them pointing towards an inside job. 

He is a failure.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The ocean is warm this time of year, the sand almost burns with the heat. It’s unfortunate you can’t get in the water yet, not until the doctor clears you completely. The scab on your stomach itches as it heals, but at least you can go outside with it covered. 

The drink in your hand is sweet, fruity and fresh, just as you like it. A brand new phone, registered in a fake name, in your other hand scrolling rapidly through news site after news site. 

A smile plays at your lips. 

“Damn,” you whisper, “If I knew it would be this easy, I would have gone girl’d them years ago.”

Tag list:

@holybatflapexpert @electricgg @xoyumiqls @holderoflostmemories @sleeptimes @galaxypurplerose @sassam @pearlyribbons @bellelamoon @fortunatelydifferentqueen

@randomlyappearingartist @c4xcocoa @whyiseveryuseenametaken @myjumper

@magdalenacarmila @noone1233nobody @bbmgirll @degenerates-posts

@rinkydinkythinky @ithoughtthinks @rtyuy1346  @s1mppp @yokesmam @cssammyyarts

@overlyobsessivefangirl @paastaboi @dakotali @mysh-lynnn @hai-there-how-are-you

@sadeem575 @lettucel0ver

(please let me know if the tag didn't work)

[revelboo]

I hope you dont have too many requests, but Im a huge Starscream bayverse fan. I was wondering if you could do a starscream x human reader where he claims the reader. I imagine him feral, posessive, definitally marks and makes a mess with slobber and Transfluid. But even so hes still gentle with his lover, enough to not seriously harm them.

+ purring 👀👉👈

Sure! 🔞 Mass displaced mech 🌶️

Needy

Bayverse Starscream x Reader

• Head lifting from your nest of blankets at the scream of a jet overhead, you know your horny, kidnapping, space Dorito is back. Sitting up as you hear him transform, peds hitting the ground outside the abandoned hangar he’s claimed as his home. You’re not sure if he chose the overgrown airport because of his alt mode or just the size of the hangar, though there are enough holes in the roof and walls that it’s not really keeping the rain or wind out. You’d tried to run once, but after spending hours wandering aimlessly, you’d not even resisted when he’d landed and grabbed you. Apparently amusing himself tracking you from above for miles to see what you’d do before carrying you home.

• Shoving open the door to the hangar to make the old rollers scream a protest, his head turns to find you. And his spike stirs, need warring with his frustration and anger as he shuts the door and stalks your way, wings flaring for you to show off. Rumbling out a raspy purr when you stretch lazily, flipping your blanket off your body to reveal soft, bare skin. Mass shifting, his wings flick as his fans kick on. “Did you miss me?” He growls, servos curling around your leg just below your knee to spread your open for him as he bends to rub his cheek and jaw against your inner thigh, venting to pull your scent deep. Glossa sliding against you in a wet slide, coaxing that soft, needy noise he loves from you.

• Big hands grip your hips, lifting them and you rest your legs over his shoulders, gasping raggedly at the feel of his glossa and mouth on you. And he snarls like an animal as he devours you, growls sliding into a constant, possessive purr of noise. “So much,” you manage, struggling to think with his mouth on you. Feeling his glossa drive deep, curling and lapping at you as you arch in his grip. “Missed you so much.” You’re coiling, body liquid heat and need as you come apart and he keeps lapping at you, until his head lifts and you let your trembling legs hit the mattress under you. Watching him reach up to swipe some of your slick and his alien saliva off his jaw, glossa lapping his servo clean while he watches you with red optics and you roll over onto your hands and knees, hips up for him.

• Gripping your hips as he frees his spike, he drags you back to him and buries himself deep, hips pumping urgently. Groaning at the wet, tight, heat of you wrapped around his spike as his hips snap. Claws grazing your hips and thighs just enough to leave red scratches as he moves inside you. Optics locking on your shoulder, the scar there from his sharp denta marking your soft skin. He’s done that the first time he’d claimed you as his. Denta bared as he ruts inside you, his wings shiver remembering how you look trembling and skin painted with his release. “You’re mine,” he snarls, hips rocking against you. “Only mine.” Found this secluded home for you out of sight where you’d be safe, where the other Decepticons wouldn’t find you. Where you’d need to rely on him and only him to provide for you. A safe nest for his mate.

• “Yours,” you groan, fingers fisting in your blankets and he’s pounding harder into you, hips smacking against you and nearly knocking you down. Getting rough as he snarls and you shatter for him with a cry. And he pins you down, hips pumping and grinding as he splays his hand on your belly, his other hand clawing into your mattress. Shuddering at your back when he overloads, growling your name and you feel the warmth of him releasing inside you. ‘Mine,’ he purrs, hips shallowly rocking against you as your thighs tremble. Knowing he’s not nearly done with you. That when he’s like this, he won’t feed you until he’s spent and it might take hours before he’s satisfied.

[colorlessjay]

Wrote this a long while ago:

The Devil Wears Leather

Purity is a white cloth.

It can either be hung up, forever untouched and undirtied

Or it stains. Forever tainted with whispers of sin

It was a Thursday when Castiel was plucked from his hangar

The pastor can't tell you what exactly happened that day. He says he forgot, but really, he just couldn't comprehend

He's always believed the supernatural exists. That angels watched over humanity, that ghosts and lost souls roamed the land waiting for peace. That there was a higher power up above that saw all.

Castiel did not account for the fact that he would encounter the opposite 

The bell of the church rang at midnight, and like clockwork, Castiel rose from his kneeling position at one of the kneelers and said his Amen

But unlike most quiet nights of prayer, the silence was unnerving. Almost stale. Like the air itself became brittle and dry

The creak of the large Chapel doors opens, and Castiel can feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. But he has faith in his safety. He does not succumb to that fear. Instead, he closes his eyes and prays once more

"Oh Father, Lord in Heaven-"

He hears loud, heavy footsteps striding towards his paralyzed form

He does not open his eyes

"-I believe the truth that You are with me, and Your protection is sure-"

There are voices. Raspy and evil, echoing and drowning his words

He does not turn

"- Be it deep waters, difficulties in life, or the fire of oppression, I will not drown or be consumed by the flame -"

He hears the sound of a loud vehicle somewhere in the distance. An engine like a lion's roar.

He lets his body relax

"- My life is in Your strong right hand, and I am secure with You -"

A gunshot booms through the Chapel, the deafening sound echoing and rising chaos in its wake

He does not flinch

"- You, oh Lord, are my refuge, A-"

"MAN, GET DOWN!"

Castiel feels a heavy body collide with his own, tumbling them towards the seats and to cover. The cold tiled floor sends pain shooting through his shoulder, as the heavy weight above him turns, and another deafening sound of a gun follows

The body, the man above him, turns to Castiel, and the pastor is bewitched by the brightest green eyes he's ever seen. That even in the darkness, they seem to shine

An Angel. His inner voice whispers

"You Father Novak?" His voice was whiskey smooth. Even through the chaos around them, and the urgency in his tone, Castiel could hear him clearly as summer's day

"Y-Yes-"

The man grabs Castiel's wrist and roughly pulls it towards him, palms up and fingers splayed. Trapped in an iron grip, Castiel knew he couldn't pull away from

"Sorry about this." The apology sounded hollow as a glimmer of silver flickers from the corner of Castiel's eyes, before an eruption of pain seizes from the palm of his outstretched hand

Confusion and fear finally settle within the pastor's chest as he tries to pull free, only for the burn of his newly inflicted cut to double as the man latches his mouth into the slice and-

He drinks

That alone had Castiel's body frozen in shock. The bright light and deafening sounds of screams that followed had completely turned him to stone

And when the lights cleared and the spots in Castiel's vision disappeared, the horror of the scene before him made his heart run cold

The seats were all in disarray, some broken, and some seemed to have been flung across the room. Every stained glass window that used to adorn the Chapel was now shattered, blown from the inside out. Scratches, bullet holes, and cracked tiles littered the main podium, all the way down the aisle. But what truly struck Castiel was the bodies

So many bodies

They littered the tiled floor, all in various states of damage and broken pieces

Bodies of various people, from young men to older women, with their eyes burned out of their sockets, all now lay on the same floor Castiel had walked all his life. Tainting the patterns, staining his home

Castiel's fearful blue eyes catch the movement of another man off in the distance. From where he stood, he saw blood dripping from the tall, long-haired man's lips, all the way down his chin. His eyes bore concern as he spoke, voice steady and young

"Dean...?"

Then, Castiel turns his attention to the leather-clad man next to him. The one who still had a vice grip on his wrist, cutting off circulation to his bloody palm

They locked eyes, and the green looked even more vibrant... But cold. Less comforting. Less like summer.

"Yeah, Sammy." The man's southern drawl echoes out, sending a tremor of fear through Castiel as he feels his entire life suddenly breaking in front of him, "Found him."

Castiel was wrong. This man is no Angel

He's the Devil

And he has stained Castiel in his own blood

--------

Okay, so this was in my drafts for a while. Short story exploring an idea:

If Sam got psychic abilities by drinking demon blood...

What if Dean gained angel mojo from drinking the blood of saints?

Both have their drawbacks. Sam's psychic ability is permanent and gets more powerful the more demon blood he consumes. But it's to be managed and mitigated, less Sam push too far and lose himself in the addiction

Dean, chosen by heaven, can create holy beams of angelic light to smite the evils of the world. Powerful and pure. But it's temporary and requires the blood of saints chosen by God himself

Castiel just so happens to be a fallen angel, lost on Earth, and turned saint

But I didn't wanna write a fic, so here's the idea. Feel free to do with it as you will

[22ayla21]

hi! could I make a request for Jing yuan x fighter pilot reader? no pressure tho🩵

Maybe reader is from another ship and gets transferred to the Loufu, very confident/badass, and the General finds himself annoyed by their reckless behavior but can’t help being attracted to them.

love your writing so much! your works are always so fun to read <3

The General and the Pilot

It irritated him. The way she looked death in the eye with such audacity. But it also attracted him.

Xianzhou Luofu greeted a new day under a clear sky, reflected in the shimmering domes of aurotechnology. Order was maintained, mechanisms worked flawlessly, and every ship in the air docks fulfilled its purpose. Everything was as it should be.

Until today.

Jing Yuan, one of the seven Arbiters-Generals of the Cloud Knights, possessed impeccable composure. He didn't succumb to emotions, maintained self-control in the most alarming moments, and never allowed external chaos to disturb his inner peace. But watching the newly arrived pilot in the reddish Yaoqing Xianzhou uniform land on Luofu at such speed that even experienced guards turned around in fear, he felt irritation.

The ship, piloted by this woman, entered Luofu's atmosphere at a reckless speed, ignoring prescribed safety protocols. She drove the machine with such audacity, with some kind of reckless challenge, as if deliberately testing his people's patience.

The general stood on the observation platform, hands clasped behind his back, watching this disgrace. As soon as the ship finally came to a halt, shaking the hangar with the blast of overheated engines, she jumped out of the hatch.

Tall, with a defiant glint in her eyes and a stride that spoke louder than any words. Her entire posture screamed of complete self-assurance. She didn't apologize. Didn't even glance at the officers exchanging worried words. Just smirked, as if she knew her maneuvers would cause confusion, and enjoyed it.

Jing Yuan felt a slight pain in his temples.

She was one of those who challenged everything and everyone. Too assertive, too self-confident.

And, even worse, he couldn't deny that she attracted him.

The woman proved herself on Luofu with the same audacity as during her landing. She was an excellent pilot—no one could dispute that. But her approach to combat operations was dangerously aggressive, too bold. Where others followed tactics, she charged headlong. Where his warriors analyzed the situation, she relied on intuition.

Jing Yuan saw how she laughed in the face of danger, how she accepted challenges that others would consider reckless.

And it irritated him.

Because he knew that if her luck ran out one day, the consequences would be catastrophic.

But it also attracted him.

Because he saw in her that spark of life that he himself had long allowed himself to lose.

He watched her movements—light, almost dancing, even in battle. Her confidence, her defiant behavior... All of it was both irritating and mesmerizing.

Jing Yuan was used to people who showed respect for authority, who followed orders. And her? She simply looked him in the eyes with a defiant half-smile, as if questioning everything he said.

He should have reined her in. Explain to her that her methods could cost lives. That he wouldn't tolerate such recklessness in his army.

But every time he was about to do it, he met her gaze—lively, filled with challenge—and realized that saying the right words would be much harder than he anticipated.

She was fire.

And he... he already felt that fire starting to burn him.

[eclipseanti]

The Autobots' B*tch

One Shot/2544 words

Optimus Prime x Fem human x Autobots

⚠️ NSFW

The text includes interspecies relationships, s. innuendos, submission and domination. Infidelity.

Note 1: This chapter was originally written in spanish, if there is a mistake, don't forget to tell me. Thanks.

Note 2: The Autobots use their normal-sized bipedal mode and mass displacement.

The rumor had begun to spread.

From ear to ear, from mouth to mouth, and from receiver to receiver in the NEST hangar.

Humans and Cybertronians were stunned when they heard your name linked to that rumor that, until that moment, seemed impossible.

When they heard that secret, they could not believe it. It never occurred to them that you would be capable of committing such acts, especially in the company of another species. No one would have ever imagined that of you, not with your cheerful and reserved behavior.

You were the human representative assigned to work closely with Optimus Prime, someone who imposed intelligence and tranquility, which made the content of the rumors even more shocking due to your relationship with him. Some denied it, claiming that it was false and improbable; others, however, spoke with pride of having been with you above the sheets of the bed where you shared the nights with the Autobots, as proof of your escapades.

You were unaware that the rumor had reached Optimus's receivers, who had just returned from a mission on Cybertron. You had trusted in your lovers' discretion, asking that nothing of what had happened be mentioned. But, you underestimated the power of gossip in such a closed environment.

Terrible mistake.

Bumblebee, still without his fully functional voice, was the first to try to warn Optimus. He had the rumor hot in the voice box. Using a mix of gestures and recorded audio snippets, he tried to explain to him what had happened three days ago between you and Sideswipe. Although his attempts were not entirely clear, Optimus understood the point: something was wrong. Something that involved betrayal.

The Autobot leader, known for his patience and kindness, felt overcome with anger. The idea that someone he deeply trusted had violated not only his trust, but also his respect, was unbearable.

You had betrayed the affection Optimus had for you and the relationship they had built.

He decided not to act excessively and sought to confront Sideswipe.

"Sideswipe," Optimus called, his voice deep and firm. "There's a rumor going around the hangar... about something that happened between you and her. I want to hear the truth."

Sideswipe, normally relaxed, tensed upon hearing his leader's tone. And he chose to evade the truth.

"I don't know who could have said something, but it was nothing more than a misunderstanding, Prime," he replied, avoiding his gaze.

But Crosshairs, who had been listening to the conversation, could not contain himself and decided to intervene.

"A misunderstanding? Drift told me something else... Is it true that we have a human prostitute among us?"

Optimus became so angry with that nickname that Crosshairs had given you, his hands turned into fists contained in anger.

"Don't ever use that word to refer to her again" he growled.

Crosshairs stepped back, aware that he had crossed a very dangerous line. Optimus gave the Autobot a murderous look and quickly went in search of Drift. Both were stunned by the Prime's behavior. But Sideswipe hit him on the back of the head, interrupting his fearful trance.

"Well done, Cross. He almost found us out." Sideswipe shook his head, he was scared too.

They knew that Optimus would not stop until he found the answers.

•••

In one of the inner rooms, Drift and Dino were talking quietly, but enough so that Optimus, hidden behind a wall, could hear them.

"And how was it?" Drift asked, with a mix of curiosity and discomfort.

"It was... different" Dino answered with a nervous laugh "I never thought that humans could... teach us so much. But believe me, in the missionary position it was... surprising. "

Drift shook his head, trying to remain impassive.

“I don’t know how you can take this so lightly. Sensei will find out sooner or later, and when he does, we’ll all burn.”

Dino stopped laughing. He knew Drift was right. Optimus was not someone who would tolerate such acts, much less from someone in whom he had placed his personal trust and affection.

Hidden behind the wall, Optimus was in a total rage. Every word he heard was like a dagger digging deeper into his spark. Betrayal was something he could never forgive, and the fury he felt was beginning to overwhelm any intention of control.

He had to confront you, but also all those who had contributed to destroying what he believed was a relationship beyond what he ever had.

Finally, he decided it was time to confront them. He stepped forward, and his imposing figure emerged from the shadows. Drift and Dino froze at the sight.

"So it's true?" he asked, his voice deadly.

Drift bowed quickly.

"Sensei..."

"Silence!" Optimus roared, making both Autobots tense "This is not only a betrayal of me, but of everything we stand for. "

Dino tried to speak, but a simple gesture from Optimus' hand silenced him.

"This won't end here. I'll gather everyone. No one will leave this base until I confront the one responsible for all this."

His gaze darkened, and without further ado, he turned around, leaving the two Autobots with guilt in their processor.

•••

That night, Optimus called a meeting in the main hall with you. Everyone knew why they were there and they were scared to death at the sight of Optimus' presence about to lead the talk, his optics revealing his terrible anger and disappointment.

You could feel his piercing gaze on you as he looked at you with those deep blue tinted optics. They were like watching a contained fire, a bomb that was about to explode.

“Is this what you do in my absence?” His voice roared like thunder and echoed throughout the room. The tension intensified.

Both you and he are aware that you had sought comfort in the arms of others when he was gone and that made you feel terribly guilty.

He looked at Dino, at Sideswipe. Those involved couldn’t maintain eye contact with his authority.

“Dino, Sideswipe… Is this how you respect me? Is this how you repay me for the countless times I put your lives above mine?”

Optimus looked at everyone with accusatory optics. Dino tried to apologize but he interrupted him in a sharp tone.

“There are no excuses or enough apologies to justify everyone’s actions. You have dishonored the trust I placed in you" The leader's face denoted hatred and resentment "I thought I could trust... all of you. Not only as my soldiers, but also as my comrades. My absence was not an invitation for you to sully what is mine" He raised his voice. " You knew what she meant to me. "

Finally, he walked towards you. His figure and presence made you step back and bow your head in sorrow. Optimus was filled with heartbreaking pain.

"And you... How could you? You swore loyalty, trust... and love to me. Am I worth so little to you that you sought comfort in the arms of my soldiers?" His voice lowered, becoming deeper and full of anger. " Did you think I wouldn't come back? That I had abandoned what I treasured most in life?"

He took a step towards you, bending down to your height to look directly at you, he put a finger on your chin so you would face him.

"Look at me. You are mine. From the first moment you were. Not because of some kind of obligation, but because our destinies were intertwined in a way that the universe cannot even separate" he exhaled loudly " But it seems that I will have to remind you and... all of you."

He straightened up, observing the Autobots sternly.

"You are no longer worthy of my trust. From this moment on, everyone involved is out of the main team. I do not want to see you near her, I do not even want to see you near this base until you have learned the true meaning of loyalty. "

That night, Optimus expelled the Autobots involved out of the base temporarily, sending them on missions away from the main group. He did not do it out of cruelty, he did it to process the rage that flooded his entire being. The others bowed their heads, visibly defeated and humiliated. No one dared to question his decision.

As everyone began to leave the room, Optimus held onto your arm.

“You, stay.”

Your heart stopped for a moment. You couldn’t move a muscle. His grip wasn’t enough to hurt you, but enough to let you know you couldn’t escape.

And he began,

“You knew what you meant to me… what we had built.” His tone was firm, sharp, and laden with repressed pain. “You knew my absence wasn’t an abandonment, but a sacrifice to protect you. To protect everyone. But you still betrayed me.”

You tried to formulate a response, but your voice barely came out.

“You were never there for me, Optimus.” You finally managed to say, your voice cracking. “You always put your duties above me. I felt alone… forgotten.”

He stared at you, his optics intense, but something in them changed. A mix of confusion and pain joined his anger.

“Are you justifying your betrayal with my responsibilities?” he said, his tone lower, but just as intimidating. “Was it my absence? My inability to prove to you that you were the most important thing to me? Or was it something else?”

He leaned toward you again, letting the gravity of his words fall like a sentence.

“Tell me. Be brave and face me.”

You bit your lip, tears threatening to spill out, there was no escape now.

“I needed you, Optimus. I needed to feel you. I needed you to prove to me that I wasn’t alone.” Your voice came out cracked and broken. “I know there is no excuse for what I did, and I know my apologies will never be enough.”

Optimus closed his eyes for a moment, as if your words were a direct blow to his spark. When he opened them again, a flash of something else shone in them: disappointment, but also a love that was torn between giving in or holding on to you and forgiving you.

Suddenly, he grabbed you by the neck, not to hurt you, but to make you feel his dominance and submit to him.

“You don’t understand what you’ve done.” His voice was a whisper filled with suppressed rage. “But I will remind you. You and everyone else who thought they could mock me like this.”

He advanced on you, his size pushing you back until your back hit the living room table and he locked you in with his arms without the possibility of escape as the strength of his hand on your neck increased its pressure.

You had never seen him like this, but it was clear that it was something you deserved.

"To me you no longer have any value, your dignity and honor were trampled, and I will treat you as you deserve" His voice was threatening and also full of desire "You are mine, you always have been. I can forgive you many things, but not this. You have humiliated me and you You thought I would be stupid. I cannot allow the bond between us to be questioned by you, or by anyone else. And if I must remind you who I am to you... I will."

You accepted his terms without objection. His gaze was not only furious; there was a mix of pain, love and a completely instinctive desire to reaffirm his dominance and place in your life. You knew what was going to happen.

That night you were going to be his in a way you will never forget.

"I'm sorry" It came out of your lips in a weak and vulnerable whisper.

"You are sorry..." His voice was low and disappointed " Do you know how much you meant to me? Do you know how many times I've put my life on the line for what I love and what I swore to protect? And you were the one thing I never thought I could lose."

He brought a hand up to your face. His servo touched your skin, his touch firm but careful. He slowly moved closer to your face and his gaze softened slightly.

You could feel a slight tremor in the hand holding your neck, he struggled between the need to claim you, let you go or hurt you. With a gentleness, his fingers brushed your lips, as if he was protecting what he had feared losing forever.

"This time there are no barriers, no more words or empty promises."

Optimus needed you, he needed your body, your moans. He wanted to claim your soul, your essence, everything you were and what you were.

He slammed you on the table, you sighed as your back hit the cold surface hard. He began to kiss your mouth with ferocity and vigor. You accepted each of his caresses without fighting for the little dignity you had left.

His movements were possessive and full of hunger; he tore your shirt with his strength and ripped your pants in less time than you expected. He did the same with your underwear until you were naked.

"Tonight you will remember who you are and what you are from now on until it is enough for me to be able to bear your lack of respect."

He subdued you. He turned your body and pulled your hair. Without wasting time, you heard how his panel opened and he entered you roughly.

You moaned.

"I'm sorry..." came out of your mouth in a murmur.

He rammed you against the table over and over again without mercy or rest. He used the hand that was in your hair to manipulate you as if you were a doll.

  The sound of his pelvis hitting yours caused a constant echo in the room.

With all the fury he held, he took you.

But you could feel the doubt between his movements. It was as if his use of common sense and forgiveness were affected by you despite your actions.

Even though you had betrayed him, you were everything to him. You were.

And it hurt him terribly to know the truth.

He overstimulated your union and your genitals to show you his pain.

Your legs trembled, cascades of fluids from both of them dripped from them and reached the floor.

There were countless positions that he forced you into that night while he subjected you in his hands. You lamented. You asked for his forgiveness between moans. You cried and sobbed with pleasure. He stole your right to orgasm several times.

After several thrusts, you gave in.

" I-I can't anymore... please" You begged. You had tears in your eyes, your cheeks were tinted a soft reddish color, with your forehead and body full of sweat; you were an exquisite mess in his sight. You were overstimulated and any movement Optimus made affected you more than it should.

He forced you to look at him, squeezing your cheeks with one hand.

"I hope this is enough for you to understand the limits of my patience. It won't be the only time" he threatened you.

And he finally let you go. Your body ached and burned.

You saw him walk out of there through the door without expressing any emotion and without looking back. Your entrance throbbed and expelled Optimus' transfluid. Only he had the right to leave his evidence, since no other Autobot did.

But one thing was clear, you were no longer the Autobots' bitch, you were now Optimus Prime's bitch.

And that was just the beginning, you would be paying for what you had caused.

Can you really earn Optimus' forgiveness?

[noisydelusionlove]

Chapter 1: We Need a Medic

Not edited or beta read or anything, just getting my idea out I guess.

Pairing: Poly141xOriginal Character (I might turn it into a reader but I don’t know)

Warnings: military inaccuracies, medical inaccuracies, COD inaccuracies, A/B/O dynamics

John Price looks up from his stack of papers as a frantic knock sounds on his door. “Enter” he calls out, the door flying open almost immediately. Gavin, the most recent Beta medic comes in, his moves frantic as he stares at the head Alpha of Pack 141. “I quit, I’m done. I’ve met a lot of crazy Alpha’s but he tried to rip my throat out!” Gavin yells as he stares at John. John gives a sigh as he nods.

“I’ll have your papers sent by the end of day.” He says as the Beta leaves quickly, the scent of fear and panic permeates the office causing John to crinkle his nose.

John stands from his desk with a groan as he makes his way to the side of the barracks that houses the medical office.

When he enters the medical office the smell of burning rubber hits his nose, angry Alpha. John’s nose crinkles as he breathes it in, followed by a calming smell of rain. When he enters the room completely he sees Simon sitting on the medical bed with Johnny pressed to his chest, in an attempt to calm him.

“Scared another one away huh Ghost?” John sighs as he meets the angry eyes of Simon behind his black balaclava. “Trying to poke around when I told him I was fine.” Simon grunts out, causing John to shake his head. “How copy?” John sighs as he runs a hand through his beard. “Solid cap, it was just a scratch.” Simon responds as he motions with his chin to the wound on his arm where a bullet grazed him on the last mission. John nods as he turns and heads back to his office. John shuts the door behind him and sits at his desk with a sigh. He reaches for the cigar box on his desk, quick to light one to attempt to calm his nerves.

The shrill sound of his office phone takes his attention as he sighs again and reaches for it. “Price” he says only as he places the receiver to his ear. “Trouble in paradise I see.” A female voice comes from the other end. “Hi Kate” John grunts as he leans back in his chair. “Ghost chased away another medic I see.” Kate sighs as John grunts in affirmation. “Word travels fast, poor pup just quit.” John says as he ashes the cigar into the tray on his desk. “I have a suggestion.” Kate says, her tone serious. “and that would be?” John groans as he rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “You’ll see when I land ETA 15 minutes.” Kate simply says before the line goes silent. John places the phone back on the receiver and lets out a loud huff.

John sighs as he stands at the hangar watching at the helicopter descends to the landing pad. Once the helicopter is stopped the door open and out steps Kate Laswell. “Good to see you old man.” Kate calls, causing John to roll his eyes as he takes her hand in greeting. The two of them head off of the air field and into the cart to take them to his office. “I hope this suggestion of yours is going to solve my medic problem.” John states as he glances at Kate. Kate gives a small nod as the cart stops and they step out, heading to his office.

Once the door is closed Kate pulls a file out and drops it on John’s desk. “Former sniper, marine trained medic, more than capable of handling all of your men especially Simon. Feral gives just as much as they take. I guarantee they’ll survive here.” Kate says matter of factly. John eyes the file suspiciously. He opens it and notices the first page, the profile page is missing. “Kate-“ he starts but is silenced as Kate shakes her head. “Read it first before I give you the profile. Make your decision based on skill before anything else.” Kate says, her tone shifting, her inner Alpha coming out. John sighs as he reads through the file, his eyebrows raising at the scores and recommendations this medic has received.

“Sniper to medic huh?” John says as he eyes Kate curiously. “Wanted a change of pace.” Kate says, but it’s obvious there’s something she isn’t saying. “Look, this medic seems great but I know there’s more to it. I can’t have another Alpha here. It’s already difficult with me and Ghost. Ghost is an apex, his instincts are stronger than even mine, a third Alpha could be dangerous.” John says as he stares at her. Kate shakes her head. “Not an Alpha, I promise.” She responds. “Would you hire them?” Kate watches as John nods. “They look like a dream come true but I know you’re not telling me the whole story.” John leans back as Kate nods. “So, feral, Sargent Lee, will be here tomorrow to start her new job.” Kate says, causing John to nod. “Here’s the profile.” Kate smirks as she tosses a paper down causing John’s eyes to widen. The profile shows a young woman, barely 30, the name Aurora Lee underneath and in bold letters it states ‘Classification : OMEGA’. John’s eyes shoot to Kate as she stands there smirking. “Your new medic is an Omega and I promise you she isn’t like an Omega you have met before.” Kate states, causing John to growl slightly. “This won’t end well.” He says as he shakes his head. “I think it will end perfectly.” Kate smiles as she turns to leave his office. “I’ll see you tomorrow when she arrives.” Kate calls as the door shuts. John stares at the picture of his new medic, his new omega medic with a sigh. “The boys are going to flip.” He mutters to himself.

Next Chapter>>>

Masterlist>>>

Silver heart knot divider by @tsunami-of-tears

MDNI divider by @arlerts-angel

Header by me

[lanaroff]

House of Broken Hearts- Chapter 5

Paring: Wanda Maximoff and Reader

Warning: Angst, Pills

You leaned against the wall of you darkened room, staring at the screen in front of you. Your hands, which once trembled with purpose, were now steady, almost mechanical. You had to do this. There was no other choice. Not anymore. Fury's orders were always absolute, even when they made you feel like you were losing yourself.

The mission briefing was succinct—no details were given beyond the basic information. Just a name: InterCorp, a tech company that had once been a key ally to S.H.I.E.L.D. A company that had funded many of their operations during the height of their war against Hydra, helped with technology upgrades, and assisted in various missions across the globe. They had been instrumental in the fight against the very enemies that you had vowed to destroy. But now, InterCorp had somehow become a target, labeled as a liability by Fury. A threat to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s image, or worse, a threat to national security.

Your heart twisted as the cold, sterile words on the screen flashed in front of you: "Eliminate all key members. Do not leave anyone alive. No witnesses."

Your throat tightened as memories flooded your mind. InterCorp wasn't just another faceless corporation. You had worked with them those the first years you started to work for Fury. Before Wanda, before all the mess that your life had become. Fury wanted you to infiltrate, to become one of them, so you did. You had fought alongside the people in that organization. You had made friends there—friends who had helped you when you were at your lowest, when S.H.I.E.L.D. was just a shadow of what it had once been. And now... now, you were supposed to destroy them. Wipe them out without hesitation.

The faint sound of footsteps outside your door brought you out of your reverie. A knock echoed softly. You barely registered it before the door opened slightly, revealing the shadowy figure of Nick Fury. His single eye gleamed in the dim light, unwavering as he took in your silent form.

"You ready?" he asked, his voice low, unreadable.

You didn't respond immediately. The silence between them stretched on, heavy with unspoken words. Fury wasn't a man who needed small talk; he was a man of action. But for a brief moment, just a brief moment, you saw something flicker behind his eyes. Something cold.

"I don't have a choice," you finally muttered, your voice breaking slightly, betraying your inner conflict. "Do I?"

Fury's expression remained impassive, as always. He took a step into the room, his large frame casting a shadow over you.

"You've never had a choice, Y/N," Fury said, his voice gruff, but with a hint of something almost—comforting? Or was it control? "You know how this works."

You nodded slowly, your gaze dropping to the floor. Of course, you knew. You knew all too well. Fury had never given you a choice. 

"What's the play?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

Fury's jaw clenched, and he took another step closer. "I'll get you in. You'll take them out. That's all you need to know."

You nodded, swallowing hard, the weight of the mission pressing down on your chest like a boulder. You didn't ask questions anymore. Fury had taught you not to.

As you followed him down the hallway of the compound, your mind raced. InterCorp had been more than just a funding source for S.H.I.E.L.D. They had been part of the team. The same team you had fought for. The same team you had once believed in. The same team that had helped dismantle Hydra.

But Fury had decided they were expendable. They had become a threat to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s operations, a risk that had to be eliminated, regardless of the relationships that had been built over the years. They were collateral damage now.

The mission was already set in motion. Fury had made sure of that. There would be no turning back. No questions asked.

They reached the hangar, where a jet stood ready for their departure. You felt your stomach twist. You had never been a stranger to taking down enemies, but this... this was different. This wasn't some nameless target. These were people who had helped you, who had trusted you, who had fought beside you. And now she was supposed to kill them.

"Get in," Fury's voice cut through her thoughts, and without another word, you climbed into the jet.

The silence inside was deafening. you closed your eyes, leaning back in your seat, trying to focus on the task at hand. There was no room for hesitation. There was no room for regret.

But then, just as the jet began to lift off, a thought lingered at the edge of your mind. Was this the mission? Was this what Fury had been preparing you for all these years—breaking you down until you no longer saw the difference between friend and foe? Were you just a weapon now? A tool with no purpose beyond executing orders?

Your hands clenched into fists. You had to push that thought away. You had to.

When they arrived at the base, Fury's instructions were clear. In and out. No mercy. You knew the targets—high-ranking officials in InterCorp. The mission brief was simple: eliminate the heads of the organization, leave no trace, no survivors. You knew what you had to do, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt.

As you made your way through the building, taking out guards, eliminating obstacles, you could feel it—the crushing weight of every step. The memories of your time with InterCorp flashed in front of your eyes with each passing moment. You could almost hear their voices, their laughter, their trust in you.

And then there they were—the leaders of the company, the very people you had once called colleagues. Even if it was all fake. They didn't even know you were there, didn't even realize their end was coming. But you knew. And you had to end it.

The first shot rang out, and then the second. Your hand was steady, but your heart was shattering.

Fury's orders were always final, but this—this was something you could never forgive yourself for. And deep down, you knew this wasn't the last time you would be asked to betray those you cared about.

Later that night, back at the compound, you entered your room, shutting the door behind you. The mission was complete. The targets were eliminated. And yet, you felt more broken than ever.

Fury had been right, in a way. You had never had a choice. And now, there was no going back.

———

You stared at the small vial of medication on your bedside table. It was something Fury had given you for the pain, for the nightmares. The nightmares of the faces you had seen on that mission. The faces of the people you had once worked with, now gone.

Your heart raced as you reached for it. But then, just before you could swallow the pills, the door to your room opened without warning.

Standing in the doorway was Natasha Romanoff, her expression unreadable, but the concern in her eyes unmistakable.

"Y/N..." Natasha's voice was barely above a whisper.

You froze. For the first time in a long time, you felt seen. You felt exposed.

But even as Natasha stepped closer, you couldn't bring herself to explain. You couldn't let anyone in, not even Natasha—especially not Natasha. Fury had made sure of that.

"I'm fine," You said, your voice trembling, but you quickly masked it with a cold, indifferent tone. "I have work to do."

Natasha didn't move, didn't back down. Instead, she just stared at you—saying everything without words.

You stared at the small vial of pills in your hand, your thumb tracing the edge of the glass. You could hear Natasha's voice behind you, but it felt distant, muffled by the storm raging in your chest.

"You can't keep doing this, Y/N," Natasha said softly, her voice laced with concern, but there was no escaping the conviction in her tone. "You're not fine. Whatever this is, you're not okay. We can talk about it, but you have to let someone in."

Your gaze remained fixed on the vial. You didn't have an answer. You didn't have anything left to say. The silence between them stretched thin, but Natasha wasn't backing down.

"Y/N," Natasha continued, her voice growing firmer. "I've seen you shut everyone out. I've seen the way you've been looking at the team. Hell, I've seen the way you look at me. You're not even the same person anymore. You were gone for five years, and you came back like a completely different person. What happened?"

Your grip tightened around the glass vial, your knuckles turning white. You didn't want to do this. You didn't want to talk about it. But Natasha kept pushing, her persistence like a needle that kept piercing through the walls you had carefully built.

"I don't need to talk," You said, your voice colder than you intended. "There's nothing to talk about."

But Natasha wasn't backing off.

"Yes, there is. There's everything to talk about," she pressed, her eyes unwavering. "I've been watching you, Y/N. I've seen the way you've been spiraling, and I know something's wrong. You're not just 'fine.' This isn't just about some mission, is it? This is about you. You're carrying something—something heavy. And you're trying to shoulder it alone. But you don't have to."

You felt the weight of those words sink into your chest. You were suffocating under the pressure. Your fingers trembled, and for the first time in a long while, you didn't feel in control.

"I'm fine," you lied, your voice unsteady. "Just let it go, Natasha."

"No," Natasha's voice was sharp, a hard edge to it now. "I'm not letting it go. Not until you tell me what's going on. You used to trust me. We used to be able to talk about everything. What happened to that, huh? Why can't you let me in?"

Your head snapped up, your eyes flashing with a mix of frustration and desperation. "Because I'm dangerous, Natasha," you said, your voice trembling with emotion. "You don't understand what I've done. What I've become. If I told you, you wouldn't look at me the same way. You wouldn't look at me at all."

"You don't know that. You're not the same person you were before, but you don't have to be alone in this," Natasha argued, her voice quieter now, but still intense. "Please, talk to me."

Your mind was a storm of conflicting thoughts, memories, and pain. You had tried to bury it all—the truth, the guilt, the shame. But it was rising to the surface, threatening to choke you.

"I don't want to talk," you snapped, your voice rising with a sudden outburst. "I don't want anyone's pity, and I don't want anyone's judgment. I've made my choices, and I have to live with them."

You turned quickly, your frustration boiling over. Without a second glance at Natasha, you walked toward the exit of the compound, your footsteps echoing in the quiet hallway. You couldn't stay here anymore. You couldn't face anyone—not yet. The weight of everything was too much to bear.

But Natasha didn't stop. She followed, her voice trailing behind, insistent. "Y/N, don't do this. Please. I know you. You're not this person. You don't have to keep running. You can talk to me."

As they passed through the common area, heading toward the exit, your steps faltered. The weight of Natasha's words pressed against you, and for a moment, it felt like your legs couldn't move forward.

“Y/N!” She said.

“Drop it Natasha!”

“Why are you so afraid?!” Nat screamed. “Y/N!”

But then, without warning, the floodgates opened.

"I'm Hydra Natasha. Is that what you want to hear? I work for them. I have been working for them for the past 10 years.!” You snapped, your voice breaking. Your words hung in the air, loud and raw.

The room fell dead silent. Everyone who had been sitting around the table, ready for dinner, froze. Tony, Steve, Wanda, Sam, Bucky—all of them. They turned to look at you, stunned into silence by the words that had just escaped your lips.

Bucky's eyes narrowed in confusion and disbelief. He opened his mouth, his voice strained. "What do you mean you're Hydra?"

You stood still, your body stiff with the weight of their gazes, their shock. You could feel the eyes of your teammates, your friends, burning into you, each one processing the words in their own way.

You took a deep breath and spoke, your voice shaking but steady. "I am a part of Hydra. I joined them. My parents died in an explosion when I was a kid—collateral damage, they called it. The government couldn't care less. So, I joined Hydra. To take them down. To make them pay for what they did to my family."

There was a pause—a long one. No one spoke. No one moved. Everyone in the room was frozen in shock, grappling with the weight of your revelation.

Tony was the first to break the silence, his voice cutting through the tension. "And that's it? That's why you've been acting like this? You were a kid when it happened, Y/N. You're not a part of Hydra anymore. Why the hell is Fury pushing you like this? What's he making you do?"

"I... I did more than just join Hydra," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "During a mission... I was ordered to take down a building. There was a daycare inside. I didn't know... but Fury's daughter was there. She was only three. And I... I killed her. I didn't know, but I killed her."

Your eyes welled with tears as you choked on the words, but you forced herself to keep going.

"I betrayed my country. I betrayed all of you. And I've been doing off-the-books missions for Fury ever since. He's been using me as his puppet. I do what he tells me to, no questions asked. Because I owe it to him.”

“Why?” Asked Sam.

“Because he didn’t kill me. He should have, but he didn’t. And as you see… i’m not stuck on a hole either. But there’s a price to pay, and this is mine.” You said trying to convince yourself that it was all justified.

Steve's expression darkened, and he stepped forward, his fists clenched. "So you work for the same damn organization we've been trying to stop? You've been killing people for them? And all this time, you didn't tell us?"

Your breath hitched in your throat. The rage inside you flared, but so did the guilt.

"I didn't have a choice, Steve," you snapped, stepping forward. "I didn't have a choice. And you—you of all people have no right to judge me for doing what I had to. You betrayed your country too, remember? You broke records, broke the rules, to find Bucky! You weren't exactly playing by the book either."

The room went silent again, Steve's expression tightening with the weight of your words.

Your chest rose and fell rapidly, the anger, guilt, and pain mixing in a cocktail too bitter to swallow. You couldn't stay there anymore. You couldn't stand looking at them like this.

Wanda stood frozen in the doorway, her heart beating painfully in her chest as your words crashed over the room. Every sentence, every revelation, felt like a weight pressing down on her ribs, suffocating her. The truth was out now. You had been Hydra. You had betrayed them all.

But there was something more to it—something that twisted deep inside Wanda's gut. The girl she loved, the one who had been the light in her life through all the darkness, had been holding this secret alone. You had carried this burden, this guilt, this pain, without saying a word. And Wanda hadn't known.

As the words tumbled out of your mouth, Wanda felt as though her heart was being torn from her chest. Every word felt like a dagger, each one driving deeper into her skin, into her soul. She wanted to reach out, to stop you, to tell you that you didn't have to carry it all alone anymore. But Wanda couldn't speak. She couldn't find the words.

The revelation that you had been part of Hydra was earth-shattering. That wasn't the part that crushed Wanda. It was the part where you spoke about killing Fury's daughter, the innocent three-year-old girl who had been nothing but a casualty in a war that was never hers to fight. Wanda watched as your voice cracked, watched as the weight of your own actions pushed you to the brink of breaking.

You were broken already, weren’t you?

Wanda's chest tightened, and her hand instinctively reached for her heart, as if trying to hold it together. Her mind flashed to the times she had spent with you—the quiet conversations, the late-night talks, the moments where you two had laughed and shared your deepest fears. All of those moments felt so distant now, like they belonged to someone else.

But the worst part was the guilt that gnawed at Wanda. She had seen the changes in you, had felt the distance growing between you two. But she never questioned it, never pushed you to talk. Wanda had thought she was giving you space. She had assumed that it was just a phase—something that would pass, that you would eventually open up and everything would be okay again.

But it wasn't okay.

And Wanda had been so blind.

She should've known. She should've noticed the signs—the way you avoided them, the way she pushed everyone away. How could she have missed it? How could she have missed the person she loved falling apart in front of her?

Wanda closed her eyes, feeling the tears she had been holding back for so long finally beginning to sting her eyes. The guilt was overwhelming. She could've been there for you. She should've been there for you. She should've seen the pain behind your eyes, heard the silent pleas for help that were there, if only Wanda had looked closely enough.

But she hadn't. And now, you were breaking into a thousand pieces in front of them, and Wanda had no idea how to put you back together.

Everyone else in the room was silent, their faces pale, shocked. Bucky's eyes were wide, as if he couldn't comprehend the truth that was standing before him. Steve's expression was tense, his jaw clenched in frustration. Tony's face was unreadable, but Wanda could see the hurt in his eyes. He had lost you too.

And then there was Sam, who stood off to the side, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his eyes dark with disbelief. They were all hurting, but no one was hurting more than Wanda.

She had known you like no one else. You had shared your vulnerabilities, your secrets, your dreams. Wanda had trusted you. She had trusted you with her heart. And now, to know that you had been carrying such a heavy burden—alone, in silence, out of fear or shame—felt like a betrayal.

But it wasn't a betrayal. Not from you.

Wanda's chest tightened as she realized that you had been forced into this situation. You had been used. You had been manipulated by Fury, just like she had been manipulated by Hydra. But Wanda hadn't been there for you. She hadn't seen what Fury had done to you, what he had turned you into.

When you left, the room seemed to collapse around Wanda. The silence was deafening, and she found herself unable to move, unable to speak. All she could do was stand there, frozen, watching the woman she loved walk away, your back turned, leaving everyone behind.

"Are we just going to let her walk away like that?" Tony's voice cut through the stillness.

"I..." Wanda's voice faltered as she tried to speak, but no words came out. She felt like her throat was closing, like the tears were choking her. "I... I should've seen it. I should've known. I... I didn't—"

Bucky's voice was soft, almost mournful. "None of us saw it, Wanda. Don't blame yourself."

But she couldn't stop. She couldn't stop the guilt that was pouring in like a flood. She had promised you that you two would get through things together. She had promised you she would be there. And now, she felt like a stranger to the woman she loved. The woman who was falling apart.

Wanda's hand flew to her mouth as the sobs wracked her body. She wanted to run after you, to pull you back, to hold you, to make you understand that you weren't alone. But deep down, Wanda knew that you didn't want anyone to come after you—not yet.

The team stood around her, looking at the door where you had disappeared, but Wanda felt completely alone. There was so much left unsaid between both of you, and Wanda wasn't sure if you would ever let her back in again.

The weight of everything—the lies, the secrets, the betrayal—pressed down on her chest until it was hard to breathe. She had lost you. Maybe not physically, but emotionally, she had lost you. And no amount of apologies or explanations would ever fix that.

In the end, Wanda had failed you. And now, all she could do was wait—wait and hope that you would come back, that you would find the strength to face the truth, to face yourself.

But deep down, Wanda knew that it was never going to be that easy.

Tag list: @seventeen-x @womenarehotsstuff @redhoodte @ayrtonwilbury @justyourwritter69 @casquinhaa @womenarehotsstuff @justarandomreaderxoxo @yelldontwhisper @raven-ss

[fatehbaz]

They’ve built a “Great Wheel” on the Seattle waterfront [...].

The small timber village became a military outpost in the Puget Sound War [...], [and] soon evolved into a trade gateway, with timber tailings and other industrial trash from Henry Yesler’s mill used to fill in the marshlands [...], atop which migrant laborers raised tents and shanties [...] now working to feed raw materials into the furnaces of the Second Industrial Revolution burning in the East. [...] The first nationwide strike ripped across the country’s railways in 1877 [...]. Meanwhile, young financial conglomerates rose after the city-devastating fire of 1889, linked openly to local government [...] in the kind of symbiotic public-private relationship that would become a hallmark of the Gilded Age. [...] [L]ocal elites rebuilt [...] downtown [...] from scratch, hosting the tallest building on the West Coast alongside other new constructs [fueled] with money gleaned from the supply chains linking eastern capital to Alaskan gold. [...]

Over the next century, Seattle would see new sequences of boom, bust, and reinvention. Military investment in the region during the First World War secured the city’s ship-building industry and expanded Boeing from a small lakeside hangar into a massive war contractor. [...] Across Washington state, capital had first poured into the “Third Industrial Revolution,” founded on electricity, chemicals, and massive hydropower projects [in the 1930s] [...], then into the “Fourth” wave of petrochemicals, nuclear, and, in the case of Seattle especially, aircraft and missile technology. Each was followed by periods of dramatic decline [...] paired with rapid financialization and, finally, re-orientation around the new industrial cluster [...]. Today the city - again rebuilt [...] - is seen as one of the primary beneficiaries of the “Fifth” Industrial Revolution in information technology, outshone only by California’s Silicon Valley. [...] The digital was increasingly thought of as somehow "immaterial," sustained by intellectual labor more than physical toil [...].

Silicon Valley myths of [...] "immaterial" labor disguise a more gruesome dynamic in which growing segments of the global labor force are being deprived even of the basic brutality of the wage, instead forced out into growing rings of slums, prisons, and global wastelands. [...]

---

Perched alongside a downtown business corridor [...], Seattle's Great Wheel seems to peer out over [...] [the] prophesied “cooperative commons,” an infotech metropolis abutting the beauty of an evergreen arcadia. But travel below Seattle’s cluster of infotech industries and the image appears much the same as that of a hundred years prior - a trade gateway, squeezing value from supply chains by selling transport and logistical support. The southern stretch of the metropolis bears little resemblance to the revitalized urban core of the city proper. Instead of the “cognitive labor” of Microsoft, it is defined instead by the cold calculation of companies like UPS, founded in Seattle when the city was one link in a colonial supply chain built first for timber, then Alaskan gold, then World War. [...]

In south Seattle, this logistics empire takes the form of faceless warehouses, food processing facilities, container trucks, rail yards, and industrial parks concentrated between two seaports, an international airport, three major interstates, and railroads traveling in all directions. Meanwhile, the poor have been priced out of the old inner city, moving southward [...]. [T]hey can be found staffing the airport and the rail yards, hauling cargo in and out of two the major seaports, loading boxes in warehouses [...]. And, beyond them, the shadow stretches out to Washington’s rural hinterlands where migrant laborers staff a new boom in agriculture and raw materials [...] - and further still into America’s long-depressed interior, where the Great Wheel meets its opposite: Memphis, the FedEx logistics city, watched over by a great black pyramid [the infamous Bass Pro Shop pyramid]. [...]

Every Seattle is capable of creating an eco-friendly, “cooperative commonwealth” tended by apps and algorithms only insofar as there is a Memphis that can provide human workers to sort the packages, a Shanghai to build the containers that carry them, and a Shenzhen to solder together the circuits of the machines that govern it all.

---

All text above by: Phil A. Neel. "The Great Wheel". Brooklyn Rail. April 2015. Published online at: brooklynrail.org/2015/04/field-notes/the-great-wheel. [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me. Text within brackets added by me for clarity. Presented here for commentary, teaching, personal use, criticism purposes.]

[sw5w]

Battle Droids Flee the Explosion

STAR WARS EPISODE I: The Phantom Menace 02:02:54

[darkmaga-returns]

Trump chooses Susie Wiles, a quiet grandmother, as his chief of staff - the first woman ever to hold the job.

John Leake

Nov 07, 2024

Susie Wiles is a Florida-based political strategist with a long track record of success going back to her work on one of Ronald Reagan’s campaigns. A key figure in running Trump’s successful campaign, she has apparently gained his complete confidence and trust. Her mandate is to protect him from the sort of dubious characters, interlopers, and hangars-on that cluttered and confused his first term. With her quiet efficiency and aversion to the limelight, she has come to be known in Trump’s inner circle as the Ice Maiden.

Trump’s detractors, who never grow weary of claiming he is a misogynist, must now somehow come to terms with the fact that he chose a woman to be his chief of staff—the first in history to hold the position. By numerous accounts, she has the experience and skill to run a tight ship and to navigate Trump’s team through the treacherous waters ahead.

I find it reassuring that she is a grandmother who values discretion and modesty and has no interest in being on television. This suggests that she possesses the increasingly rare quality of gravitas. She may be exactly the chief of staff whom Trump needs.

[yallthemwitches]

A Needed Distraction

Lily finds a better way to pass the time in class.

Day 4 of Kinktober! Prompt: Toy under clothing.

AO3 link here! As always NSFW!

“The goblin rebellion lasted for 200 years until Hangar the Horrid…”

Lily could feel her eyes glazing over. There was really no need for Professor Binns to be so boring—-was he like this when he was alive? At the very least he could change his tone of voice every once in a while…

Under the table, she felt a leg brush up against hers, once, twice, not even attempting to be subtle. Lily side-eyed her neighbor. James didn’t look up from his paper but a smile flashed past his lips and she felt another push of his knee against her leg. 

It was relatively new, her and him. She made herself feel better by saying she never intended for them to escalate so quickly, that it had just happened naturally. She really had needed transfiguration lessons at the time and he was always so carelessly good at it…

She could feel his leg press flush against hers now. It felt warm and familiar, like all the times she ended up in his lap when their tutoring sessions fell to the wayside for more baser interests. She tried not to think about how his hands would burn a path up her thighs, circle around to cup her ass in a way that made her squeal, a hand wandering into her knickers between them.

Merlin, she needed to think about something else.

“The goblin collective named Hangar a Martyr causing—-“

A hand, warm and calloused splayed over her mid-thigh, fingertips lightly pressing into her bare skin. She snapped her head to face him but he stared up at professor Binns, feigning interest. He must have felt her gaze on him because his pointer finger wiggled against her, a clear sign of greeting. 

She considered moving his hand, maybe even making a big show of disgust. The problem was, as much as she hated to admit it, she didn’t want him to stop. She knew he was toying with her, Potter always needed to test the limits, but this—this felt torturous.

His hand slid to curl into the inner part of her thigh. A new memory appeared, blacking everything around her: a dark hallway, back flushed against a wall, him on his knees, sliding his hands up her legs to crawl under her skirt—-

She wiggled in her seat, the dampness of her knickers now becoming an issue. 

Ah Christ—-fuck it. 

What was she supposed to do? Take it lying down?

She looked back up at professor Binns, mirroring James’ fake interest. Dropping her quill, she slid her hand under the desk. She heard James breath hitch as she started down by his knee, using her fingers to skim against his leg all the way up to his thigh. Pausing for a moment to press her fingers into his pant leg, she looked over to see if he had made any sort of reaction before continuing her path up his leg, finally finding his groin.

That got his attention.

He doubled over slightly, letting out a strangled whimper that turned some of the heads of their neighboring classmates. Under the table, he grasped her hand, holding it against him as a clear warning. He hardened underneath her and she molded her fingers to the new outline under his pants. 

He looked at her but she continued to focus forward. From the corner of her eye she could tell his breathing was getting faster, chest rising and falling in waves. 

When he released her hand, she continued her path, traveling higher to his belt and tugging lightly to not make it clank at the movement. James hand found her thigh again, but this time gave quick, rapid squeezes in warning. 

“Quit it, Potter. I’m trying to focus.”

She gave him a pointed look as her hand popped open his belt and button. His eyes were blown out, frantic, and some part of her felt a satisfaction to see James out of control for once. 

“Lily—“

She felt relentless. She knew she should probably stop, but it was all too easy. He was melting under her, completely defenseless to her antics.

Her hand slipped under his waistband feeling the trail of hair that she loved to kiss down during their tutoring sessions. Reaching the base of his cock, it twitched from anticipation. She stilled her hand.

“Focus Potter,” she whispered. He hadn’t stopped looking at her since his button opened, mouth open and eyes hooded, clearly in conflict with himself. 

“Ask to go to the toilets,” his words were pleading,” I’ll follow you in five—“ but his voice caught in his throat. She grabbed him around the base, squeezing tight. A small groan escaped his lips. 

“No—I’m rather keen to learn about Haggard the—-“

“Fuck…Evans.”

Her hand slid up and down his length, careful not to make too much movement from the elbow up and cause attention from the surrounding classmates. James curled his body forward, eyes now squeezed shut with cheeks flushed, focusing all his energy to not make noise or to come or both. 

“Lily—merlin—-I am not going to last—-“

She gave him a cool look,eyebrow raised, a smirk plastered on her face.

“What was that? Wow—you don’t look so good, you feeling sick?”

She pumped to the crown of his cock and rubbed her thumb into the precum that dripped out. He was on the edge, clenching his mouth shut with all of his willpower. 

“Try not to be so loud, baby. You will ruin my concentration.”

His eyes shot open, body going slack, a soft whine held back by gritted teeth. She felt her hand become warm and slick, continuing the pace of her strokes as she used his release to ease her movements. 

If he was in pleasure or in pain, she couldn’t really tell. He took a few haggard breaths, the first time he had dared to open his mouth since sensing his climax. She removed her hand and worded a cleaning spell, the least she could do for torturing him. 

“Merlin Fuck—“

He was able to get his pants refastened just in time for dismissal. Lily stood up, ignored the damp feeling between her legs and walked towards her next class like nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. 

A hand curled around her forearm. James stood crazed, eyes still wide and cheeks ruddy. He pulled her into him, a bold move with so many people to witness it. He leaned his face down to her ear, speaking quickly with a graveled voice. 

“Don’t you think for a second I won’t repay the favor Evans. Lunch—-you sit next to me and I will make it so you can’t be quiet.”

Lily started away again, reacting much like she would if he had asked her about the weather or a class assignment. 

“We’ll see about that, Potter—but I’ll look forward to it.”

With that she continued down the corridor, leaving James to watch her as she went.

[the-authoress-writes]

Up Where We Belong Part Three

Pete “Maverick” Mitchell x Writer!reader

Up Where We Belong Masterlist

Synopsis: When a writer experiencing horrible writer’s block goes to the Apple Valley Airshow for inspiration, she meets a certain older, daring naval aviator, leading to maybe a little more than just inspiration.

Warnings: Mentions of family member deaths, cancer, some to-be-expected cursing, age gap (reader is in their late thirties to early forties).

But really, this is just fluff.

Author’s Note: This was a pain to finish—you know the feeling when you know what you have to do, but you don’t know how to do it?

(Insert Ben Solo/Kylo Ren/Adam Driver gif here)

Yeah, that was this.

So many parts of this were so stubborn, even when I knew what the next story beat was; combine that with the inner critic being a bitch and the imposter syndrome impostoring, this was a labor of love.

Obviously, I pushed through, and here we have the final chapter of “Up Where We Belong”, which I am very proud of.

Again, I name a story after a song, from another movie about the Navy, funnily enough.

(Only three of my stories on my masterlist are not named after songs)

I can’t stop, apparently.

So here we go!

Even while her phone was telling her she was on the right path, she briefly wondered if she was, in fact, lost.

It couldn’t be more obvious that she was in the middle of nowhere, lonely desert stretching out before her for miles and miles, with nary another car in sight, much less a building that could conceivably be a hangar.

It comforted her to see a blue Bronco pass her by at a brisk pace as she continued down the route indicated by her phone, having not seen another car for the past fifteen or so minutes.

She eventually turned when her phone instructed her, the hills along the road she’d been driving next to giving way to an enormous desert plain, and the slightly heat-distorted sight of a building in the distance, probably a mile off.

A smile crossed her face, that had to be it.

As she drew closer, the nerves she’d been tamping down started to bubble up again, and she cursed herself. “Get a grip, woman, you’re here to review a scene, not to go on a date.”

Despite that, the fact that she’d spent nearly half an hour planning what she’d wear today felt like a Freudian slip—a loose orange tunic with small blue embroidered flowers on the hem and sleeves, dark wash skinny jeans and brown ankle boots—eventually deeming it not too much, but not like she didn’t care.

As she got closer, the building became more impressive, despite its rather homely outward appearance—from the white-painted wood panels worn down to their natural color here and there, the fading “United States Navy” emblazoned at the top, to the faint, sun-bleached squadron insignia on the open bay doors—it just felt beautiful in a wild way.

She parked about several yards away from the hangar doors and shut off the engine. “Okay, what’s going to happen will happen,” she muttered, “you’re going to survive it hook or by crook.

And besides, you don’t even know if he’s married or in a relationship.”

And with that rousing Crispin Crispianish speech, she picked up her messenger bag, slinging it onto her shoulder as she got out of the car.

The desert heat and silence washed over her as she moved towards the doors, calling out, “Hello?”

“In here,” came the reply.

She stepped inside the hangar, the shift to relative darkness briefly obscuring her vision, causing her to blink as her eyes adjusted, to see Pete standing by Bianca, looking somehow even better than she remembered, like something out of a movie.

His gaze was fixed intently on her, the slightest smile on his face, and she couldn’t help but match his expression, a “Hey there, sailor,” thoughtlessly slipping from her lips, which she immediately mentally kicked herself for saying; “Damn it, woman, how awkward can you be?” flashed through her mind like a neon sign.

Thankfully, he only brightly replied, “Hey, glad you could make it.”

Her smile widened. “Not going to miss it—for all I know, this is a one-time opportunity,” she truthfully replied, determined to make the most of this opportunity in regard to her novel—other… hypothetical motivations notwithstanding.

He shrugged, eyes sparkling, his movie star smile as devastating as a whole volume of honeyed poetry. “Who said it was?”

She chuckled, wrenching her gaze away from him before she said or did something stupid, settling for the sting of her teeth on her lip to knock her back to her senses.

Her eyes flit about the hangar, eventually landing on Bianca, the frontispiece of the whole room. “Great place you’ve got here, must’ve been hard to get, though, with it being Navy land.”

“Not that hard when you’ve got friends in high places,” he replied.

The sentence itself was vaguely humorous, something wry, an inside joke, but there was a weight to his tone, like the joke had lost its humor, and instead turned into something to grieve.

She tilted her head slightly, another enigma comprising Pete “Maverick” Mitchell revealing itself.

But before she could think too much, he broke the sudden silence. “Anyway, uh,” he clapped his hands, “you had a scene that needs checking?”

She blinked and raised the leather messenger bag on her shoulder. “I have my laptop right here.”

He gestured grandly to his couch, and as they moved towards it, she surreptitiously wiped her hands on her thighs, perspiration disappearing in the dark wash of her jeans, then busied herself with opening her laptop, finger fumbling on the start screen as she felt him settle in the seat next to her—realistically, she knew he’d likely sit next to her, but just because one knew something didn’t prepare one for experiencing it.

Again, the blinking cursor on her MacBook’s screen seemed to cackle at her, but she ignored it in favor of typing in her password, opening the laptop to the dreaded dogfight scene. “Here it is in all its misery,” she half-joked.

“May I?” he gestured to the device.

“Go ahead,” she sighed.

Pete picked up the device, leaning back with it in his lap, eyes darting about the screen, mouth moving slightly as he read, and in a matter of moments, his hands came up, mimicking the movements she’d written, while his face alternately made skeptical, approving, and a few amused expressions.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” she plaintively asked, bracing for the worst, when he carefully placed the MacBook on his coffee table what seemed like an eternity later.

“It’s not bad at all,” he shook his head, an earnest expression lighting his features. “There are some maneuvers there that are only plausible for the P-51 in a rare set of conditions, and a… couple that I’d say are more in line with the capabilities of the F-35–or the 18 in my hands—but overall, it’s pretty damn good for a self-professed newbie to writing a dogfight scene.”

Her jaw fell open. “You’re kidding me.”

“Swear on my wings,” he laughed, the sound so musical, it was almost annoying how perfect and beautiful this man was.

“How would you fix it?”

He pointed, “Do you have a pen and notebook?”

“Never go anywhere without one.”

That beautiful smile of his spread his lips. “Well, let’s turn and burn, then.”

They worked for a couple or so hours, Pete writing out more plausible maneuvers to replace the impossible ones, demonstrating them with some models he’d run off to another corner of the hangar to retrieve, both of them mutually deciding to leave most of the only slightly implausible ones in, save for the ones where the bounds of reality were a little too stretched for the aerial conditions she’d already committed to, while she elaborated on what he’d written, fitting it into the novel’s style.

Eventually, she released a breath of victory, and proffered the laptop to Pete again, now actually proud of the dogfight scene. “You want to read it again?”

“Alright,” he easily agreed.

He read it again, the scene before her the same as over two hours ago, but this time, the skeptical and amused looks were replaced with a captivated and admiring expression.

“Well?” she prompted.

He blew out a breath. “It reads even better than I thought it would, you’re really good at this.”

She leaned forward, needing to be sure she hadn’t imagined him saying that. “It’s good?”

Pete leaned forward, into her personal space, matching her, as he fervently said, “It’s amazing.”

Her breath caught as the moment stretched taut around them, the two of them close enough for her to see the light reflecting off the peridot and aquamarine flecks in the brilliant jade of his eyes.

She looked around the hangar again at his earnest gaze, the itch to do something stupid scratching at her skin once more—she had a feeling that that would be a pattern for her with Pete Mitchell. “So, tell me, what exactly is it you do for the Navy, Captain Mitchell?”

He froze minutely at the end of her sentence, swallowing thickly as he processed the question.

“If you’ll have to kill me, there’s no need to tell me,” she joked, as she literally saw his brain reboot.

He blinked and chuckled softly, coming back to himself. “No, no, nothing as secretive as all that; I’m an instructor at TOPGUN—basically, I teach the Navy’s best aviators how to be better.

That’s why I talked about students during our phone call.”

“We’ll have to compare notes sometime to see who got it worse—I used to be a high school English teacher.”

Pete winced. “Ooh, teenagers, I don’t envy you.

But imagine taking hotshot twenty-somethings who fly multi-million dollar weapons as a career, who think they’re the best and know everything, shoving them into one room, and having to show them quite vividly that they don’t know everything.”

She gave her own wince. “Ooh.

But come on, you can’t have it that bad—especially if you fly an F-18 anything like how you flew Bianca at Apple Valley.

You’re telling me they’d still act up after getting so thoroughly schooled?”

He tilted his head from side to side, amused. “You’d be surprised, but uh… well, let’s just say that most of the “old man” comments typically tend to lose their bite by the end of the first hop.”

She laughed loudly, throwing her head back, just imagining the reactions of those hotshot kids. “As they should—I’d pay to see their reactions, come to think of it.”

She looked back at him to see his gaze was intently focused on her, but it didn’t send a shiver down her spine—at least not in the unsettling way it usually did when men stared at her. “Maybe my next class cycle, you’d like to come down to North Island, sit in the control tower, listen in on the first hop or two,” he said.

“An opportunity to see an experienced naval aviator in his element; I must say that’s an appealing offer.”

“You just let me know if you want to take me up on it.”

It was sheer instinct to say, “You know, I just might.”

Lowly, he replied, “I’d like that.”

The honestly there was breathtaking.

A glance out the bay doors showed that the sun was starting to hang low in the sky, casting a yellow-orange glow on everything, and caution nipped at her heels. “It’s kind of getting late, and I don’t want to bother you into the evening, I should go.”

Pete’s face fell ever so slightly. “You’re no bother, but I understand if you need to go.”

The slight drop of his features felt like a fall from a high precipice, sinking like a stone in her stomach. “Thank you so much again for your help, I really can’t thank you enough for everything,” she reassured.

“It’s no problem,” he said, almost resignedly.

She felt an intense yearning in her soul to strip that lonely note from his voice, to lift the sadness from him which came in like a squall, so she said the first thing that came to mind, her heretofore carefully-maintained caution getting unceremoniously kicked to the curb. “Uh, this might be stupid, and I’m so sorry if I’m being a nuisance, so feel free to tell me off, but… would you mind if I called you again?

Honestly—I, I don’t really have anyone to talk to about this in much detail with, and—and I’d love to talk with someone who understands the perspective my granduncle might’ve had.”

To her happiness, he brightened. “Not at all, I’d li—it’d be ni—” he sighed, a little wry smile playing on his lips, “feel free to call.”

She resisted the urge to giggle at his fumbling for words. “Okay, I’ll do that.

Thank you.

I promise not to call at like, 2:00 in the morning, when you’re asleep.”

He laughed, but pulled a face that had her mentally frowning as they both stood; however, she didn’t mention it, and instead gathered her things before Pete escorted her to her car, opening the door for her. “I’ll uh, expect your call?”

If the former sadness in his tone tugged at her heart, the thinly veiled hope now there positively wrenched it, and caution was nowhere to be seen. “It might come sooner than you think.”

The boyish, excited expression on his face was enough to make her heart skip a beat. “I look forward to it.”

By the time she reached home, while eating some ramen on her couch for dinner, she found herself picking up her phone and going to Pete’s message thread.

She typed and retyped her message again and again, debating whether or not to send anything at all, but eventually settled on “Just thought I’d let you know that I survived the drive home to bug you another day 🤣”, and sent it off before she could think too much.

Her finger was on the verge of clicking her phone off, but then she caught sight of the typing bubble, and she absentmindedly chewed her lip as she waited for his reply.

Eventually, after about a minute of the typing bubble popping up and disappearing, a message finally came in. “I had every confidence that you would. 😉”

She leaned back, setting into her cushions as she figured out her next message.

The week passed by, and she didn’t pass a day without messaging Pete at least once—he was so easy to talk to about pretty much everything, and it was so comfortable, to just pick up her phone and ask a question or say something non sequitur, his reply coming within the hour, if not within the next ten minutes, starting a conversation by text or a subsequent call, either of which could last hours.

However, this had a drawback.

It meant she didn’t work on the novel nearly as much as she should, and she eventually found herself staring again at her cruel, blinking cursor as her mind stubbornly remained blank.

It wasn’t nearly as bad as her first block, or the block regarding the dogfight scene, but she was starting to get a little frustrated.

Deciding to take a little break from blinking at her laptop’s screen, she traded it for her phone, open, as usual, to Pete’s message thread. “Feeling a little frustrated right now…” she shot off.

Forty-five minutes or so later, she got his reply. “Sorry to hear that.

You want to talk?”

“You free?”

A beat later, her phone rang. “So—frustrated, huh?”

Just hearing his voice had some of the frustration draining from her. “Yes.

It’s absolutely infuriating; I know what happens next, it just doesn’t want to—” she gestured sharply even though he wouldn’t see it, “you know?”

He hummed, “I know the feeling, the same thing happened to me a couple of times when I was writing my paper for my Master’s.”

“You have a Master’s.” she restated, shocked.

“Two, actually—Aerospace Engineering and Physics.”

It was said so matter-of-factly that she simply blinked for several seconds, impressed. “Another layer to Pete Mitchell,” she said, once she found words again.

“Like an onion.”

His joke made her snort while he continued, “I’ll let you in on a little secret—you’d be surprised how many naval aviators are actually nerds.

Don’t let the flight suits and Ray-Bans fool you.”

She laughed, but soon grew serious. “Oh God, Pete, I don’t know what to do—I mean, the last time I productively wrote anything was last week, at your hangar.”

There was a long pause, so much so that she thought the call had dropped, but when she looked at her screen, the line was still connected. “Pete?”

“Yeah, I’m here.” He sounded tentative. “Uh, if, if you wanted, you could—could come down to the hangar this weekend—you never know, being where you were last productive might shake something loose.”

“Sure, I’d love to—I mean—anything to make any progress, and—and the company’s pretty good too.”

She tried not to sound too eager to see him again, but she knew she probably failed at that.

“…Is there anything I can do to turn that ‘pretty good’ to good?” the now-familiar smile could be heard in his voice.

“We’ll see what happens this weekend, Captain.”

This time, when she stepped into the hangar, Pete was kneeling next to one of his numerous motorcycles, hands buried somewhere in its engine, dressed again in a white t-shirt and jeans. “You know, I’m starting to think you live in a white t-shirt and jeans,” she joked, though it was undeniable how good he looked in them.

He looked up, a warm chuckle escaping him, “That’s not true; once in a blue moon, the shirt’s black, and you’re forgetting my flight suit.”

She grinned, “Oh, we have a comedian here, yet another layer!”

“I’ll be here all weekend,” he bowed and swept his arm out to the side before standing and wiping his hands on a nearby rag. “You’re welcome to make yourself comfortable in the living area, can I get you any coffee or anything?”

“Uh, maybe a coffee?”

“Sure thing; how do you take it?”

“Two teaspoons of sugar, splash of cream if you have it.”

With a nod, he strode to the trailer further in the hangar, and soon emerged from the silver Airstream, steaming cup in hand, which he set on the small table beside the couch, where she had settled. “Just ignore me and do what you have to do.”

“Thank you for letting me intrude on your space.”

“No problem, you’re a very welcome change from my usual routine and company.”

She placed a hand on her heart, “Gee, you sure do know how to make a girl feel special.”

A mischievous light entered those beautiful eyes of his, and he leaned down, placing a hand on the back of the couch, making her crane her head up to look at him. “Oh, you haven’t seen anything yet.”

She swallowed thickly, and he glanced down, tracking the movement, but her “Is that so, Captain?” had his eyes meeting hers in a flash.

“Yeah, I’d say that’s so.” The slight rasp in his voice could have been a trick of her imagination, but before she could think about it, he cleared his throat and stepped back. “I’ll let you get to work.

Like I said, just ignore me,” he said, tone light once more.

She wasn’t sure if ignoring him was completely possible, but she replied, “I’ll call you if I need your opinion on anything.”

He threw her an insouciant salute, before heading off into the depths of his hangar.

The blinking cursor of her laptop was just as evil as it always was, but it didn’t seem so daunting here, so she buckled down, beginning to shave out some progress with the soft sounds of tools in the background—it wasn’t as much as she’d like, but anything was better than what she’d been doing, or rather, not been doing the last few days.

After an hour of sitting and writing, she stretched and stood, looking for Pete, curious as to what he was up to.

“Pete?” she called out.

“I’m back here!”

She followed the sound of his voice to a workbench near a sink in the recesses of the hangar; he was looking through a jar of screws, placing the contents into several smaller jars. “You make any progress with the writing?”

“Mm-hmm—not as much as I’d like, but it’s something; I just wanted to stand and stretch for a bit, take a little break from my screen.

What are you doing?”

“I’m working on some upgrades to one of my bikes, but I, uh, got a little sidetracked and I am currently sorting my screw collection,” he sheepishly said.

“Ah,” she nodded, “I know the feeling, the side quest that you absolutely have to complete before you can do anything else.”

“Yeah,” he grinned, “it’s crazy, isn’t it?”

She laughed, a frown soon creasing her brow as she happened to look off to the side.

Involuntarily, she stepped closer to the photo-covered cork board on the wall, gaze fixed on a photo of a young, flight suit-clad Pete, helmet in hand, standing in front of a jet, a tall, familiar-looking man next to him.

The other man was the spitting image of Pete’s son, the only difference perhaps being perhaps ever-so-slightly lighter and straighter hair.

“Bradley looks exactly like him, doesn’t he?” Pete’s voice intruded on her confusion.

She looked to her left to see him standing beside her, an old grief shining in his eyes.

“Yes, he does,” she breathed carefully, knowing somehow that she was in different waters. “Who was he?”

“Nick Bradshaw—Goose—my backseater, back in the eighties, when I flew F-14s.

My brother in all but blood… Bradley’s father.”

The story he proceeded to tell was tragic and heartbreaking; she didn’t even have to see the muted grief in his eyes as he spoke to imagine the anguish he must have endured that day, having to hold Nick’s lifeless body in his arms for what undoubtedly felt like an eternity.

“I became Bradley’s legal guardian after his mother died of cancer, and… while there were a lot of rough years where we didn’t talk to each other, we made up late last year; came out stronger for it, I think.”

“I’m so sorry, Pete,” she breathed.

He smiled ruefully. “Wasn’t all bad, though; got some pretty good brothers out of all that, though I can’t say they’re all still here.”

The dots connected in her head. “The friends in high places?”

He nodded sadly. “My best friend—he was my wingman for decades until he became an Admiral, ended up the highest ranking one this side of the country, in fact.

He died shortly before Bradley and I made up; cancer.”

She didn’t know what possessed her, but she reached for his hand, lacing their fingers together.

His breath hitched, and he looked down at their linked hands, before turning glassy eyes to her.

She was caught in that piercing gaze, which seemed to look right into her soul, and something told her that she was incredibly lucky to be seeing this vulnerability.

The weight of that was almost enough to bring her to her knees, but she pushed that aside in favor trying to ease the sadness in his eyes. “Cancer really fucking sucks, doesn’t it?”

He burst into a watery laugh. “Yes, it fucking does.”

She laughed along with him, squeezing his hand, making the callouses on his palm press against the soft skin of hers. “You want some help with your screw sorting?”

He sniffled, chuckling, “I feel like you’re using me as a distraction.”

“Yes, I absolutely am; are you complaining?”

Pete looked down at the floor, shaking his head with a soft smile. “Not at all, but I’m giving you five minutes before I make you write again, I’m not about to be blamed for any lack of progress.”

True to his word, after the five minutes were up, he shuffled her off to the couch, and she was glad that he wasn’t enabling her procrastination, thankfully able to make a fair bit of progress from there.

Some time later, while in the middle of spell checking what she’d written, she looked up to see Pete place a fresh cup of coffee next to her before sitting in a chair opposite her, picking up a small stack of paperwork and a pen from the coffee table. “Just pretend I’m not here,” he whispered.

For a while, they worked together in silence, as the California sun set, but soon, curiosity began dogging her thoughts. “Doesn’t your wife mind that you’re here late?” she asked.

His gaze almost audibly snapped to hers, his jaw working as he seemed to carefully consider his answer. “…I’m not married.”

Her traitorous heart skipped a beat. “Girlfriend?”

“Don’t have one of those either,” he casually replied. “How about you?

Anyone waiting for you back in San Bernardino?”

She took a deep breath. “Not unless you count my neighbor, Mrs. Moscovitz.

She gets worried when I don’t come home before ten.”

A faint smile crossed his lips. “Good neighbors are hard to come by.”

“That they are.”

They worked in silence for another half hour before she stood and stretched; it was beginning to get dark, and while she was a little more confident driving the desert roads, she wanted to hit the highway before the sun fully set.

“Going now?” Pete asked.

“I want to hit the highway before it gets really dark.”

He smiled ruefully, “I understand, we got to get you back safe, I don’t want Mrs. Moscovitz to kick my ass.”

“And she could, believe me,” she laughed, gathering her things, and exactly like last time, Pete escorted her to her car, opening the door for her.

It was when she turned to face him that a thought body-slammed her. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“I’ve been writing a lot here, and I’ve thought of some of the best moments here, actually.

Um… I guess what I’m trying to ask is… would you mind if we made this—me coming over to write—a regular thing?”

He blinked, seemingly taken aback.

“If I’ve overstepped, please pretend I never—”

“I’m here every weekend, from Friday night until Sunday morning,” he interrupted.

“So that’s a yes?”

“Yeah, it’s a yes.”

“Okay,” she breathed, grinning. “I’ll see you next week, then.”

He matched her grin, “I look forward to it.”

Over the next three months, she made regular weekend visits to the hangar, the two of them learning each other, slowly growing closer as she told him about her life growing up in a family of pilots, her years as a teacher, leaving more and more of her heart behind in the desert each time.

Her heart panged remembering the day he told her why the P-51 was named Bianca.

“Uh, __?

I, er, kind of need some help,” Pete called.

Immediately rising from the couch, she walked over to where he was standing next to Bianca, hands deep in her engine. “What do you need?”

“Could you hand me that wrench there that’s out on the cart?”

After handing it off, a few turns of the wrench later, he stepped back, admiring the old girl while wiping his hands with a rag. “There we go, sweetheart, that’s more like it.”

“You spoil her, you know?” she shook her head.

“How can I not spoil her—look at her!” he replied, with a mock-affronted expression.

“Yeah, she is gorgeous, isn’t she?” she said, turning to look at the marvel of engineering Bianca was.

“She is,” he murmured, and something in his tone made her look back at him, only to see he also had turned to look at Bianca.

“Why’d you name her Bianca?” she asked, wanting to draw out the conversation before he would undoubtedly shoo her back to writing.

He sighed wistfully, “I named her after my mother.

Her name was Bianca Rivelli; Mitchell after she married my dad, of course.

She was from South Philadelphia—Little Italy in that part of town—and she met my dad when she was visiting friends in New York City during Fleet Week; it was love at first sight, she always said.” He hesitated, and a pit sank in her stomach. “She uh, passed from a heart attack when I was seven, but I know that it was heartbreak that really took her, after my dad was shot down and killed in Vietnam and branded a traitor, all because he died during an off-the-books mission.

She tried so hard to hang on for me, I know, and I don’t blame her for leaving—not anymore, not for decades—and when I got the P-51, I wanted to commemorate her somehow.

So I named her Bianca.”

She didn’t even think twice before lunging and pulling Pete into a hug.

He stood stiffly for a moment, and she was just about to pull away, but then he positively sank into the embrace, wrapping his arms around her.

“You’ve suffered so much pain, and it only made you kind,” she sniffled after a long while.

“I can still be an asshole sometimes, you know?” he said, voice wavering.

“Maybe, but you’re still unbelievably kind.”

Now, as she was once again driving to the hangar, trepidation settled at the forefront of her mind; she was nearing the end of the novel, and in fact, she was sure she’d finish it today; but what would happen without a reason to visit Pete?

This was the twenty-first century, a woman had the right to tell a man if she was interested in him, but if he didn’t feel the same, she might just torpedo the best friendship she’d had in a long time; she loved to talk to him, spending time with him was the easiest thing in the world, and not having that anymore seemed incomprehensible.

The hangar drew closer and closer, but she was getting more and more confused, and so decided to engage in the oldest, most revered of writerly traditions: procrastination.

She’d just hope that she’d find the opportunity, the thoughts, and more importantly, the courage, to say something to him.

Fear and nervousness dominated her emotions as she walked into the quiet hangar—much too quiet for a space inhabited by someone like Pete Mitchell.

“Pete?”

“You’re right on time,” he breezily said, coming out of the Airstream, cup of coffee in hand, “something told me to make your coffee already, and here you are!”

“Seems like you’re getting ESP,” she lightly replied, trying to belie the mess of emotions she was feeling.

“I don’t know about all that—maybe just for you,” he softly laughed, his eyes endearingly crinkling at the corners like they always did when he was genuinely happy.

And if that didn’t make her heart absolutely melt—truly, how this man was not married or in a relationship at this point, she didn’t know.

She settled into what she had dared to start thinking of as her “spot” on the couch, the coffee cup he was holding clinking onto the table beside her the next second.

“I’ll let you get to it,” he nodded, squirreling off to a corner of the hangar before she could get a word in edgewise.

With nothing else for it, she reluctantly began writing, and in a sick twist of fate, the words came easily, when she most wanted them not to come, in hopes of drawing this status quo out for just one more week.

One more week of driving to this lonely desert hangar, one more week of seeing those ubiquitous white t-shirts and Levi’s, one more week of hearing his voice, seeing his smile when he caught sight of her.

But fate was cold and cruel, and after roughly two hours, the draft was finished.

Tears welled in her eyes, but for completely different reasons than she would have said when she first began rewriting her Uncle Joe’s story.

“Hey, what’s wrong?

What happened?”

She looked up into Pete’s warm, concerned gaze, and didn’t that just make things worse? “I—I finished the draft.

It’s done,” she croaked.

“Hey, congratulations!

That’s great!” he encouraged, a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Yeah… yeah, it is.

I… I can’t believe it’s over… and I’m really feeling sad right now,” she numbly breathed, deciding for a little honesty.

He moved to sit beside her, his leg pressed against hers, and her breath caught at the proximity.

“Well, that’s understandable, you’ve devoted a lot of time to this, and it’s something very important to you,” he softly replied. “But hey, I have every confidence that this is going to be a bestseller—every publisher is going to want you, and won’t that make everything you went through to get to this point worth it?”

His words made her remember her PopPop, when he encouraged her to write about Uncle Joe and Céline, shortly before he died, and it made her smile despite herself. “It will.”

“That’s the spirit.” He reached up, cupping her cheek, thumb delicately brushing away a tear she didn’t even know had fallen, and almost subconsciously, she leaned into his touch.

He seemed to swallow reflexively, eyes quickly darting down before he met her gaze again and lowered his hand from her cheek, leaving her feeling bereft. “Uh, since it’s not every day one finishes a first draft and all,” Pete gestured, “how—how would you feel about taking a little celebratory flight?”

Her eyes widened. “In—in the—in Bianca?”

A smile she would venture to call sad inexplicably crossed his face. “Mm-hmm.”

“I’d love that.”

What better way to celebrate finishing her granduncle’s story than a flight in the same plane he flew?

At the very least, if she crashed and burned her friendship with Pete because she happened to find some heretofore unknown reservoir of courage, she’d have something shining and beautiful to remember him by.

It felt absolutely surreal to sit in Bianca’s backseat, and it didn’t feel any less surreal as they cruised through the air.

Sitting up here, over two thousand feet above the ground, while she was happy with the direction she’d taken in her life, she felt she now truly understood why the better part of her family had dedicated themselves to the skies.

It was breathtaking and awe inspiring; with the mountainous desert vista out below, the clear blue sky above, she thought she’d never seen anything so beautiful in her life.

To get to see this every day, and to have the controls of a marvel of engineering beneath your hands as a pilot… the feeling was surely beyond exhilarating.

“How you doing back there?” Pete asked, voice tinny through the headphones.

“Just perfect—I can really understand now why you and my family do this for a living, it’s amazing up here.”

“I know, right?

There’s nothing like it,” he breathed, and she could almost feel the joy in his voice.

They flew on in easy silence for a while before he broke it again. “So, I have a question for you; we can keep flying nice and easy like this until you want to land or until we have to, or… we can have some fun—nothing like what I did at Apple Valley, but uh, it’ll definitely be a little bit more exciting than nice and easy.”

As much as she wanted to immediately say yes, she was still a little apprehensive. “You promise not to make me throw up?”

“Swear on my wings,” he solemnly promised, “and if you feel uncomfortable during anything, all you have to do is let me know, and I’ll immediately level off.”

She inhaled and exhaled deeply. “…Alright, go for it.”

“Okay, here we go!” Gently, he brought Bianca into a sweeping banked descent, and from there, while she was sure it was nothing for Pete, who’d done far more daring things in Bianca, and surely in his career as a naval aviator, this was the most thrilling thing she’d ever experienced in her life.

Before she knew it, Pete said, “We’ll have to land in fifteen minutes, so I’ll bring us back around, okay?”

Her heart sank. “So soon?”

He laughed, “We’ve been up here for almost an hour and a half.”

It felt like they just got up here. “What?!”

“Time flies when you’re having fun!”

“You’re corny, Pete Mitchell,” she chuckled.

“Guilty as charged!”

But the joyful mood didn’t last long—soon, the hangar and runway were in sight, and sadness suddenly overwhelmed her; she breathed mournfully, “How can I ever thank you for everything?”

“No need to thank me,” he replied, seemingly overtaken by the same sadness she was, though it didn’t have any bearing on how smoothly he brought Bianca onto the tarmac, and how he brought her back into the hangar.

The leaden pit in her heart and stomach seemed to grow even heavier; she’d been waiting the whole day for the time and courage to tell him how she felt, but she wasn’t able to find a moment or the courage to speak, and now her chances were slipping away, the sudden sound of silence as the engine cut and the canopy slid back feeling like the first handful of earth dropped on a casket.

“You need any help?” Pete’s voice intruded on her thoughts.

“No, I got it.” It wasn’t completely the truth, but anything to draw out the moments she had left.

With a nod, Pete eased himself up out of the cockpit and slid down the wing.

Finally, she was able to unclip herself from her harness and stand up, easing herself onto the wing—

“Ahhh!” she yelped, having lost her foothold on the wing, abruptly sliding down the warm metal, and then—

She suddenly stopped, toes just touching the ground, pressed against a firm chest, her hands fisting in white cotton, warm arms wrapped around her waist.

It was almost a replay of the day she met Pete, and it felt like fate was giving her one final chance.

She looked up into his eyes, knowing that if she didn’t say anything now, she never would. “Pete, I—”

The words died in her throat as he moved his hand to cup her cheek like he had two hours ago, and just like two hours ago, she leaned into the warmth of his touch, her breath hitching as she felt the gentleness with which his rough, calloused palm caressed her cheek.

He scanned her face, searching for something, and seemingly finding it, his viridescent gaze lighted on her lips, which had her heart stuttering in her chest and the air shuddering from her lungs.

“Don’t think, just do,” he muttered, leaning in, and like lightning, her mind sharpened; she leaned forward, pulling him the minuscule distance to her with a hand on his neck.

Suddenly, she found herself taking flight in a completely different way from five minutes ago.

Pete kissed her like he flew; with complete dedication, and like this was the last moment of pure, unrivaled, unfettered joy he’d ever have again, and her knees went weak, an entirely different thrill rushing through her, as she felt him push her up against Bianca’s fuselage.

She was breathless, she was taking the first breath of air she’d ever had—it was fire, it was light, it was incandescent.

She only realized the burn in her lungs when he drew back, both of them gasping for breath.

“God, you don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he breathed, voice deep and rough, eyes dark.

An actual whimper fell from her lips, and she replied, “Holy shit, I don’t care if it’s done, that’s definitely going in the book.”

He huffed a low chuckle, that devastating smirk on his face. “In that case, you want a little more inspiration?”

“Oh hell, yes,” she breathed, and pulled him back into her.

The End

Previous Part

I very much had an inner debate as to whether the ending of this story was too similar to that of TG:M, but after a lot of soul searching, I decided that this was the only conceivable way to end this.

It starts with the P-51, and it ends with her.

You could call her Mav’s wingwoman, I suppose.

The Hangar, as I learned from an interview I will not be able to dig up from my YouTube history, is actually owned by Tom himself.

He said it in the aforementioned interview, and I honestly should have seen it coming.

The hangar was even featured in the background of the iconic video where Tom took James Corden flying in the P-51, and I am somewhat ashamed to say that I recognized it from shots where you only saw the corner of the building.

Yeah, do me a favor and please don’t bring that up.

“Crispin Crispianish” is a reference to the St. Crispin’s Day speech from Shakespeare’s “Henry V”, from which the title of the WWII book and series “Band of Brothers” is taken.

“Turn and burn” is a colloquial aviation saying which describes being cleared to takeoff from the runway generally without having to hold short of it for any duration of time, which leads to the aircraft immediately turning onto the runway from the taxiway shortly before the pilots push the engine thrust levers to Take Off/Go Around, which produces maximum thrust, and presto change-o, you have a generally expedited takeoff.

“You’d be surprised,” is absolutely a reference to Bradley almost punching Jake’s lights out in TG:M.

Yes, I am aware of the amount of art imitating life here; my writer and myself were very much twinning in our frustration with what we were writing.

You can pry ADHD/Neurodivergent/Genius IQ Mav from my cold, dead hands.

Here we have the answer to why the P-51 is named “Bianca” in my story.

I headcanon Mav has Italian heritage, and I thought this would be a nice way to put it in here.

I also made his mom from Philadelphia, because there’s a Top Gun ‘86 costume test shot of Tom wearing an Eagles sweatshirt, and as a Philly-adjacent girl, I had to somehow reference that even obliquely.

“You’ve suffered so much pain, and it only made you kind,” is an adaptation of a line from “Doctor Who”, which I thought perfectly describes Mav.

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[fischscayle]

Your sergeant, clad in lead protective equipment, looks on, a cruel smirk plastered on their face as you debase yourself before them. In one hand, they hold your leash, in the other, a pack of potassium iodide pills. Like a dog searching for warmth in winter, you cradle the housing unit of your mech's reactor. The thing's almost as large as you easily and costs twice as much.

The housing unit's covered in warnings and reminders of hazardous materials protocols; just looking at it makes your hairs stand on end. Every time you're on a sortie, you can feel its toxic warmth radiating slightly from just underneath the cockpit, a constant reminder of the volatility of your existence.

Nevertheless, here you are, rutting against it like a stupid mutt. At first, you're hesitant, both logic and higher instinct making you jump a little every time your skin touches the nearly too-hot metal. The sergeant yanks your collar forward, choking you more and more until you finally summon the courage to press yourself against the housing unit in full, frightened tears bursting from your eyes the moment you do. Your crotch tingles with arousal- or is that radiation?

"This," your sergeant laughs. "Is the worst thing I've ever seen."

It's the worst thing you've ever done. And, awfully, it feels really, really good. The buzzing sensation of high-energy, high-density radiation ripping through your soft flesh is like the most subtle and insidious vibrator. It's probably just your brain playing tricks, but it's like you can feel your cells bursting.

You hump the housing unit harder and faster, bit by bit, as arousal dulls your common sense. You can't help it. Your biology betrays you as you rub yourself tearfully all over your mech's irradiated heart, eventually mounting it like a sybian. Your crotch and inner thighs begin to turn pink with radiation burns. I'm so sorry, you think over and over like a mantra. Please, forgive me.

Your mech is silent. The only sounds filling the hangar are your disgusting sniffling moans and the chortling of the sergeant. By the time you cum, you're almost fully sobbing, asking yourself how you ended up like this. "Please," you squeak, your orgasm hitting you all at once. "Please, I don't want to die."

Before you even finish cumming, there's a harsh pull at your collar, yanking you off of the housing unit. You're choked relentlessly as the sergeant drags you away from the thing. It's covered in your fluids, covered in your shame. Your vision fuzzes and fades as consciousness is choked from you.

The last thing you hear is laughter.

The last thing you see is your mech's defiled heart.