#+ i have an ask from march that I’d like to answer as a fic or ficlet

[bumblebeehug]

Don’t sue me for showing up once a week, posting a nalu-rot opinion, getting 200 likes, then disappearing for another week. It’s not against the law!!

[crossbackpoke-check]

about to be sooo nosy so. my apologies. but. morgan frost? girlfriend? do share (or don’t! again this is so nosy i’m sorry)

for legal purposes i can neither confirm nor deny anything about morgan and his girlfriend but afaik i think he’s single right now? at one point (within the past four years 😭) he did for sure have a girlfriend and that is the extent of my wag knowledge

[yandere-daydreams]

file #2: the amputation fic.

part of the FREAK SHIT MARCH evidence packet.

pairing: yandere!gojo satoru x reader (jjk).

length: 2.9k.

warnings: non/con, amputation, unhealthy relationships, abusive relationships, obsessive behavior, amputation (no injury to reader in fic), handjobs, masturbation, and unbalanced power dynamics.

“Babydoll? You wanna let me in?”

A beat of silence, a light knock. You stayed where you were, crumpled on the bathroom floor, and Satoru sighed.

“C’mon, angel. I can’t help from all the way out here.”

You clenched your bloody arm closer, pulling your knees up to your chest. An orange-tinted, half-emptied pill container sat lidless and on its side next to you. Shoko’s pills took care of the worst of the pain, but a steady, persistent throbbing had lodged itself in the knob that used to be your wrist and refused to let-up. It probably wouldn’t for the next hour, if not the next day.

“I can’t take you to see Shoko if you keep me locked out.”

At that, you relented, uncurling with from your self-made bundle. It took a second to shift yourself onto your knees, another to find the doorknob with your remaining hand, but Satoru himself in as soon as the lock clicked out of place. Thankfully, mercifully, he gave you time to skitter back to your corner before crossing the threshold, but that didn’t stop you from withering as his eyes raked over you, as he evaluated the damage. Eventually, he collapsed against the adjacent wall and sunk to the floor, letting out a raspy groan before tossing you a familiar, crooked smile. You didn’t return it. “That mad at me, huh?” You didn’t respond, gaze dropping to your decimated hand – or, rather, the mangled stump that used to be your hand. His smile wavered, but didn’t fall away. “Yeah, no, I probably deserve that. Does it hurt?”

You didn’t indulge him with an answer. “Did you call Shoko?”

“On a mission,” he said with a slight shrug, a strong note of ‘what can you do?’ in his tone. Like this was some minor inconvenience, annoying but ultimately trivial. Like like you weren’t missing an essential part of yourself. “She said she’d swing by as soon as she’s done, but I’d give it another hour. I think she’ll kill me if I keep asking her to make house calls.”

Another beat of silence, another deafening failure to respond on your part. Finally, he turned to face you properly, leaning forward. “…can I?”

He always did this – paused like that, smiled like that, tried to make himself seem so gentle, so loving, so considerate. It might’ve been well-meaning, an attempt to let you know he was sorry without having to swallow enough of his pride to actually apologize, but all it ever seemed to make you feel was cold and alone, stuck in a shell of an apartment with a shell of a man. It was always the same. It was always going to be the fucking same.

And, like always, you relented, looking away as you nodded stiltedly. Satoru’s smile brightened as he closed the distance between you, his thigh pressing into yours as he settled against your side.

When you’d first gotten into a relationship with Gojo Satoru, you told yourself that if things ever so much as seemed like they might be going south, you were gone. You hadn’t known anything about cursed energy or sorcerer hierarchies or malevolent spirits, but you didn’t have to – even if you hadn’t watched him obliterate monsters the size of apartment buildings with a snap of his fingers, he still would’ve been the strongest person you’d ever met, a man capable of shattering bones with his bare hands and breaking open skulls with all the effort it would’ve taken you to swat a fly out of the air. He was dangerous to be around, even if you doubted Satoru could ever intentionally hurt another living, breathing person. He was rich, and pretty, and strong, and used to getting his way. You loved him, but you needed to be able to leave if it ever seemed like that love was going to put you in danger.

And you did leave. The first time you argued, the first time he lost control of his temper and you were left sobbing on the floor with nothing below your left knee, you’d gotten as far as you could as quickly as you could. It’d taken him a full week to track you down, another to convince you that one of his bizarre friends could heal you, and roughly half a minute of Satoru sobbing and clinging to your (newly restored) leg for you to forgive him, to write it off as an accident – just the kind of risk you took when you got into a relationship with someone who could deadlift armored tanks. The second, you’d stayed at a friend’s place for a few days before coming back on your own, as desperate for his miracle-cure as you were for the pet comforts that came with Satoru’s bottomless fortune. The fourth, you’d barricaded yourself in his bedroom for sixteen hours and only come out for Shoko, who’d muttered about your ‘wreck of a boyfriend’ as she rebuilt the three missing fingers on your right hand.

Now, on the ninth, you’d barely managed to keep him locked out of a bathroom for all of five minutes. It was embarrassing, more than anything. You wanted to be able to hate him, you wanted to be scared of him, but it was hard to be scared of someone you loved. Someone you loved as much as Satoru, especially.

You shook your head, dragging yourself out of your own spiraling thoughts. Your attention, instead, moved to Satoru – still slumped against the tiled wall, his head lulled back and his attention focused pointedly on the ceiling. You were dressed to go out, uncomfortable jeans and all, but Satoru looked like he just rolled out of bed – a plain white shirt pulled tight over his broad chest, a pair of pitch-black sweatpants falling low on his waist, the lights dim enough to mean his piercing blue eyes didn’t have to be locked behind tinted glass or thick fabric. That was what you’d been arguing about, even if it was hard to remember why it’d seemed like such a big deal. He had the day off, no class and no cursed spirits to slaughter, and wanted to waste his morning in bed, with you wrapped in his arms. You’d tried to tell him, as slowly and as tenderly as you could, that you couldn’t, that you had an important early-morning lecture, that you’d be back by the time he actually wanted to get up, but he’d whined and pouted and you’d lost your patience when he reminded you that you could ‘always drop out’. You tried to leave, and he tried to catch your hand, to make you stay for that much longer, and—

“Can I see it?” You were almost thankful to hear his voice, if only for the distraction. “Your hand, I mean. If you’re comfortable with showing me.”

You weren’t, but you were desperate not to sink back into your own head, either. Slowly, cautiously, you shuffled that much closer to him, folding your legs underneath you as you gingerly held out the arm you’d spent the better part of the last few minutes cradling. It made you sick to look at a part of your own body so violently distorted, so violently wrong, so you didn’t – keeping your focus trained on your knees as Satoru took up your shortened limb. His own healing abilities had taken care of the worst of the gore, but even with the open, gaping wound at the end of your arm closed, there was still a ring of bruising around your wrist, streaks of dried blood running down the length of your forearm, a raw quality to the skin where his hap-hazard repairs hadn’t quite taken. His touch was feather-light, skirting around the worst of the remaining damage and lingering near your elbow, then your bicep. Acknowledgement came in the form of a low whistle, an airy sigh. You tried not to let his casualness get to you. Sorcerers must’ve seen injuries like this all the time. This was the end of the world for you, but Satoru would be just fine. “I’m not going to let you lift a finger after this. You know that, right? I’ve gotta make sure my pretty baby’s still nice n’ spoiled, even when I go and fuck everything up.”

It wasn’t an apology, but it was as close as he’d ever get. You grit your teeth and nodded, taking a second to find your voice. Even with the delay, it came out as a croak; almost too low and too ragged to be coherent. “This can’t keep happening, ‘toru. I love you, but this can’t keep happening.”

“I know, baby, I know.” One of his hands remained wrapped around your arm while the other, unoccupied, fell between his open legs. “I don’t mean to. If I had it my way, nobody would be able to touch you, but…” A pause, a laugh. “I just get so stressed out when we start fighting, like that. All I can think about is someone hurting you when I’m not there to keep you safe, and I forget how delicate I’ve gotta be with you. It feels like I’m not in control of myself.”

Despite your better judgement, you felt a deep, churning well of guilt open up inside of you. It was your turn to sigh, now, to slump, to let your eyes fall shut. “I love you,” you repeated, like it was the only thing you knew how to say. “It’s just— It scares me, when you get like that. I know you’re just trying to be protective, but it hurts.”

You heard his breathing pick-up, his grip tighten ever so slightly. Not enough to hurt, but enough to feel. “I know, sweetheart. I’m just trying to take care of you.”

“You do take care of me, but—” You were cut off by a breathy swear, a throat groan. Momentarily, your fear and self-loathing gave way to irritation, a frown tugging at the corner of your lips as you opened your eyes and snapped towards Satoru. He was still focused on your arm – what was left of it, at least – but his gaze was glazed over, far away, and his hand was moving between his—

You put it together too quickly, the force of the realization leaving no time for numbing shock or dampening confusion. He was touching himself, grinding the heel of his palm into the base of his cock. You could see the outline of his shaft against the dark material – already half-hard, if not worse.

If you’d been able to feel anything, you might’ve felt sick.

Reflexively, you tried to pull away from him, but his hold on your arm only tightened, fingertips digging into your bicep as Satoru laughed, the sound strained and airy. “Sorry, sorry, my bad. I know you like a head’s up, but…” Now, he looked at you, but it was too late, too much, too sudden. All you could seem to think to do was gape back at him, unmoving and unthinking. “Guess it’s just what you do to me. I’ll try to make it quick – all you’ve gotta do is sit there and look pretty.”

It was a familiar line, a familiar excuse. You’d heard it a thousand times – mumbled into your neck as draped himself over you in the early hours of the morning, spouted off as he dragged you back to his car halfway through dinner at a restaurant you’d been looking forward to visiting for months – but it didn’t seem to make sense, this time, didn’t fit with the image of your missing hand hovering a few inches above your loving boyfriend’s erection. The dissonance only seemed to get worse, more dizzying as he shrugged the waistband of his sweats past his hips and down to his thighs, freeing his stiff cock. You’d been too generous, before; he was already hard, his tip flushed a dark pink and leaking thick beads of arousal. Again, you tried to get away, and again, he only pulled you closer, until your side was flush against his. There was a deep grunt, a hazy grin as he wrapped a fist around the shaft of his cock, his grip almost painfully tight. His eyes never left the dull stump on the end of your left arm, his raspy breathing soon turning to a deep, heady panting as you watched him pump his fist over his cock, his pace slow and methodical – a far cry from the spontaneous, erratic Satoru you were used to. A soft voice in the back of your mind, awful and treacherous, suggested that he might be trying to savor it, and a dozen more screamed loudly enough to drown it out.

“Satoru,” you said, nearly surprising yourself with how distant you sounded, how detached. You didn’t feel detached. If anything, you almost felt too grounded in the feeling of cool tile against your back, the heat of his body where it pressed into yours. “Please, stop.”

“I don’t really have a choice, babe.” He shot you a playful grin, and for a second, you could almost imagine hating him. “It’d go a lot faster if you helped me out, though.”

You didn’t answer, but he didn’t need you to. His hand was already groping for yours, already forcing your reluctant participation. The position was awkward, your body half-bent over his, but when you shifted, Satoru’s thumb dug into the bone of your wrist and instantly, you went still. This was bad. Not having control of your only remaining hand was bad. But having your only remaining hand taken away from you would be worse.

Satoru didn’t seem to see it that way. Sounds of aching pleasure bubbled past his lips shamelessly, turning the abruptly claustrophobic bathroom into an echo chamber of pitchy whines and raspy groans and the slick, wet clicks of his cock fucking into your balled fist. It was terrible – being able to feel how his cock pulsed against your palm, being forced to acknowledge the little, stilted movements of his hips whenever he decided your (admittedly lackluster) pace left something to be desired. In less than a minute, his head had lulled onto your shoulder, his voice muffled by the proximity as he struggled to speak in spite of his own unabashed moaning. “Love you so much,” he half-mumbled, half-panted. You could feel his breath against your shoulder, his drool starting to pool just above your collarbone. “W-wanna take care of you when you can’t take care of yourself, make sure nobody else ever gets to put their hands on you. I’d be good – cook for you, n’ shower with you, ‘n dress you up all nice n’ pretty,” He paused, nuzzled into the crook of your neck. “You… You wouldn’t hate me that much if we left it that way, right?”

You felt something drop into the pit of your stomach. “Satoru, you’re—”

“Please, baby.” It was the same tone he used when he was begging you to make a late-night snack run with him, or when he wanted to finish inside of you without protection. “Just—Just tell me that you’d let me take care of you. Just say that you’d still love me.”

It felt like your throat was swollen shut, your chest stuffed to bursting with shattered glass and razor blades and spiny needles only just beginning to poke through your skin. You didn’t want to say anything, you didn’t think you could say anything, and yet, when your mouth fell open, you found a voice that was not your own seeping out by means beyond your control. “It’s alright,” you muttered, distantly, as his cock throbbed in your hand. “I’d still love you, ‘toru.”

Although, you were starting to wish you wouldn’t.

You heard him groan, felt something thick and searing spill over the back of your hand. Satoru’s hand, cupped snuggly over yours, kept you moving until every last drop had been milked out of him, until the final ember of his climax had burnt itself out. He went limp against you, his vice-grip finally falling away, but rather than run, you only straightened, wiping your hand on your jeans before tucking it into your lap. How you looked didn’t matter, anymore.  There couldn’t have been more than a few minutes left in your lecture, if you hadn’t already missed it entirely.

Silence interrupted only by panting breaths and the beating, drowning drum playing in your ears reigned over the confined space, keeping you in a state of bleary stasis until the sound of a sharp knock, shortly followed by a distant door opening broke through the fog. “That’s Shoko,” Satoru murmured, almost disappointed. He started to separate himself from you, only to relapse – burying his face in the crook of your neck and letting out a deep, contented sigh. “You know that I love you, right?”

“I know.”

“And you know that all I wanna do is keep you happy?”

“I know, ‘toru.”

“Good.” He pulled back, grinning. “’cause all I ever wanna do is take care of my angel. Don’t let anything ‘side from that get into your pretty little head.”

You only nodded as he pushed himself to his feet, as he slipped out of the bathroom to meet Shoko, to explain what vital part of yourself he’d torn away this time. You wanted to get up, to wash the cum off of your hand, to pump feeling back into your numb legs, but your remaining limbs were uncooperative, heavy and awkward and useless. It was all you could do to pull your knees up to your chest, wrap your arms around your legs, and hold yourself as you started to cry.

At least, next time Satoru decided to tear you apart, you might not find it so hard to hate him for it.

[solarmorrigan]

I'm late, I'm sorry, but here's the full fic from this WIP post yesterday!

[CW: bullying, references to canon racism and violence, mentions of recreational drug use]

-

Steve makes it to the bathroom down the hall from the shop classroom—the one that’s far from the cafeteria and always empty during lunch, where people really only come to smoke, anyway—before he completely loses his shit.

“Son of a bitch!” He’s almost screaming as he hauls off and punches the wall of one of the bathroom stalls, putting every ounce of anger and frustration and humiliation into it, hitting it so hard that the whole construction rattles.

“Motherfucker,” he hisses, shaking his hand out, because it had hurt, and then he winds up to do it again, to make it hurt more, because at least he’s in control of that much, at least it’s anything but what he’s feeling right now.

“That’s a good way to break your hand, y’know,” a voice comes from the doorway, startling Steve into pivoting and aiming his fist at whoever is coming after him now.

He stops short when he sees nobody but Eddie goddamn Munson standing there, cringing into a startled flinch to protect his head as Steve nearly swings at him.

“Jesus shit,” Steve barks, dropping his fist and stepping back, shaky with adrenaline. “You walk like a fucking ghost, Munson.”

Munson peeks out of his defensive crouch before straightening up and sending a meaningful glance at the stall wall. “Somehow, I don’t think you would’ve heard me even if I was making all the noise in the world.”

Steve shrugs, his shoulders staying up near his ears in a defensive slouch. He can feel something dropping out of his hair and down the side of his face, and he feels the humiliation all over again as he tries to swipe it away.

“What do you want?” he asks, beyond caring if he sounds rude; he thinks he’s entitled, considering.

This time, Munson shrugs, a rolling, casual thing that belies the sharp look in his eyes. “Came to see if you were okay, I guess.”

Steve snorts. Is he okay?

Like, in the grand scheme of things, the answer is a really shaky “maybe.” But lately? It’s more of a resounding “no, not fucking really.”

Aside from everything else – aside from the nightmares, aside from the headaches, aside from the fact he’d had to drop basketball after his concussion, aside from having no real friends or allies at school now that he and Nancy aren’t together – aside from all that, there’s Billy fucking Hargrove.

Hargrove, who had taken all of a month to start pushing Steve’s buttons again. Who had taken less than a few days after that to realize that Steve wasn’t going to push back.

And then he’d started looking for the boundary line, pushing and pushing, shoulder-checking Steve in the hall, tripping him in the single class they share, knocking shit out of his hands, shoving him when his back is turned, all the while spitting names and insults, until it had culminated into today’s fiasco: dumping a carton of chocolate milk over the top of Steve’s head in the middle of the cafeteria with a deeply unconvincing “oops.”

It had gone dead silent, every eye in the room on Steve’s red face and Hargrove’s triumphant grin, while Steve had only been able to stand there, shaking with startled rage as milk had sluiced out of his hair and seeped into his collar and down the back of his shirt, knowing that he couldn’t retaliate.

He couldn’t.

He’d marched out of the cafeteria, shame and anger growing as voices had bloomed up behind him, already gossiping and speculating.

So, no, actually, he’s not really okay.

But instead of saying any of this to Munson, he just scoffs and turns away, looking towards the sinks.

“Wouldn’t have expected you to care,” he says, injecting as much lazy indifference into his voice as he can, trying to armor up the way he used to. “The number of speeches you’ve given about how much me and my group suck, I’d have figured you’d be the first to say I deserved it.”

Munson doesn’t say anything for a moment, and Steve doesn’t look back to see if the barb landed. He doesn’t really care, he just wants the guy to go away so Steve can finish his meltdown and clean up in peace.

“Not your group anymore, though,” Munson finally says.

Steve shrugs, pulling a wad of paper towels from the dispenser; might as well move on to cleanup if Munson isn’t going to fuck off. He guesses his little breakdown can wait until he gets home.

“Hasn’t been for over a year, now, right?” Munson goes on. Steve says nothing, using a dry paper towel to try to blot up the mess. “And whatever you were like then, you’re… less like that now. Like, anyone paying attention can see you’re kinda trying something new this year.”

Steve ignores the way that makes something catch in his throat. “Thanks for the endorsement,” he drawls. “I’ll put it on my college apps: Not as much of an asshole as I used to be.”

“It’s a start,” Munson says, and Steve glances up in time to see him shrug in the mirror.

“I guess,” Steve mutters.

“And, uh – hey, I grabbed your stuff,” Munson says, holding up the binder and notebooks that Steve’s attention had glossed over until now. “Some of it’s kinda… milky, sorry.”

Steve blinks. “Uh. Thank you,” he says, stunned for a moment into sincerity.

Munson shrugs again, putting Steve’s stuff up on the narrow shelf on the wall that no one ever uses to hold things because it’s probably never been cleaned. Not like Steve’s stuff is clean now, anyway.

Steve turns back to the sink, wetting a few of the paper towels and waiting to see if Munson is going to leave now.

“What I can’t figure out–” nope, apparently he’s staying, “–is why you’re in here punching the wall, instead of out there, punching Hargrove.”

At least that makes more sense; he’s here out of curiosity, not concern.

“I mean, most people would’ve hit him for that,” Munson goes on. “I would’ve.”

But Steve’s already shaking his head before Munson’s finished speaking. “Not worth it,” he says firmly.

“What, afraid of a little suspension?” Munson asks, almost teasing. “Pretty sure the school would let their golden boy off with a slap on the wrist.”

“Not anybody’s golden boy anymore,” Steve snaps, scrubbing a wet paper towel through his hair in a vain attempt to get some of the rapidly-drying milk out. “I dropped basketball, remember? Didn’t even go in for swimming this year.”

“Oh, yeah,” Munson says, like he’d genuinely forgotten. “Sorry, not really into the whole… sports scene. Like, at all.”

Steve shrugs. “Whatever. Not important. I don’t give a shit about being suspended. I don’t even care if he hits me back. Not like I need another knock to the head at this point, but – whatever.” Steve shakes his head. “It’s just that he could– there are other things he could do.”

In the mirror, Munson’s eyebrows go up. “What, does he have blackmail on you or some shit?”

Steve raises his brows right back. “If he did, do you really think I’d tell you?”

Munson tips his head to the side. “Yeah, okay, fair enough.”

“Anyway, he doesn’t have blackmail, he has… leverage, I guess.” Steve lets out a harsh sigh and gives up on his hair for now, wetting a paper towel to try to get some of the milk off his face and neck, instead.

“…are you allowed to tell me what that is?” Munson asks after a moment.

And for a moment, Steve thinks about it. The only people in school who really know are Nancy and Jonathan, and he’s asked them to follow his lead in just – not talking about it. He hasn’t told anybody any version of what happened in the Byers’ house, or why Billy seems to have made him his personal stress ball. But who the hell would Munson tell? All his nerdy friends in his game club?

(No, no, that’s not fair. Steve doesn’t even know those people, and he’s trying not to be that guy anymore. He doesn’t have to be nice, but he shouldn’t be unkind.)

(The point stands, though – who would Munson even tell?)

“Do you know why Hargrove beat my face in back in November?” Steve finally asks, avoiding Munson’s eyes in the mirror by focusing very hard on getting the tacky milk off his hairline.

“Well, I’ve heard most of the rumors by now, I think. Heard Hargrove’s version of events, as has pretty much everyone, I’m sure. Haven’t heard yours, though,” Munson says, his voice tilting up in interest. “I just figured it was because he hated you.”

Steve lets out a humorless laugh. “Yeah, well, you’re not wrong. But also…” He pauses for a moment, collecting his thoughts. “There are these kids I babysit. Sort of.”

“Sort of?” Munson presses.

“Well, most of the time it feels like they’re just ordering me around like a bunch of entitled shitheads. But I make sure they get where they’re going without, like, disappearing, and that they don’t have so much unsupervised time that they manage to get themselves killed,” Steve admits.

“Uh huh,” Munson says; he sounds… a little confused, but not disbelieving. “And you ended up with this gig, how?”

“It’s Nancy’s little brother, and his little nerd friends,” Steve says (he’s allowed to call them nerds because he knows them, and it’s true. And besides, it’s affectionate).

“Aaand you’re still doing it now? Even though you and Wheeler aren’t…”

Steve shrugs. “They grew on me. But that’s– that’s not the point. One of the kids is, uh. Hargrove’s stepsister. And the night me and Hargrove got into it, I guess she wasn’t supposed to be out.”

“Ah,” Munson says.

“Yeah.” Steve sighs, giving up on the milk as a bad job; he probably should’ve run off to the gym showers instead of a shitty bathroom. He turns and leans back against the sink, crossing his arms over his chest and staring at the floor near Munson’s scuffed sneakers. “So he came looking for her.”

“So… Not that I’m advocating handing over children to pieces of shit like him, but – like, wouldn’t it have been the technically correct thing to do, to send her home with what is legally a family member?” Munson asks.

Steve passes a hand over his face. “She was terrified,” he says quietly, feeling a little like he’s betraying Max’s trust by saying it out loud, by saying it to a stranger. “She was terrified of what he would do if he found her there, where she wasn’t supposed to be. Terrified of what he would do to one of the other kids if he caught them together, since he’d specifically warned her to stay away from him.”

“What’s wrong with this other kid?” Munson asks, brows furrowed.

“Nothing,” Steve bites out. “He’s smart, and he’s brave, and he’s, like, slightly less of an asshole than some of the others, but what Hargrove cared about is that he’s black.”

“You’re fucking kidding me,” Munson snaps, and Steve’s hackles raise, ready to defend his kid all over again if he has to, but before he can get anything else out, Munson goes on. “We already knew he was a racist piece of shit, but – a fucking kid?”

Steve subsides. “Yeah. A fucking kid. So I told them all to stay inside and I went out to try to head him off. Or at least keep him out of the house. Which, obviously, I failed at.” He lets out a derisive little laugh, aimed solely at himself. “He knocked me on my ass, knocked the wind out of me, got past me– and by the time I was able to get up, he was already– he was inside, and he had that kid by the collar, up against the wall– one of my fucking kids–” Steve breaks off, the same rage and terror from that night choking up in his throat again. After the day he’s had, his emotions are all too close to the surface, too near to bubbling out, and he rubs at his nose, trying to stave off the angry, exhausted tears he can feel pricking at the corners of his eyes. “So I decked him.”

“Good!” Munson exclaims, and for a moment Steve actually manages a real smile.

“Yeah,” he says. “Then he hit me back, which, like, obviously. I was expecting him to, but– I mean, I might’ve actually won that fight if the fucker hadn’t hit me in the head with a plate.”

The expression that crosses Munson’s face is almost comically shocked. “What?”

“Yeah,” Steve says again, running a hand over his jaw, thumbing almost unconsciously at the still-fading scar where the porcelain had sliced him open. “I’m a little fuzzy on shit after that. Like, I remember being on the floor, and him kneeling over me, and hitting me, and hitting me, and then– I dunno, nothing.”

Distantly, Steve realizes that the expression on Munson’s face has turned from ‘comically shocked’ to ‘mildly horrified,’ but he’s a little too lost in the blurry memory of that night to do much about it.

“Holy shit, how are you not dead?” Munson blurts out.

He looks like he immediately regrets asking, but Steve finds he’s actually grateful for the question. He’s glad to move the conversation along.

“Max.” He smirks over at Eddie. “Hargrove’s stepsister. I guess she, uh– threatened him with a baseball bat? Saved my ass.”

That’s a deep over-simplification, but Steve can’t think of a way to explain the presence of heavy sedatives in the Byers’ house, and, anyway, she had threatened him with a baseball bat. The kids had all taken great joy in reenacting the way Max had nearly neutered Hargrove with the nailbat, actually; it’s almost like Steve had been there (and conscious).

“Holy shit,” Munson says, and whichever part he’s referring to, Steve is inclined to agree.

“Yep. So I was out fucking cold at the time, but the kids all insist that she got him to agree to leave her and her friends alone, but…” Steve shakes his head. “Hargrove is a fucking psychopath. I don’t trust him to keep that promise. So, at least if he’s focused on me, he might leave her alone. But if I hit back…”

“You think he’ll retaliate by going after one of your kids,” Munson says, only a hint of teasing in his words at the end.

“I know he will,” Steve says; Hargrove had implied as much more than once. He crosses his arms back over his chest. “And they are my kids.”

Munson throws his hands up, as if in surrender, but he’s definitely smiling now.

“I’m serious,” Steve insists, close to smiling himself. “They think I’m stuck with them, but they’re the ones stuck with me.”

“Lucky them,” Munson says, and– what?

“What?” Steve asks.

“Look, you’re either a better actor than, like, everyone in the drama club, or you at least seriously believe what you told me, which is more than I can say for Hargrove and whatever shit he came up with about the two of you getting into it over… what, his car was better than yours? He’s better at laundry ball? I don’t fucking remember, and it doesn’t really matter, because it was clearly and pathetically fabricated,” Munson says with an authoritative nod. “You, at the very least, really give a shit about those kids. So, yeah. Lucky them.”

“Well,” Steve scrambles for a moment, trying to cover the way he actually feels like he might start fucking blushing, “if I’d known all I had to do to change your mind about me was tell you about a fight I lost, I’d have done it ages ago.”

And now Munson’s back to smirking at him. “Seeking my esteem that badly, Harrington?”

“What? No. I mean – not– not specifically yours, it’s just… like, there’s not really an easy or fast way to make up for being kind of a dick for the last… while.” Steve runs his hand through his hair, stopping with a grimace when he remembers the drying milk. “You just have to keep not being a dick and hope people give you a chance. So, like, compared to that, convincing you was easy.”

“And all you had to do was get a severe concussion first,” Munson drawls.

Steve rolls his eyes. “I didn’t say it was severe.”

“You got hit with a plate,” Munson deadpans, and Steve can’t quite help the resulting flinch, at which Munson almost immediately softens. “Sorry.”

Steve shakes his head. “It’s fine.”

Mouth screwed to the side, Munson eyes Steve for a moment, glancing over his shirt and up to his face before gesturing at him. “You want some help with that?”

Steve blinks at him. “What?”

“Your whole… hair situation. You could bend ov– like, you could lean over the sink and I could, uh. Try to rinse it for you. Or whatever,” Munson offers, awkward but apparently sincere.

It sounds like a stupid as hell way to try to rinse his hair. The sinks are small, and not exactly high off the ground; Steve would have better luck just going to the locker room and showering it all out. His soap is there, too, and an extra shirt.

On the other hand, Steve really doesn’t feel like leaving the bathroom yet. He’s pretty sure lunch is going to end soon, and encountering everyone during passing period sounds like a nightmare. In here, with Munson, it’s quiet. It feels almost safe.

“Yeah, sure,” Steve finally says, and Munson looks nearly shocked that he’s accepted.

Credit to him, though: he doesn’t back out. He just slides his jacket off, tosses it up over the wall of one of the bathroom stalls, rolls up his sleeves, and gestures for Steve to lean over the sink.

“Hot or cold?” he asks, going for the taps.

“Hot,” Steve answers immediately; he doesn’t need any other cold liquid on his head today.

“Hm.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” Munson says airily, turning on the water. “You just kinda strike me as a cold shower guy. Like, up at dawn, go for a run, take a cold shower – all that weird jock shit.”

It isn’t intended to mock, Steve realizes as Munson tests the water temperature—the school pipes take forever to heat up—but to tease. It’s a joke, and Steve is invited in on it. And anyway, it’s… actually kind of close to the mark, so Steve doesn’t say anything at all for a moment as he puts his head as close to the faucet as he can get it and Munson places one cupped hand over the back of his neck and uses the other to scoop water over Steve’s hair.

“Cold water is better for your hair. Not that you’d know anything about that.” Steve finally says, hoping that his own teasing tone carries even with the way he has to raise his voice to be heard over the running water.

Luckily, Munson sounds amused when he answers. “Oh! Shots fucking fired. I see how it is!” Even as he’s pretending at being offended, his fingers stay gentle against Steve’s scalp as he tries to scrub out the dried mess, and Steve fights very, very hard not to shudder.

He can’t remember when the last time someone touched him with gentle intent was. Maybe he’d gotten a hug from Dustin last week?

Shit, that’s fucking pathetic.

He tries even harder not to lean into the touch, into the surprisingly kind hands on the back of his neck and on his scalp, tries hard not to act like some kind of touch-starved weirdo and make Munson regret offering to help.

The irony of the fact that Steve is trying not to act like a freak in front of Eddie Munson is not lost on him.

After another couple of minutes of Munson manipulating Steve’s head this way and that, doing his best to be thorough, he lets Steve go entirely and shuts the water off.

“That’s probably as good as I’m gonna be able to get it,” he says, pushing another handful of paper towels at Steve as he stands up.

“Better than I could’ve done here,” Steve says with a shrug, rubbing the paper towels over his hair and grimacing as he can feel it frizzing in about a hundred different directions.

When he finishes, he turns to look in the mirror, watching in real time as it droops over his forehead and tickles at his wet shirt collar. Munson stands next to him, watching without judgement, but with what feels like an inappropriate amount of fascination.

“Well, I’m not going to lie to you,” Munson says at last, “you look a little like a sad, wet dog.”

Steve’s eyes snap to Munson with a glare. “Gee, thanks.”

“Some people are into that!” Munson insists, holding his hands up placatingly. “That droopy aesthetic, with the big, brown puppy eyes. Someone might just wanna scoop you up and take you home to take care of you. It’s a thing.”

Do you want to? – the question comes immediately and unbidden to Steve’s head, and he quickly shakes it away. They might be on amiable terms right now, teasing each other a little, but he isn’t sure that wouldn’t be a bridge too far.

(He isn’t even sure it is teasing. For a moment, he’d had the genuine urge to ask.)

“Anyway, I think most of the mess is out of your hair, but I’m pretty sure your shirt is toast,” Munson goes on, gesturing to the brown stain around the collar, over one shoulder, and probably down the back.

If he’d been wearing a darker color today, it might’ve been alright, but of course today he’d chosen light blue. Steve sighs, plucking at the front of the shirt. If he can’t salvage it, he might as well ditch it; it’s getting uncomfortably stiff and tacky with the dried milk, and he’d honestly rather stick it out in his undershirt for as long as it takes him to get to the locker room than walk around with evidence of Hargrove’s little stunt all over him.

He untucks the shirt and yanks it over his head, no need to be careful of his hair, emerging from the depths of it to find Munson staring at him in a stunned sort of silence.

“What?” Steve asks. “If it’s wrecked, anyway, I might as well get rid of it. I’ve got a spare shirt in my gym locker I can go grab.”

Munson blinks at him, almost like he’s trying to clear his head. “Or!” he practically shouts – possibly louder than he meant to, since he continues more quietly, “Or, you could just ditch for the rest of the day. I mean, you have any particularly interesting classes after lunch you feel the need to attend?”

“Not really,” Steve admits with a huff of a laugh. “But leaving after that feels a little like– letting Hargrove win. Like I’m retreating or some shit.”

“Nah, don’t think of it like that.” Munson tosses an arm over Steve shoulders, waving his other in front of both of them, like he’s trying to show Steve a grand vision and they aren’t both just staring at the ugly tile on the bathroom wall. “Think of it as cutting class and getting free weed from Hawkins High’s most esteemed dealer.”

Steve turns to look at Munson, staring at him more closely than he’s ever had reason to, and realizing there are tiny freckles on his face. “What, seriously?”

“Sure.” Munson shrugs. “Lemme smoke you out, Harrington. Seems like a good way to let your stress go for a bit – though I am just a little biased.”

“Why?” Steve asks; he doesn’t understand the sudden turn this day has taken, the sudden and bizarre kindness offered that he doesn’t even know what he’s done to deserve.

Munson’s eyes slide away from Steve, though his arm notably stays draped over his shoulders. “Been where you are. It’s not great. And, I mean, if it had happened last year, then, admittedly, I probably wouldn’t have given as much of a shit. Jock on jock violence, whatever. But you,” he glances back at Steve, “you’re genuinely trying to be, like, a good person. And I don’t think you should be punished for that. I think, in fact, that you could probably use a friend.”

“I…” The words stick in Steve’s throat, because what the hell can he even say to that? On anyone else, Steve would have assumed an ulterior motive, but Munson had infused it with so much awkward sincerity that Steve can’t help but realize it’s probably the nicest thing anyone’s said or offered to do for him in… he’s not even sure how long.

His silence must stretch on a little too long, though, because the hopeful light in Munson’s eyes fades a bit, and he begins to slide his arm off of Steve’s shoulder. “Or, y’know, you can tell me to fuck off, because I’m, like, way overstepping some boundaries, and–”

“We should go to my place,” Steve blurts, while grabbing Munson’s wrist for some insane reason.

“What?” Munson blinks over at him, (understandably) startled.

“My place. We should go there to smoke. If you still want to.” Steve could cringe for how stilted the whole thing is coming out. “I want to be able to take a real shower.”

Munson stares at him for a moment longer before laying a hand over his heart with a gasp, suddenly leaning heavily into Steve’s side and forcing Steve to wrap an arm around his waist so they don’t both lose their balance.

“I see how it is!” Munson gasps dramatically. “My sink shower just wasn’t good enough!”

Steve holds in a laugh. “Your sink shower was… fine. But I’ve got milk dried in other uncomfortable places, so unless you want to wash my back for me, too, we should go back to mine.”

Munson’s gaze snaps back to Steve, something a little odd in it, and – oh. Oh, that hadn’t sounded quite like Steve had meant it. It had sounded a little like an offer of the kind you don’t go around making to just anybody.

Steve braces himself, waiting for the reaction (he doubts if Munson would get any kind of physical, but there will probably be an awkward pulling away and sudden remembering of something he has to do literally anywhere else that afternoon), but all Munson does is break into a sly smile and say, “I could, but I’d have to charge you extra.”

Steve can’t help it: he laughs, giving Munson a good-natured shove, who finally releases Steve but doesn’t stumble more than a couple of steps away.

“Meet you at my place?” Steve offers, balling up his shirt and dropping it on top of his notebooks as he grabs them from the shelf. “Half an hour?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” Munson gives him a corny little salute before grabbing his jacket from over the stall wall and preceding Steve to the bathroom door.

“Munson,” Steve finds himself calling out, just as the other boy’s hand closes around the door handle; Munson glances back and Steve fights the urge to look away. “Uh. Thanks. For, like… yeah. Thanks.”

Whatever meaning Munson takes out of Steve’s absolutely eloquent verbal vomit of gratitude, it makes him smile. “No need for thanks, man,” he says. “I’m honestly a little surprised to say it, but the pleasure was definitely mine.”

And then he disappears out the door, leaving Steve in the bathroom wondering how the hell his day had taken this turn, and just what destination it’s leading him to.

And thinking that he’s honestly a little excited to find out.

[muletia]

[tfp] obsessed!orion pax x human!reader

summary: what if optimus' obsession bypassed his memory loss? what if he was so infatuated that even his past self yearned for you?

cw: fluff, pinch of angst, canon divergence: orion is taken by the autobots, obsessive thoughts, clinginess, orion literally cannot be left alone for one(1) second, tbh nothing happens in this, i just wanted to write obsessed!orion interacting with you, bad writing, silliness

an: i wanted to implement more ideas, but it came out as it did. i will definitely write some more fics with orion, maybe some smut??? ;)) who knows

word count: 4700

"Come to the base. It's urgent."

As you stare at the terse message from Ratchet, your chewing slows and stops. A storm of questions whirls in your mind, panic creeping into your body. Before you can even type a single letter, your phone rings. The caller is none other than the Autobot medic himself. You answer in less than a second.

"Hello? Ratchet, please don't scare me—what exactly happened?"

"It's about Optimus." Your heart skips a beat. "During the last mission, he was... injured. Or, to be precise, damaged."

"Is it serious?" you ask, pacing nervously around the break room. Lunch now long forgotten. "Will he be all right?"

"Physically—he's never looked or felt better. Mentally, however... that's a different story. I'll explain the details when you get here. And make it quick."

"Hold on, wait—I can't just leave work early like that. There's a whole procedure for this. I can't just waltz out, even though I’d love to leave right now."

"...In an hour and a half, I expect to see you here at the base. See you then."

He hangs up. You stare at your phone screen for a moment, replaying the conversation in your head. Something serious must have happened—Ratchet wouldn’t disturb you at work otherwise. And it involved Optimus... You bite your lip, torn by indecision. You need to at least make sure he's okay, to see with your own eyes what Ratchet was talking about. Otherwise, you'll regret your negligence and spend the rest of the day worrying.

Shoving the half-eaten sandwich into your bag, you rush to your computer to draft a request for early leave, praying fervently that your boss will grant it.

You kept pressing the gas, speeding toward the base, trying to balance obeying traffic laws with worrying about the Autobot. You knew he had been preparing for a mission recently, he had told you about it during a ride you shared, but you didn’t expect it to end like this. Maybe you should have, considering you were associated with a race of aliens deeply embroiled in a centuries-long war, but you always pushed such unpleasant thoughts to the back of your mind, wishing your friends the best. Now, though, all the worst scenarios were coming to the surface. Had he fallen into a coma? Was his processor damaged? Had he died? You didn’t want to think about such an ending. Optimus was alive. You were sure of that.

Seeing the familiar red rock, a tight knot of anxiety gripped your throat. In a few moments, you were about to drive into what was practically your second home, not knowing what awaited you. You glanced at the clock. You were half an hour late—well beyond the time Ratchet had given you.

As if on cue, the medic called you again.

“Don’t enter the hangar. Leave the vehicle at the entrance.”

He hung up before you could say a word, and you sighed. The situation had grown even more worrying.

Before you could say a word, he hung up, leaving you to sigh in frustration.

Following his instructions, you parked at the main entrance and made the rest of the journey on foot. The lights seemed especially harsh, glaring into your eyes as the tunnel stretched endlessly ahead of you, as if warning you, giving you one last chance to turn back. But no force on Earth could stop you now. Determined, you marched forward, needing to know what had happened to your friend.

The hangar was full of Autobots, their sheer presence intimidating. You had thought you were over the feeling of smallness that came with being one of the humans among them, but now it hit you again, hard, dredging up memories of when humans in their midst were still a novelty. You froze for a moment, your courage momentarily disappearing in the shadows of giants.

It wasn’t until your eyes landed on the reason you had left work early that you began to breathe again. Optimus stood there, seemingly whole and healthy, facing the platform where the kids likely were. Relief washed over you. He was alive. Your heart was still racing, but the weight of dread lifted slightly, leaving you braced for the next wave of bad news.

"Hey, sorry I’m late. Work took longer than I expected," you called out.

Your voice immediately caught his attention. Optimus turned to you so abruptly that it shocked everyone present, abandoning the conversation he had been engaged in. Tilting your head back to meet his gaze, you were surprised when he knelt down on one knee, making himself more accessible. You still had to look up, but now his face wasn’t obscured by his… windshields.

The first hint that something was off was his smile—wide, cheerful, and curious. Optimus didn’t smile like that, not even when something genuinely delighted him. Worry started gnawing at you again. Something was wrong.

"Greetings. You must be our next human ally, correct?"

At first, you were at a loss for words. Of all the scenarios you had imagined, memory loss hadn’t even crossed your mind. But before the conversation could veer into awkward territory or panic could take hold, you managed to reply, mirroring his smile.

"That’s right."

"You seem… familiar. As though we have met before."

The hangar fell silent, the atmosphere thickening.

"Of course he would remember her," Ratchet hissed under his breath. You shot him a glare filled with venom.

Focusing back on the mech before you, you forced a calm smile, masking the whirlwind of emotions inside you. You felt like you were on the verge of exploding—uncertain whether to jog his memories or pretend this was truly your first meeting. Why hadn’t anyone given you guidance on how to handle this?

"Erm, well…" you began, only for Ratchet to step in and spare you.

"Humans can look quite similar at first glance," the medic interjected. "Orion, this is [Name], the last human who should know of our existence."

A flicker of something lit up in his cyan optics—something indefinable, known only to him.

"Greetings, [Name]. It is a great pleasure to meet you."

He extended a servo toward you. Tentatively, you clasped one of his digits, ignoring the ache in your heart. This shouldn’t have been happening. You shouldn’t have to forge a new relationship with someone so dear to you. It felt uncanny—like he was wearing Optimus’s skin but was someone entirely different inside. It was unnerving, disorienting. Yet this stranger had knelt before you, reduced himself to your scale to show respect, just as Optimus always had. It was a glimpse of his alternate self, a sign of the inherent honor and kindness he still carried.

"Hello, Orion. The pleasure is all mine."

Letting go of his servo, you gave him an apologetic smile, signaling the end of the conversation. You needed answers, clarity about the situation, before you could decide how to proceed. As Orion straightened up, you stepped past him toward the platform. You could feel curious optics on you, particularly his, as you fist-bumped the kids. Unbeknownst to you, Orion clenched his servo in the same way you had during your handshake.

"So," you said to Ratchet, "what happened?"

The medic sighed, clearly weary of recounting the story yet again. But you had to know. You listened intently, the details unsettling and at times horrifying, but you felt a growing sense of calm. At least now you knew what you were dealing with—what topics to avoid, how to act. The relief faded, however, when you learned that the first attempt to restore Optimus’s memories had failed, and no date had been set for the next.

As Ratchet spoke, most of the team dispersed, leaving only you, the medic, and Orion in the hangar. Taking a moment to process everything, you glanced at Orion, catching his curious gaze.

This was your new reality. Optimus was gone, yet not entirely, standing just a few meters away, watching you intently. It was too much to dwell on. You needed something to distract yourself.

Standing from the couch, you headed down the stairs. You figured you’d be here for the rest of the evening, so you might as well find something productive to do.

"[Name]?" Orion’s voice stopped you in your tracks. He looked genuinely concerned. "Are you leaving already?"

His behavior puzzled you.

"I’m just going to grab my things. I’ll be right back."

"I see. May I accompany you?"

Oh, that was adorable—especially with the hopeful tone in his voice.

"I’m not sure you’ll fit in the tunnel in your current form," you teased with a laugh. "It won’t take long. I’ll be back in a minute."

This time, you quickened your pace.

For several hours, Orion's life had been filled with uncertainty. He didn’t know how he had ended up on this planet, who the Autobots around him were, or why they called him "Prime" when he felt he was unworthy of the title. And now, another enigma had appeared—you. Orion could not rationalize the overwhelming need to be near you. He had felt it the moment he laid his optics on you. The need to stay close, to converse, to observe. The need to know you better. Never before had such intense emotions stirred within him for anyone, let alone a stranger. But you weren’t a stranger. This may have been your first meeting, and he may have spoken to you for the first time, but you were not unfamiliar. Of that, he was absolutely certain.

Seconds stretched into minutes, and minutes into hours since you had disappeared into the tunnel. He regretted not following you, even if it meant transforming into his alt-form. At least he would have kept an optic on you, preventing the gnawing feelings of confusion and longing from devouring him from inside.

Ratchet watched his friend closely. He recognized that look, that body language. He knew what it signified, what storm was brewing in Orion’s processor. Optimus had been the same when it came to you. For a brief moment, his friend was back. Too bad it was under such circumstances.

"Do you really remember that woman?" he asked.

"I am not certain," Orion replied, still gazing toward the tunnel. "I feel like she is not a stranger, even though I know this was our first encounter. And as… Prime, if I indeed held that title, was she close to me?"

Primus.

"Perhaps closer than any human, but only Optimus knew to what extent. That might explain why you recognized her."

"Then she is special."

"Everything points to that."

Orion glanced at him, offering a faint smile. For reasons Ratchet couldn’t quite explain, the gesture was hard to look at. Fortunately, you emerged from the tunnel, giving him an excuse to start working again.

"See? I told you it’d only take a minute," you laughed, a black backpack slung over your shoulder.

Orion didn’t confess the truth—that by his reckoning, you had been gone an eternity. He watched intently as you climbed the stairs and took a seat on the couch.

"So, Orion," you began, "what did you do on Cybertron?"

Oh. You were curious about him? Truly? He had never thought of himself as particularly interesting.

It was fortunate that you were not looking at him because his body language betrayed his embarrassment.

"I was an archivist. Do humans on Earth have similar professions?"

"Of course. You know, I’ve always admired archivists. It’s meticulous work, requiring patience and nerves of steel—if you know what I mean. Anyway, it’s an important job, and anyone who takes it up is very cool in my book."

"Cool?"

"You know, fascinating, impressive, admirable."

"Does that mean that... in your optics, I am… cool?"

He asked without thinking and immediately regretted it when you gave him an amused look. Embarrassed, he tilted his helm downward. For such a towering and formidable being, he was also astonishingly skittish. It was peculiar to see a former Prime in such a light, but it made him more relatable, more emotionally accessible. Even so, you couldn’t deny that you missed Optimus.

"Of course, you’re cool to me."

That answer brightened him. A spectacle of stars dances in his optics.

You returned to typing on your laptop, but Orion had other plans for you.

"It seems I still have much to learn about this planet."

"I think you’ll catch on quickly. Besides, if it makes you feel any better, the other bots don’t know everything either. If you’re ever unsure, just ask. I’ll do my best to help."

"Thank you, [Name]. Your kindness is very important to me."

"Anytime. If you’d like, you could also explore our literature—it’ll give you a good insight into what humanity is all about. That sounds like a fitting activity for an archivist, doesn’t it?"

He would much rather have you as his sole source of knowledge about your species, as it meant spending more time with you. He wanted to know not just what you were but who you were—your interests, where you worked, how you spent your free time, your philosophy, beliefs, and hobbies. Everything you were willing to share. He wanted to know you inside and out, to solidify this sense of connection and make it real. And if you wished, he would bare his own secrets, reveal his spark, and show you every part of himself. Perhaps then you might look at him just for a second longer.

"Yes, I believe that would be an enjoyable activity. And what is it that you do?"

He asked question after question, each answer adding a new layer of understanding about you. He shared a little in return, preferring listening to you—your opinions, your perspective.

Time passed swiftly in your company. Relentless and unforgiving, it waited for no one. Orion realized this when you set aside your device and began stretching. It was a mesmerizing sight—your movements were so different from those of Cybertronians, fluid, and light. That was until the air was pierced by the loud crack coming from your back.

Energon froze in his fuel lines, and his spark leaped to his intake.

"[Name]? Are you alright? Are you harmed?"

"Hm?" you hummed, confused. He looked as though calamity had befallen him, as though you’d been beheaded. Then you remembered—it was Orion, not Optimus, and the human body was weird. "Oh, that. Don’t worry, I’m fine. It’s perfectly normal." To prove your point, you began cracking your knuckles, stopping quickly when you saw his horrified expression. "Okay, sorry about that. But really, I’m fine. I just need to stretch."

"Alright…" he replied, though he didn’t seem convinced. You couldn’t blame him.

You rose from the couch and stepped down from the platform, intending to take a short walk. Panic erupted in his spark. Oh no. No, no, no. He didn’t want to be left alone, not after such a jarring experience. He wouldn’t let you out of his optics now—not even for a moment.

"May I accompany you?"

"Of course!" you replied without hesitation, smiling—a gesture he immediately mirrored. "It won’t be very exciting, though."

"On the contrary, I find you to be a most intriguing individual."

"Oh, thank you," you said, clearing your throat, embarrassed. Compliments delivered in that baritone still flustered you.

Together, you ventured deeper into the base, bypassing various sections. In the training room, Arcee worked on her speed, while Bulkhead struck a makeshift punching bag fashioned from an old car. The children watched the spectacle, occasionally entertaining themselves. You both quickly slipped past the always-open entryway and continued on your way.

“[Name]?” Orion inquires. You turn into an empty hangar with a high platform, starting to ascend the stairs.

“Hm?”

“How do humans attempt to court their partners?”

You hadn't expected that kind of question. You stop mid-step, pondering your answer. When you look at him, his expression is dead serious, though his optics betray a determination. Why would he want to know this? You decide it’s probably mere curiosity.

“It depends on the person.” You continue climbing the stairs until you finally reach the top, now level with his faceplate. “Some buy gifts like flowers, others go on elaborate dates. But the common factor is spending time together, and getting to know one another. Feelings tend to develop naturally that way,” you explain. “Actually, that’s an interesting topic. How did it work on Cybertron?”

“Similarly. However, instead of exchanging ‘flowers,’ we presented rare metals or crystals to leave the best impression. To demonstrate strength and potential as a partner.”

“I know a few people who would totally fall for that approach. Heh, I’d be thrilled to get a geode myself.”

Orion suddenly lights up. Were you suggesting something or just sharing an opinion? Whatever it was, he felt compelled to try. To prove himself worthy. Perhaps he could even find the ‘flowers’ you mentioned.

“I see. Thank you for enlightening me.”

“You’re welcome?” you reply, unsure exactly how you’ve helped, but the sight of his broad smile and bright optics makes it all worthwhile. He was utterly adorable.

The two of you chat casually until you’re forced to check the time. You inhale sharply, and Orion tilts his head slightly, curious about your reaction.

“It was great talking to you, but I really need to go. I have work tomorrow and I’d like to get some sleep.”

Panic flashes across his face. He had enjoyed your company so much. He didn’t feel alienated or alone when he was with you. The sense of connection played a significant role, but Orion had already let you into his spark. He had found a safe harbor in you and wasn’t ready to drift away just yet. He wasn’t ready to let go, even if the world around him were to crumble.

“May I accompany you?” he asks, desperation seeping into his tone.

“Excuse me?”

“May I accompany you?” he repeats, now begging.

“My home isn’t exactly designed to host a giant robot. Besides, it’s dangerous and... wait, do you even know the traffic regulations?”

His expression answers the question, but he still attempts to defend himself.

“I have acquainted myself with them partially.”

“Who has the right of way at an uncontrolled intersection?”

He opens his mouth but quickly closes it again, visibly crestfallen. He looks as though he might cry.

“Orion, we’ll see each other tomorrow,” you reassure him. “The first thing I’ll do after work is come here.”

He frantically searches for an argument to keep you with him—anything to prolong your company. Then he remembers his first encounter with human children.

“Every child was assigned a guardian who escorted them home and ensured their safety,” he states, refusing to give up. “Do you have a protector?”

“Unofficially, that was Optimus…”

“Then I would like to carry on his mission.”

“I’m not a child, Orion.”

“I understand that. I merely wish for your safety, [Name],” he explains earnestly. “And… I would prefer not to part from the company most dear to me.”

Your thoughts drift back to something he said earlier—how he recognized the bond you once shared, even though this was your first conversation. He hadn’t recognized Ratchet or anyone from his team—only you.

You tried to put yourself in his position. To suddenly find yourself in a foreign place, surrounded by strangers addressing you by a false name and feeding you information that might as well be fiction. And then, in a world where nothing is familiar, someone steps in—someone you vaguely recognize. You might not know their name, but you know there was once a connection. Wouldn’t you cling to that tiny thread, desperately pulling it closer if someone tried to take it away?

Orion had found solid ground, and you were unintentionally trying to undermine it. You exhale softly. You already knew you’d be saying goodbye to sleep tonight.

“Alright.” His smile makes it all worth it. It’s as though you’ve handed him a star from the sky. “Let’s see what Ratchet has to say about all this.”

"I see no objections."

Orion looks at you with excitement sparkling in his optics.

"Wow, that was quick."

"It's a good excuse for Orion to explore the area and get accustomed to his alt mode."

The medic refrains from adding that if the former leader remained at the base, he would likely have wasted away in longing for you, lamenting to every sentient being that he couldn't wait to see you again. Though the comment teeters on the edge of his glossa, he opts for discretion. Optimus, at least, had never vocalized his peculiar obsession with you quite so openly.

"Should anything unusual occur, contact me immediately. Someone will come for you in the morning," Ratchet advises his friend before turning to you. "Good night, [Name]."

You thank the medic for his diligence and ask him to take some rest, earning a piercing glare that almost feels lethal, then retrieve your backpack and head toward the tunnel. Orion stays close by, not leaving your side even after transforming. Ever the gentleman, he opens the door for you, visibly delighted at the prospect of your first shared drive together. In his mind, this was more than a mere drive—it was a deeply intimate act, almost akin to inviting a partner into one’s private space.

But his dreams are promptly shattered when you inform him that you have your own car.

The journey is uneventful but nerve-wracking; you constantly check your side mirror to ensure Orion is still following you. Thankfully, there are no issues, and he even remembers to use his turn signals when necessary. Everything proceeds smoothly until you pull into your driveway and are struck by a dreadful realization: Will a Peterbilt even fit in my garage?

You park your car to the side, leaving Orion enough space to drive safely. Exiting your vehicle, you open the garage door and wave at him to proceed. You nervously bite your thumb, watching the massive truck carefully edge into the space. There are barely three centimeters between the roof of the truck and the ceiling. When you close the garage door, the already limited space shrinks further.

"So, do you regret your decision now?" you ask, stepping around to the front of the truck.

Orion transforms with meticulous precision, carefully positioning his limbs and helm to avoid damaging the walls. The process goes well until his helm grazes the ceiling with an audible thud, dislodging a few small pieces of debris. He winces slightly and rubs his helm but offers you a warm smile.

"I do not regret my decision."

"Pfff, well, that's good. Are you all right?"

"I am unharmed."

You can’t help but feel guilty for confining him to such a cramped space, but it was his choice. If he insisted, he would simply have to endure it. Of course, that meant you would have to endure it, too, as the issues began almost immediately.

"All right, I’m going to grab my things. I’ll be back in a moment."

He panics again—something you’re beginning to expect from him.

"Please, do not leave me."

His voice is unchanging. A deep and thick baritone that permeates your body, speaking straight to your soul. It is strange to hear the same voice coming out of a shamed and uncertain being, begging you for company.

"I’ll only be gone for two minutes."

You reach for the door handle, but his servo shoots forward, blocking your exit.

"Orion," you chide, your tone sharp and reprimanding.

He doesn’t meet your eyes, his apprehension laid bare.

"Please, I do not wish to be alone."

"Two minutes," you say firmly, though your annoyance falters when you see the raw emotion in his optics. Sighing, you place a hand on the edge of his digit, catching his attention. "I’ll be back. I promise."

He believes you, of course he does. He trusts you to return, yes, he even knows it. It doesn't change the fact that he is frightened, he feels alone, and your proximity calms the storm raging through his processor. His whole body is clamoring for you, screaming for you to stay with him. He craves bodily contact, he wants your soft hands to stroke his metal and your lips to whisper sweet nothings. He wants more, he wants to feel the softness, more, more, more.

He takes his servo away.

"Good mech."

As you disappear through the door, Orion buries his face in his hands. Despite his embarrassment, he can’t suppress a grin. He had enjoyed that moment—far too much.

He wants to hear you say it again.

When you return, you’re carrying a blanket, a deck of UNO cards, some snacks, and your laptop. Orion beams at the sight of you but frowns when he notices you shivering.

"Are you cold?" he asks with concern.

"Hmm? A little, but I’ll warm up soon."

Without warning, he gently scoops you up in his servo, handling you with the utmost care. The shock is brief—you don’t even have time to protest before he places you on his chassis. His servo remains loosely wrapped around you as a precaution, but your back presses against his warm metal frame. Tilting your head up to glare at him for pulling such a stunt, you find him already watching you, amusement dancing in his optics.

"Ask next time before you do something like that," you scold lightly.

"I make no promises," he teases, earning a playful flick to his digit.

"I was planning to play UNO, but since you pulled that move, let’s watch a movie instead. Unless you’d rather do something else?"

"I leave myself entirely at your mercy."

He would have been content doing nothing as long as he could hold you close.

"All right, then. A movie it is."

It's hard for him to keep up with the plot when he's overstimulated, but he tries, because your questions encouraging discussion come out of nowhere. And it was just at moments when he started to drift off, when the optics shifted from the tiny screen to you; when there was only you and him in the world. Sometimes, however, he would focus for longer, especially during the romantic scenes. He longs to experience something similar with you, an indestructible, sappy love. To recite poetry into your ear and watch you blush, to announce to everyone how much you mean to him. To bestow expensive gifts, the geodes you mentioned earlier. He needs your tender words, your praise, your touch. You could do whatever you liked with him, and he would give you his spark.

He worries when you fall silent for too long.

"[Name]?" he calls softly, leaning closer to check on you. Relief washes over him when he sees you’ve simply fallen asleep. Poor thing—you must have been exhausted.

Still, a part of him resents it. He wanted to talk to you longer, watch more films, learn more about human romance to win your favor. But he knows his thoughts are selfish. Setting the laptop aside, he carefully covers you with his other servo, creating a cocoon of warmth and safety.

He's not sure he'll be able to recharge. At least not now, when he was too absorbed in devouring you with his optics. You felt safe with him. You gave him your trust. You chose him.

A spark of possessiveness sweeps through his processor. He doesn't want to let you go. He doesn't want you to go to work tomorrow and leave him for eternity. He also knows he shouldn't think that way. The spark goes out.

Watching you sleep, his processor churns with thoughts. You trusted him. He vows to prove his worth tomorrow, to show you just how deep his feelings run.

Because he doesn’t know how much longer he’ll be himself. How much longer he will remain as Orion Pax.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Follow You Anywhere 7

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, obsession, controlling behavoiour, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You’re online existence threatens to leak into your real life.

Characters: Captain Syverson

Note: back again.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

You enter your apartment. It doesn’t really feel like yours anymore. That man, that gargantuan invader, has tainted your safe space. You keep your head down as you brush by Sy. He reaches to squeeze your wrist and promptly lets you go. 

You cringe as you march stiffly down the entryway. 

“Thank you, officers,” he says, “sorry to trouble ya like this. You have a good one.” 

“You too, sir,” one responds, “hopefully your homecoming gets a bit warmer.” 

The door shuts and you flinch. You stop in the living room, shoulders sloped, head down. You can’t stop the shaking. You hear him coming as Aika sits obediently in the corner. You glance at the dog, you don’t think she can help, you don’t know that she would. She’s loyal to her owner. 

Sy stalks into the front room as you cower, wring your hands in front of your chest. You can’t bring yourself to look at him. Instead, you watch his shadow as he fumes and paces around. He exhales, small mutters you can’t discern. Circling around and around then suddenly stomping towards you. 

You whimper and your eyes flick up as you take a step back, eyes watery with fear. He stops, just an inch away, chest puffing with fury. You bat your lashes as you wait, for what, you don’t know. For him to do something, anything. 

“How could you hurt me like that, sweetie?” He hisses. 

“I... don’t know--” 

“You hide from me. Scare me, like that?” His voice rises, quaking as you hear him struggling to control it, “call the f—the cops?” 

He can’t keep his voice from booming. He’s so loud. Like thunder crashing down around you. 

“After all I did for you, you treat me like a monster. Actin’ all scared like I’d ever hurt you!” He snarls, “I wouldn’t, sweetie, and you know it. What did I ever do to make you think that, huh?” He starts to pace again, throwing his hands out as he rants, “I told you—I'm not a bad man! I’m not! I wouldn’t hurt you!” He barks as Aika puts her head down, eyes on her own, “but you hurt me. You. Hurt. Me.” 

He growls and his nostrils flare as he comes back around it front of you. You peek at him from beneath tear-webbed lashes. Your heart thrums in your ears and your chest thumps. He raises his hand and you wince as he smacks himself in the head. You cry out in horror as he does it again, each time harder than the last as he continues his angry prowl. 

“Sy!” You squawk. 

He snarls again and beats himself with both hands, “maybe I deserve it, huh? This is what you want. For me to hurt.” 

“No, I--” you heave as a sob bubbles up your throat. You don’t like violence. You never wanted this. You just want him gone. To be left alone. 

He roars and throws his fist around, hitting the flower lamp off the end table. It flies off and the cord snags, sending it shattering to the floor. You whine and put your knuckles to your lips, horrified as he continues his fit. He grabs the table next, hurling it with one hand as if it weighs nothing. The draw slips out and the continues scatter. 

He spins again, puffing and panting, his face red and furious. He storms towards the opposite wall and before you can understand what’s happening, he bashes his face against it. He staggers back, grips his head and blindly stumbles around. 

You stand, dumbfounded, as he falls onto the couch. He sits and hangs his head, gripping it between his large hands. He breathes loudly as he leans his elbows on his knees. Your tears spill out as you hug yourself and sniffle. 

You babble as you feel something against your leg. You look down as Aika nuzzles against you. You reach down to touch her snout. She licks your palm and you turn your attention back to Sy. You’ve never witnessed anything like that. You never ever wanted to hurt him. You pity him more than anything, he seems so lost. 

You suck in a breath and swipe the wetness from your cheeks. You drag your foot forward as Aika stays close. You back up and go through to the kitchen. You take a clean dishcloth from the drawer and wet it under the faucet. You’re buzzing with adrenaline. You don’t know what you’re doing. 

You cross the room to Sy as his breaths huff in and out. You can see the blood on his forehead as he nears. You hesitate, furling and unfurling your fingers before you touch his muscled shoulder. 

“Sy,” you say softly. 

He ignores you, fingertips curling into his skull, “so stupid...” you make out the words under his breath. 

You squeeze him as Aika pokes her head under his arms and noses him from below. He sits up and scratches her head. He wobbles as his foggy eyes come into focus. He looks at you, a gash on his forehead and another across the bridge of his nose. You try not to react as you offer the wet cloth. 

He considers it and takes it with a sigh. He dabs at the blood on his face as he watches you. You bring your palms together, rubbing them nervously, as you bounce on your feet. 

“Thanks,” he mutters as Aika nudges his hand for more pets. He looks between you and the dog, “I-- I’m sorry. I let you down. Both of you.” 

He stands up and you back away, folding your hands over your chest as you make yourself small. He holds the cloth against his nose and grunts. He scowls and turns away. You don’t move as he marches to the bathroom. The door snaps shut just as Aika reaches it. You hear the lock click. 

You bite your lip and slowly glance towards the entry way. You stare. You could try again but to what end. Blair wouldn’t let you back in after you brought that chaos into her world and the police won’t do anything more than blame you again. 

Maybe it is your fault. Sy means well... 

No, no! He doesn’t belong there. This is your life.  

Aika’s paws pad down the hall and she sits by the door. She knows what you’re thinking it seems. Doesn’t matter, you have nowhere to go and no one to go to. 

You pivot carefully, searching for a distraction. What can you do now? You’re too addled to sit down and work or even hide away in the bedroom under the covers. You walk a circle around the room and stop yourself. You look at the wall, a smear of blood and a dent left by his collision. 

You return to the kitchen and grab a paper towel. You come back to wipe away blood. When you get most of it out, you start to clean up the rest of the mess. The lamp is broken. You put the shards in a box and leave it by the door. Then you gather up the random pens and notebook and right the table before tucking it all back in the drawer. 

As you stand up, you hear another click. You peer over as Sy appears. His shirt is gone. The cuts on his face are no longer bleeding but his eyes are still blazing. You gulp as his jaw tenses. 

“I’m sorry I broke your lamp,” he utters dully. 

You wet your lips with your tongue, “Do you want some tylenol?” 

His eyebrows arch and his cheek ticks. He nods slowly, “yes, sweetie.” 

You try to smile and your mouth quivers. You retreat and go to fetch the bottle of pills and some water. When you come back, he’s on the couch again.  

“Head sure does hurt,” he says as he accepts the glass and the tablets. 

You hum and nod. He throws back the pills and drains half the glass. He set the cup down and leans back, once more holding his head. 

“Do you think... maybe you should see a doctor?” You suggest. 

“I’m fine,” he growls, “got worse over in the sh—in the war.” 

You scrunch up your lips and twiddle your fingers. He drops his hands and brings his head straight. You fidget as he takes you in, his eyes narrow and his expression pained. He waves you closer, “come here.” 

You stop moving. You’re completely still as you stare him. His brow lowers dangerously. You near him reluctantly, wary of riling him again. 

“I’m sorry I yelled, sweetie,” he takes your hand and leans forward to kiss your knuckles, “I was worked up. I thought—I was crazy. I thought I lost you, you know? But I get it. You wanted to see your friend and she... she put her nose in our business and called in the cops, huh? Jealous, I bet.” 

You blanch. That’s not the truth. That isn’t what happened at all. You won’t argue. 

“Yeah,” you let him cling to your hand, “I think she was just worried because she didn’t recognise you. I’m... I’m sorry.” 

He looks up at you and his lips curve, “I know you’re sorry, sweetie,” he tugs on you, “but we’re all good now, aren’t we? I got you, you got me, everything’s as it should be.” 

He moves you and you let him. You know better than to break the illusion again. He angles you onto his lap and your body locks up. He hugs you to him, a hand on your leg, his other arm across your back. He purrs as he holds you close, leaning back as the tension seeps from him. 

“Just like this, sug, me and you,” he grits. 

🧸

You escape Sy’s embrace for the excuse of making breakfast. The task helps you keep your fears at bay though his presence looms just on the other side of the wall. Your helplessness is starting to feel like acceptance as the last of your denial dissipates. This is real. You are trapped. 

You plate up a heaping plate of bacon and eggs. You scrape butter onto toast and bring it out to the table. You teethe your lip as you stand in the archway of the front room. 

“Food’s ready, Sy,” you squeak. 

He sits up and groans as he stretches. He stands, towering over you as he looks even broader without his shirt. Somehow you keep forgetting how big he really is. 

He crosses the room and you scurry back to the kitchen. You hear him pull the chair out as you grab your leftover french toast and bring it out. You’re not very hungry, in fact you feel sick to your stomach. Still, you know you have to play along. 

That sound, the one of his head hitting the plaster, keeps replaying in your head. You hate it. As much as he scares you, as much as he’s a stranger, you don’t want to be the reason he’s hurt. You stare at your plate glumly as you cut into the cold eggy bread. 

“Thank you, sweetie,” he undercuts your gloom with his bright tone, “sure smells good.” 

You glance up, poking at the toast with your fork, “sorry, all I had was turkey bacon.” 

“S’all good,” he tears a strip in half and takes a bite. 

You muster a smile and drop your gaze back to your food. You take a bite of the stale, syrupy bread. You chew mechanically, bite by bite, and choke it all down. You think of how he might react if you let the food go to waste. He paid for it after all. At least the berries add a bit of flavour. 

“You should make a video today,” he says abruptly. 

Your eyes flick up and you blink, “oh, uh, maybe not today--” 

“Your followers will be wanting to check in, won’t they? You can’t leave them hanging.” 

“Um, well, I’ll think about it later---” 

“You know, sweetie, like I said, you got me through some tough days. You’re all I had out there. Who knows, maybe there’s others who feel the same, you know?” He scoops up eggs on his fork and hovers them over the plate, “and you’re special. The world needs more of you.” 

“Thanks, er, I’m just... tired is all.” 

“Well, you wouldn’t be so tired if you hadn’t snuck out to the couch, huh?” He challenges. 

You’re surprised by the admonishment. You wince and give a shrug, “yeah, I guess--” 

“I could help ya with the video. We could do something fun. Maybe... we could go for a walk with Aika. She loves the wilderness. Specially when there aren’t bombs hidin’.” 

You look down guiltily. You don’t blame him for wanting out of his old life. For being so excited to be away from the chaos. And you feel worse because you’ve taken all you have for granted. Each time he talks, he reminds you of your ignorance. 

“I guess... that sounds nice,” you sniff. 

“Sounds perfect to me,” he swallows his mouthful, “walking around with my girls, showing ‘em off.” He grins, “couldn’t ask for anything more.” 

[pedropascalsx]

Dabble request: F reader with Dieter Bravo. He finally wins a major award and the reader decides to award him with smutty sex

THE AWARD.

I slightly changed it and had them enter a bet… I hope that’s okay and I hope you like it. Also you sent this in April and I missed it, i’m so sorry it took so long.

Summary: you jokingly bet that you’ll fuck your best friend dieter bravo if he wins an oscar.

Warnings: Smut. P in V. Oral. (M&F receiving). Betting. Strong language. Dieter Bravo being… Dieter Bravo.

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F! Reader.

Word Count: 2053

A/N: I tried LOL. Thank you to @littlebirdsbookshelf for reading an unfinished version of this fic and encouraging me to finish it. I didn’t edit it and I’m too scared to read it back… so I don’t know how many mistakes are in it 😭😂 ENJOY!!

You groan as your phone wakes you up from the most comfortable sleep you’ve had in weeks, before reluctantly kicking off your covers and stepping out of bed.

The photo of Dieter Bravo's smug face flashing up on your phone screen makes you roll your eyes and curse his name before you swipe to answer. “It’s 5AM Diet, if someone isn’t dead, you’re able to be,” you growl into the phone.

“Shut up,” he says with an obnoxious chuckle, “I’m cashing in on our bet, pretty girl.”

“What?” You say before stuttering, “No. Not today, I’m not playing any of your annoying games this early.. . I’m hanging up and I'm going back to sleep, asshat.” You say, with a wide smile spreading across your face from the sound of his chuckling.

“I can hear you smiling.” He remarks and you roll your eyes again at how easily he can read you.

“What do you want, Dieter? I’m tired.”

“I already told you, I’m cashing in on our bet. March 21st 2015. You said you’d fuck me when I win an Academy Award.” Dieter recalls, his voice dripping with its usual arrogance.

“Buying a fake one from Etsy doesn’t count,” you sigh, imagining he’s just dragged himself back to his hotel from some club, “Dieter, if you haven’t already, go to bed, get so—.”

“I’m nominated,” he interrupts, ignoring the irritation in your voice, “My agent called me fifteen minutes ago. For Hunger Strike - Best Leading Actor.”

“Dieter, you better not be fucking with me.” You squeal with excitement, almost jumping up and down on the spot.

“Not yet, I’m not, pretty girl.”

“When are you home?” You ask, suddenly forgetting how tired you are.

“Eager are we?” He says, his eyebrows raising and the first real smile forming across his face in weeks despite his nomination.

“Shut up, asshat, you’ve got to fucking win the thing first… and if I recall correctly, which I do, I think I said I’d consider fucking you if you ever win one and I only said it so you’d take that damn role.”

“Mhmm. Nope. I don’t think I’ve ever heard the word ‘consider’ fall from those gorgeous lips before now,” he teases. “But jokes aside… Tell me you’ll come with me, I hate those fucking things, they’re only fun if you’re swooning over how handsome I am in a suit sitting next to me.”

“Shut up, asshat.”

“Come with me, pretty girl, put those shiny statues to shame, show them how you shine brighter.” He says, unaware of just how fucking cheesy he ends up sounding.

“Only if you buy me a burger after.” You say, glad he isn’t there to see the way you’re unable to stop yourself from smiling.

“Deal.”

*

You haven’t left his side for the past few days, he had asked you quietly to stay with him while he went through the required amount of press and you had made sure that your hand was close enough for him to squeeze when he needed it.

And today was no different, the confident Dieter Bravo the whole world thinks that they know, nowhere to be seen and instead the sweet Dieter that a few people have the pleasure of knowing sits beside you, looking at the dress bag containing the tuxedo he’ll be adorning in just a few hours time.

“You okay?” You ask, quietly bumping your shoulder against his.

“Ask me again when this is all over,” he says, before taking a generous sip of his drink. “I fucking hate red carpets.”

You take his hand and squeeze it a few times, before resting your head on those broad shoulders that you love so much.

“Whatever happens tonight, I’m really fucking proud of you.” You murmur into his skin, “Always have been, you’re the best friend i’ve ever had.”

He shushes you before pressing a kiss to the top of your head, grateful that you’re with him. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

“Let’s do this.” You say, with a little scrunch of your nose.

*

“And the Academy Award goes to… Dieter Bravo.” The gorgeous actress announces and you swear you can hear his heart beating.

He stands slowly, fiddling with the front of his jacket before turning to face you, immediately smashing his lips to yours in a fleeting kiss that steals your breath before shaking the hand of his director and making his way to the stage.

His speech is short but insightful. He makes sure to make eye contact with you as he thanks you for encouraging him to take the role and then shuffles off the stage as quickly as he can.

“Will you be mad if I suggest we skip the after party?” He asks after they finish engraving his oscar, the award ceremony now over and more hands shook than he could possibly be bothered to count.

“Not at all,” you say, resting your head against his shoulder, and inspecting his shiny new award.

“Room service burgers and a shitty movie to fall asleep in front of?” He suggests, before wrapping his hand around your waist.

“Sounds like heaven.”

*

“It’s really fucking pretty,” you say, your hands wrapped around the statue.

“Yeah,” he says, from somewhere behind you. Unable to stop his eyes from scanning up and down your body, and unable to ignore the way his heart leaps everytime he looks at you. “Second prettiest thing in this room.”

“I’d call you a charmer, but I'm pretty certain you’re about to announce that you’re in first place,” you say, turning around to face him with a giggle and a signature scrunch of your nose.

“No. It’s you.” He says, “In every room. It’s you.”

“Charmer.”

You both stand in comfortable silence for a few moments, just staring at each other before you take a step towards him. “Academy award winner, Dieter Bravo.”

“The one and only,” he scoffs, with a roll of his eyes. “You look really fucking beautiful by the way.”

“Shut up, asshat.” You mumble, now standing toe to toe. Unable to stop thinking about the bet that you had made a few years earlier, one that neither of you had mentioned since the day he was nominated.

He’s been your best friend for years. You met on the set of his very first movie, while working as a makeup artist and immediately struck up a friendship. And while there has always been an obvious attraction between you both, the fear that making a move and acting on it could potentially ruin your friendship had kept those feelings at bay.

But standing here and seeing the way that he’s looking at you, you can’t hold back, so you don’t. You surge forward and capture his lips, kissing him with the same intensity he had kissed you with earlier this evening, but this time it didn’t have to be fleeting. His mouth swallows your moans and his hands start to roam your body, squeezing and grabbing anywhere they could as he kisses you back.

He carefully pulls down the zipper on the back of your dress, dragging it slowly and savouring every second of this moment, a moment he’s been dreaming of since first laying eyes on you.

“Dieter,” you murmur softly against his jaw, wanting him to increase his painfully slow pace of undressing you. “Please.”

He increases his pace, frantically pulling on the material and letting it pool at your feet, before helping you step out of it and guiding you backwards towards the bedroom. His hands still greedily grabbing at any and every part of you as he lays you down.

He wastes exactly no time, pulling your panties off in one clear sweep and diving his head in between your legs. The noises he makes are loud and desperate as he laps at your clit with a messy intensity. Alternating between licking and sucking your little bud, only satisfied when you’re screaming his name and tugging at his signature messy locks before soaking his face with your arousal.

You whimper his name as he continues to lap at your clit, before gently pushing him away as it gets too much. Giggling slightly at the sight of his soaked face.

“Are you planning on getting undressed?” You ask as he moves up your body.

“Not this round,” he growls, before capturing your lips again. His movements are sloppy as he fumbles with his belt, pulling it through the loops and throwing it across the room, before pulling his pants down enough to expose his cock. You push him back slightly, and lay down in front of him on your tummy, a moan slipping out as you take a good look at his cock. Thick, long and throbbing. The tip flushed red with a bead of pre-cum, you lean forward, push up the bottom of his shirt and pepper light kisses on the swell of his tummy, nipping a few times before taking him in your mouth.

He groans your name as you hollow your cheeks, your jaw immediately aching from the sheer width of him and slowly you start to bob your head. Gagging slightly as he rocks his hips and pushes past your tonsils. The snap of his hips meet the rhythm of your enthusiastic mouth. After a few minutes he groans impatiently at not being able to touch you, before pulling out your mouth leaning over you and slapping your ass and then spreading your cheeks and tasting you this way.

You take him in your hand, stroking and flicking your wrist in perfect strokes, moaning his name in a perfect little chant as he uses his nose to tease your clit. You cum with a yelp of his name, taking you both by surprise as he soothes you through the aftershocks with gentle coos and little flicks of his tongue against your pretty little clit.

“On your back, pretty girl,” he orders, giving himself a few rough strokes as he watches you. “You ready for me, baby?” He says with a waggle of his eyebrows.

“I'm ready,” you confirm with a giggle, yelping with excitement as he pushes into you. Praising your ‘perfect little pussy’ as he fills you to the hilt. His arms swoop beneath your knees, so he can fuck into your deeper. “Move, D,” you beg as he waits, wanting you to adjust to the size of him.

The second you give him permission, he’s rolling his hips back, watching your face intently before snapping them forward. Loving the sound of your pretty moans as he thrusts back into you. He bends over and presses his lips against your face, thrusting himself in and out of you. Finding that spot and dragging his cock against it with ease, loving how reactive and tight your pussy gets around him.

“Oh Dieter,” you whimper, almost delirious with pleasure.

“I know, fuck, I know, baby girl,” he murmurs, “Taking my fat cock so well, baby.” You love how vocal he is, the sound of both of your moans filling the room. “You know how many times I’ve dreamed of this?” He whispers into your ear. “Every fucking day, since I met you.”

“Me too,” you stutter, seconds before your pussy clamps down around him and everything goes black. White hot pleasure erupting behind your eyes and his name becoming the only word you can speak.

It's a pleasure like you’ve never experienced, you feel him everywhere and you still want more and more. He keeps his pace as steady for as long as he can but his hips begin to falter, his pace more stilted as his cock begins to throb and he pulls out.

Stroking his cock hard and fast as he pants your cunt with thick pearly ropes of his cum.

“Holy shit.” You say with a giggle, “Even better than I imagined, D.”

“Me too,” he says as he collapses on top of you, leaning his weight onto his elbows. Kissing you gently, before nuzzling his face into your neck.

“So how was your night?” You ask with a giggle. “End as good as it started.”

“A million times better.” He says quietly.

You giggle loudly, “Better than winning the most coveted award in acting?”

“Not even a competition. You would win every time.”

[trulybetty]

sunday in review | I

hello.

I took an unexpected hiatus from this before Christmas - my time, responsibilities and health have shifted in the last couple of months and with several spinning plates, something had to give. But I'm trying it out again - we'll see how it goes, let me know if you have any feedback!

writing habits.

plotted: - Javi P. x reader for Kel’s ‘Taylor Swift Drabble Challenge’ - Dieter x reader for Kate’s ‘Brandi Carlise Drabble Challenge’

worked on (i.e. jumped into and maybe added like three words, it's been a week): - Sequins!Joel x Reader - Tim x Cagney - Salt Water (I’m determined this will see the light of day at some point this year) - Angsty Dieter x Reader - x3 Lucien x Reader (this man has rotted my brain) - Texas Hold ‘Em anthology

on the blog this week.

handwritten asks which I’m slowly working my way through so the perfectionist in me isn’t awoken lol. If you’ve come across it I said I’d keep it up until Sunday, but if you want to drop an ask I’ll answer any extras that come through

march madness | 2024 I knew the full 63 was a lofty goal for me, my time to read fanfiction is now at odds with my time to write and that window has slowly gotten smaller. So I’ve been trying to squeeze in time to read where I can (list to be uploaded later)

what I read.

The One (Dieter) @schnarfer

Let Me Lay Down Beside You (Joel) @jomiddlemarch

Bookworm (Marcus P.) @write-down-your-dreams

easy like Sunday morning (Dieter) @gnpwdrnwhiskey

Delta Landscaping - Chapter 15 (various Pedro characters) @rhoorl

what I watched.

Road House - this movie knew the assignment

Lioness - so many ideas involving Frankie running through my head

9-1-1: Lone Star - watched for Liv Tyler, somehow staying for Rob Lowe, I don't know who I am

what made my dash happy.

There’s another Frankie Cat in the wild!

Heidi’s Joel AU moodboard

Mel’s Javi edit, who’s coming bar hopping?

celebrating.

Lolabee's 1 Year of Fic Celebration: 5th-7th April

fanfic throwback. this is where I go back into my read list and pick one at random to share - because all fic shouldn't be relegated to the archives after they've been shared.

Glass by @idolatrybarbie marcus pike and prompt no. fifteen— “is there anything we can do?” “we won’t be doing anything."

what was on repeat.

coming in under the wire was beyonce | cowboy carter 🙌

hope you're having a great Sunday! Let me know what you're up to in the comments 💕

[my-castles-crumbling]

Hi I just have a question and I mean to ask it as respectfully as possible

When did people start head cannoning Regulus as trans? I just dont understand how people came to that conclusion?

I’m also just very uneducated on the trans community and I know that and just don’t really know where to get reliable information about the whole community and the people in it.

Idk in my opinion I just almost feel like people made Regulus trans to meet a diversity quota. I also feel like it kind of takes away from the fact that James could be genuinely attracted to biological males? Like maybe people are still so attached to Jily that they can’t truly let go of it even in his other ship?

Sorry I just really would like to see the point of view from someone who is part of the trans community (correct me if I’m wrong on that please) and also enjoys and writes trans Regulus. It really just makes me sad that I don’t read so many fanfics that I’m sure are absolutely beautiful just because I’m a little put off by Regulus (or even Remus) being trans.

Anyway I’d love to hear the reasoning you have and I’m so sorry if any of this came off as offensive or rude🫶

Okay, so to answer your first question, the first fic in ao3 tagged with trans! Regulus Black is dated in March 2016, so 8 years ago. (I see a Jegulus fic tagged in 2005, for comparison).

As far as people coming to the conclusion of reg being trans, I think it's just people seeing themselves in the character, or enjoying the headcanon. It's not like...deciding it IS canon. If that makes sense?

For information on the community, I'm not sure what you mean. Like information in being trans? If you have questions on that, I'm more than willing to answer them! I can point you to reliable websites or try to give you my own experience.

I don't think it's 'meeting a diversity quota.' I think it's that Harry Potter is genuinely super NOT diverse. Canonically, most characters are straight, cis, and white. And fanfiction writers like to write what they want and what they relate to. Many fanfic writers know trans people/are trans, so it's natural to include trans people in their works. It's not meeting a quota, it's just emulating their lives.

And as far as James's attraction..sure, he can be attracted to people with any genitals. But I think you're missing the point that trans Regulus IS a boy. Your body doesn't equal your gender. So when James is attracted to him, he is attracted to a boy. He is, therefore, gay (or at least queer) by being attracted to Regulus. Very gently, seeing trans Regulus as a substitution for Lily because they might have similar bodies is a bit transphobic. Though body parts can be important to some people, putting Regulus and Lily on the same plane is a bit off. (Also, many people headcanon James as pansexual, meaning he can be attracted to any gender, so he doesn't care what gender people are.) You ARE right in saying that some people probably do think this way though. But it's not okay.

As far as not liking the headcanon of trans!Regulus or trans!Remus or whoever...I don't think that's a bad thing IN THEORY. For example, I don't see Harry as trans. There are some Drarry fics which have trans!Harry and I don't read them, because that's not my headcanon. Fanfics are for your enjoyment, and you don't have to force yourself to read them if they don't share your specific headcanons. I would just think about WHY you're not reading these fics. If you just see these characters as cis, then that's fine! But if it's because you might need more education of transness and what it means to be trans, then maybe take the time to educate yourself and go from there, you know?

I hope that helps!

(Also if anyone wants to chime in in the comments, you're welcome to, but please be respectful, this was a genuine question)

[celestemagnoliathewriter]

Ok ok ok so this is something I have pondered for a bit now that I have re-entered the Remadora fandom again for the first time for probably almost 15 years. As you seem to be the de facto keeper of some of the deepest headcanons of this niche topic, I am curious what your take is.

Question: How many people do you think know, at least initially/when it happened, knew Remus left?

Hear me out here. Ok so the book isn’t remotely clear how long he was gone because we only get an update in like Feb/March when Ron returns but the Pottermore bio that he was actually gone for like 3 days, which is still absolutely a dick move, but significantly different than being gone for *months.*

Now, most fics I’ve read at any point have included him *saying* in some form that he’s leaving, either in the form of a letter of sorts, or I do really like TauraNorma’s whole scene in Flying Colours in which it’s an in-person conversation, but beyond dissociated from reality on his part.

But, if I were in her position, I don’t know how much I’d divulge to others? It would certainly be a difficult position. If she did stay with her parents for that period, or after, (I do love Remus saying she’d safe at her parents’ house as if they didn’t literally just get tortured. Bro. Really?) she *does* have some plausible deniability of “he had to go to some Order business” to them to have some shield for her own embarrassment.

Maybe to Molly and Arthur as a “hey if my husband lands at your house or something, wanna shoot me a message?” but past that I’m not 100% sure how I land with others knowing. It seems very possible to me that when Ron is with Billy and Fleur, Ron, while listening to Potterwatch or something, offhandedly asks them if he ever went back to Tonks and them being like sorry wat. And Ron having the unfortunate task of regaling what happened at Grimmauld Place in August. I could definitely see it spreading from there and more of their acquaintances finding out from that discussion but obviously Tonks is like 8 months pregnant and they’ve been living together seemingly the entire time.

Ok I’m sorry this ended up shockingly long. I may not have been entirely sober when furiously typing it out the first time.

Ahhhh what a compelling ask, @millennihilism!

I'm honored you consider me the de facto keeper of the HCs on this, but I'll also be the first to say that there are a LOT of differing opinions on this one because of the lack of canon data.

You're correct that Pottermore says that Remus was only gone about 3 days. We have no idea what circumstances he left Tonks in. Letter? In person? Dashing away in the night without a word? Who knows.

From a close reading of DH, there's no indication of how long Remus was gone. You could say 3 days, 3 weeks, 3 months, 8 months ... technically all canon compliant if you're not using Pottermore as a source.

That being said, my personal HC is no more than a week, and again, I know that many people would disagree with this assessment of Remus's absence, but I believe it's a shorter absence for many reasons, including an answer to your question of how many people knew that he left her.

Remus is a dick, but he's not *THAT* much of a dick. He's a coward, but he's not *THAT* much of a coward. Remus does have a good bit of kindness in him, and he's brave enough to do the right thing when push comes to shove. Harry literally shoved him. I think that put Remus squarely in his place and shamed him enough to return to Tonks.

Remus's support system is down to almost nothing. He presumably has the following people outside of Tonks: Molly and Arthur, Bill and Fleur. That's it. He thought he had the trio, but that wasn't true, given Harry rebuking him.

We know from Remus that he's been tailed by a Death Eater for three days before he came to Grimmauld Place. If he's been tailed by a Death Eater, where could he have been? Certainly not the Burrow, where they'd find him. Certainly not Shell Cottage, as it's under the Fidelius Charm, presumably. So that gives us an idea that if he was tailed by a Death Eater for three days (curiously, the amount of time Pottermore tells us he was gone for), and just now got to GP to talk to the trio, he's been on the go for three days by the time he gets to the trio.

Because there is nowhere to go for Remus, that puts him in an awkward position. I don't think that anyone outside the Tonkses knew he left her. I think that Remus left, and Tonks vacillated between being sure he was coming back and being really terrified and scared that something would happen to him. Oh, and anger. Lots of righteous anger. I can imagine she told her parents by way of explaining that she was living with them now. It's possible she told him he was on a mission, but they didn't believe her.

Because of the 3 day ordeal of being tailed by a Death Eater, this is why I do NOT think that Remus went to the Burrow or Shell Cottage before he came to GP, or after, for that matter. While we know that Remus knows about Shell Cottage - when he announces Teddy's birth in the spring - we don't know when that information was given to him. I don't think Lupin could've been gone for months and months because we do know that Ron was at Shell Cottage, and he didn't mention Lupin being there. It's possible Lupin went to Shell Cottage for a few weeks, but I'm also not buying that for other reasons.

Bill is the most lenient and understanding of the brothers, but there's a huge difference to me between Ron leaving his friends when times got tough and Lupin leaving his pregnant wife in the middle of a war. Plus, think of Fleur. Do you really think Fleur would be okay with Lupin crashing at her house to avoid his responsibilities? She gushes about how brave her husband is in the hospital wing scene. She'd look at Lupin like the tiniest and most miserable snail in the world if he dared use her home as a hiding place from his wife.

I also don't think that Bill and Fleur would be on Remus's side over Tonks. Bill was two years ahead of Tonks in school. Bill might have kinship with Remus after being attacked by Fenrir Greenback, but that kinship, IMO, is not going to be enough to defend Lupin's actions on leaving his wife. I also believe Lupin knew this, which is why I staunchly believe that Lupin NEVER went to Shell Cottage in his time away from Tonks.

So at the end of the day, who knew that Lupin left Tonks? Initially, likely only the trio and the Tonkses. Remus returns fairly quickly. I can imagine Ron sharing Lupin's arrival at GP to Bill and Fleur, who probably had shock and disappointment at Lupin's actions. But by then Lupin's back home so it's in the past. I assume Molly and Arthur would've been told through the grapevine, possibly Kingsley too, and everyone just keeps it under wraps because it's Remus having a moment of panic.

And for how long was Remus gone? I take the 3 day to a week position because Lupin had no viable places to stay without endangering other people, which seems to be his number one fear. I also take that timeline because he's being tailed and he knows it. He returns to the safest place, his home with Tonks and her parents, where they can be in hiding (forever furious Ted couldn't have stayed with them?? why did he die??? it makes no earthly sense except to give Teddy Lupin his name and have another orphan raised by his grandmother??)

At the end of the day, I will never ever ever ever buy the idea that Remus was gone for a long time. He does the right thing when push comes to shove, and he was shoved by Harry. He is a coward, but when the time is right, he does the brave thing. He also loves Tonks, and Tonks is forgiving and kind. That's why they work.

I hope this answers your questions!!

[crispyjenkins]

hunger 'verse "crispy has lost control of their life again" celebration sneak peek

will be starting a wip wednesday sort of thing maybe next week (which will include more than star wars related stuff since that's where most of my time is going these days), but wanted to do a lil celebration today 'cause i recently exceeded a thousand hours in skyrim, in less than a year, and that's quite an achievement for someone who said they'd never even touch an elder scrolls game so here's a lil sneak peek at the next and penultimate chapter of all we have is hunger! i'm really excited for the second to last scene of the whole fic but i haven't even started writing it yet so here's this instead~ (told y'all there would eventually be qui-gon—punching)

When Jaster Mereel comes at him fist-first with no prologue, Qui-Gon sighs and accepts it.

  It’s far from the first time he’s been punched in the face, and it’s not even the first time Jaster has done so, but the sharp impact is as nausea-inducing as ever, even having expected and braced himself for it.

  “If I thought you could accept, I’d challenge you to an honour duel right here, right now, Master Jinn,” the man snarls, panting more from the effort of restraining himself than the actual blow.

  It probably says something about Qui-Gon, and his many recent blunders that he isn’t sure which exactly Jaster is pissed at him for.

  “However,” Jaster grits, watching him hold his nose with a snarl of satisfaction. It doesn’t look like he’d drawn much blood, but Jaster hadn’t held back either, Qui-Gon’s eyes watering even as he stands there and accepts Jaster’s rage. “As it is, I won’t ask you to set aside your own culture to satisfy mine, but make no mistake: you would not win.”

  “I am aware,” Qui-Gon coughs, and is actually relieved he can’t see how the others scattered in the courtyard are taking such a violent interruption of their afternoon. “May I ask for what you’d be challenging my honour?”

  Scoffing, Jaster forces himself to relax, and props his helmet on his hip. “Obi-Wan.”

  “... Unfortunately, you’ll have to be more specific.”

  Jaster bears his teeth in a mirthless smile, but doesn’t actually answer Qui-Gon’s question. “Where is my son?”  he asks instead, looking around the courtyard as if Jango Fett would appear from the small crowd their altercation has gathered.

  With a sigh, Qui-Gon holds his sleeve to his nose and avoids the glare of one of the handmaidens. “Presumably with Messere Naberrie,” he says, “though I should warn you that there is another Jedi from my Temple that may be with him as well.”

  “Plo Koon,” Jaster agrees with a satisfied nod, “I look forward to seeing him again. Jinn.” He gives Qui-Gon a perfunctory nod of farewell and doesn’t wait for a response, marching into the palace proper like the military man he is.

  Qui-Gon lets out another sigh.

-

[shion-yu]

Hiiii,

Just coming on to see if I could request an Alex and Shu fic. I have been around for a while so you may have already written something along these lines so ignore me if you have lol.

I was thinking about a sickfic when Alex is a bit older like 17ish maybe, and is more acclimatised to living with Shu and to their dynamic. I'd love to see Alex get sick (preferably emeto) and how he handles Shu towards him and his own illness compared to how he did when he was 13 and seemed in your fics to really struggle with it all. Maybe gets sick at school and is embarrassed etc but whatever scenario you think will fit this kind of age/time period and dynamic between Alex and Shu.

Hopefully, it makes sense, and I'd adore seeing what you come up with!!

Day 4: "Great, I got a cold for my birthday."

Answering this ask for @sicktember - thank you so much for sending it! 2,016 words, no TW, CW mention of vomit. ft. a sick 16-year-old Alex.

Friday, March 22, 2013. 

Alex stared at the calendar hanging on his bedroom wall and the blank square at the end of the week. He would turn sixteen on Friday and everyone was making a big deal out of it. He could get his learners permit to drive, but driving wasn't something he was especially excited about unlike some of his classmates. He didn't have the most compelling reasons to need to, after all. He could walk to school, Ryo's house and the neighborhood convenience store where he worked all on his own. There was nowhere else he particularly felt the need to go. Shu told him that he could take his permit exam as soon as he wanted to, and they'd already done a few laps in parking lots together. Alex wasn't bad, but he had trouble remembering all the little things at once. Shu said it would come with practice. 

The thing was, Alex wasn't interested in driving. He didn't care about going out with his classmates or impressing anyone. In fact, he silently dreaded growing up and graduating from high school because that meant being alone again. Shu had adopted him when he was fourteen, but that didn't change the fact that Shu clearly had big dreams for him: of moving out and going to college when he graduated high school. Alex felt as if he’d been only just getting comfortable for years now. He wasn't ready for more change yet.

“Do you want to do anything for your sweet sixteen?” Shu asked him on Monday.

“Isn't that for girls?” Alex asked. 

Shu shrugged. “Maybe? Either way, it's your birthday.”

“It's not like there’s anyone I’d have a party with,” Alex pointed out. Shu frowned but didn't deny it because he knew this was true. There was only Ryo, and Shu’s mom Fulu, both of whom came over all the time. Alex didn't really like anybody else, something he made clear. The teasing had mostly stopped after middle school, but Shu knew it was probably still there, just in a different form: in snickers and whispers, in rumors that stung each time they reached Alex, sometimes intentionally. Ryo had confirmed as much. 

So there wasn't a party, but Shu said they would go to dinner at a nice restaurant with Ryo and Fulu. Alex complained he didn't want to go anywhere fancy, so this was downgraded to Olive Garden. Then Alex complained this was still too formal, and it was further downgraded to the local Tex-Mex joint - which also meant Fulu was out, because she hated Mexican food. By Wednesday, Ryo was counted out too: he was absent from school that day and texted Alex that he had strep throat. This left only Shu and Alex going for Tex-Mex, which was just a regular weeknight occurrence. Shu worried Alex would be disappointed, but he didn't seem like he cared. 

This turned out to be a good thing, because on Friday morning Alex too woke up with a fever and a sore throat so swollen he could barely speak. “Happy birthday!” Shu said when Alex wobbled into the kitchen where Shu was making eggs and bacon as a special start to the day. He took one look at Alex, grimaced and turned the stove off. “Looks like Ryo might've got you,” he sighed. “Back to bed.”

Alex didn't have the energy to deny that he didn't feel good. Last night he'd been snippy at dinner and eaten little, but now he just felt like crap. So he went back to his bedroom and Shu followed him, the smell of bacon grease on his clothes making Alex feel nauseous. 

Shu felt Alex’s cheek for fever once he was back in bed. Alex didn't like being touched much, but he minded less when it was Shu - and when he was sick. Shu shook his head and told Alex to open up so he could shine his phone flashlight down Alex’s throat. It took Shu only a second to shake his head again with a sigh. “Definitely looks like strep,” he said. “And on your birthday, too. I’m sorry bud.”

“It doesn't matter,” Alex croaked. It was just another day, he thought to himself. 

“I’ll see if Dr. Fred can see you today,” Shu said. Alex glared at him this time. Shu knew he hated going to the doctor. “If it's strep you need antibiotics,” Shu pointed out. “You know Dr. Fred’s better than urgent care.”

This was true. Dr. Fred was the pediatrician who had been seeing Alex since he first came to live with Shu. Alex had not liked him at all at first, suspicious and recoiling constantly during the initial physical. But over time Alex had gotten used to him and at the least, no longer bared his teeth at Dr. Fred as if he might actually bite him anymore. It didn't mean he fully trusted the guy though. Alex still said no when Dr. Fred would ask him things like, “Do you want your guardian to leave the room now?” He felt better if Shu was close.

Shu went to call the doctor’s office and Alex texted Ryo: Thanks for giving me strep.

Ryo texted back right away: Nooooo! I’m sorry!! And on your birthday too :’(

Alex sighed and put his phone down. His head hurt, and when he closed his eyes he could feel his heartbeat pulsing behind them. Shu came back a few minutes later. “Dr. Fred said he can see you if you come right now before his first patient comes,” he said. “Let’s go.”

“Do I have to?” Alex grumped.

“Yes. I’ll get you ice cream on the way home,” Shu promised.

Alex sat up and glared at him. “I’m not a little kid anymore,” he snapped. “You can't just bribe me.” But it turned out, Shu absolutely could and they went to the pediatrician, the pharmacy, and finally, the ice cream parlor where Shu dashed inside to buy Alex’s favorite soft serve chocolate ice cream in a bowl with a sugar cone on the side.

“We’ll celebrate when you can swallow,” Shu told him. “Don't eat that cone if it hurts too much.”

Alex rolled his eyes.”Thanks, dad,” he said sarcastically. Alex rarely called Shu dad, and when he did it was usually in a teasing way such as this. It still made Shu smile, though. Shu was so easy to please. 

Post-appointment and ice cream run, they returned home with Alex exhausted and achy in the passenger seat. “Why don’t you rest for a while?” Shu suggested after he’d given Alex his first dose of antibiotics plus a Tylenol. “I won’t do anything fun without you.”

“I don’t care if you do,” Alex rolled his eyes. Shu didn’t react. He was so used to this snippy attitude that it didn’t phase him anymore. People had told him, when he first took Alex in, that things would be more difficult with an older teen. But for Shu, fifteen and now sixteen year old Alex had been a breeze compared to their first year together. There was little that could compare to taming a newly orphaned, guilt-ridden twelve to thirteen year old who was convinced he was responsible for the death of three people. One who so vehemently, violently denied any love that was offered to him that Shu had the scars and patches in the walls to prove it. But things got better, eventually. Sometimes they had seemed as if they never would, but they did. Shu had officially adopted Alex when he was fourteen and he never regretted it, although he made it a priority to make sure Alex never felt he did. And right now, he knew that while Alex would never admit it, the boy became extra sensitive when he was sick thanks to his propensity towards fever nightmares. 

It turned out that afternoon was no exception. Shu had called in to work even though he knew his boss would have some offhand comment when he came back about how his kid was old enough to take care of himself by now. He didn’t care - his years with Alex had finally helped him realize that work was not always the most important thing in his life. He was doing the dishes when he heard the bathroom door slam.

Shu dried his hands and knocked on the door. “Alex? Are you alright?” Shu called. He hoped Alex would growl back that he was just peeing and to bug off, but instead he got the low groan that he’d feared. “I’m coming in,” Shu announced himself as he entered. He found Alex crouched over the toilet, the smell of sick mixed with the distinct sourness of antibiotics hanging heavy in the air. Shu sighed in pity and kneeled on the floor next to Alex, lightly resting a hand on Alex’s sweat-soaked back. Alex shook him off, then threw up some more. It sounded painful; Shu could only imagine how much it burned Alex’s already-sore throat.

“Jeez. Sorry, bud. It’ll be over soon,” Shu said. He fetched a glass of water from the kitchen and returned with it in hand, by which time Alex was flushing the toilet. Shu set the glass on the sink and wet a cold washcloth. “Let’s get you back in bed, are you done?”

Alex looked up at him, his face red and eyes teary. He nodded miserably. He always appeared so young when he was sick and Shu instantly wished he could do something else to help. But all he could do was hand Alex the washcloth to wipe his face off and direct him to rinse his mouth with the water before following the teen back to his bedroom. Alex slumped heavily into bed, whimpering.

“Does your stomach feel any better?” Shu asked gently, pulling Alex’s trash can next to the bed regardless of the answer.

“I don’t know,” Alex said in a small voice.

“Do you want company?” Shu asked.

“I guess,” came the answer after a moment of hesitation.

Shu left and returned with the water from the bathroom, a bottle of Gatorade and the book he was reading. Then he climbed onto the foot of the bed and sat with his back to the wall. He read his book. Alex rested. They didn’t speak, but this was what they both knew was what Alex wanted. Just company. He didn’t like to be fussed over, or doted on, or asked a lot of questions. He wouldn’t want Shu to ask about his nightmares that were too big to explain. He just liked having Shu close by, and that was all. After years of practice, Shu simply knew.

They spent the day in Alex’s bedroom. Shu reading, Alex napping on and off or watching videos on his phone when he wasn’t. The infection seemed to drain all of Alex’s energy and he wasn’t hungry, although Shu coaxed some light broth into him that Alex did keep down. The evening dose of antibiotics stayed put too, and by the next morning Alex was already feeling significantly better. He still had a low grade fever and stayed put, but Shu knew it was only a matter of time - maybe tomorrow - before Alex felt well enough to complain about going out. Alex had always bounced back from any illnesses with an impressive speed and as soon as he felt ready to leave the house, he would. 

On Sunday afternoon, Alex went to Ryo’s house. He’d been fever free for twenty-four hours now so Shu didn’t argue. He was glad to see Alex feeling better. But there was always a part of him that treasured the moments when Alex admitted he wanted Shu close. It was the one time Shu felt Alex wanted him more than he wanted Ryo, and he played that role dependably. He would always, always be there for Alex as long as the boy still wanted him. Hopefully, he selfishly sometimes allowed himself to think, Alex would need him just a little bit forever. 

[goldeneyedgirl]

12 kisses: march: scars, anathema.

Wow, it's been a hot minute since I posted anything. I'm kind of back? I've finished a semester successfully, just waiting for grades and information on next semester (I'm lowkey excited about my ofic that I'm writing for school), and just dealing with more health stuff plus I live surrounded by varying levels of Other People's Nonsense that I am involved in dealing with for an unknown reason.

But I'm back to writing fic, and thought I'd upload some stuff that's been marinating since February. First up, catching up on the 12kisses meme with something from Anathema. This looked different in my head but it's cute and it's building up Jasper's Anathema backstory, so I'm happy.

Asks will be answered, chapters will be finished,but today I'm just doing warmups and fic housekeeping.

12 kisses: march: scars, anathema

[ scars ] a gentle kiss on the partner’s scars

I’m frozen solid by the time we make it home, shivering under three layers of soaked clothing - I’m not entirely sure my puffer jacket is ever going to recover from this. It’s less ‘puff’ and more ‘soggy’ now.

“We need to get you warm and dry,” Jasper said, sounding stressed, as I fumbled with the house keys, my fingers numb. He’d been worried since he bundled me into the car; he was so protective of me. I might have been miserably cold, but there was no way I’d get sick from twenty minutes cold. But Jasper preferred to err on the side of caution - my human half - rather than risk me getting so much as a paper cut.

It was pretty cute, honestly.

“First stop, the shower.” I flipped on the lights as we went in; the entire house was dark. Freddie and Dulcie were at the conference in Seattle all weekend, and it had taken a lot of effort to convince them to let me stay home alone rather than going with them, or staying with the Clearwaters (not that I was on entirely good terms with the Clearwater since Jasper showed up. Sue was positively distant with me lately.) But I definitely needed to convince Dulcie or Freddie to let me get a cat - especially for nights when I was on my own. Not that it happened all that often. Hell, Dulcie had even offered to let me stay at her place, but I was happier here - especially since Jasper had upgraded my laptop and fixed the wifi.

Half-tripping up the stairs - my toes were numb in my boots with cold, I found the apartment was slightly more welcoming since I’d accidentally left the living room lamp on. My clothes were leaving a trail of water behind me, and my hands were shaking as I pulled out dry clothes and a towel, leaving a set for Jasper to dry off.

“Shower, Alice,” Jasper said firmly. “You’re freezing.”

“At least dry off your clothes,” I said, clenching my teeth to stop them chattering. “Use the dryer.” I could see him on the fence about that idea. “I can’t warm up and them get cold again from your wet clothing.”

“Go shower,” he said, and I knew I’d won as he gently pushed me towards the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later, I was toasty warm in a giant sweater, leggings, and the socks that Dulcie had knitted me for Christmas. My hair was ridiculously frizzy and I had tried to pin it down the best I could, but it still looked childish.

I dumped my clothes in the hamper to be dealt with in the morning before I wandered back through the apartment and out onto the landing where Jasper was drying his clothing. Our ‘laundry’ was in a closet on the landing because we had nowhere else to put it until someone (most likely Dulcie) cleared out the second floor so we could use it again.

Jasper was standing there in his jeans, checking his phone as his sweatshirt dried, and I was fully intending on just enjoying the view - he was staunchly old-fashioned towards me, but I had quickly worked out it was a defence mechanism. It was easier for him to fall back into the vague social expectations of his human life right now because everything was overwhelming. I’d cheerfully bullied him into doing things like holding my hand, and curling up on my bed with me to watch a movie, but both of those things were done fully clothed and there was still a very respectful distance between us.

That is to say, I had never seen him shirtless. And I had wanted to mentally imprint the imagine on my brain for the foreseeable future (I was very doubtful that being defiled on a gurney downstairs was going to be come to pass before I turned thirty), except…

The scars.

I knew he hand them; there were some on his arms and hands that I’d see, a couple of shallow ones on his face. He’d told me about life in the south and everything that happened with Maria and Peter, but I’d always felt that he was holding something back.

Now I had proof. The scars on his back overlapped; they looked like claws had dug into his shoulder blade and travelled down to his opposite hip. There were nicks in the skin and bite marks and smaller scratches.

And when he put his phone back in his pocket, all the muscles and skin pulled tightly against the scar tissue; I inhaled sharply. I know bodies. I know how they fit together, how they move. Human bodies aren’t even the same as vampire bodies; I know that. The venom does horrific things to the tissue and the muscle and the ligaments and the joints… But all I could think of was how every time Jasper moved, the scar tissue would try to stop him.

Jasper turned around when he heard me, his eyes wide. And I got even more of an eyeful. The damage on his chest and stomach were… different to his back. Not better or worse, just different. At one point, it look like he had been torn open from clavicle down to his stomach. Scratches, gouges, bites littered his body and all I could do was stare.

It wasn’t like anything I had ever faced downstairs. Even the bear attacks or falls weren’t like this. Because no human had to go on living with the remains of those fates. Jasper did.

“Alice, I…” he began and I shook my head, already moving.

“Oh Jasper,” I managed, before I flung my arms around him. His skin was cold against my face, but it was reassuring - I had become used to the fact that he was always going to be cold, or room-temperature at best. It was comforting and familiar now.

He stood rigidly in my grasp for a moment, before I felt his hand rest gently on my shoulder.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t intend for you to see this,” he said so kindly I wanted to cry. “I just wanted to dry my clothing before you came out, I’m sorry.”

I frowned at him. There was a horrific scar where his neck joined his shoulder, and I could see the teeth marks at the edges. “Why are you sorry?”

“It’s not an easy sight,” Jasper said, and he looked away from me. “It wasn’t something I wanted you to ever have to deal with.”

Well. Apparently I grossly overestimated gurney-defilement at age thirty; Jasper had planned on it being never.

A million things raced through my head when he said that. Jokes about wedding nights, frustration that he thought I was too delicate to deal with reality, the insistence that it didn’t matter because it did, to him. He was apart of a family without blemish - some shadows from the scars that changed them but nothing even remotely close to what Jasper bore. Maybe it had been the Cullens that had taught Jasper to hide them, to cover them up, and I felt frustration rise up in me.

“I cannot stand the idea of you hurting,” I blurted out, my fingers twisting through the belt loops in his jeans. “Do they hurt now?”

He watched me, frowning, for a second. “No, they haven’t hurt in a very long time,” he said, and I felt the ghost of confusion drift over my skin. “They’re just there, they won’t ever fade.”

“But your back, I could see the muscles pulling,” I said. The idea that Carlisle, a surgeon, hadn’t done anything about Jasper’s scarring was stressing me out. I’d cut more than one scar through on the bodies downstairs, so that they could lay flat and look comfortable.

“I can feel some of them, but they don’t hurt or restrict me. Vampire skin doesn’t work that way,” Jasper said soothingly. “It simply moves with me. If there was resistance, they’d tear.”

A shudder that ran through me as I curled closer to him. “I don’t like that,” I said honestly. I’d see torn, cracked vampire flesh once, a couple of years ago when a nomad needed to be disposed of. It didn’t look real.

“We treated our wounds to make sure we didn’t lose movement, Alice.” His voice is kind and patient, and I hate that he’s comforting me. “It would be a death sentence otherwise.”

“How did they happen?” I asked, absently tracing one on his arm. “What animal did these?”

Jasper sighed; it was the kind of sigh that came from so much time and misery. “Newborns. Maria. Battles. No animals, just monsters,” he sounded tired. “I’m sorry Alice, I didn’t want you to have to see this side of us. Of me.”

I shook my head. “Sit. I want to know,” I said. Sinking to the floor, I immediately sat in his lap, curled against him. “You should have told me before.”

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” Jasper replies smartly, grabbing my hand and stretching out my arm, to push up my sweater sleeve. Three scars along the arm that I never really thought about; they were smooth against the rest of my skin.

“That’s easy,” I said. “That one, when I broke my arm as a kid - bone tore straight through the skin, I screamed like I was on fire. Jeanie nearly had a heart attack when she found me. I only needed three weeks in a cast.

“That one was a dog bite. Mrs O’Brian, who owned the camping store before the Newtons moved to town, had this retriever. I’d never met a retriever that wasn’t super friendly. He just sunk his teeth into me and shook. I thought Freddie was going to kill the dog and Mrs O’Brian.” I shrugged. “And the last one - was getting ready to work on a body downstairs, and I had a vision when I picked up the scalpel. I fainted and stabbed myself pretty badly. Sue had to give me a bunch of stitches.”

Jasper’s fingers were cool against my arm as he traced the marks. “Any others?”

“I mean, there’s a burn scar on my stomach from when I leaned over my hair straightener,” I said. “A couple of shaving cuts around my ankles. One on my thigh from when I tripped in the forest. These are just living scars, Jas. Not like yours.”

Jasper nodded but was still focusing on the marks on my arm.

“It.. it wasn’t something we worried about,” he says, quietly. “Newborns were cannon fodder, it didn’t matter what happened to them. If they were too far gone, we’d just destroy them - we didn’t want to waste the resources to heal them up again.

“But I had to be on the frontline for us to win, to stay in control,” he continued. “I was a target; everyone knew that without me, Maria couldn’t control an army that size or hold her territory.

“Maria or… Peter would be the one to put me back together. Peter would try not to make a big deal out of it. But Maria, she’d tell me how bad it was. That I needed to fight smarter, that it didn’t have to be this bad. That I was wasting blood and time.” He shivered and looked up at me. “‘It won’t be worth keeping you around much longer’. That’s what she said to me at the end. As if I wasn't still winning, as if she didn’t have her territory.”

Jasper shook his head. “So I get to walk around like this.” The bitterness and self loathing in his voice was evident, even without the emotions boiling around him. “The Cullens, they made sure I stayed covered up for the first couple of years. Esme and Rose, they have histories with violence, and they needed to feel I was safe…”

I squeeze my eyes shut, and try to wrestle down the flare of anger I feel at the idea Jasper was made to feel like a monster, a dirty secret, because he’d been raised in a war zone.

“You deserve so much better, Alice.” The tenderness in his voice was heartbreaking. “If things were different - if I was stronger - I never would have let myself get close to you. A better version of me, in a perfect world. Someone whole and normal who isn’t like this.”

He buried his face in my hair, his arms firm around me as if he was holding on for dear life. And I am stricken. I am not an idiot, I knew that Jasper struggled. That the human facade and living this way was like wearing ill-fitting clothes for him. That I terrified him in so many ways, but especially how easily I had accepted him and invited him closer.

And his second life had taught him one lesson over and over again; that in the end, he would be alone. Cast out, broken, used up. Nettie and Lucy, Maria, Peter… the lesson had stuck. And a few months together wasn’t enough to erase those decades of misery, of bone-deep fears.

My lips press against the snarl of the scar on his neck, and I felt him shiver underneath my touch. I knew I was turning red - there was something so intimate about the gesture, even though I didn’t intend anything salacious.

“I need you to know I love you as you are,” I said, his face still tucked in my hair. “That this you is my you, and there’s not a single thing I would change about you.”

“To me, you are perfect,” I heard him murmur into my hair. I didn’t know if he was reassuring himself with words I’d told him before or telling that to me, but I didn’t get a chance to clarify; he looked up and tilted my head back, his thumb absently stroking my cheek.

“I don’t deserve you,” he said, and there was something so sad yet so fierce in his gaze.

“And I’ve done nothing to deserve someone like you,” I replied. “We’re a perfect match. I adore you.”

Jasper chuckled, and there was a flicker in his eyes for moment as he seemed to lean closer… but whatever was going to be said or happen after that was lost as the dryer let out a thunk, a wheeze, and a chime to let us know that Jasper’s shirt was now dry.

“Time to go inside,” he said, the moment gone as he rose to his feet, helping me up before grabbing his sweatshirt from the dryer.

“I really was enjoying the show,” I said mournfully as he tugged his sweatshirt on. Jasper let out a surprised chuckle, and reached for me again.

“Time and patience, Alice,” he said in a funny way; all-knowing and reassuring but with a new warmth to his words. “All good things arrive eventually.”

I smiled up at him as he took my hand and lead me towards the apartment door.

For him, I would wait forever.

[dreamyelectronicmusic]

I'm loving your Wilmon fic so very very much! I was feeling mostly done with YR and all related media and ready to let it go - in a happy, pleased-with-season-3, it's all wrapped up and my hectic job is demanding my attention way - and then it was like your fic just broke through my walls and reminded me why I fell in love with the show and its characters. Your Wille and Simon are so good to each other. Their anticipation and nerves and exhilaration as they begin to reconnect - it's everything.

I was surprised to see it's your first YR fic! I'm curious about your story of finding the show - when did that happen for you, when did you first feel inspired to create this beautiful extension of the YR world?

Aw, thank you so much for this lovely ask, I'm so happy you like the fic! 💜💜

I discovered YR literally on day one! Or even before day one, because I remember scrolling through Netflix’s coming soon page and watching the teaser. I remember thinking it looked like an Elite-type trashy teen show but that I would probably watch it because it’s Swedish (I love Nordic languages). Then on July 1, 2021, at like 10 pm, I was looking for something to numb my brain and YR popped up on the Netflix homepage and I thought, oh I think that's the Swedish show I said I’d watch, let’s give it a try. So I watched the first episode and needless to say it did not numb my brain, I was immediately hooked. But I decided to be responsible and go to bed, and I watched eps 2-4 the next day, and then the day after that was a Saturday and beautiful weather so I went on a hike, and all the time I was trudging up hills I kept thinking “omg omg Wilhelm and Simon are so cute and August is such an asshole omg omg what is going to happen I need them to live happily ever after”. So yeah, I’ve been obsessed from the start 😂

I was never inspired to write fic for it before because I tend to prefer canon to be complete before I write anything, but mostly because I have this weird mental block about reading/writing fic in a different language than the one I consumed the original in. It just doesn’t sound right! (I watch the show in Swedish with English subtitles, so I want fics to also be in Swedish with English subtitles. Yes I know it doesn’t make sense). I guess the inspiration for ‘maybe now’ was strong enough for me to overcome that but tbh it still doesn’t sound right and I have to do weird mental gymnastics to write it 😂

Inspiration for the fic struck very shortly after the show, this is a post I made on March 19:

Ok so who's writing a fic where Simon didn't notice Wille running after the car, or noticed him but couldn't bear to talk to him again, and they have no contact for a year until Wille's decision to give up the crown is made public on his 18th birthday, prompting Simon to reach out and tell him how proud and happy for him he is?

And then I guess I didn’t wait for an answer and wrote it myself!

The inspiration came from the fact that while I love the ending we got and I am so happy that we got it, I do agree with people who think that it was rushed. Given what the first 17 episodes were like, we got the best possible episode 18, but in an ideal world, I would have liked another season, or the three seasons to have more episodes, or the episodes that we got to have a different pacing so that there was more time between the breakup and them getting back together. This is what I wrote in a reaction post after the first five episodes:

If this weren't the last season, I think I'd want them to break up now, take some time apart and get back together after some separate personal growth. But there simply isn't time for that.

One thing about me is that I love it when characters go their separate ways, have some separate growth and find out that they can live without each other, but they just really don’t want to. So in a way it’s a kind of fix-it fic for me.

Anyway, thank you for the ask and sorry I wrote a novel in response!

[dominimoonbeam]

The Lonely Hearts Club - 2

The coffee shop au continues!!

Oh, we're bumping the rating from M to E. Nothing has HAPPENED yet but Gavin has a lot of thoughts and just... yeah, we might as well bump it right now because I'm working on chapter 3 and this has gotten STEAMY. <3 <3

Gavin/David/Asher DAVINSHER

Fic from the start on ao3.

tags: flirting, non-magical au, getting together, lots of tension, we're getting steamy

The Lonely Hearts Club - 2

David tried not to smile when Gavin walked into his café that afternoon.

He stepped right up to the counter, oversized sweater hanging on his shoulders, showing off neck and collarbone. The sleeves hung down to his knuckles, his palm on the counter when he leaned over it and ordered today’s challenge. “Mocha cookie crumble Frappuccino with two shots of espresso, 2 pumps of raspberry, and strawberry purée.”

David screwed up his face. “Seriously?”

“It’s going to be amazing. Assuming you can make it, of course…”

“Fuck you. You know I can. What size? Don’t answer that. You’re getting a grande.”

“With almond milk,” he added, beaming.

“Of course.” He rang it up. “You’re not going to order his drink too?”

Gavin’s smile grew. “And deprive him of getting to talk to you? Never.”

David rolled his eyes at the weird joke and started working on the order. The door chimed and he cast a glance toward it, expecting to see Asher. The two had been coming in together since that rainy day a month ago. They didn’t arrive together, but they were meeting up. David was happy to see it. Asher had been a regular for a couple years but this last one he’d been… down? Off? He just hadn’t seemed happy anymore. He smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes. His shoulders sagged and his gaze was far away.

The worst had been that rainy day when he just stood there, like he hadn’t even heard David ask if he wanted his usual. And then he’d ordered coffee! Just regular coffee. David was torn between worry about him and being peeved he was using perfectly good coffee like a damn punishment. Watching him sip and cringe grated his nerves like nothing before ever had. Why? Why was he doing that? Why hadn’t he just ordered what he liked?

David hadn’t been able to stand it and made him his usual, swapping them out.

He’d then drank Asher’s coffee. He told himself it was not to be wasteful.

But in the weeks since, Asher had become himself again. Or at least, as much of him as David knew. He seemed happy, bounding in and converging with Gavin at what had become their usual table. David wasn’t sure if they were dating or not. They were definitely flirting but it seemed limited to words and stray touches.

He hadn’t realized how much he was looking forward to seeing Asher join Gavin at the counter until he looked up and saw someone else pushing their way in.

His ex had their mouth pressed tightly and a box in their arms.

Oh shit.

His heart clenched and heat rushed his face, but he tried not to show any of it.

They marched up to the counter but instead of ordering anything, they dropped the box with a heavy thump.

Yep. That was happening.

“I told you I’d be by the get it…” David said.

“I have plans tonight and you’re not invited,” they shot back.

He nodded, accepting this. Despite all their efforts to make it look like they were dumping him this last week, he had actually been the one to initiate the breakup. They were hurt and he accepted that. If this made them feel better in any way, then he’d take it. They weren’t a bad person and he wanted the best for them, but it just hadn’t felt right. They wanted to move in together, to plan a future, and he wasn’t seeing it. He didn’t want to waste their time just because it was more comfortable to stay in than get out. It wouldn’t have been right. He steamed the milk. “Okay.”

They glared at him for a second longer before turning and marching back out, somehow slamming a whisper door behind them.

The silence after them was dramatic as hell, because Gavin was standing right there—letting that silence stretch until David glanced at him. He smiled, like he’d just walked in on something he shouldn’t have seen.

“Shut up,” David mumbled.

Gavin shook his head, still smiling. “Sorry. Sorry. But damn, you’re cold.”

David poured his drink and then handed it off to him.

Gavin took it but sidestepped back to the front counter, looking down into the box. “Is this one of those on again off again relationships?” he asked casually, sucking at the straw and eying David’s things.

David felt exposed in a way that made his skin warm and tight, but he didn’t snatch the box back just yet either… “No.”

Gavin nodded, leaning forward to see around some of those objects but not moving any, eyes widening a fraction.

What was in the box? What had he left at their place to be returned? A hoodie maybe?

“How long were you together?”

“Almost six months.” Why was he answering?

Gavin’s gaze flicked up from the box to David. “Interesting… So, you wanna join our club now?”

“What?”

“The Lonely Hearts Club.”

David rolled his eyes and grabbed the box, pulling it off the counter. It was heavier than he expected. He glanced down into it. A hoodie, some games, the headphones he’d given them for their birthday, and… His face felt like it was one fire when he shoved the box under the counter, the sex toy rolling heavy at the bottom.

Gavin’s gaze was waiting for him, that grin fucking wolfish.

“I’m not really looking to jump into another relationship right now,” he grumbled and, again, wondered why he was even answering the questions. He didn’t have to. He knew that.

Gavin sucked his drink from the straw and then swallowed a large gulp.

David narrowed his eyes, knowing exactly what the other man was doing and refusing to gawk the way Asher did.

“It’s more of a friends without relationships club. So far, it’s just been sexting and flirty coffee dates… but we’re going to a club this weekend. You could join… if you were interested, of course. No strings. Nothing serious.”

David defaulted to a skeptical frown.

Gavin didn’t seem the least bit put off by it, but he didn’t press either. He grabbed one of the napkins and a pen, writing his number down. “Think about it. If you’re not into us, that’s totally okay and I promise not to bring it up again, okay? But if you are… well… if you are interested, you are currently missing out on some incredible voicemails from Asher…”

The door chimed again and this time it was Asher.

-

Gavin turned around to see Asher walk up to the counter. His black work t-shirt hugged his shoulders and his hair a perfect mess. He’d come straight from work. So far, they were still keeping their meetings to this coffee shop. It had been their way of going slow—of being friends developing benefits rather than a one-night stand.

Not that it had taken them more than a week to go from flirty texts to sexy texts to pictures and audio that couldn’t be called anything but pornographic. The first time Asher sent him an audio clip, late at night, breathy and riled up, Gavin had gone hard instantly. He’d goaded him on—wanting to hear more—telling him what he wanted him to do and then waiting breathlessly for the response—for the audio of Asher touching himself and whining. Fucking whining! The sounds he made…

Gavin’s dick twitched in his jeans just thinking about it, so he quickly pushed the memory aside. Not that Asher made it easy when he hugged him.

“The usual?” David asked just before Ash was about to order.

He grinned and nodded, pulling his wallet out. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Gavin took another sip off his drink and his thoughts strayed to the box David had under the counter… the one with a decent sized dildo rolling around at the bottom. Was it David’s? Or was the ex trying to rekindle something? By the way he’d blushed and put the box away when he saw it, Gavin had to wonder if it was David’s. He pushed away the mental images of the barista working that thing into himself. He’d let himself think about it if decided to join their little club…

When Asher had his drink, they walked over to their table, talking about their day. He’d tell Ash about inviting David to join them later. At least it was in his court now. He could decide if he was interested and they would leave it at that.

Asher’s knees bumped against his under the table. “You’ve officially been invited hiking,” he told him.

Gavin laughed, thinking he was joking and then stopped when he realized he wasn’t. “Wait. Really? Why?”

Asher laughed. “Because I was talking about you to Huxley and Damien. I told you Hux is all about hiking and camping.”

Gavin blinked. “Yeah but why me? I mean. You didn’t tell them I was an outdoorsman did you?” He grinned as soon as he said it, considering all the ways in which he could definitely consider himself an outdoorsman… He definitely didn’t hate the idea of being in the woods with Asher, maybe fucking him against a tree… “Wait, are they swingers?” That would make sense.

Asher was grinning now. “No, they definitely aren’t. I don’t know. They just want to meet you, I guess. Well, Huxley wants to meet you. Damien wants to make sure you’re not a criminal.”

“Who says I’m not?”

Asher bumped their legs together. “You don’t have to, of course. I’m just telling you, I was told to invite you.”

Gavin nodded, hooking his legs around one of Asher’s under the table. “I’m glad you’re getting back to normal with them.” And he meant it. Asher had looked so sad when he’d talked about how things used to be with his friends and how it had sort of all gone to shit during his last relationship. But those friends had still been there for him when he needed them.

Asher nodded and leaned back into his seat. “Me too.”

They were going out this weekend and Gavin was looking forward to it more than he’d looking forward to anything in a long time. But it was less and less about the atmosphere and more about getting to be there with Asher. He wanted to see him on a dance floor—wanted to see how he flirted with strangers—and how he felt pressed against him in a crowd. The plan of their little two-man club was to go out, to flirt with other people and each other, and then go home together. They were officially not looking for relationships.

“Come over,” Gavin said, surprising them both.

Asher blinked, raising one eyebrow. “What? Like scoot around the table?” He beamed, something devious glinting in his eyes. “We agreed not to fuck around at the café and if I sit next to you…”

Gavin grinned, leaning forward. “Come home with me tonight.”

Asher’s smile wavered, but something burned in his eyes. “Seriously?”

“Unless you don’t want to?”

“I do,” he said, fast enough to blush at how it came out.

Gavin slid an arm across the table to touch the back of Asher’s hand. “I want to kiss you,” he said. It was the tip of the iceberg when it came to the things he had planned for Ash, but it was also the start.

Asher had that deer in the headlights look that made Gavin’s heart pound.

“Do you know how many times I’ve come thinking about you this month?” he asked, voice low, and reveled in the way Asher swallowed, breath coming a little faster. Could he get him to make some of those sounds right here just talking?

“Really?”

Gavin huffed a laugh. How could Asher not know how hot he was? “Yes. I’m half-hard just sitting across from you.”

The door chimed when more people came into the café.

Asher bit his bottom lip, dragging his eyes over Gavin like he was considering him. Gavin waited, not for a second doubting his own appeal, or that Asher was interested, but hanging on those lips and what he’d say next. Fuck, he wanted to make him whine… “Okay,” Asher said, a confident smirk pulling at one side of his mouth. “But I should probably tell you now…”

Gavin waited that split second, holding his breath.

Asher grinned. “I’ve got stamina for days.”

Gavin exhaled a laugh, nodding. “I can work with that.”

“And—” he started but hesitated, a flicker of something uneasy stealing the cocky attitude he’d just been leaning into. Like maybe he wasn’t sure if this was a good thing to say?

“And?” Gavin encouraged. He was pretty sure at this point, he had seen and done just about everything. Whatever Asher wasn’t sure about, he could handle.

Asher nodded to himself, like deciding to just say it. “I can… go multiple times.”

Gavin blinked. “Go?” he said and watched that mix of devious excitement and unease in Asher. Go. Multiple times? “Are you serious?”

Asher winced, shrinking in front of him, the excitement being snuffed out by the unease.

Gavin caught his wrist on the table. “How many times?”

“What?”

“How many times can you go in a session?”

Asher exhaled some relief even on his confusion, shrugging. “I don’t know. It’s not like I’ve tested it…”

Gavin felt his grin growing out of control. “Oh, we’re going to find out.” He stroked his thumb across Asher’s wrist, wanting to kiss that spot. “What’s your personal record?”

Asher blushed and Gavin thought he felt that pulse jumping under his thumb. “Four?”

Gavin groaned, shooting up from his chair with Asher’s wrist still in one hand and his drink in the other. “Let’s go, pretty. We should get started if you’re going to make it to work tomorrow…”

Asher laughed, happy to be tugged along toward the door.

Gavin tossed David a wave over the line of customers he had and was pleasantly surprised when the beautiful grump cocked his head back in acknowledgement.

[theluckywizard]

In the Shattering of Things, Ch. 62: Vertigo

Summary: Rose navigates the fall out of her handling of Crestwood's mayor, her intensifying liaison with Hawke, a surprise that comes from Skyhold and meets yet another legendary warrior.

Fic Summary: Lady Rose Trevelyan's idle, aristocratic life blinks out in a haze of irrelevance when the breach destroys the Conclave. She may be soft and coddled when she joins the Inquisition, but there's a fierceness inside her she's yet to fully recognize. Armed with only a few relevant skills and the mark that makes her a legend, she is thrust onto a path delivering hope where it’s long been scorched away and finds comfort in the grumpy, handsome stick in the mud charged with her protection and training. As she stumbles her way across southern Thedas, she begins to realize she's tangled at the center of machinations she barely understands, and she's not alone in that. Enter Hawke.

Excerpt below the cut 👇

When Hawke returns, he motions for me alone to follow. We walk silently together ducking protrusions and stalactites and shimming through narrow passages, the lightness of yesterday, the brightness between us cast in the shade of today’s revelations. The doorway we push through is marked with a whitewashed skull with a red streak across its eyes, the old smuggling ring’s stamp.

“It’s us,” he says. A man rises from a makeshift table covered in scribbled and crumpled notes, his features overtaken by the kind of beard one doesn’t choose to have. His armor is nondescript, his Warden credentials hidden away for safety’s sake.

Alistair Theirin. 

Another legend. 

Perhaps this time I can keep it together. He looks about my age, with dark blonde hair and a noble brow, but his overgrown beard and generally haggard appearance make him look worn beyond his years.

“Maker, man, you look like shit,” says Hawke with a grin.

“Cave chic,” he answers, yanking Hawke in for a firm handshake that quickly escalates into a bear hug. Alistair’s hazel eyes land on me next, nearly as bright and mischievous as Hawke’s and then jump to investigate my hands. At this point it feels like my blush is merely part of my uniform.

“You must be looking for this,” I say, holding up the anchor.

“Maker’s breath ,” he says. “I’ve always maintained there’s too much bizarre shit in the world.”

“That’s me. Bizarre shit,” I laugh. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Rose, Alistair. Alistair, Rose,” says Hawke. “We’re good with first names here, right?”

“Of course we are, Garrett ,” says Alistair pleasantly and I suppress my smile. He comes forward to shake my hand. “I’m glad you’re here. I wish it was someplace less— moldy. And you’ll have to forgive my looks. The combined effect of fugitive life, cave life and a missing wife is pretty potent. If I’d known you were coming I might have broken out the fancy soap.”

“I’m just happy we found you before the Wardens did,” I answer.

“As am I, my lady Inquisitor,” says Alistair.

“Well. Here we all are,” says Hawke. “I’m as eager as Rose is to hear what you have to say about the Wardens. I haven’t heard from Carver. Last letter I received was from the Anderfels. I asked Aveline to try and track him down to convince him to stay far from Orlais, but I’m assuming he told her to fuck right off.”

“As far as I know Carver is back in the Marches,” says Alistair, “But that was months ago. Who knows how far this nonsense has spread.”

“Then we can’t waste time,” says Hawke.

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