#focus on art until i'm burned out

[kuro-ousama]

Kaiba is so gay that he make other gays looked straight

[ibrithir-was-here]

.

[keeps-ache]

why break a tradition y'kno lol

[gabgabwrites]

DEUCE | Art Donaldson & Patrick Zweig

summary ⇝ Art has been so stressed about his match coming up against his ex best friend and denies it completely, you’ve begged and begged him to relax before he agrees, until someone interrupts.

warnings ⇝ language, unestablished? relationship, kissing, smut! 3sum, softdom!art, mean!patrick, oral (M & F), masturbation (M), handjob, cum eating, spitting, rough sex, unprotected sex, riding, spanking, minor ass play, groping, scratching, semi-public sex, slight voyeurism, not much aftercare, mdni.

read part 2 here

note: this one is a little 𝒻𝓇ℯ𝒶𝓀𝓎 also is shorter than most of my fanfics, more porn than plot

Tomorrow Art would be playing against Patrick Zweig, his old time best friend and part time rival. Art told you he didn't worry for his match, but you saw the way his shoulders sagged with exhaustion and the bags under his eyes grew darker. You told him to take a sleeping pill when he slept but he said he was getting enough hours of sleep, you had to act like you didn't feel him constantly moving around at night, tossing and turning.

"Art, I really think you should relax today. I can book you an appointment with a masseuse to help your muscles, or, y'know, you could sleep," You chewed on your bottom lip after telling him this, Art sighed, stopping his upper body exercises in the small gym.

"It's fine, honey. I'm fine. I feel totally relaxed," He gave you a tight lipped smile before he picked up the orange resistance band and began to pull at it. You watched his eyes glaze over in focus before sighing yourself, pushing off the wall and leaving the room.

You knew better than to press further. Art was stubborn and determined, traits that made him both a fantastic athlete and a frustrating partner at times. You loved him dearly, but his single-minded dedication to his sport often left little room for self-care. As you walked away, you couldn't help but worry about the toll this match against Patrick was taking on him.

The evening passed slowly. You busied yourself with mundane tasks, trying to keep your mind off Art's impending match. The air in your shared apartment felt thick with unspoken concerns. Art, still in his workout gear, moved from one exercise to another, the rhythmic sounds of his routine creating a steady background noise. You watched him from the kitchen, your heart aching for the man who pushed himself so hard.

When dinner time rolled around, you called out to him, "Art, dinner's ready." He nodded, wiping sweat from his brow before making his way to the table. You had prepared his favorite meal, hoping it would bring some comfort.

"Thanks, sweetheart," he said, sitting down and picking at his food. You could tell his mind was elsewhere, probably on tomorrow's match and the strategies he needed to employ.

"You're really worried about this, aren't you?" you asked softly, trying to meet his eyes.

Art sighed, finally setting his fork down. "It's not that I'm worried, exactly. It's just... Patrick and I, we go way back. This isn't just another match. There's a lot of history there."

You reached across the table, taking his hand in yours. "I know. But you can't keep pushing yourself like this. You're going to burn out."

"I know you're right," he admitted, squeezing your hand. "But I can't help it. I need to be at my best."

"I understand," you said gently. "But you need to take care of yourself too. How about we go for a walk after dinner? Get some fresh air, clear your mind?"

Art considered it for a moment before nodding. "Yeah, that sounds nice."

After dinner, the two of you strolled through the nearby park, the cool evening air a welcome change from the stuffy apartment. The rhythmic crunch of gravel underfoot was soothing, and for a while, neither of you spoke. It was enough to just be together.

Eventually, Art broke the silence. "You know, sometimes I wonder if I made the right choice, pursuing this career so intensely."

You looked at him, surprised. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, it's all-consuming. I love it, don't get me wrong, but sometimes I feel like I'm missing out on other things. Important things."

You stopped walking, turning to face him. "Art, you have a passion and a talent that's incredible. But it's okay to have doubts. It's okay to want more than just your career."

He looked down, his expression thoughtful. "I just don't want to let anyone down. Not my team, not my fans... not you."

"You could never let me down," you said firmly. "I love you for who you are, not for what you achieve. And I'm here for you, no matter what."

Art pulled you into a tight hug, resting his chin on top of your head. "Thank you. I needed to hear that."

The walk seemed to have done some good, and by the time you returned home, Art appeared more relaxed. He took a long shower while you prepared some chamomile tea, hoping it would help him sleep better. When he emerged, you handed him a cup, and he accepted it gratefully.

"Let's try to get some good rest tonight, okay?" you suggested, leading him to the bedroom. He nodded, sipping his tea thoughtfully.

As you both settled into bed, you reached over and turned off the bedside lamp. The room was plunged into darkness, the only sounds the faint hum of the city outside and Art's steady breathing.

"I love you," he whispered, his voice barely audible in the quiet room.

"I love you too," you replied, snuggling closer to him. "We'll get through this, together."

That night, Art's restlessness seemed to ease. He still shifted occasionally, but there was a sense of calm that hadn't been there before. You stayed close, your presence a steady anchor in the turbulent sea of his thoughts.

The next morning, you woke to find Art already up, dressed in his gear and looking more focused than he had in days. There was a determined glint in his eye that made you believe he was ready for the match.

"Feeling better?" you asked, stretching and sitting up.

"Yeah," he said, a small smile playing on his lips. "I think I am."

"Good. I'll be cheering for you," You said, giving him an encouraging kiss. You grabbed his racket and headed for his car. Once there, you packed all his equipment in the back. He drove the car this time, to the stadium. You two had gotten there earlier, for many reasons like him relaxing before the match and for him to get last minute practice.

He told you he was going to the sauna for an hour or so, you told him you'd wait outside, on the small bench as you decided to flip through a magazine. As Art headed towards the sauna, you found a small bench outside and settled down with a magazine. The warm, humid air from the sauna seeped out, creating a comfortable ambiance despite the anticipation buzzing in your mind.

Flipping through the magazine, you tried to distract yourself with celebrity gossip and fashion trends, but your thoughts kept drifting back to Art and the upcoming match. You couldn't shake the worry that gnawed at your insides, no matter how hard you tried to focus on the glossy pages in front of you.

Minutes turned into what felt like hours as you anxiously waited. You checked your watch every few minutes, unable to shake off the nervous energy that pulsed through you. Finally, just as you were starting to wonder if you should check on him, the sauna door creaked open, and Art emerged, white towel around his waist, his muscles shiny with sweat and his blonde hair darker and sticking to his forehead.

He called your name, his voice a low, gravelly murmur that sent a shiver down your spine. You looked up from the magazine, your eyes meeting his intense gaze. "Yes?" you asked, your voice coming out softer than intended, laced with a hint of curiosity and a touch of anticipation.

He licked his top lip, his gaze scanning the room briefly before locking onto yours. "I realised I really do need to relax," he admitted with a sigh, pondering how to phrase his next request. "Come here, please?" His voice was soft yet tinged with a hint of longing, inviting you closer with a subtle urgency that stirred something deep within you.

You swallowed, placing the magazine neatly next to the pile of his disregarded clothes on the bench, before standing up and slowly walking towards him. "Yes?" His forefinger found the neckline of your shirt and hooked inside, before abruptly pulling you in making you yelp out in surprise. "Art?!"

"Shh-h-h, someone could hear you," He waited for you to stand up straight, after nearly being curb stomped by the sauna bench and turning to face him. His voice dropped to speak softer. "Help me relax?"

"Art, I-I don't—," The words got caught in your throat when you felt him pick up your hand and gently kiss your fingertips, lips moving to graze over each knuckle before they were on your wrist. "Anyone could walk in."

"They won't," he murmured against your skin, his lips lightly grazing the soft flesh of your forearm. "Please?" His plea was soft and earnest, his voice laced with vulnerability. You let out a gentle sigh, feeling the warmth of his breath against your skin, before tenderly moving your hand from his lips to cup his jaw.

"Only because it's getting hot in here," You smirked, Art's eyes shone at your words before his fingers moved to help you peel away your shirt that was becoming damp with moisture. He waited until you were fully undressed, clothes a disregardment, scattered around on the bamboo floor, before kissing you.

Your body was still somewhat dry while Art's was slippery against yours, dewy with sweat. His one hand cradled the back of your neck as you pushed your tongue between his lips, happily obliging to feel you against him. He let out a groan, signalling he wanted more, he needed more. Using little control, he grabbed your shoulders and pushed down on them, forcing you to sit on the bench.

Your lips broke apart before Art smashed them together again. Your fingers went to the white, fluffy towel and began to pull at it, falling apart to reveal his cock, hard and pulsing. "You really are needy?" You murmured, Art whimpered to ensure your questions.

You pressed a hand against his pec, letting it slither down and collect little moisture before your fingers found the tufts of hair below his belly button, following the trail until you reached his cock, wrapping your fingers around the base and slowly pumping your fist.

Art let a gasp, swallowing his moan at your actions. "Sit down, Art," You told him, he basically threw himself down, now kissing you shoulder to shoulder, your hand wrapped around his cock while his left hand squeezed at your thigh and his right curling at his side. "This helping?"

"Yeah, mmm, yes," He groaned, slowly but surely failing to kiss back as you squeezed his cock harder, making his mind go fuzzy. "Please don't stop."

His head fell back, lips parting as he panted and moaned, the crown of his head resting on the wall. Your lips took action down the column of his throat, tongue lapping up at his sweat. You sucked a path down to his shoulder, before allowing your teeth to graze the skin there.

"Art, I want to ride you," You said softly.  Art was quick to shift his hips, snapping out a trance so you could slide onto his lap.

His fingers flew to your arousal, massaging at your aching clit to get your hole to relax. "That feels good."

Your fingers pumped his cock still, only at a slower pace. It twitched and throbbed, especially when the pads of his fingers moved and found your hole, feeling you drip onto his fingers. His eyebrows drew together in focus, fingertips breaching your pussy, sinking into it.

You ignored the initial pain of the stretch, humping your hips to sink onto him further. His fingers worked faster to relax your hole before they pulled out, too eager to have you around his length. He grabbed his cock and nudged the pink tip at your entrance, feeling your hands stabilise yourself on his shoulders, and drop onto him, both letting out a moan.

You bent your legs, for leverage, hips bucking into his to get friction while his hands grasped your hips. "You feel so good around me," He gasped. You nodded at his words, lips finding solace on his skin again to kiss his flesh.

It was pure bliss between the two of you, in the warm, sweaty room. Moans and wet sounds bouncing off the walls.

The door suddenly ripped open, a gush of cold air fanned your back. Your head whipped around to see what it was, or rather, who it was; Patrick Zweig, standing in all his naked glory.

Your hips didn't stop their movements, even though Art stiffened at the intrusion. A wicked grin cracked on Patrick's face at the sigh. "Huh. World renowned tennis star getting fucked like a whore in the men's sauna before a big game," Patrick whistled. "Who would've guessed?"

"G-Get out, Zweig," Art said, words stuttering from pleasure.

"No, no. I don't think so. I think I'll just sit here and enjoy the show," You watched him sink down onto the opposite side of the room, brown eyes looking from your face that never left his view, to where you and Art were connected at the hips. He couldn't help the stiffening feeling between his legs, not caring for his cock to slowly harden, and out in the open.

Perhaps you should've stopped and ran out in shame. Perhaps Art should have begged you to stop instead on having his fingers dig deeper into your hips, his own bucking up into yours. Perhaps you should've looked away when you saw Patrick take his own cock in hand and fist it, matching the same pace you fucked Art.

Perhaps it was all the reason you came too quickly, mouth falling open as moans tumbled from your lips, getting Art's thighs coated in your cum. You felt him curl up, his own high nearing. He slammed you down on his cock, before filling you up.

"Aw man," Patrick chuckled, though it was slow and rugged with lust. "The show’s over and I barely started jerking off." He sighed, throwing his hand up, no longer touching himself.

You turned to tuck your head between Art's neck. Panting from your labour. "What do we do?" You whispered to him.

"Wait until he leaves."

He did not. In fact, you heard the floorboards creak with Patrick's weight, until you felt a presence behind you. "Hey, Art," Patrick spoke. "You gonna move over so I can try her?"

Your heart dropped, at first in surprise before your mind mulled over scenarios. Art's eyes shot up and glared at Patrick, who just stood there and smirked. "Excuse me?"

"C'mon, man. It's not like it's the first time we shared her," Patrick had to bring up the one night you three shared in college, the one you never spoke about again. You didn't hate that night, in fact you used to think about it often, but Patrick grew to become a major prick thereafter, forcing you to forget about it.

Art stayed silent, until he sighed. Using his hands, he moved you to look at him. "You can tell him no."

You took in a breath, chewing on your bottom lip. You stared into Art's eyes, looking, searching for any sort of plead, or hesitation, but got none. Did he want to share you? Would he be willing to? "I don't mind," You whispered. "But if you don't want to, then we don't."

Art pried his eyes away from you to stare at Patrick, a multitude of emotions, ones that didn't look all too pleasant. "Only this once."

Patrick let out a grumble through his chest, happy you two agreed. Perhaps it would change the way on court.  "You got it, hermano," Patrick slipped a hand on your shoulder, pulling you off Art's lap to stand, back pressing against his chest.

His one arm was wrapped around your shoulders while the other was snaking it's way down, tips of his fingers brushing along your tummy in the ticklish area that had it convulse, until they pressed into your pussy, collecting the residue from both you and Art. When he was satisfied with what was gathered on his fingers, he brought them to his lips and let out a groan at the taste of both of you.

"It tastes so good. You should try," He don't give you time to protest before reaching down to collect more cum before shoving his fingers in your mouth, having you choke and sputter until your tongue licked away at the salty liquids. "God, if that's the way you suck my fingers then I can't wait until I feel you suck my cock."

His fingers left your lips, hand moving down to grope your left breast, squeezing at the flesh.

"Tell me something, Art. How rough do you fuck her—ooh no wait, how rough does she fuck herself on you?" Patrick asked, eyes flirting to Art who just glared at the brunette, knuckles paling as he gripped the bench. Patrick smirked at the silence he got, from both ends.

He roughly grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at him, he clicked his tongue in fake pity.

"Poor thing, not treated right?"

"I'm treated just fine," You told him. "Thanks."

"Hm, we'll see." Patrick basically threw you forward, hands seizing your wrists behind your back, having you at a near 90 degree angle, face close to Art's. Patrick used his foot to nudge open your legs. You felt the tip of his cock brush your folds, before he abruptly shoved his entire length inside you, he wasn't as long as Art, but he was more girthy.

Your face screwed in pain, giving you no time to adjust before his hips snapped against yours, fucking into you at light speed. "O-Oh, fuck," You whined, head falling forward from pleasure.

"That's what I thought. Needed someone to fuck you right," Patrick chuckled, taking one hand and slapping your ass, making you howl in pain. Patrick's brown eyes found Art's, who was still glaring at him, yet he had a blush on his cheeks. Patrick smirked. "Take notes."

"If you only fucked her to be an asshole, then you can stop." Art growled, anger sizzling in his chest.

"Nope, just doing it correctly." Patrick nearly fell forwards when he saw a sliver of movements on Art's end. His tongue swiping to wet his bottom lip as he gave Art a shit eating grin. "You bastard. You getting off to watching your old best friend fuck your girl? Dirty, dirty boy."

Gasps and moans clashed in your throat, getting the strength in your neck to look up where Art was, indeed, fisting his cock. Your mouth salivating at the sight. "L-Let me help," You stammered out, letting your lips fall open. Art gently grabbed your head and positioned it lower, sighing when he felt your tongue lap out and lick his tip.

It was so contrasting, the way Patrick was manhandling you, tip nudging that one sweet spot deep within you while his fingers slapped, scratched and groped your ass and Art's gentle caresses on your hair. It was like heaven and hell, all in a sauna, perhaps you were limbo.

"You're squeezing me so tight, baby. I'm so close, gonna let me cum deep in your pussy?" Patrick moaned. Words slurred from drunken pleasure.

"Patrick—." Art warned, a damn near growl escaping his chest.

"Nuh uh, man. I can't pull out now."

"Patrick—."

"Fuck!" Patrick moaned, his movements sloppy as he spilled his seed inside you. Panting as he caught his breath.

He was quick to pull out before dropping to his knees. He grabbed your ass cheeks and spread them apart before he dove his face inside, tongue rolling against your clit.

His own cum spilling from you and onto his nose and top lip. That man ate you out like a starved man.

Art's hips jerked before he was cumming in your mouth, fingers tightening slightly in your hair as your name fell from his lips.

"Gonna cum," You moaned, words coming out unclear as your mouth was still full of Art's cum. You couldn't get the energy to swallow, it slowly dribbled out your mouth, along with your drool and back onto Art's cock, Art couldn't lie and say it wasn't one of the hottest things he's seen, not even phased that you didn't swallow.

Patrick grabbed your hips and pushed you further down onto him, mouth open as you came on his tongue, hips rolling on his face. He swallowed most of it. He stood up, with some of your cum in his mouth and his own spit. His hands still kept your ass spread, pursing his lips, he allowed for the concoction to dribble onto your neglected asshole.

He didn't do anything to penetrate it, only using his forefinger to spread the liquids from your asshole to your pussy, leaving you wet and sticky all over.

Patrick stood back, allowing for you to hobble towards Art and sit down on the bench next to him. "Let's make a bet. If I win, I get to fuck her again."

"Get the fuck out of here," Art spat, grabbing a towel to help clean you. Patrick just chuckled before grabbing his own towel, wrapping it around his hips before pushing the door open and leaving.

Art turned to you, his voice softer.

"Hey, you alright?"

"Yeah," You smiled meekly. "Just promise me this, you'll win."

Anyways, this was inspired by the beautiful sweaty sauna scene:

[myceliacrochet]

I feel so overwhelmed. I have no income, no stable place to live, and hundreds of people coming to me who need thousands of dollars each to avoid getting incinerated, starved, tortured. I make crochet -- when I can get supplies -- and I'm trying to make stickers, when I can get supplies... I'm not very employable and everything is so expensive and it's all falling on my roommate.

I need to hold a fundraising event

Everyone is either stretched to their limits helping or can't be bothered

I'm doing my best to reblog, follow, and react every single campaign I can that is either vetted or has a clean RIS. I'm telling myself that I'm doing enough by contributing art and promoting these campaigns, but the reality is people need money and I'm giving them condolences and things that may not help much.

I had a bit of success promoting Omar's campaign and foolishly believed I could get those kinds of results again. Tumblr staff is being beyond ruthless, attacking even the critical and dangerous vetting work people are risking their lives for on the ground.

I don't know what to tell people who are coming to me for help in what may be their last moments and I'm like "hey here have a shitty art I made that might make a miniscule difference but probably won't. All the best!" I try to respond through my actions instead of words because like Kurt Vonnegut said there's fucking nothing to say about genocide because no one's meant to say anything they're just meant to get blown up. So then I'm ignoring the people who most need help in the world, coldly turning away. So I say sorry and offer these small useless things as if it means anything and every day I lose more sanity and meaning in my life because doing less than what I can to help people not get genocided takes all the color out of my world. I can't imagine truly relaxing or enjoying anything until there's no genocide happening anymore, and I don't see that happening. I feel hopeless like I did in 2016 but this time there's no back door out.

Every time I start to work on something I feel hopeless like it won't work

I have to get my ass into gear, which means I need to:

- pick up my prescription for strattera, I guess I have that now. That will help me focus

- get back on my antidepressants as soon as Fatima's campaign hits $10,000. That will help me keep moving

- talk to other organizers so we can work together.

I am drowning, I am burning in this hxll created by my own culture. Every day they torture the children and the adults come into my DMs and scream help us please please someone help us.

All I can do is do my best every day. I'll keep moving forward

Doing something is better than doing nothing, gxddammit, which means I'm doing a good job I guess, it's just little comfort as I watch the children get engulfed in flames.

Like, I know I can't end all genocide on my own but there's got to be more effective things that I personally can do.

I guess I'll check out one of those lists of things you can do other than donating money

If anyone has yarn to donate and/or could cover shipping or help me find free yarn in my area, that would be so helpful. Because there's nothing I'd rather do than tune out and crochet most of the time and sell it for myself and others.

Please talk to me about how we can work together to help these precious people!!! I need to do more

@monstermashpotato @sylvianritual @gazavetters @determinate-negation @dlxxv-vetted-donations

@gaza-evacuation-funds @gazagfmboost @fly-sky-high-09 @90-ghost @nabulsi @halalchampagnesocialist @huzni @hussyknee @notallmensheviks @neechees @fuckyeahmarxismleninism @fayruz0-blog @gothhabiba @radicalgraff @marxism-transgenderism @marxist-lesbianism @voyagerprobe @workersolidarity @cheezbot @gayspacemonk @bogleech @slitherbop @butchniqabi

I guess I just need to work on my small business... Idek if I'm even helping by reblogging all this stuff, I'm just spending hours a day spreading stuff around to other people who can't really donate. I just seem to be wasting people's time who are going through genocide, I might even be only adding to their suffering. I don't know if I have the moral fibre to do this work, idk I just seem to cause bad things to happen to myself and everyone around me by dedicating so much time to reblogs instead of just securing an income, paying my bills, and being content to give a "reasonable" portion to genocide relief. I can't do that, I have to give all or most of myself but then I'm just a burden to my roommate and others. Or going all out and doing something really big that could really bring in the money they need

I'm sick but people need me

I guess what I'm seeing here is that I need to switch gears to working on crochet more and that will help me be able to help people and it will also be better for my mental health. I'll work on getting the supplies I need to continue. But idk I'll come back to this later and figure it out.

Thank you for listening I wish I could just let my brain scream to death but like people need me to keep it together so I can actually help but I'm at a loss as to how to help

I'll do it gxddammit I'll fucking get it done I'll crochet for this and it will make a difference and I don't have to suspend happiness until this is over I have to maintain some of that light of happiness within. It's not all on me we are working together

Hey 🩷 So I wanted to let people know that I am safe now. I'm back on my most necessary meds, I've applied for SNAP and general assistance, and I'm feeling stronger after having some more success promoting campaigns.

We are living during multiple holocausts. I take comfort in doing the work. We're making a difference in people's lives.

Thank you for helping me keep my head up. Let's keep going.

[cmdrfupa]

Nanami x Reader

cw: sick terminology (our pookie is having tummy troubles), suggestive if you use a magnifying glass, overall fluff

thank you to @/saradika-graphics for the dividers! 💕

Art in header by the talented @nikawa_2ji! 💕

Being sick isn't exactly something that occurs for Kento. Together for seven years, you could attest to him being ill once. A 24-hour fever he overcame in 10. This bout certainly wasn't the case.

  Kento went to the bathroom attached to his home office, clinging to what he felt were the last remaining pieces of his spirit while hurling for the third time since 4 am. Throwing his eye patch to hell for all he cared, he took his white t-shirt off, placing it under the running water before wrapping it around his neck. The cool sensation gave temporary relief from the wretched sensation of nausea.

Kento entered the hallway, thinking he was fine, only to begin dry heaving again.

"Ken?" You sat the container of flour down, turning your head to listen. He'd been up for a while, and you assumed he was out for his morning jog and maybe stopping at the market. "Kento? You okay?" Nothing.

  "Ugh, fucks sake." he groaned as you heard a thump.

Taking your apron off, you hastily move toward the living room—another spell of retching leads to the hallway instead. The dimly lit hall brought you to your poor husband.

  A shirtless, clammy, and disoriented Kento sat against the wall in the darkened hallway. "Hi, dear."

  You crouched before him, touching his forehead to check his feverish skin, which immediately alarmed you. You pursed your lips before speaking up, "You're burning up, baby.."

  "I don't know what's wrong. My stomach feels like it's being tossed around in a dryer," Kento spoke, taking short breaths between words, his light hair sticking to his forehead.

  "We'll figure that out. But let's get you back to bed. Can you get up?" You placed your shoulder under him, and he slowly wrapped his arm around you, boosting himself up. "What have you eaten in the last 24 hours?" As you strolled, he shuffled beside you, his arm slung over your shoulder.

  "Well, we had lunch here at the house, and then Itadori-kun and I went for a seafood dinner at a restaurant Kugisaki saw on social media."

Sitting him on the side of the bed so he could lie down, he propped himself against the pillows. "We had some sort of paella and maybe a few too many crab legs."

  "Shellfish."

  "How do you know?" Bringing his legs up on the bed, you fluffed the pillows behind him and brought the sheets out in case he needed to cover up.

"It seems to be the possible culprit from what you've told me. Or maybe someone handling your food was a bit unhygienic?" You walked to the bathroom, looking for the first aid kit under the sink to fish out a thermometer and anti-nausea medication. Finding it, you made your way back to Kento's side. "Open."

Eyes closed, he followed orders, the twisting pain in his stomach sending a shiver through his body. The beeping of the thermometer made him focus. "What's the verdict?"

"101.1, which means you're in bed until this passes."

A groan left the sickly man's throat. "It'll pass in a few hours, I'm sure.."

"Your optimism is cute," you kissed his head. Just focus on resting. I'll get you some water to start rehydrating, then get things cleaned up." You placed the nausea medication on his bedside. "And if the room starts feeling like a tilt-a-whirl, let one of these melt on your tongue."

The trip to the kitchen was quick, and upon returning with a glass of water, you watched Kento struggle to open the foiled Dramamine package.

You slide the package from between his nimble fingers. "I've got it, honey."

"What about the plans for my birthday? Gojo will be a nuisance if he thinks I'm faking to avoid his party."

"I know you weren't super excited about the party Gojo was planning, but I'll threaten him if he tries to get fly with me."

"My darling angel of a wife, thank you." He opens his mouth, and you place the tablet on his tongue.

"You owe me, Mr. Nanami." With a wink, you get him comfortable in bed, placing another pillow behind him as he begins to doze off. "I'll come check on you in a bit."

  Kento wasn't sure when you got your wings, but he appreciated having an angel to tend to him. So patient and willing to be by him. Honestly, he didn't know when you got the halo, either. He didn't think you were a full-blown angel until this moment. "A literal angel, wow-" words slurred, and your wings seemingly much more vibrant to him as he passed out into a deep sleep. Ken promised himself he'd verify the angel allegations when he was more fit for thinking.

Day 3 of the stomach virus showed progress despite a rough start. Kento kept trying to force himself to feel better, thinking cat naps would suffice over a good night's rest. But his nausea was a reminder to take it much slower. He watched you prepare for work: a simple black knee-length dress, nude-colored stockings, and his favorite shoes. "The Manolo slingbacks?" Kento perked up in bed. "You know, I'm feeling much, much better today."

You peeked from out of the bathroom. 'You're supposed to be sleeping, not checking me out."

"My love, I'm feeling better than before."

"That's not how this works. You still have a fever, and rest will help get rid of it."

"I am resting; I'm in bed, having bone broth, and not working."

"If you don't want me to go to work, all you have to do is ask."

He'd be lying if he said he didn't want you to stay. He had not tried his luck the past two days, but today was different. Kento was needy and required more comfort to sleep. Was this the man cold? He thought he was above that.

"Please. I promise I will sleep if you stay home with me today."

Your heels clack against the wooden floor as you go to his side of the bed. "Take your aspirin, eat a few more spoons of porridge, and I'll hold you while you sleep." a gentle smooch on his cheek earns a soft smile from him. "Let me call Gojo and tell him he'll be handling training today."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Nanamin. I didn't know he'd get sick! I ate way more than he did and felt perfectly okay this week." you called Itadori a few days ago to see how he was feeling. He was more than okay, finding him out with his peers shopping when you called.

Now, he sat across from you in the dining room, a gift bag decorated with 'get well soon' craftily written across it sat next to him as he ate another croissant. The teen was worried he'd killed the man just from the restaurant recommendation alone. "Is he going to be okay?"

  "Yuuji, nothing you've done is the result of this. The food didn't sit well with him." You take another sip of coffee before reassuring the stressed teen. "He's been resting and getting better the past four days. He'll be better and back on campus by the end of the week."

  "Well, can you let him know I dropped by?" Yuuji stuffed the last of his croissant in his mouth before sipping the hot cocoa and dusting his hands on the napkin. "Some of us got together and made a care package. Gojo made him some ladyfingers, Takuma got him some cool handkerchiefs, Nobara bought him one of those spa gel masks for his frown lines, and Fushiguro found an apron that says 'kitchen boss' he thought he'd appreciate… we want to keep his spirits up while he gets better."

  "He'll appreciate knowing you stopped by. And the thoughtful gifts." Grabbing a small container, you went to the kitchen in a few paces. "The rest of these are yours. I'll be closely monitoring Nanamin's food intake for a while, and pain au Chocolat won't be helpful." You strategically place the croissants in the container, handing them to Yuuji. "Be safe getting back to campus."

  "Will do, Mrs. Nanamin! You're amazing. I'll call to check on him tonight!" The teen hugged you quickly before making his way out of the door.

    "Are there any objections?"Nanami looked around, confident there was nobody idiotic enough to-"Wait! Please!" A pale blue-haired worm slithered down the aisle. The guest gasped in shock as the tubular creature began to morph into a human. "Don't go through with this. I love you more than life itself." Mahito stood in front of you, naked with a ring box in hand.Nanami looked at you, eyes wide. "My beautiful bride, please. Please think of the life we're building. I love you so much."" I'm sorry, Ken. I tried hiding my feelings, but my heart is with Mahito." You let go of Nanami's hands, rushing into Mahito's embrace. "Happy Birthday… Nanamin." The wickedness of Mahito's tone brought Kento to his knees.The guests all stood and began to chant, "Over time for eternity," as the church hall slowly faded into a pool of purple liquid.Gojo kneeled next to Nanami. "Kento, it's not the end. You still have me, yeah?.. honey… Ken?" Your sing-song voice was filling his head."Gojo? You sound like my wife."

"Gojo?" confused, you shook his shoulder to wake him. "Kento, wake up."

He sprung up, lungs empty and gasping for air as he looked around.

"You aren't Gojo!"

"Do you want Gojo?"

Profusely shaking his head, "I'd rather not."

"You were having quite the fever dream, it seems."

"It was an absolute hellish nightmare." He grabbed the water from the bedside, glugging it before you took the glass from him, sitting it down. "How long have I been asleep?"

You smoothed his bedhead hair, kissing Kento's temple before lying back with him. "Well, after lunch yesterday, I couldn't wake you up to save my life, but that seems to have been a good thing. Your fever broke. How are you feeling?"

Kento wrapped his arm around you, pushing the covers off with his free hand. A soft huff of comfort released as he felt the midday breeze flow through the room. "Makes sense; I feel so well rested. My stomach feels so much better. But Itadori-kun and I will have our weekly dinners here at home for a while."

"That's more than okay with me. I like it when he visits. I'm always glad to see him, and he also seems happy to come over."

"He'll be happy to know this. Our next dinner is for my birthday; he's been trying his best not to spoil my gift."

  "We have plenty of easy-to-digest meals for the next few days while your stomach settles."

"Yes, dear," he playfully retorted. Nothing sounds better than an easy-to-digest birthday dinner," he jested, pulling you into his bare chest.

  "Oh yeah. Yuuji brought you a care package. He and a few others put some rather lovely items in."

Eyebrows raised, Kento seemed surprised. "Itadori was here? Not sick?"

You nodded. "Left about an hour ago."

"How am I the only one who got sick?"

"To be fair, the boy likes to eat. And he did eat an ancient finger once, so.." shrugging your shoulders as Kento attempted to stifle a laugh unsuccessfully.

"You bring up a fair point. He can put it away."

  Rubbing his belly elicits a quiet hum of a familiar tune. He stops and peers over to you. The rays of the midday sun cast a beautiful golden hue across the bed and onto your shoulders. Kento studied the soft features that structured your face, the feel of your plush leg thrown over his as you hummed the Jimmy Eat World melody. The lack of almost claustrophobic closeness over the last few days has done a number on him.

His rich brown eyes found yours, and warmth crept up the nape of your neck as his lids lowered. "I have something planned for us."

"Something planned?'

"I didn't want you to plan anything for my birthday because I did. It's a birthday and pre-anniversary getaway of sorts. We're going to the hot springs."

Your lips puckered, landing pecks across his chin and neck. "Hot springs? Kenny baby. Do you know how perfect that sounds?"

"Indeed I do. Two weeks of solitude with my angel baby."

"Two weeks?"

"Two. Weeks."

"2 whole weeks?"

"Darling, if you repeat after me again, I'm going to assume you can't hear me."

Getting three consecutive days was pulling teeth. "What did you do to make Yaga go along with two fucking weeks?"

Kissing your shoulder, he brought your hand to his mouth. "Not much." lightly began to kiss each of your fingertips. "We just have to visit the Kyoto campus," He pressed his lips to your wrist to feel your pulse. "For a few days."

"Hm." you squinted as you read between the lines. The exchange event wasn't quite yet, but there were talks of development training that needed a few more grade 1 sorcerers for demonstrations— "You volunteered us for that combat training."

Kissing your palm and making his way up to the crease of your elbow, he wriggles between your legs until hovering over you.

"Nanami Kento."

"Are you going to be upset with your stomach pain-riddled husband? On his birthday, no less. Who loves you more than life itself? Who worships every cell in-"

"I'm getting a new swimsuit," you said, stopping his sweeter-than-honey ramble and kissing his chest. And I'll make sure Gojo reschedules the party, birthday boy."

  "And I'll be there with a shit-eating grin the whole night. My wife is getting a new swimsuit for my eyes only. I can sit through 2 hours of Gojo and everyone else. Best birthday ever."

[xo-cod]

thinking about bridgerton style au with the 141 🌸👑🩷

each boy seeking his partner, a search for a lover in order to become a duke. all four men well known around the town due to their mysterious backgrounds and their playboy ways though their hearts are cold, walls impenetrable, love isn't something they think they could achieve.

that is until they meet their match

john price: head of the team, price strives to fulfil the duties and managing the affairs. the leader, the one keeping them steadfast. he's intent on marrying purely out of duty, the viscount not interested in a love match. he doesn't think love will come to him so he doesn't hold out hope for it anymore, doesn't entertain thoughts of such an idea. nevertheless, he expects nothing short of perfection from his future bride.

simon "ghost" riley: handsome, charming and rich, quite the catch but unattainable. if he had any hope of fulfilling his duty of marrying and producing an heir, his temper prevents his pursuit. his heart is full of anger and pain, often engages on one nighters not wanting to be tied to down to someone. he had opted for more of a black surgical mask, occasionally donning the skull balaclava for when he finds trouble during the late night. the fear of love brings him vulnerability, the very thing that cursed his past. and he'll be damned if he makes the same mistake again.

kyle "gaz" garrick: gaz shows little interest in the societal goings-on, instead finding his refuge in the world of art. he yearns for something other than the endless round of parties he finds himself attending every evening. every night leaving behind a trail of broken hearts behind him, not a single one catches his eye. they don't seem to understand him to relate on a deeper level, they don't seem to care for affections and love. something he yearns for privately so he keeps to himself mostly. pours his love into art and dreams of turning his artistic hobby into a full-fledged career, soon finding himself looking far outside the world of the town in order to achieve it.

john "soap" mctavish: finally the youngest, takes no pleasure in attending balls and other social events instead preferring to focus on other activities. soap is not one for turning into just another young simpering and mincing viscount, he's got a sharp mind accompanied with a sharp tongue. believes he's destined for something much more, though he's quite rapidly approaching marriageable age. much to his displeasure. his heart is troubled, wanting to find love desperately but he knows its a fools pipe dream so he chooses not to engage with feelings anymore. with him it's just flings much like ghost, just fulfilling his sexual needs before he disappears

who shall be the one to capture their heart? who will be the one to rule the crown?

•••

don't come for me for any inaccuracies LOL. but i'm so in love with the slow burn and the yearning and the chance at love :") <33 and eventual smut

might add könig just for fun if i ever wrote it 👀 but it was in my drafts for ages lmao

[pomefioredove]

mea culpa

I'm stressed and overstimulated and can't focus on matchups tonight. need roro to decompress

summary: "it's not my fault" type of post: short fic characters: rollo additional info: romantic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu, angsty as hell (pun intended), some suggestive visuals

Rollo is an eloquent man. He understands the art of words, how to weave them together in all the right ways to create a shimmering tapestry of illusions- it's lying without dishonesty, and it's his specialty.

He knows many words, in many languages, in many forms, on paper and on tongue. He knows their definitions, their synonyms and antonyms, and their origins. He knows how to hide behind them as if they were a suit of armor, shielding him from the depravity of the common folk's unwashed tongues.

There are hundreds, perhaps thousands of words in which to express this feeling now, both saccharine and bloody, addictive and revolting, and yet, despite all of his knowledge, Rollo can only think of one.

Bad.

Very, very bad.

Those three simple letters, one syllable which so easily rolls off the tongue, have festered in his mind and spread throughout his body like an infection, making him feverish and mad with obsession over this disease of the soul.

This... is not him. This is not who he is.

This virus is not a natural part of his body. It does not belong there. And yet, it is dragging him by the back of his neck, forcing him to kick and scream and claw against the dirt in a vain attempt to escape its gnarled grasp.

It's a sickening reminder that his heart is still beating warm blood throughout his body. How he detests being reminded of his corporeal existence. As if he is more of a body than a person.

Rollo already had enough trouble sleeping.

What one might liken to butterflies or fireworks, he would to needles and flames. It's an uncomfortable, itchy feeling, one that makes him wish he could simply pull his aching heart out of his chest and run it under cold water until the burning washes away.

This isn't him.

He's not one to be distracted by restless thoughts, or the uncomfortable feeling of having hands. He hardly thinks of himself at all.

This is not his fault.

It's as if he is being interrogated and tortured for a crime he did not commit. Certainly, this is some sort of cruel and unusual punishment? A test of wills?

Or is it truly just a sickening, aching obsession which consumes his mind until all that is left is an empty room, in the center, your image draped in red?

A fire which swallows all it can reach, crawling up every inch of his body, touching him in places he had long forgotten about. A furnace burning within the center of his chest.

He cannot help but stick his hands directly into the flames.

Every time it's windy, he thinks of you.

[orbitariums]

FINALLY BLACK READER CHALLENGERS FICS WOOOO!!! plz do stanford!art dating black track star! reader👀👀 patrick can be involved too maybe he goes to stanford idk

no more running | art donaldson + black trackstar! reader

i know nothing about track (or tennis!) so bear with me

art was infatuated with you the moment he saw you at a track meet tashi’s dragged him to — he really had no interest in anything but tennis, that is until he saw you.

you were perfect, all silky brown skin and braids pulled up into a high ponytail, with the physique of a lioness. and it helps that your body's insane – you're visibly strong and you carry yourself well. you moved with a flourish, effortlessly and gracefully. nothing and nobody could stand in your way — except maybe art. you'd heard his name echoed all around campus for how much of a tennis god he was, but now, in front of you, he presented as anything but. he was stumbling over his words and his feet introducing himself to you, all crooked smiles and awkward handshakes.

"hi. i'm art. donaldson. art donaldson. but you can just call me art, obviously you don't have to call me by my full name, that would be weird."

you couldn't help but grin, though your brows furrowed together in confusion,

"right... hi. i'm—"

"yn. i know. i'm uhh, a friend of tashi's. you were really talented out there today."

"is my friend bothering you?" came tashi's voice from around the corner. you started packing your things in your duffel bag, shaking your head with a laugh that made art's heart melt,

"no, the opposite actually."

"great," tashi grinned knowingly. "well in that case... lunch?"

it was history from there. art started showing up to all your meets, and you to his tennis games. it was cute, the way you cheered each other on and pretended it was nothing more than camaraderie and sportsmanship between friends. the way you pretended art's bicep flexing with every thwack his racket made against the tennis ball didn't make your throat run dry. the way art pretended watching you stretch on the field before a match, your shorts lifting up to reveal the expanse of skin just above your thigh didn't make him shift in his seat.

if patrick weren't with tashi, he'd probably go for you too, and art knew it. it's why he almost gets defensive when patrick comes to visit and the four of you go on these little psuedo double dates, since neither you nor art had addressed the fact that you wanted each other. he was always courteous with you, but he made sure to hold every door open for you, pull out every chair, and even paid for your food. it was like he was showing patrick that this was his girl, and it amused patrick so much that he told art,

"if you're gonna fuck her, just do it. you don't need to go getting my approval."

"i'm not trying to fuck her, pat. and i'm not getting your approval. i just... i don't know, i want her to be mine."

"i'm pretty sure she's yours already, pal. have you seen the way you two act?

it's a slow burn, but it feels so good to wait. art kisses you finally during one of your study dates together — you both only have so much time to actually focus on school as student athletes, so you spend that time together — it's soft and longing and sweet. you become something of a power couple on campus, making signs for each others' games and running up to art on the field after he's won, letting him lift you up into his arms and swing you around — never mind the trophy.

art runs ice baths for you when you need them, and lets his strong hands groove into your sore muscles, blushing at your relieved moans. he's got no problem stretching you out in other ways too, fucking you slow and deep like he's just trying to pass the time inside you, spending hours letting your pleasure unfold before him. letting your fingernails leave scars on his back because he has enough already from his sport, what's a few more?

when you have early team meetings, art makes you breakfast and sends you off with your favorite strawberry smoothies he makes. he helps you with meal prep every week, spending hours in domestic bliss with you in your on-campus apartment. when you're not studying together or sleeping together, you're at the gym together, art's hands hovering just by your hips to "help spot you" during deadlift squats.

on your media day, art helps you slick your natural hair up into a bun, aghast at how much edge control you insist on using. he also insists on teaching you to play tennis — you're vehemently against it at first, but you realize how much it actually improves your game. and you don't mind art cozying up behind you to "improve your backhand," even if it means you end up with your tennis skirt flipped over and the racket long forgotten. the same goes for art, except he just wants to curse you out after the first time you make him try uphill weighted sled sprints.

whatever you do, you do it together. you just get each other. and art knows he's found something special in you.

[solitary-traveler]

Heya :)

Im not sure if you write angst but I was wondering if you could do Scara with a reader that puts others health in front of her own, so when she gets injured in battle she won't even notice because she'll be worrying about Scara and not herself. <3

Echoes of The Past

The wanderer is left behind, with regrets and diminished hope swirling through his thoughts

Wanderer x gn!reader

Notes: Hiiii thank you so much @i0fty, I'm so sorry it took this long to write it 😭. I hope this makes up for it. Again I'm really sorry🙏—

Also, the italicized texts are the things that he writes in his journal

Art: @waternaeng on danbooru

Warning: Angst :)

You died yesterday.

The wanderer recounted as he sat on the wooden stool. His fingers ran through his indigo locks, a few strands escaping his grasp and falling back down to frame his face. With a pencil between his porcelain fingers, he could only stare at the empty notebook in front of him.

My…beloved, my Y/n passed away yesterday after being so stupidly reckless.

He sighed, the pen twitching within his grip. The further he puts his thoughts into writing, the more the uncomfortable feeling grows. It still hurt; it always hurt to think of you. He garnered at the page, forcing himself to resume staining the paper with lead.

You always placed the health of others above your own, a fierce guardian even amidst the chaos of battle, where your sole focus was my safety. It was maddeningly foolish—I was no fragile mortal, impervious to death’s grasp. Yet you pressed on, undeterred. I watched as you brushed aside your injuries, treating them like insignificant shadows. Even in your final moments, it was that boundless selflessness—the unwavering devotion that burned brightly within you—that ultimately cost you everything. 

Wanderer gripped the pen tightly, almost snapping it in half.

Why did you have to be selfless?

Why did you have to die?

If I had been the one to notice your wounds, would you still be here? If I had been there to prioritize your safety, to shield you from the pain, would fate have been kinder to us?

He took a deep breath. This was supposed to be a relaxing activity, but somehow it just heightened his stress even more. His eyes darted outside the window, overlooking the bright lights of Sumeru city.

Not that it matters anymore. I can’t change the past. I know; I’ve tried.

In any case, the view from outside my window is as repetitive as always, the same flickering city lights twinkling like distant stars against the inky night. But I know you love it. You always had a strange fascination with city lights under the night sky. But I guess it is pretty. A strange beauty, one that whispers secrets of life and longing. I can somewhat understand why you found solace in its shimmering embrace.

He heaved, his shoulders slumped. They felt heavy as the burden of his loss creeped in once more. Embrace huh…Oh how he wished you were here, stubbornly hugging him from behind. He’d kill to live in that memory over and over again. To stay there forever, with the comfort he grew to miss. 

Sometimes I wonder… What exactly it is you like about me? I… I never saw myself as someone worthy of love, let alone someone capable of it. Like a marionette, I moved through life, cursed to feel without ever knowing how to truly grasp those emotions. Yet somehow, you saw through the tangled strings of my hypocrisy, unraveling the quiet ache of my need for affection, hidden deep within my hollow frame.

His eyes darted towards a photo, one you stubbornly pestered him with until he succumbed. It was during his first day at the Akademiya and you had dropped by to tease the fuck out of him. Imagine him, a war criminal, domesticated and sent to school. It was excessively embarrassing. You had the cheekiest grin plastered on your face, your infectious laughter ringing in his ears. Your left arm slung around his shoulder. It was all so infuriatingly endearing. Wanderer can’t help the subtle twitch on the corner of his lips.

You were always a mystery to me, an enigma I could never fully grasp.

I wonder, sometimes… why me? What did you see in me that made you want me? I am undesirable, like a rusted tool left forgotten in the rain—only acknowledged when needed, only useful when used.  Yet, you—  You saw worth in me, even when I was at my weakest, when the cracks began to show, and when my facade crumbled. You knelt beside me, gathering the scattered shards of who I was. You pieced them together, making me whole once more.

I had been an enemy, a blade once drawn against you, yet you saw me not as a threat, but as a friend broken by my own battles. 

Wanderer let out a bitter laugh. The memory does little to alleviate the tension in his “heart”, the twinge of misery that courses through his skin. That runs through his blood. It doesn't fully hinder the burn, it doesn’t prove to distract. 

I was never one to believe in fate, but I'd dare call our meeting destined. I’ve never been one to bow to the gods, but I find myself thanking them—begrudgingly—for bringing you into my life. You’re an infuriating thorn in my side, with the wit of a fool. But you’re my thorn, my beautifully vexing pain in the ass.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

He sighed, his lips twitching into a frown. It was tiring. It was almost ironic how he can write essays upon essays about various topics without breaking a sweat, but he can barely fill the page when it’s about you. Reaching to pick up the pen once more, he scribbled a few lines that would end his entry for today. 

Fate was a spider, weaving its web with cunning precision, drawing unsuspecting souls like us into its intricate design. Like two flies ensnared, we became entangled in the twisted, yet oddly rewarding, threads of destiny. The harder we fought, the more we intertwined, until I could no longer tell where your fate ended and mine began. But perhaps that wasn’t such a terrible thing. Perhaps that was the spider’s gift, not its trap. It threw me in the ocean of your love. I was dragged to the deepest depths, with no way of finding my way to the surface. I was expected to drown. And that’s what I did. I let myself be consumed by the waves of your tender touch and lose myself in the tides of your loving embrace.

[agere-fics]

Doctor Papa

dni: k!nk, anti-agere, agepl4y, or ddlg-esque blogs 🍄 this blog is a safe space for age regressors and age dreamers 🍄

pairing: caregiver!papa!bruce banner x regressor!little!reader

characters: uncle thor, bruce banner, reader, mentions of: steve, bucky, sam, and tony stark.

summary: you have to get MRIs done but you're nervous. thank goodness, papa knows how to cheer you up.

word count: 1,751

content warnings: MRIs, hospital gown, reader is written like they're a child's height, no mention of a particular chronic illness, please tell me if i'm missing anything

author's note: tadaa!! all done! this is the most i've written for a one shot! very proud of myself. also, this is inspired by me having to get MRIs done recently ajfhs

♡

Sometimes stuff we've done lots of times can still seem scary; which is annoying because who wants to feel anxious about the same exact thing over and over again?

You have to get these scans done by tomorrow. With every heart of your being, you wished that wasn't true but your previous scans were too old.

UGH!

Luckily, your papa had a trick up his sleeve.

He told you to stay here, in this gigantic, empty, white walled room. It was utterly boring, there were no paintings or statues or anything. Not even toys! Well, okay, you had your Mr. Rainy Day Bear but still... At least there were floor to ceiling windows- OH, and a skylight, too. Those were always nice.

While you waited for Bruce to come back, you watched what went on outside. There was Tony using his latest invention to attempt to lift Uncle Thor’s hammer. Tony still had no idea that it couldn't possibly work! How silly of him.

Bucky, Sam, and Steve stood in a far apart triangle. They were tossing around the Captain America shield like a Frisbee, guffawing, and yelling things that were joyously incomprehensible. It looked like lots of fun. Definitely more fun than MRIs. Maybe, they would let you join in later.

The double doors of the empty room swung open and papa’s humongous green form entered.

“Okayyy, love bug, I've grabbed all the cardboard pieces from recycling that weren't gross.” He grimaced thinking about the black, moldy gunk that spoiled some previously useful parts. He shrunk back down to Bruce Banner size after dumping the cardboard into a large pile. “We should have enough for our little art project.”

“Art project?” You looked at him expectantly. Your eyes were lit up with stars of joy this time, instead of meteor shower anxiety.

The idea was to make a cardboard MRI machine. Having an art project to focus on would comfort and reassure you about the process you would go through tomorrow. If he could make it fun, your anxiety wouldn't be so bad.

“I’ve seen the machine before, papa, I can make the bestest one yet!” You hopped on your toes, giddy with tight, flapping fists.

“I grabbed your sticker books and some paint, too-”

“OH YAY, THANK YOU PAPA, THIS IS SO EXCITING!!”

Mission accomplished. Anxiety gone, replaced with magical cure Art Project™. Bruce smirked to himself.

You laid down on a tall, square cardboard piece. Bruce traced your form with a sharpie as you giggled. Once you had the correct length, you both began cutting a rectangular piece and put that piece on a metal cart with wheels.

Then, you cut out half circle pieces and hot glued them all together until it made one large 4D sphere with a hole in the middle like a donut.

At one point, the glue burned you but Papa Bruce fixed it right up and stopped the booboo pain with a cure-all kiss.

Your cardboard MRI machine may look done to outsiders but it wasn't even close. It was missing the most important part of all: the stickers! There were heart stickers, stickers with dolphins, rainbow stickers, puppy stickers, stickers that had Mr. Hulk and Papa on them, too! There were even stickers of Stevey, Bucky, Iron Man, and Uncle Thor! Papa said for your birthday he'd make stickers with you on them, too.

You also painted squiggles, polka dots, lines, circles, triangles, kitty cats, and zig zags. All of them in your most favoritest color.

“There!” You stood proudly, hands on your hips. “Now, it's very, very pretty, papa.”

Papa gave you a minute and then asked, “Are you ready to practice?”

You blinked and sighed. Defeat warping your mood. “Yeah...”

Papa spun away, put a doctor's coat on, and then turned back, holding a clipboard. “Alright, are you the caregiver for Mr. Rainy Day Bear?”

“Yeah, papa.” You lightened up a little bit.

“Papa? No, I'm Doctor Doctor. Who's papa?”

“You're papaaa!” You pointed at him.

“Okay, okay I'm Doctor Papa.” He repeated, “Are you the caregiver of Mr. Rainy Day Bear?”

You tilted your chin up and did a faux British accent. “Why, yes, sir. He's feeling very, very bad and needs a scan.”

“Ah, yes, I see that on his chart, Caregiver.” He flipped through the scribbled pages on the clipboard. “Let's have. Mr. Bear lay down on the table with his head on the pillow.” Bruce gestured with his hand.

You laid your stuffie down on the pretend bed, placing Mr. Bear’s head gently on the pillow. You patted his hand for good measure.

Doctor Papa put ear plugs into the bear's ears and placed cushy pink headphones on him. The headphones had cat ears on them. Papa raised his voice a little, “Mr. Rainy Day Bear, what kind of music do you like to listen to?”

“Doctor Papa, Mr. Bear is nonverbal.” you said matter of factly. You raised your pointer finger to the sky. “I’ll answer for him. He likes The Wiggles, Papa- I mean Doctor Papa.”

“Alrighty then, The Wiggles album coming right up.” Bruce pulled out his phone, scrolling until he found the right music. “Wiggles rave?”

You nodded, then kissed the tippity top of Rainy Day’s head. “You'll be okay, Mr. Bear.”

Bruce began to push the cardboard bed into the donut sphere. You took a big, big deep breath in.

“BRRRR BEEEP AGHHHH RRRRR DNNNN-”

That breath was immediately released back into the atmosphere. “PAPAAA!” You clutched your chest, laughing so hard your legs felt weak.

Doctor Papa continued, “DRRRRR EEEEEE EHHHHHH MRRRRRR!”

You were rolling on the floor, tears leaving your eyes. How silly of your papa!

“BRRRRRrrrrrr….” Papa rolled the cardboard bed out of the donut. “How are you feeling Mr. Bear?”

“Papa, he can't hear you!”

Bruce laughed. “Oh, yeah, right.” He removed the headphones and then the earplugs. “How is the fantastic Mr. Bear?”

You lifted Mr. Bear’s paws and had him sign to Bruce, ‘I am okay.’

“Perfect! Let's take a look at your scans here…” Papa turned around and scribbled quickly on the paper. When he faced you again, he showed you the scan. It was a poorly constructed scribble of Mr. Rainy Day Bear with a big, biiiiiiiig, heart right in the middle. “I knew it, Lots-Of-Love-itis.”

You unburied the British accent. “Quite good, sir. Well done, Mr. Bear.” You placed a hulk sticker on his paw and hugged him tightly.

Papa kneeled down and asked, “Do you want to practice with you this time?”

You gave it a thought, looking this way and that. “Hmmm, will you make the funny noises again?”

“BEEEEP BRRR-”

“Not right now, Papa!” You shouted with a smile.

“Oh, during the practice?” He waited for you to finish rolling your eyes. “Yeah, I can do that.”

“Okay…” You breathed in, out, in, and out slowly. “Let's practice, Doctor Papa.”

♡

“Big day, lille venn.” Uncle Thor said as he helped tie the back of your hospital gown. He double knotted the strings behind your neck and then the ones by your hip. “There you are. All set.”

You frowned at that, looking at Thor with big, watery eyes. “Not all set.”

“It'll be okay.” His hands (placed on your shoulders) turned you to face him. “Remember your breathing?”

“Mhm.”

“Let's do it together.” He raised his left hand as you did the same. “Climb Yggdrasil, breathe in.”

You traced up your pointer finger.

“Let's sit at the very top, hold your breath.”

You paused at the tip of your finger.

“Slide down the Yggdrasil branches, breathe out.”

You traced down your pointer finger.

Uncle Thor had you repeat that four more times, until the tears dried and the anxiety flowed further away.

“Very good, great job. Let's go see Papa.” He held your hand as he walked you towards the scary room. Worse than the boring room from yesterday.

You turned the corner and there was Papa at the computer. “Hey there! The computer’s prepped and waiting for you, little one.”

You looked at Papa, then Uncle Thor, and then Papa again. “Okay… I'm ready.”

Papa led you to the metal bed. It was rectangular and thin. A sheet was laid out on it so you wouldn't get super cold. There was a thick pillow on the end that had your favorite kitty cat pillowcase on it, which made the corners of your lips turn upwards.

Papa pressed an arrow down bottom next to the donut sphere that brought the bed down to your level. He held your hand as you hopped on and then helped position you onto the center. He guided you through a big, deep breath so that your body was as comfortable on the table as can be instead of tense.

Next came pink headphones with cutesy kitty ears on them and plain boring ear plugs so that your hearing wasn't hurt from the loud noises. Papa already set up your favorite kind of music so when the headphones were placed on you, it was already playing. Bruce furrowed his brow in question, moving his thumb up and down. You replied with a thumbs up. You were ready.

Bruce handed you a panic button to hold just in case and laid a blanket over you to keep you warm. Papa kissed the top of your head and left the room.

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath in and out.

BBRRRRRRR

‘It's okay. I'm okay.’

BEEEEEEPPP

‘Woohoo, I'm doing awesome!’

REEEEHHHHHH

‘This is boring, it's got to have been a bajillion minutes by now.’

After ten years (minutes), the machine stopped and Papa walked back into the room. He gave you a high five and bunches of praises that you only heard some of because of all the ear protectors. But you could tell by his facial expressions that he was so very proud of you.

He pressed the arrow down button again and the bed began moving to an easier height. You removed the headphones and earplugs yourself, you felt like such a big kid (in the best way)!

You stretched this way and that while making funny noises which made you abrupt into hearty giggles.

Bruce held your hand as you jumped down. Next thing you knew, he was hugging you tightly, picking you up, and spinning you around and around!

“I'm so very, very proud of you, bumble bee!”

You kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Papa!”

♡

[tinycozycomfort]

rest in the cup of my palms (part one)

pairing: no outbreak!joel miller x art student f!reader

chapter one: drawing from life

series masterlist | next chapter

series summary: you went back to school to find out who you are—to make another leap in the hope of self discovery. when you finally find that first glimpse of yourself, it’s in someone else. what happens when the mirror tries to pull you in? or  you’re everything joel could’ve hoped to find. he doesn’t let go easily.

chapter summary: ellie volunteers joel to model for a drawing class on campus. you find someone worth dreaming about.

warnings/tags: no outbreak, no use of y/n, (for everything) -> mutual pining!, possessive behavior, smut (w individual tags to come), unnecessary descriptions of joel being beautiful, ellie is joel's daughter, ellie and reader attend the same university but reader is in post-grad, age gap (joel is late 40s, reader is not), alternating pov, slow-ish burn, joel miller wins girl dad of the century via unanimous vote (for this chapter) -> masturbation (f), intense feelings of loneliness, existential rumination

word count: 7.2k

rating: explicit (18+ only! mdni)

A/N: some good ol' work up, necessary to explain the rated r plans i have for them. ive been terrified of writing a series but i'm also tired of editing everything down to be one-shot appropriate, so today we try. im full-swing into my fixation era and on my 'i cant be loved + ive known how to love you for 1,000 lifetimes' bullshit. this fic is as self indulgent as they come, but i hope you can enjoy it! and for those of you willing to trudge through this with me, i love you.

read on ao3

“To photograph people is to violate them, by seeing them as they never see themselves, by having knowledge of them that they can never have; it turns people into objects that can be symbolically possessed.”

Susan Sontag - On Photography 

───────

A halo of hot light falls through the pane of glass above the sink. Joel’s got one eye pinched semi-shut, trying hard to focus on not burning himself while he drains boiling water out of a pot of pasta. 

When he woke up this morning, the blinds on every window in the house had been strung up to the lip. He’d barely gotten a hand around one of the strings in the glass frame above the couch before Ellie appeared out of nowhere to literally slap his wrist, ‘I’m drawing’. Still groggy, he tried to challenge her, ‘Do they all have to be open?’, to which she patiently explained—for what she probably feels is the millionth time—that she needed the extra light, and if she had them all open when she started, they’d need to stay that way until she was done. 

So he left her to work, knowing she’s got midterms to finish, walking around with his eyes closed until he felt his way back into his bedroom. He came out once for coffee, and not again until dinner. This is their weekend.

Joel spoons out some of the food into bowls, leaving them to stay warm by the stove before he steps into the dining room. He stops himself half-way, hanging back in the archway to give his daughter another minute as the last shreds of strong sunlight start to wane out.

Ellie’s right where he left her: at the table, cross-legged in her chair with an eraser-less pencil held tightly in her fist. She’s hunched over a large pad of paper, the back of it lifted at an angle under a pile of old books and dog-eared tool catalogs. The sketchbook she uses as a reference guide is propped up on the corner of her left knee, leaned against the edge of the table. She rifles between two pages of it, eyeing some of the quick sketches—visual notes, as she puts it—that she took in class to help her navigate the larger, more detailed version with ease. Silent save for her short huffs of breath, she’s concentrated, wrist-corner lifted to not misplace any graphite. Her process is always the same; a little creature of habit.

She’s wearing her headphones, the cord winding dangerously low, threatening to dip into a cup of water she’d placed in the empty triangle between her lap—the same one he’d seen her with six hours ago. She hasn’t even touched it, still full nearly to the brim. He wonders if she’s gotten up at all. The girl works herself a bit too hard, he thinks, always falls head first into whatever project she’s working on, nothing if not like her dad. The corner of his mouth tugs up so tight it hurts. What is he going to do without her?

He just stands there, feet crossed on top of each other and arms in a twist over his chest, and watches her while she’s not looking, knowing she still gets shy sometimes when he catches her like this. She’s the sweetest reminder of everything good Joel’s ever done; another life he’d gladly offer his own for. 

It’s always come naturally—to be what someone needs of him—in a way that transcends reward or expectation. 

Joel had been his brother’s primary caregiver first, from birth and then well into their adulthood—always around to bail him out of jail or lend him money he didn’t have. Because he cared. Loved him. He couldn’t ever really say it, always had a problem with the wording, but he knew that at least some of what he wanted to explain had come across. He can see it in the way Tommy is with his own family.

His brother has Maria now, and the kids, and seeing how happy Tommy could be in spite of their upbringing was the first time Joel had ever put his priorities into question. Somewhere in all the caring-for he did, he’d forgotten about himself; the possibility of having his own wife and child and home. He’d always ached for that, deep down, but didn’t even know it was an option until he saw it happen. By that point, he wasn’t sure if he could do any of it, or if he even had the time to start. Then came Ellie.

She entered his life when a close friend of Tommy’s had died unexpectedly and no one came forward to claim her, unknowingly giving him a second chance; one he worked to make count. She was tough to crack at first—also like him in that way—but the love had always been there, waiting its turn after all the awkwardness and misunderstanding and adapting before finally showing its face. She’d needed him then, as much as his brother had all those years ago, carrying on the torch of purpose that Joel so feverishly searched for. 

He rolls his eyes at himself; he’s been having too many misty-eyed moments about her lately. It’s so unserious, the actuality of it; of being her dad. Going to work and the supermarket and museums, being there to chaperone field-trips and take one-thousand mostly-blurry photos of her graduation. But it’s been everything to him. He’s desperately clung to the five years of her life that she’s shared with him, and he’s so proud to witness it, but he knows she’s getting to a point where she needs to be her own person. He’ll miss her when she’s only home for summers, then only home for Christmas, then only home once in a while—so he holds on to every bit, and tries not to think about what’s next for him. 

He walks closer to her, tilting his head to try and steal a glance of what it is she’s working on. He catches a glimpse of the face of a woman, a portrait from shoulders-up. She’s pretty, with a soft and thoughtful expression, looking downward off the side of the pad. From what he could make out between the movements of Ellie’s hand, she even looks a little shy. His daughter rubs at the cheeks and nose of the girl on the paper, imitating the shadow-less areas where light would fall. Joel is mesmerized by the way she creates so effortlessly, like breathing. 

Without moving her head, she pulls a tiny white bobble out from her ear, “I know you’re watching me, weirdo.” 

Joel laughs, wet and thick in his mouth with the emotion he’s still climbing down from, “Is this how you treat me when I’m trying to feed you?” 

She smiles, he can see the fat of her cheek rounding out even from this angle, “You should’ve just said that.” 

Ellie leaves her set-up untouched, just getting up and moving down to an empty seat while Joel goes to bring the food out. 

She shifts around in her seat, feet folded again on the flat of it, eating too fast—ill-mannered—and it reminds Joel of all the nights they spent at Tommy’s for family dinner, right at the beginning, back when they’d just begun to become close. When she’d push his patience with her behavior to see if he’d say something, to see if he still paid her mind—he always did, still does, “Jesus Christ, kid. Have I taught you nothing?”

She holds back a laugh, mouth full of tomato sauce, “You love it. I’m charming.” 

He snorts, the two of them falling into a comfortable quiet for only a few minutes before she breaks it again, “Speaking of how much you love me, I need to ask you for a favor.” 

“Oh no,” He jokes, “What now?” 

“Remember those drawings I turned in of you last month?” She starts pushing around the last bite of her spaghetti, never a good sign, but he nods anyway for her to continue, “Well my teacher really liked them. And there’s been an issue with finding people to sit for the drawings. Sooo,” she really drags it out, “I signed you up.”

“What do you mean, you signed me up? For what?” 

“To model,” Joel’s mouth pops open in an immediate attempt to oppose, but Ellie’s quicker, “Didn’t you say you’d always support me in school?”

“You know that’s not what I meant.” Joel finishes his plate and then they’re both just clinking their forks against porcelain for a heavy eightnineten seconds before she gives it another shot.

“C’mon, seriously. I’ll get extra credit if you do it,” She lets out a long sigh like she can’t believe she has to explain anything more than that, “My professor teaches a Monday session for the master’s program and they need people. It’s just one time.” 

“Ellie. It’s Sunday. How are you gonna tell me this now?” 

“Please, you just sit there for, like, two hours while they draw you and you don’t have to talk. That’s two of your favorite things. Three if you consider that you’d be helping me out.” she looks at him with a sticky-sweet smile, eyes crinkled—like she knows she’s getting away with it. 

She might be. 

“Why don’t you ask one of your friends to do it?” Joel gathers up their plates from the table to carry them into the kitchen. Ellie picks up their still half-full glasses as an excuse to follow him.

“Because we all have class together tomorrow on the other side of campus. Plus, you’re easy to draw and—” 

“Hey.” 

She ignores the flat look he shoots her, flipping on the sink, “That’s a compliment, by the way. But really, it’s no effort and you’d be getting me into a good place with my professor ‘cause she’ll be super grateful. The budget’s kinda tight this semester.” 

“Then what am I payin’ for, if you’re gonna make me do this stuff myself?” It’s a half-hearted dig—he’s mostly annoyed because she probably already figured out he’s going to agree.

Her little smirk graduates to a shit-eating grin, she knows it, “Best dad ever.”

“You’re a pain in my ass, y’know that?”

“Just because I knew you were gonna say that, I actually signed you up for two.”

───────

Joel stumbles out of the elevator, filing hurriedly through groups of students with a new-found purpose now that he’s managed to make it to the correct floor. Ellie made a point of not mentioning that he had to be at the school at 7:30am until she was saying goodnight to him a few hours ago, because she thought it would dissuade him—she was right—so now he’s running late on top of everything else. 

He’s got the little scaled-down, splotchy-printed version of the campus map gripped tightly between his hands. Room 14B is seemingly only two turns and one corner from where he stands—if he’s holding it the right way. He wants to ask for directions, but he feels too out-of-place to set aside his embarrassment. He’s older than at least half the staff, and some of the attendees are even younger, and he doesn’t want to run the risk of looking incapable, as foolish as it is. He wishes Ellie would have just offered to show him where to go before she headed off to her own class. 

For someone who prides themselves on their ability to parent, he feels hopeless now without his daughter; not for the first time, but it’s especially harsh considering the circumstances. It hurts something bittersweet, to think about how much more they’ve bonded since he started working less and she decided to live at home her first year of college (though it’s coming to an end sooner than he’d like). Again, too many sad thoughts, and she’s not here, so he trudges on. 

He walks in two more circles before he finds the right place—down a fucking hallway and hidden behind a door he didn’t know he was allowed to open, of course. A woman with long, dark blonde hair is sitting at a desk by the door when he enters. She doesn’t look up at him.

“Good morning, ma’am. Sorry I’m late. My—uh. You teach my daughter? I’m here for—” 

“Ellie’s dad,” She cocks her head without meeting his eye, “Late? You’re about twenty minutes early, she told me you probably would be.” 

She knows me too well, the brat. He chastises her in his mind but outwardly he corrects himself, “Yes, right, sorry. I’m a little turned around.” 

“That’s alright. There’s just a waiver you need to sign, and you can get undressed in the bathroom down the hall. I’ll give you a cover-up to wear until I come to grab you.” 

Right, he’d have to be naked. He already knew that—sort-of—having seen dozens of Ellie’s sketches from semesters past. He knows the students don’t see it that way, knows that they’ve all drawn the same things so many times they would be desensitized to his nudity. They’d probably all be desensitized to him as well; in their eyes, he was just a reference, as familiar as any of the memorialized piles of fruit or arrangements of glass that Ellie's also brought home. 

Still, Joel feels a wash of anxiety come over him. He’s more than comfortable in his body, after putting it through so much, but this degree of vulnerability is severe in comparison to vanity or sex—it’s a state of living he hasn’t participated in for a long time. He doesn’t like to be seen, and being documented—having physical evidence of how he’s interpreted by others—makes his stomach turn. He hasn’t looked in a mirror for more than a moment in months, but it can’t be that bad, right? Ellie’s always given him a favorable light, but he worries she has a bias beyond belief. What if he sees something about himself he doesn’t like? What if everyone’s been able to see it all along?

Caught in his thoughts, he doesn’t realize the woman is still talking, “We have a scheduled break halfway through class. You can leave then. Next week it’ll flip and you can come for the latter half so they can finish.” She slides the form and a swath of black fabric across the table, and almost like she can sense his apprehension, finally raises her head to give him a meaningful look, “Thank you again for doing this. I know it can feel weird, but it makes a difference for them. There’ll be a joint show at the end of the month, too, with Ellie’s class.” 

He just offers her a little nod of his head, thank you, signing the form and padding to the bathroom to unceremoniously disrobe in an empty stall.

It’s just two hours. 

───────

If they make you take another figure-drawing class, you’re going to scream. 

You’d think this far into a second degree, the school board would stop requiring you to take what is essentially the same class every semester. Sincerely, the only thing that changes is how long the session runs and what number follows the class title. It’s getting old. 

To be fair, it’s not necessarily that you dislike drawing—it provides a pretty firm foundation for your personal work to stand on—it’s just tedious. Nothing is inspiring about assignment-based work, especially when they’ve decided the only way you can prove your skill-set is to make you draw the same three objects five-thousand ways. 

But it’s not up to you. 

So here you are again, two weeks from spring break, back in this frigid building after surviving another forty minutes of traffic, body still stiff from fighting the urge to fall asleep at the wheel. 

It’s important, you remind yourself, to show up and put your fullest effort into everything, no matter how much you don’t enjoy it. Even if just to prove to yourself you can still finish things.

Coming back to school was an idea you’d toyed with for years after graduating. 

There had been a lot of pressure on you to go in the first place, from your parents and your teachers and your nightmare of an ex, because according to them you’d get nowhere without it. After enough pressure and in a need to appease them, you folded and went; suffered every long night and pushed through every period of self-doubt and smiled for every ‘worth-capturing’ moment right up to the end. And then when it was over, gone faster than you could comprehend, you felt like something was taken away from you, even with how low it had made you—the worst kind of stockholm syndrome. 

In an attempt to keep some momentum, you were over-eager for more right out of the gate. There was an initial need to continue, because you’d been reliant on academic structure just by the nature of familiarity, and maybe a little ill-prepared to face who you were without guidance. Without the instruction of someone with two degrees and a smoking addiction and no teaching license. Now it sounds silly, but then you spent a few too many nights uncontrollably looking into post-grad institutions or internship programs, googling professors and reading forums for first-hand accounts. 

Then, after a year, the thought of continuing got a little less exciting, and you became comfortable in the freedom of nothing after being in school your whole life. So you pretended to research, emailed everyone about how great the options looked, signed up for one-on-ones you didn’t show up for—until people stopped asking. 

It was at that point that you finally had the time to process what you were doing and why, and accepted that you didn’t have to have all the answers, despite what everyone had led you to believe. Truthfully, you still had no idea who you wanted to be and that’s okay—living with it and living alongside it weren’t mutually exclusive. You just took time to practice being yourself—sucked up the embarrassment and did the work, little exercises in unleashing yourself onto the world instead of letting every experience be done to you. If you were going to do anything anymore, even something like continuing your education, it had to be on your own terms, to try it all in the effort of self-discovery.

So yes, applying and getting accepted and attending every class—even this one—this time around was for you—to better yourself instead of just filling an expectation. You’re determined to make good on the opportunity.

And it has been better, so far. You even have friends this time around. Okay, two, and one of them is your roommate, but it's more of a support system than what you had going into undergrad.

You say yes now, too; not to everything, but to more than before. Which is maybe how you got roped into getting ‘introductory’ drinks later this evening with everyone, now that more people have joined the program as winter thaws out and it’s easier to commute. It’ll be nice to swap ideas and catch up and maybe even get laid instead of spending hours staring at the ceiling and willing time to pass. That thought alone is enough to keep you here.

It’s just two hours.  

The room this semester is a little bigger, at least; probably the only perk that moving up so gracefully from Drawing II to Drawing III had earned you. It’s still unfortunately just another classroom; windowless to protect it from outside influence and drenched in fluorescent light to create a controlled environment. Old, stained art horses form a circle in the center of the space, crowding around a painted-gray wood pallet like an audience. A metal stool sits atop the make-shift stage, providing a seat for the subject. It’s clinical, the way the elements come together; a perfectly disarrayed scene that’s been neatly curated to emulate every ‘socratic seminar’ model you’ve seen in education since you can remember. Always the same.

You’re hoping for someone new today to rest on the chair; the department has been in less-than-preferred financial standing lately, so you’ve seen the same faces interchanged for  most of the term.

Your professor is at her desk when you make your way in, greeting you with a grin despite the tired look on her face. A hardworking woman, the shadows under her eyes gave her a beauty you could only explain as determined. You knew she cross-taught for both sections of the department, and you respected her for it. It couldn’t be anything short of a struggle to toggle between those modes of seriousness—to have the patience to answer the younger students’ unending questions and the passion to keep the post-grads engaged. 

Moving to get a seat as far on the outskirts of the cluster as possible, you watch as your classmates arrive slowly until all the slots are filled. No one really talks, probably all similarly bogged down by the early start and the cold weather outside. Ian, your friend who’d invited you out tonight, waves at you from four horses down and you halfheartedly nod back at him. 

“Good morning everyone, we’ve only got two more classes after this until your week off, so we’ll make this next one a two-parter and have critique on the twenty-first. I want you guys to focus on composition more than anything else,” She turns in her seat to write some names on the board behind her, “We’ll go for two hours then break. If your name’s up here we’ll have a conversation about your thesis. The rest of you can go.” 

Thankfully you’ve been spared this time—granted another seven-nights-straight writing the segment of your thesis that was meant to be finished two months ago. Your brain hurts inside of your skull. 

You set up your little station, sketchpad raised against the easel, body straddling the drawing horse as you fiddle with some dirty erasers in your pack. 

You can hear the slap slap slap of the model’s feet on the concrete floor as they enter—a long gait paired with hard, thudding steps; probably a man by the sound of it. Tall and heavy. 

“Okay guys, we’re starting,” She winds up the dial on a plastic kitchen timer and sets it on the edge of her desk, “Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be making a few passes throughout and we’ll exchange thoughts.”

You roll your neck, knowing the model tends to take a minute to find a comfortable position, and that people watching didn’t do anything to help. A tempered soundtrack—the poorly contained buzzing of the clock and the moan of the air-conditioning—plays on in the background. Your leg is asleep. It’s cold in here. You count to thirty in your head. That’s enough time, right? You shift again, stretching your arms once more just in case.

Looking up, you peer over the side of the easel to get a quick look at the model’s pose and immediately do a double take. 

It is a man.

He’s sitting on the chair, facing the girl a few seats down from you so that you can only see him from a three-quarters view. He has one long, thick leg pushed against the lower bar of the stool, the other one, closest to you, hiked up on the seat, folded so that his knee points towards the ceiling. His arms are crossed, hugging his erect shin with his wide back wrapped over his thigh, effectively shielding the ‘naked’ parts of him from view. He looks shy, but not uncomfortable; either like he’s done this before or he’s accustomed to protecting himself—to hiding. 

The frame of his body is captivating; he looks strong but used, little nicks and scars littering his shoulders and hands. Weathered. As you make your way up his torso, you find it’s a similar state of experienced, tan profile and neck bearing the slightest difference in color from the soft of his side, and you can see the faintest curve of a hem-shaped tan-line across the dip in his shoulder. Little wisps of gray-dusted brown curls frame the edges of his face. He’s beautiful in a gentle way, with a dark, heavy brow that leads into the sharp slope of his nose, plush lips pursed like he’s concentrating. 

Part of you feels bad about staring, but it’s easy enough to disguise it as working, so you map him with your gaze again and again until you can still see him when you blink. It takes the constant movement of your classmate’s hand sketching something in your periphery to remember you’re being timed. 

You choke out a cough, repositioning your body and grabbing some charcoal. 

The way you usually approach this task is simple: get down the general gist of the body, careful to keep out the details of the person in favor of capturing light and weight—there’s a graded challenge to be considered, after all. 

Yet as you watch him, you decide you can fulfill the requirements in a way that gives him more room to exist. You crop the drawing tighter, paying careful attention to the landscape of his face; the hills of his cheekbones and the valley between his lips. You want to immortalize him. 

You’re suddenly deeply concerned with the history that’s woven itself into the shape of him, in what happened to make him look this way. It seems like life has been useful to him, but that he’d had to grow from something to make it so—like he had to work for it. He’s the living manifestation of his own grief and enjoyment and passion, and you want to know all of it.

Countless minutes pass as you take him in and spill him out, fingers moving quickly to recreate the weighted feeling of his posture, exhausted and heavy, muscles held together on the string of bone that runs through the center of his back. You write him down, again and again, flipping to a new page half-way through to get in one last version of him—one for yourself. 

You’ve never seen him before, but you see part of yourself in him. He mirrors the anxious peace you’ve been operating under for the last few years, humming with energy but willfully stagnant. It makes you feel seen, less burdened by your recent inability to connect—he makes you want to keep trying.

You wonder if he writes or draws or makes, and if he’d show you. You want to hear him talk. You want to see the other side of him, literally and metaphorically. You want to feel—

The tinny ring of the alarm sounds off, and you’re taken out of the fantasy. 

The second drawing is only really half done, but you didn’t make it with the intention of sharing it anyway, so you flip back to the original to hide it.. 

You try not to watch the man when he stands—remembering that just because he’d been hidden before doesn't mean he wasn't naked the entire time—maybe more for your sake than his. You peek around the room instead, taking a healthy, albeit competitive, glance around for other interpretations of the man; did they see him too, the way you do?

When you look up to take a comparative look, he’s gone. You’re a little disappointed, admittedly, but there’s still one more chance to interact with him, and you can make up for it then. You start to pack up your things in an effort to make it to the parking lot before the crowd. A sudden rise in the volume level in the room tells you that the shock of the early morning has started to burn off. You try to tune it out, so much so that you don’t hear someone walking up behind you. 

“Wow.” It’s a man’s voice, deep and smooth. You pivot in your seat. 

It’s him, in all his communal-robe wearing glory, even more gorgeous from head on. It’s a pleasant surprise, this reveal; his beauty is evenly distributed, like a handwritten note that extends into the margins or when a movie’s ending is just as good as the start.

“Oh. Hi. Thank you.” You feel exposed, like you got caught doing something bad, even though there are ten other people in the room with even more detailed portraits of him.

“Can I see the other one, too?” 

“What?” 

“You flipped your page. I didn’t see anyone else do that. Did you make two?” 

You just nod, shocked that he was watching you back, peeling back the paper to reveal to him the unfinished drawing. He won’t question it if you don’t give him a reason to. 

“Are you gonna finish it?” He asks, eyes rolling over it with an intense curiosity.

“Uh, probably not. I don’t like it as much as the first one.” Maybe lying your way through this would provide better reasoning than ‘I wanted a part of you that no one else could see’.

“Can I have it?” 

When you can’t find something to say fast enough, he just continues.

“I’m sorry, is that rude? If you’re just gonna get rid of it, I’ll take it. It just… looks like me. I mean they all do, I’ve been told I have a ‘simple face’,” He coughs awkwardly in acknowledgement of his own tangent, “I just mean to say that it feels a lot like me. If that makes sense.”

“You’re actually very visually interesting.” Is the first thing you can think of, and fuck, did that come out really fucking wrong, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Maybe it’s better if he takes it, if it’ll stop you from fumbling, “But yeah, you can have it.” You pull a little plastic mail-tube out of your bag, ripping the drawing free from its perforated tether and rolling it in on itself. 

The edges of his mouth pull up, a cute little thing, free of laughter or judgement, “Thank you. I’m Joel.” One of his hands drapes across his stomach, palm spread over the knot of the wrap—he’s holding himself at length again. Why? 

“Hi Joel. You seem to know a fair amount about this whole thing. Not your first time, then?” You offer him your name in return, and he parrots it back—guard still up, still standing too far away. 

“It is, actually. The closest I’ve come to this is sitting in the yard for my daughter,” He watches as you slide the drawing into the cylindrical case, “You’re very talented.” 

“Thank you.” It feels weird to hear the praise twice, “How’d they get you to pose for no money? I heard the department’s a little strapped. I’ve been subbing in for the undergrads too when I can.” 

“My daughter volunteered me, she’s on the other side of the program. Your teacher was giving out extra credit.” He takes the roll when you pass it to him, going out of his way to grab it from the middle, his thumb grazing yours. Your skin heats up where he’s touched it, and you look down at the floor, suddenly nervous. 

“Wow, this is the first time I’m hearing anything about that.” You continue to pack away items into your bag, “I’m owed quite a lot if that’s true.” 

His face falls in on itself in a wince, “Oh. Didn’t mean to do her in like that.” You can feel him looking at you for a few beats too long, and his eyes narrow like he’s about to say more. 

In the same moment, as if summoned, your professor turns on her heel, walking over to your bench. 

“It’s okay. I’ll be okay without it. I’ll see you next week, right?”

He shakes a little, releasing his stare, and throws a thumbs up in your direction with his protective hand, “Yeah, see ya next week. Nice to meet you.” 

───────

After another four-hour class and a too-long nap and a break for dinner, everyone from this morning joins together in a few cars to head to a bar downtown. You meet up with Ian, who offered to drive as a bargaining chip, because he knows by now that you’d back out if you had to show up on your own.

The bar is dark and divey and perfect for being overly-observant in secret. You’ve warmed up to this crowd enough, but you’re still on plus-one basis with a lot of them, Ian serving as your invitation. You like to just listen to them at first during these outings, strategically planning your involvement so you don’t feel put on the spot when they give you a turn.

It’s a lot like being in class; the group of you occupying a dimly lit corner, a round-table of bodies, with the person in the center alternating as the topic changes. Tonight you stay at the furthest end.

You cling to the single tequila soda you ordered, watery and flat by now with pea-sized ice chips bobbing around in the center to avoid the heat of your fingers. You watch them swim, tipping your cup to see them swirl in a frenzied circle until they disappear. 

Some guy from your English class—Andre or Andrew or who cares—is talking at you, making his best attempt at what you think is supposed to be flirting. It’s really just him asking your opinions on his five favorite books, not hiding his disapproval when you mention you haven’t read one or the other. 

You watch Ian, who left you twenty minutes ago in search of the bar-top for another drink. He’s caught now on his third conversation on the way back, maybe thinking he’s doing you a favor by taking his time. You try relentlessly to catch his eye instead, and he bounds over without question when he sees you. The glass of wine in his hand is already half empty, and the English-class-guy spooks at the sight of what he probably thinks is competition. So much for that.

“Having fun?” he prods when he slips in the chair beside you, already aware that you are absolutely very much not having fun. 

Ian’s a nice guy, and he means well. You met him a week into your first semester—almost a year ago now—at orientation, because your last names were the beginning and end of the line of their respective letters. He was from somewhere in Canada, studying photography with a minor in painting and drawing. He’s maybe a year or two older than you, though you’ve never asked to confirm; tall and long and pretty, for lack of a better word, with big eyes and a permanent split in the little bangs that cover his forehead. He’s the first man in years you’ve been comfortable around, never initiating anything or pushing too hard for your friendship. All in all, no one’s been as welcoming to you, except the person you literally live with, and you’re happy to let him drag you out if it means he’ll continue to look after you the way he does.

“Of course, when have you ever known me to have a bad time?” 

“No luck with Adrian?” Adrian. You were close.

“Just likes to hear himself talk, I think. I wasn’t interested in being an audience.” 

He hums, “Someone else on your mind?” 

“Like who?” You lean the lip of your cup against your mouth.

“Saw you making eyes at the model today,” He teases, nudging you in your rib when you take a sip of your drink so that you keel over slightly. You sputter, unamused with the tactic to get you to fess up.

Was it that obvious?

“Isn’t that the point of the class?” 

“Yeah maybe, smartass, but that’s not what I meant. I saw him talking to you, saw you give him a little gift,” He bobs his eyebrows at you suggestively, “Excited for him to come back next week?”

“So I can stare more, you mean?” 

“So you can get his number.” 

“Ian.”

“I’m just saying you should try and find someone outside our section of the building. No writers, either, obviously.” He gestures to where Adrian is already trying his shtick on some girl from your class.

“He’s a little too old for me, don’t you think? His daughter goes here.” You muse. He’s mostly right about you needing to expand your reach, but you won’t let him off that easily.

“Maybe. But if you don’t care, and he doesn’t care, what’s it matter? He’s not too old to fuck you.” He makes a face and you roll your eyes. 

The thought is nice, but you know forging relationships is unlikely when you’re concerned, at least as of late, “I don’t want to spend my night talking about people I’m not going to fuck.” 

“Whatever you say.” He slinks out from his seat, mumbling something about a glass of water. A few steps away, he looks back over his shoulder, “You’re not doomed, by the way,” the asshole can read your mind, “You can enjoy yourself without feeling guilty. You’re allowed to like people.” 

And then you’re alone again. 

It’s like that for another hour, small attempts at chatter and meetings until you realize you’re too tired to fuck anyone, let alone continue to sit upright. Being up so early this morning took more of a toll than an hour nap could fix, and you're begging Ian to take you home. He agrees, spending the trip trying to plan another outing later in the week before everyone’s gone on vacation.

You give him a sleepy goodbye when he pulls into your apartment complex, making sure he’s still going to class tomorrow before letting him drive away. Once you’re inside, slipping quietly in through the front door, you realize your roommate isn’t home. She’s probably still in a late class or at her boyfriend’s or somewhere else. You enjoy the quiet enough to not think about it too hard.

The five sips of tequila-mostly-water has settled into your stomach by now, making you a quarter-second slower when you strip all your clothes off and climb into bed. 

You twist under the sheets, and after a while your skin starts to feel too hot, even in the cold air of your room. Breathing deep, you try to think of something boring to get your mind to still, but when you sense the sleep about to take over, it switches.

You see his face behind your eyelids, the man from today, strong and pretty and delicate, remembering all your favorite details—the length of his fingers and the depth of his voice. You curse yourself for assigning this importance to him. He’s just another page in your portfolio, if you even keep him, yet you can feel a slow heat bubble up at your core when you remember the stretch of his body under the robe. It’s okay to be taken with him, you think, he’s objectively gorgeous. 

Your conversation with Ian replays in your head—less about his sincere advice and more about how you need to get laid. It’s been too long; maybe you are just horny, and maybe taking care of it just this once could be enough to stop this hollow interest from growing. 

You reach a hand down under your blanket, the tips of your digits pushing into the slit of your cunt. You’re wet, arousal tacky and pooled so much that the light pressure you meant to be exploring with is enough to have you accidentally slipping inside. Okay, he’s really hot. So what? Was it really that bad if you thought so?

You dip a finger further in, timid at first; you’re used to keeping quiet for this kind of activity, and even though your roommate was gone when you got here, it doesn’t mean she hadn’t come in in the thirty minutes of rolling around you’d done before giving into your desire. You lay your free hand over your mouth just in case, teeth biting into the meat at the base of your thumb to keep yourself quiet. 

You slide in a second finger to the knuckle to join the first, the light stretch of it enough to make you pant. You see him again, hard and soft and beautiful. You think about what his skin would taste like, if he’d let you sink your teeth into the sinew of his neck. It feels weird to know what he looks like without his clothes, and you’re weirdly proud of yourself for holding back from seeing him fully; it's easier to dream about that way. You wonder how he’d present himself to you, how he’d want to fuck you. You imagine him winding a hand around the hinge of your jaw, fingers pressing hard into the soft of your cheeks. Would he be gentle? Would he make it hurt? You suspect either would be too much. You feverishly palm your clit, hips canting in an effort to climax. The pictures flash faster—his cock in your mouth, his tongue in your cunt, the way he’d spit and grip and hold—and you’re coming, drooling over your hand as you hear him say your name in your mind. 

You take your hand away after a minute, breath pushing out heavily from your nose. It’s fine, you needed to do it, just one time. No shame in that. It’s out of your system now. 

And if you see his face one more time before you fall asleep, it’s probably an afterthought.

───────

By the end of the week, you come to a horrible conclusion. 

It starts the next morning when you take your sketchbook out, itching to get a handle on the many writing assignments you’ve been dutifully ignoring, hoping for an outline or a free-flow of ideas. Nothing comes to mind. You draw a little bit to fill the space while you think, just a mess of material on the page, strokes of your hand that leave barely anything behind. 

Then on Wednesday you’re at your laptop, typing with one hand while the other one slides against the wood of the dining table, down and around in a loop, mimicking the same shape each time. 

And again last night in the shower, letting the shame of a different semi-failed night-out wash over and off of you. You slosh your foot around in the water in the basin below, catching it as it runs down and pools, ankle dragging in a tiny, controlled movement. 

It’s not until now that you put it together.

You’re sitting at your desk, with creative materials at your disposal this time, trying to make sense of what it is you’re forming. You find that no matter the medium, your hand automatically makes a single hard line. The same line, from memory. It’s negligible at first, just a light press of pen or pencil or crayon, until it drags down, down, down. It’s not until you lift your utensil that you recognize it. The hook of a nose and the crest of a top lip. 

A hard pit forms in your stomach, blood draining from your head to gather in the center of your chest, a blooming sickness of obsession you haven’t felt in a long time. You’re drawing him. You’ve been drawing him. You know this feeling, have participated in this kind of behavior. These are the actions that cause the humiliating dregs of attraction to bleed over into fixation—juvenile and universal and unavoidable.  He’s going to be a problem.

[emotionallyattachednerd]

Unforeseen Reunion | TP Ratchet x Drift/Deadlock | NSFW 18+

Word count: 7000+ 😲

Warnings: Smut ( valve and plug interfacing ), mentions of violence, near death experiance and angst. NSFW 18+.

Notes: So yeah, I lost complete control of myself. Holy crap, I'm impressed with myself. I decided I wanted to go with Prime universe as that's what my hyperfixation went with. I didn't completely focus on canon just so everyone is aware. I had way too much fun with this and I'm so obsessed with these two. Enjoy this work of art you beautiful sinners. 🥰

The crash landing was the sign that his luck had run out. Deadlock had been travelling for far too long, isolated in his barely hanging on ship without contact, that's until he managed to receive a transmission from decepticons. He should've been pleased, yet he didn't feel it, just emptiness.

It wasn't until he hit the earth's atmosphere that his ship decided it had enough, power shut off and he came plummeting towards the earth. He tried gaining control but that failed so he tried contacting the decepticons requesting assistance, but even that was a deadend. No help was coming for him.

Bracing for impact he thought he might have a chance but the rough landing was much harsher than expected, throwing him around and a sharp piece of metal punctured through him, slicing his fuel tank and severed a fuel line. Terrific.

Deadlock manages to get himself out of his piece of scrap ship and take a few steps forward, only to collapse onto the ground with a pained grunt and look down at his servo that held his wounded area to see a lot of energon was leaking from him. He can't help but let out a vented chuckle, convinced this was going to be it for him.

Only managing to get a short distance away from the crash site he couldn't walk anymore and slid his back down against a tree, venting out heavily as if a pressure was lifted from him. He knew though, his systems were struggling, warnings flashing before his optics, it won't be long before he shuts down and slowly offline from bleeding out. One more time he tried making contact but got nothing in return. Either his com links weren't working or they didn't care about him.

There used to be someone in his life who was very dear to him. He saved his life after getting himself hooked up on circuit boosters, gave him a chance, and he stayed with him. He loved him with all his spark, then the war started and that's where it all went wrong.

Eventually he would make choices and every choice has a price. Whether it was worth it or not, Deadlock never wanted to answer that himself.

He was one of Megatron's favourites. He's the one who gave him his new name and grew from that back on cybertron. He thought he was making the right choice, but he was wrong, and he's had to live with that all this time. He became emotionless, making him willing to kill when needed or ordered, leaving a trail of horrors behind which was enough to make any autobot and decepticon worst nightmare.

Now, he was dying, alone. Just as he deserved.

Leaning himself against the tree all he could do was observe his surroundings, take in what might be his last memories. Everything grew weaker, more burned out as his fuel tank pumped harshly to get energon through him, only for it to leak out.

His audios managed to pick up some sounds of a ground bridge. Had they finally decided to show pity and come for him? He onlines his hazy optics only to be met with the end of a blaster and an autobot symbol.

"Oh just my luck." Deadlock manages to say between harsh vents. "An autobot gets to watch me die in my final moments....or, you can take the shot, put me out of my misery?"

"Is that what you want?" Arcee keeps her guard up and weapons ready, not wanting to give him any chance to attack if he was faking.

"Does it matter what I want?"

"No, it doesn't." Bulkhead comes up behind, forcing Deadlock to move his helm up to look at him.

"Well you're a big one." He casually smirks through his pain. "So, what's it going to be? What's the...autobot thing to do?"

Arcee and Bulkhead had been sent to investigate the crash sight after it made impact. They knew it was a decepticon shuttle but weren't sure if it was occupied. Upon arrival it's confirmed. Neither wanted to let their guard down just in case he had any tricks or if the decepticons might show up.

"What do you think?" Bulkhead asks Arcee, unsure what they should do. Letting him die without them helping didn't seem right, but he was a con.

"Let's call Optimus, see what he has to say." Arcee answers.

Deadlock heard the autobot leader's name causing him to let out another vented chuckle. "Your big boss is here? Huh. Alright, call him, see if he has mercy on a filthy con." He was just talking, it's all he can do for his final moments.

While Bulkhead makes the call Arcee keeps her optics on him with her blaster still drawn. "You got a name?"

The big ask. "If I told you...you're going to wish you pulled the trigger." He decided to not say his name. If she found out, she might just pull the trigger on him without hesitation, not that he cared.

"I don't recognize you. You're not someone I've bumped into before, and I remember every bot I have. So who are you?"

"How about you tell me your name first?" Deadlock manages to tilt his helm to the side as he meets her optics, letting out a smirk when all she gives is silence, his pearly white dentas and sharp fangs pressing over his bottom lips. "Yeah...that's what I thought."

Deadlock notices Arcee say something else but it all goes deaf to his audios. He's lost a lot of energon and he knows he's in trouble as things in him start slowly shutting down. He manages to activate his audios again and this is when he hears more voices and steps coming closer. If he was to survive, he wasn't even sure what he'd do next, not anymore.

A part of him did want to be offline. It'll end everything for good, and perhaps give him some peace of mind, not that he deserved it.

"Hey, you still with us?" Bulkhead taps the top of his helm to bring him back, causing him to let out a groan and online again.

"Sort of..." Is his only honest answer.

"Well, today is your lucky day con. Our medic is going to come and patch you up. Try to remember this moment that we helped you." Bulkhead adds firmly for him to think about.

"I'm jumping with joy." Deadlock chuckles dryly, a little energon drops from his mouth as he tastes it flooding in his intake. Yeah, he felt it was too late.

"Drift?"

That voice.

He manages to move his helm back up and his amber optics flickered as he meets the gaze of the ghostly familiar figure standing before the ground. Ratchet. His Ratchet.

"You know him?" Arcee was surprised to hear Ratchet say the decepticons name. But Ratchet couldn't answer, he was frozen, as if he was petrified or enthralled by the very sight of what he thought he lost those years ago.

Deadlock, his given decepticon name, lets out a softly dry laugh that lingers longer with a smile, disbelief and sadness overwhelming his struggling processor. He finally found him.

"Perhaps I am lucky." He says with his wide smile, sharp dentas glittering in under the sunlight. "It's good to see you Ratty."

Under Optimus' orders Ratchet came to patch up the new decepticon before sending him on their way. He was a medic, he treated the wounded, but treating a decepticon was different. He's done it before of course, but not often. Ratchet felt his servos shake as he stood there. Hearing the old pet name made his vents hitch a little and his own emotions boiling up, completely deaf to Arcee as she questions him.

It's not until Deadlock slumps against the tree that Ratchet finally acted. Hurrying forward he came to his side and started to work on him. His wounds were bad, he knew this already just simply looking at him from afar.

"How do you know him?" Arcee repeats coming to the medics side.

"Later." Ratchet's focus was on him. "Let me work."

Neither Bulkhead or Arcee have ever seen Ratchet like this before. Sure, they've seen him sad, angry, annoyed, happy, but this is different.

When he feels his servos against his frame Deadlock lets out a shutter, both relief and pain. He tilts his helm up to get a better look at Ratchet and manages to hold a soft smile that feels foreign to him, he hasn't smiled like that in a very long time. There was a deep history there, and the two went through a lot together, right before he hurt his Ratty. He didn't deserve to be saved, or given a chance. Damage was done.

"Saving your life, again." Ratchet mutters mostly to himself, his own emotions rattled. "Reckless. Stupid. All this time and you're online, still. I'm out of my mind. I should hate you, no, I do hate you, but my spark is aching for you." His voice is low as if he's whispering to himself but Deadlock hears it. "Why did you....How could you...." His words break apart and that hits Deadlock hard.

"I'm sorry." Is all he can whisper, touching Ratchet's working servo and gaining his attention. "I'm sorry....I'm so sorry." Apologising won't fix the past or his choices, but it's the first time he's ever said it to him.

As much as Ratchet is hurting he knew he couldn't lose him again. Whatever happens next will be whether it was too late or not.

"Kids, stay back." Bulkhead hurries through the ground bridge first and warns the kids all hanging around the raised platform along with Agent Fowler and June.

"What's going on?" Raf asks curiously, noticing his worried expression.

"Optimus, he won't listen. Can you talk to him? This is crazy!" Arcee is next feeling enraged about Ratchet's decision.

Ratchet comes through next, carrying a badly wounded Deadlock in his arms with strength no one else had seen him with for a long time.

"You brought a Decepticon back here?" June raises her hand over Raf and makes sure the kids stay behind her. "Ratchet the kids are here!"

"Don't like it, find the door." Ratchet barks back, taking many of them off guard. He ignores everyone and places him on the medical berth, quickly gathering tools to start stabilising him.

Deadlock was hanging close over the edge, everything in him hurt and his processor was swimming wildly. He had no idea where he was, only that Ratchet was with him, and that's all that mattered.

"So cool." Miko comes closer to get a better view. Jack tries to stop her.

"Miko-"

"No way I want to watch!"

Optimus comes closer but stays out of Ratchet's way and stares at the decepticon brought in, his optics widening a little as if something clicked in his processor, and Arcee notices this.

"You know him too. Ratchet called him Drift. Who is that?"

Optimus is quiet before looking at his comrades. "Ratchet knows him. Let him work."

"But-"

"Please, Arcee." Optimus knew just how sensitive this would be for his old friend, and can't imagine but he must be feeling right now.

Arcee finally backs off but that doesn't mean she was alright with this. Most of everyone wasn't. Miko sits on the edge of the lower platform as she watches Ratchet do his magic on the decepticon, a fascination. June only manages to keep Jack and Raf away, still not liking that a decepticon was near the kids base.

"Prime, is this safe?" Agent Fowler questions him quietly. "I get that he's a friend of Ratchet's, but that doesn't change he's a decepticon."

"I understand your concern. But please, I'm asking you all to let Ratchet handle this." Optimus didn't want to explain everything in that moment, respecting Ratchet and hoping everyone will follow the same.

Deadlock was in and out of it for a bit, gold optics flashing repeatedly as Ratchet tried to stop the bleeding and keep him stable. Everything hurt through him, but not as bad as the ache in his spark that throbs with grief for his Ratty. He was saving his life yet again, trying to at least.

"Are you still with me?" Ratchet's tone is more gentle as he hovers over him once he manages to stop the bleeding.

"Ah huh..." He manages to say between heavy vents.

"I need to repair the damage and get energon running through you again. Try to keep still, you're at the start of a long road recovery."

Before he could say anything else, Ratchet had gone to get a few things. Deadlock tilts his helm a little to the side and through his flickering vision he spots something, or someone. The pink is what catches his attention first and gives himself a moment to adjust his vision before it clears up almost.

"Well, you're tiny." He manages to say softly through a short chuckle.

"I might be small, but I can rip your spark out." Miko doesn't hold back.

"I better...stay on your good side than. What are you?"

"What am I? I'm human. The names Miko. You've never seen a human before?"

"Nah, you're the first, Miko."

"What are your first impressions?"

"Well...you did threaten to rip my spark out...so I'm fearful of you." He only meant it as a joke and Miko knew this, and she gave a small smirk at him. She didn't like cons, but this one seems different.

Even Ratchet didn't seem bothered about his interaction with her. June slowly comes closer, Jack and Raf right behind her, still being careful.

"You're Drift, right?" Miko leans her chin against the railing feeling a bit more comfortable to stay.

"Yes." It's Ratchet that answers quickly before Deadlock could. He understood. Meeting his gaze there was that firm and serious blaze he knew all too well from his Ratty. It meant there was going to be no further mention about it.

"Yeah...I'm Drift." Saying the name again after so long felt weird, but guess he'll adjust to it again.

Suddenly, he jolts and groans in pain through clenched dentas as Ratchet wields something into place. It hurts a lot, but at least it doesn’t last too long.

"Could you give me a warning next time?" He vents once it stops.

"Nope." Ratchet answers simply.

He understands.

"How do you two know each other?" It's Raf that bravely asks, mainly both of them.

"We...go way back." Drift answers, optics shifting at the medic at his side. "Ain't that right Ratty?"

"Hm." Ratchet doesn't answer much after hearing his old nickname.

"Ratty?" Miko can't help but smirk at the medic.

"Only he is allowed to call me that." He tells her. No one else ever did.

"He hates it, but I get away with it." Drift smirks lightly before wincing again. "Frag..." Optics manage to cast over at the other autobots standing together outside the bay and staring, most of them looking not too happy causing him to vent out. "Stop."

Ratchet does but only because he's confused. "What?"

"Just...stop. Just...you shouldn't be helping, you know?"

"Do you want to be offline?" Ratchet hits his tool against the table causing the humans the jump and gives an intense stare at Drift. "Do you just want to give up?"

"Your friends don't want to waste resources on a filthy con...I don't deserve it. You...you shouldn't be helping me."

"Well, too bad. You don't get to have a say in what I do, we're well past that. Perhaps you're right about not deserving to be saved, but the only one that gets to decide your fate is me." Ratchet leans closer to Drift, optics burning, before he erupts. "The only way you will be offline is if I allow it, because I'm the only one who has every right to let you bleed out right now! You don't get to decide your fate! I do! Is that understood?!"

His outburst is heard by everyone. Even the humans shrink away a little, never seeing Ratchet this angry before. Something deep was there, but no one knew just how deep.

Drift doesn't flinch. He takes it, accepts Ratchet's rage. He's right, only he has the right to decide what happens next. All he can do is let him do what he wants, he is no longer in control of his fate.

"Understood."

Ratchet lets out a heavy vent and goes back to work on him, only to look up when he feels everyone staring. "What?" He snaps, bothered that everyone was just staring.

"Everyone, let's give them space." Optimus finally says. "Ratchet has work to do." He'll give that privacy to his old friend without distractions.

June leads the kids away and Miko follows to let Ratchet work. Only Optimus understands what Ratchet must be feeling, he knew what Drift meant to him, and knew just what they've both dealt with over the years. The others all had raising questions but at least they weren't hammering either him or Ratchet with them to get answers, and respected what Optimus had said.

It is a long recovery for Drift. Weeks go by, but he is doing better. Ratchet worked hard to repair the damage he received from the crash and make sure his fuel lines were pumping correctly. He worked his magic and did a good job on Drift, never giving up.

"Alright, follow my digit." Ratchet was doing simple tests, everyday he did them, and Drift obeys as his optics follow the moving digit in front of him, clearing and without struggle. "Good. Better today."

Drift was feeling better, both physically and mentally. After being by himself so long it was going to take time adjusting to have others around.

Not the autobots, mainly the humans kept him company. Drift was curious about these organics. Sure, he's come across them before, but not humans. He doesn't mind them.

"Does this mean I'm off bed rest?" Drift asks as he straightens his back. Ratchet shakes his helm with a short chuckle.

"Yeah right. You're clear when I say you're clear. Just because you look and feel better doesn't mean you're fit for duty."

"Duty?

Ratchet stops and looks at him, optics unreadable before venting softly. "You're staying, right?"

It hasn't been something they've talked about really. Drift had no idea what to do next honestly. Since finding Ratchet he didn't want to leave him behind, not again.

"You're here, so I'll stay. Don't think your friends are going to like that though." He didn't think they would welcome him into team prime. "Does that mean I've got to become an autobot?"

"Don't worry about them, I'll handle it. They don't know your decepticon name, yet. I don't want to hear that name ever again. And yes, you'll become an autobot, because I said so."

Drift understands. "Alright." He was willing to do whatever Ratchet wanted. All he wanted was to have him back in his life again, to not throw away his second chance.

"Good. Now, let's have a closer look."

Drift feels Ratchet's servos touch both sides of his cheek platings, examining him further and making sure he didn't miss anything. But Drift slowly leans into the touch, purring, and reaches up to touch them both under his own. The action gets Ratchet's attention and they both stare at one another, the fondness slowly growing as the medic's optics soften.

Ratchet does like the purrs Drift makes, he always did, and hearing it again makes his knees feel weak. Such a strange effect it gives, yet so addictive. It's been so long since he last heard them, causing his feelings to stir wildly. As much as he hated him for his choices, he never stopped loving him.

Neither did Drift. He has a lot of regrets, but the one he'll always carry is he hurt Ratchet. He'll always carry the weight of that.

Leaning closer, Drift presses the front of their helms together, savouring the moment for as long as he can as his optics shutter closed. Ratchet doesn't lean away and lets it happen.

Drift wants to kiss him, and he tries to do this by leaning closer towards his lips, but Ratchet stops him. The moment is gone.

"It's too soon." Ratchet can only whisper, trying to keep his emotions from pouring out. "You left a deep wound, one I could never repair."

Drift knew he deserved that.

"Your injuries aren't the only recovery you'll be going through. There's a lot....between us, that needs time to heal. Won't be simple, but I need time to adjust to this, to trust you again."

"So there's a chance?" Drift held onto that hope.

Ratchet vents softly and caresses his servo against his cheek plating again, running his digit under his optics gently. "I hope so."

That's all Drift needs. "Take your time then."

Optimus gathered everything, even the humans, so they can all listen to what Ratchet has to say. Drift was resting and took this moment to explain some details to his friends. They've all been very patient.

"How's he doing?" It's June that asks, the only one who was kind enough to ask about Drift.

"Doing better. Still recovering, but he's making good progress." Ratchet answers.

He looks up at everyone who stares at him, all focus and attention. His optics glance over at Optimus who was there for him through this. It's time to reveal it.

"Drift and I have a long history, all the way to the time before the war started on cybertron. He hasn't made the best choices in his life, which is why things are messy between us, but he wants to change, make better choices. I'm willing to give him that second chance."

"I understand your concerns." Optimus then jumps in and speaks to everyone. "We both do, but I trust Ratchet to take charge of him, and I believe there's hope for Drift, to become better."

"So he's becoming an autobot?" Jack asked curiously.

"He will. It's a lot to ask but it would be a great help if everyone treated him fairly, so he can settle into this life. He's been alone for a long time without contact, it has affected him, but with time he'll adjust and do better." Ratchet explains.

"Is he like your best friend?" Raf asks innocently.

The medic gives himself a moment before finally saying it. "Drift is my conjunx endura."

"What?' Arcee quirks quickly in surprise.

"You never said you had one!" Bulkhead is just as surprised while Bumblebee lets out a bunch of whirls and beeps along with them.

"Ah, sorry, humans are confused here." Agent Fowler raises his hand. "What's a...conjunx endura?"

"Well, for humans to understand, we're married." Ratchet clarifies.

"What?!"

Ratchet knew this was going to be a shock to everyone, and he'll silently admit he was trying to avoid this moment, but knew that wasn't going to last forever. They had a right to know what Drift meant to him, and what happened.

"Drift comes from a troubled life. He got himself addicted to circuit boosters, drugs for humans to understand, lost himself, and Optimus found him, or at the time he was Orion. He brought him to me where I had my own medical centre, doing what I could for those who were considered lower classes. I saved his life there, and I saw just how lost he looked, so I gave him a choice to stay and help me out, or he could leave. He got clean and stayed, few of the smart choices he's ever made. Over time we grew fond of one another and...well, we ended up together for a long while, fell in love, things were good and we were happy." Ratchet remembers those fond memories with him before he close his optics.

"Than the war started. Megatron approached me, offered me a position as his head medic officer, but I declined. I thought that was it, but I was very wrong. Megatron got to Drift, manipulated his mind, gave him false hope, and he fell for it. The next time I saw him he wore the Decepticon badge. He was already convinced I was going to join him, but I refused. I got angry, expressed my disappointment loudly. The Drift I grew to love left that day and he became stone cold. Megatron gave him the order to destroy the medical centre and he did it, leaving me in ruins. Megatron gives him a new name..." Ratchet went quiet. He couldn't say it, and looks at Optimus, who understands

"Deadlock."

The name rings through the autobots. They all knew that name all too well. The horrors they've heard, the carnage left behind by the same bot that was now in their base.

The humans all take notice of their reactions. "You've heard of that name?"

"The very name that a lot feared." Arcee says to them, voice full of dread. "I never bumped into him, only heard what he had done, and it's nothing good."

"Drift is Deadlock? The very con that Megatron favoured?" Bulkhead struggled to process this.

"Why did Megatron favour him?" Jack sounds worried.

"Because of his lack of emotion, no empathy, and did as he was told without hesitation." Ratchet adds through a shaky vent. "But...he's coming back around, the Drift I know. After what happened, I joined Optimus to try to do what I could for the autobots, all the while trying to silently mend the damage done to my spark. As much as I hated Drift, I never stopped loving him, and always held on some hope he might come back."

"And he did." June says softly, moved by the story he told everyone to have a better understanding of what just happened. Though they were concerned about his past with the decepticons, they understood what Ratchet must be feeling to get his lover back again after so long.

Ratchet lets out a shaky vent and looks at everyone. "I'm willing to forgive for his mistakes, because that's my choice. I need to ask you all to respect our privacy, our past, and for there to be no further questions about Drift's time with the decepticons. Please, don't shut him out, give him a chance, get to know him. He might not be the smartest, and he's made terrible choices, but there is good in him."

"I don't like cons, but he seems...different." Miko perks up, looking over at Bulkhead. "I've gotten to know him a little, he's not so bad. Just have to ignore that history part with the cons."

Bulkhead groaned in displeasement but knew there wasn't really going to be any other way around this. Drift was going to become one of them, so they might as well start opening up to him.

"We'll do that." Arcee then says through a soft vent. "For you Ratchet, we'll give him a chance."

Ratchet feels himself relax a little hearing this. He had a pretty good team here. "Thank you."

Drift is up and walking. He then finds himself facing the autobots and humans, all looking at him as Optimus and Ratchet approach. Least they didn't have weapons drawn on him, it's a start.

Optimus is first to speak. "Drift, we've all talked to one another and Ratchet has informed the others about your bondage with him. It is Ratchet's wish to give you a second chance, for you to leave behind your past with the decepticons and to become one of our own. I ask for you to have zero connections with any decepticon and to prove yourself among our team here."

Drift looks at Ratchet who gives a simple nod at him. This was his chance to fix what he tore apart between them, to show he could be something better. He wanted that.

"Thanks, Optimus. I'll do whatever Ratty says, I don't want to let him down again, or anyone for that matter."

"Ratty?" June can't help but repeat through a small smile.

"None of you are allowed to call me that." Ratchet points at everyone with a firm glare.

"Only I can." Drift sends him a smirk knowing he was right about that.

"I'm going to lay down a few things as well." Ratchet starts as he steps closer towards him. "You'll follow our rules, our ways, no arguments or whining about it. You'll treat everyone here with respect and you'll be treated the same in return. Everything is going to be stripped, your model, colours, nothing that will give any decepticon a hint who you used to be, a complete new look. Understood?"

Drift listens and doesn't hesitate to nod. Like he said, whatever his Ratty wanted. He was in his control now. "Sure, alright." He gives a smile, sharp denta's lightly exposed.

Ratchet stares before pointing. "I'm removing those modified dentas." Drift's smile slips and goes to say something but Ratchet raises his servo. "Nope! They're going. They look ridiculous on you."

Drift vents heavily. Complete new look. "Alright...whatever you want."

"Wow, who are you and what have you done with Drift?" Miko asks the completely new looking robot sitting in the medical bay. She had just arrived with the others. It seemed Ratchet was very serious.

Drift sends the girl a soft smirk, sharp dentas now back to their default model along with most of his amour, colours neutral grey, ready for a new scan and colour.

"Ratchet wasn't kidding." He answers through a gentle chuckle. "But hey, I think it will be good to have something different."

"Something calm." Ratchet points out as he sets up some programs for Drift to scan and choose from. "Soft, nice, you know? Nothing dramatic."

"Ugh, such a control freak." Miko comes up onto the ramp along with the others.

Drift can't help but snicker. He liked humans. They were different, had a lot of character, he grew to like them very quickly in his short time there.

"What colour, Ratty?" Drift asks as he looks through some models.

"That's for you to decide."

"I want what you want."

"I want you to pick yourself. I'm sure you can't mess up on that." Ratchet doesn't mean for that to sound harsh, but it did. Drift shifts his amber optics at him, looking like a wounded feline, and Ratchet vents softly, lowering his voice. "I didn't mean-"

"It's fine." Drift doesn't want him to apologise, so he forces a smile. "I'll pick myself." He says trying to sound positive.

Ratchet nods and leaves him to it.

"Ouch." Miko whispers while hanging over the railing.

"Are things alright between you two?" The youngest Raf asks kindly.

"It's not simple, but it's progress." Drift answers honestly.

For a moment he scans through the new designs before looking up at Ratchet talking with Optimus. His optics scan over him and he smiles. He's picked a colour. Adding the program he scans the new look, his armour shifting colour and shape right in front of the kids to watch, astonished by the change happening before it finishes.

Drift looks at his reflection and smiles more. He looks good, very good. He now holds a very similar colour matching with Ratchet.

"It's a good look." Jack praises.

"You and Ratchet got matching colours now. That's cute." Miko beams.

Drift shifts his optics at Ratchet who is looking at him now, a lingering enchantment holds in his optics as he stares at Drift. They both do indeed share the same colours, a similar design, with Drift only being more slender framed.

"It is cute." Drift sends Ratchet a wink.

Ratchet has to try to cool himself when he sees Drift. He wouldn't say it, but he feels himself heat up at the sight of his long lost mate looking like that. He likes the new look. Clearing his vocals, he nods simply. "Very nice."

Drift doesn't miss the pink hue at his white cheek plating.

Laying on his berth in his given room Drift finds himself staring at the ceiling and letting his processor run over everything that's happened. He was now an autobot, one of team prime. His servo runs over the new symbol over his chest and lets out a soft vent.

It's not that he was disgusted by it, but it does feel foreign still. All this was going to take time to adjust, to move on from his troubled past and do better for him and for Ratchet.

All that time ago, when he hurt him, he lost himself. He became something dark, horrible, one of Megatron's favourites because he did anything he was told. All those memories will forever haunt him, but he hopes he can move past all that and start over with Ratchet. It's all he wants.

The sudden knock at his door jolts him out of his thoughts and goes to open it. He stares at Ratchet who stands on the other side.

"Did I wake you?" Ratchet asks through a soft tone.

"No, recharge is...it's not easy these days." Drift admits.

Ratchet nods lightly. "Can I come in?"

Drift feels his spark thump rapidly as he nods, allowing him to enter and closing the door behind. He watches as Ratchet turns to face him, and there's that struggling look he held, when he wanted to say something but couldn't find the words.

Drift comes closer, calmly stepping in front of him and trying to look into his optics. He can feel the heat radiating from his charris that he wants to touch, but holds back.

"I wanted to see you." Ratchet manages to say. "I...I just want to be with you." Hearing this makes Drift smile, only for it to slip away hearing his next words. "But I'm scared you're going to hurt me again."

"I know." Drift knows he hurt him badly, he'll never forget that. "And...I'm scared you're never going to stop hating me."

"I don't hate you. I'm just trying to trust you again."

"What can I do?" Drift doesn't know himself. "Tell me what to do."

"No." Ratchet shakes his helm, face hardening. "I want you to decide for yourself, not what I or anyone else tells you." On his own free will, not in control.

Drift gets it now. So, he does that. He touches his face plating, running his digits across and savouring the warm feeling, before closing the distance and kissing him gently.

The kiss is simple and short, but it's what Drift wants, what Ratchet wants. It's broken for just a mere moment before Drift dives in again, slowly deepening it as he slides his servos across Ratchet's shoulders and running behind his neck. Without holding back anymore ratchet consumes the kiss they share and backs him back against the berth, leaning over and pressing himself between his thighs as their lingering heated moans fill the room.

"I've missed you." Ratchet manages to whisper between kisses. "Primus...I've missed you so much."

"I'm here, I'm right here, and I'm never leaving you." Drift says before he retracts his panel, revealing his already soaking valve and the housing opens for his spike to throb out. "Please, Ratty, I need you inside me."

Climbing up over him, Ratchet retracts his panel and his throbbing spike emerges from its housing. He rubs himself against Drift, sliding between the lips of his valve, catching his sensitive node with each thrust. Drift throws his helm back against the berth and wraps his legs tightly around his waist, tugging him close and eager to get him inside.

Finally, Ratchet sinks in, groaning lowly as his spike fills Drift, feeling every ridge running against his inner walls, all the while Drift arches his back as he's filled so perfectly, mouth open as he mewls lowly. He missed this, he missed Ratchet.

Ratchet holds himself up as best he could over Drift before he sets a pace, thrusting his hips against Drift while grunting and venting heavily.

"Ratty, so good, so fragging good!" Drift chants as he holds onto him, clenching his valve around his thickness while running his servos along Ratchet's arms.

However, Ratchet makes a blunt noise, as if he's trying something but is struggling, right before he stops moving and lets out an annoyed heavy vent.

"What's wrong?" Drift vents densely as he feels Ratchet's hesitation and tries to avoid his lingering stare, removing himself from his valve as he backs up. "Hey, hey, Ratty, talk to me. D-did I do something wrong?" He touches his face plating and watches as Ratchet's optics shutter closes and leans into his touch.

"No, no, you did nothing wrong. It's me."

"What do you mean?" Drift shifts closer, placing his other servo over his shoulder and listening to whatever he might want to say.

"It's embarrassing." Ratchet rolls his helm a little. Though he knew Drift wasn't going to let this slide, the concern hanging over his face causing him to vent once more. "I'm old. My stamina isn't what it use to be."

Realization hits Drift. So that's it. He can't hold back a smile.

"Don't you dare laugh." Ratchet warns but this only causes Drift to giggle lightly. "It's not funny."

"I'm not laughing." Drift only fails as he continues to giggle.

"Stop that, you're still laughing."

"I'm not, I'm not." Drift forces himself to calm down and bit back his smile before caressing his face. "Ratty, it's alright. Don't worry about it." Leaning close he kisses him gently. "How about you let me on top? Let me take care of you."

Drift gently pushes Ratchet onto the berth and has him lay down before straddling his lap, thighs trapping against his waist while his exposed valve rubs along Ratchet's throbbing spike, causing soft moans to leave from both of them. Drift hovers closer towards Ratchet's face with a tender smile.

"You always took care of me, now it's my turn to take care of you." Leaning closer, Drift kisses him, letting it linger before gently pushing his glossa inside, coiling with Ratchet's.

Positioning himself he sinks back down onto Ratchet's thick spike and starts to ride him, rolling his hips slowly, rocking himself and riding his spike slowly.

Ratchet moves his servos to his waist, gripping his digits into his soft armour while keeping the kiss deep between them, letting out short moans and feeling more comfortable like this.

Drift vents softly into the kiss, letting out short muffled moans as he sucks at Ratchet's glossa, clenching in sync with his movements as he rides him. He moves his servo between them and he starts to stroke himself, rubbing his tip gently before pumping his servo over, arousal and pleasure quickly boiling between them.

"Drift...Primus....you're so tight." Ratchet gently praises between heated moans against his lips.

"Ratty, oh Ratty! I feel so full, filling me so good." Drift presses his forehead against Ratchet's, keeping close while riding his thick spike buried deep in his valve, rubbing against his ceiling node while Ratchet takes over to stroke Drift's cable then.

Moments like these were dreamed between the two over their time apart from each other. So much war, hate, and now reunited, lost in the moment as if nothing happened.

Drift holds a firmer grip, throwing his weight down over again more firmly, clenching around the perfectly ridged spike throbbing in his valve and rubbing against his inner walls. Moans grew more feral between the two as Ratchet kept his moving servo around Drift, feeling ever twitch and transfluid coating his digits and along the length, wet sounds growing more louder as fluids start to build and pool

Tossing his helm back, Drift lets out a louder mewl, crying out in bliss as he rides Ratchet's spike more densely. "Frag, Ratty, frag, I won't be able to hold it back!"

"Do it, let yourself go." Ratchet gives the all clear between heated vents, because he too wasn't too far off from overloading either. "Let's do it together, same time."

Drift beams warmly through the intense pleasure boiling through him as he grinds himself down over again, venting and gasping sharply, soon muffled as Ratchet kisses him firmly and feels his spike suddenly erupt deep within him, thick ropes of fluids coating his inner walls with some dripping out. Within a moment he bites his lips and gasps out sharply as his own transfluids coat between him and Ratchet, a pink glow covering over Ratchet's digits as well.

Taking his servo, Drift lifts it up to his mouth and sucks at his digits to clean to fluids, tasting himself and letting out a delightful hum around each of them. Ratchet is always heated and flushed, he didn't think it would be possible to be even more, but he was wrong when Drift did this.

"So beautiful." He whispers, allured by the delightful sight as his cooling fans kick in along with Drift's.

"You're just as pretty." Drift whispers through a luminous smile. "I love you, Ratty. I never stopped loving you. My spark will always belong to you, my beloved."

Ratchet feels his very spark jump at his words. "I love you too, Drift. Always have and always will. We'll make this work, I promise."

Drift ends up snuggled up against Ratchet, tangled under his embrace as he purrs gently against his charris. Ratchet missed that purr, a soothing vibration and sound he always cherished.

"We'll be alright, won't we?" Ratchet asks as he caresses the back of Drift's helm.

"I believe so." He hums lightly, giving him a gentle nuzzle. "You've never loosing me ever again."

"Good."

Neither will ever be apart again.

[abalidoth]

what is cosmere? (is that what its called?)

The Cosmere is a big, interconnected fantasy universe that is the setting of most of the works by the author Brandon Sanderson. The cool thing about his books is that each series is contained to its own world, and you can read any of them in isolation without realizing you're missing anything, but if you read them all you get a sense of the larger plot happening behind the scenes as those worlds start to collide and things cross over.

Brandon's magic systems tend to be very rule-based and well-defined, with a lot of twists being characters finding interesting ways to use those rules of magic. This lends itself well to the crossovers, because all the magic systems (as different as they are) share the same underpinning principles.

Here's some quick rundowns of different series and standalones in the Cosmere:

The Stormlight Archive

Planned ten-book series, currently four books are out.

A massive sprawling epic about the world Roshar, that's hit by a hurricane about every four days, and all the life has adapted to survive that environment. Knights Radiant -- superpowered individuals with a close bond to a spirit -- are starting to re-emerge in the world after being absent for centuries.

Because there are so many characters, this is where a lot of the character fandom tends to focus their efforts. I wouldn't recommend starting with it, though -- the first book alone is a thousand pages. I'd wait until you have a sense of Brandon's writing. But it's very good.

Mistborn

One trilogy (completed), one tetralogy set a couple hundred years later (completed), two trilogies some time in the future.

One cool thing about this series is that it follows one world (Scadrial) from a vaguely Renaissance tech level in the first trilogy, to 1920s in the second series, and eventually 1980s in the third and space-age magic in the fourth.

The magic itself is very intricate and all woven around metals -- there are people called Metalborn who can ingest metals and burn them in their stomachs to get different effects, including super-senses, strength, and Magneto-ish metallokinesis. That last bit makes the gunfights in the second series particularly fun.

The first book is a heist novel about robbing a thousand-year-old God-Emperor blind. It's a pretty good place to start, although it's a pretty hefty novel to start with.

The Emperor's Soul

I'm putting this one in a different category from the rest of the one-offs for a very good reason -- it's, in my opinion, the single best place to start reading the Cosmere.

It's a novella (just over a hundred pages) about a forger named Shai who uses magic to rewrite the histories of objects. She is captured by the government of an empire to reforge the soul of their Emperor, who has been left braindead after an assassination attempt, in the 100 days before the mourning period is over.

It's a fantastic meditation on art, a cool introduction to the way Brandon writes both characters and magic systems, and Shai herself is one of my favorite Cosmere characters. If any of this sounds at all interesting to you, I recommend you check it out.

One-offs

Brandon has also written a bunch of one-off novels in the Cosmere.

Elantris: His first book, and the one that my tattoo is from. About a prince who is affected by a dark transformation and thrown into a city of fellow undead, and the princess betrothed to him who arrives just in time to be told he died. Good, but suffers from some first book issues, pacing problems, and weird plot cul-de-sacs. Set in the same world as The Emperor's Soul, although there's basically no crossover.

Warbreaker: About a world where souls (Breaths) are bought and sold, and used to animate objects to do work, ruled by The Returned, living gods who require a steady dose of Breaths to live. One of my favorites, and an essential if you'd like to get into the crossover-y parts of the cosmere, as it introduces a bunch of elements that show up later (Especially in Stormlight)

Tress of the Emerald Sea: The first of his wildly successful Kickstarter project books, it's a fairy tale style story about a girl who braves a sea of bubbling, deadly spores to rescue the man she loves. It's lovely, especially if you're into a more Diana Wynne Jones kind of vibe to your fantasy. Probably a pretty good place to start!

Yumi and the Nightmare Painter: The third Kickstarter book. About a shrine priestess who stacks rocks to draw spirits, and a man who paints the nightmares that roam the streets of his city to banish them -- they become trapped in each other's places and must learn about each other's worlds to survive. This is currently my ABSOLUTE FAVORITE cosmere novel, oh my GOD it's so good. I'm not sure it's a great place to start, as a lot of the conclusion might feel a bit rushed if you don't have a good feel for the vibe of how Brandon writes magic, but honestly it might stand alone just fine even then.

The Sunlit Man: Fourth Kickstarter book. I haven't read this one yet.

Novellas: There are a bunch of novellas and short stories, some set on worlds we haven't otherwise seen, some set on Roshar or Scadrial.

If any of this sounds good to you, I recommend you give his writing a shot. He's one of my all time favorite writers (the tattoo should prove that, lol) and the Cosmere fandom is by and large wonderful and welcoming. I've made many lifelong friendships there.

[byuntrash101]

okay here are my thoughts: softdom!hongjoong finds out about you thinking his tattoos are hot so he decides to get more of them and every time he fucks while maintaining eye contact, you break your gaze to stare at his tattoos, finding the movement of ink on his skin fascinating

tags: gentle dom!joong, joong with tats (necessary warning), unprotected sex (don't try this at home), praising, pet names (baby, pretty, sweetheart), light teasing and begging, sweet love making </3, creampie

hongjoong knew you liked his tattoos but when he revealed the brand new and healed ink he got right under his chin he didn't expect he would take less then 10 minutes to get you all hot bothered, ready for him. patiently waiting for him on his bed.

he was hovering above you. his hands placed at each side of your face when on gently brushed over your heated cheek.

he rubs his tip against your folds, coating his lengh with your slick as your whimper from the friction and squirm, yearning for more. you haven't seen him in a hit minute since he's always working and you can't stand the teasing right now. You want him and you want him now.

"joongie~" you whine, shy eyes looking at him as heat rushes to your cheeks.

"yes pretty?' he asks, tone as innocent as could be but the sly smirk pulling at his lips gives him away. you squirm under him as he chuckles bringing his blazing hot tip to your clit, applying some pressure to the attention deprived bundle of nerves; which makes you stay still immediatly, afraid of losing friction.

"say what you want my sweetheart" hongjoong purs in your ear, eyes urging you to voice your demands.

"please joong I want y-aaah"' you say in one breath not even able to finish your sentence before your taunting boyfriend pushes himself inside you. the way you walls stretch around him has you pushing your head into the soft pillow, the pleasure ripping a dragged out moan out of your mouth.

your boyfriend knows you so well and you have been missing him so much that in a matter of minutes you find yourself flirting with the edge already.

and so of course he notices when your eyes slip from his own to focus in the brand new tattoo under his chin. you just can't help it. the way the art piece dances on his skin everytime his adam appel bobbles in his throat, the way it moves when he grunts and moans. it mesmerizes you. you have no choice but to look

as you moan and pant become louder hongjoong doesn't dare to peel his eyes off you for a second. he wants to see you coming undone around his cock, he wants to see you slipping into madness right under him, pledging yourself to him and him only forever until the end of time.

"like my new tattoo baby?" he teases again, knowing damn well the answer.

but your mind is too far gone to play coy again.

"yesss" you say throught gritted teeth, pleasure rising again as he acknowledged you.

"such a good girl for me" he says bringing one of his hands to draw tight circles on your swollen and eager clit. immediately you arche your back, pushing your hips further into him.

"please joong i'm almost there" you cry.

"want me to get more?" he says disregarding your last sentence.

At this point you can only nod frantically as you clench around him tighter then ever, fisting the sheets at each side of your face.

"how about next time i'll get your name tattooed? huh? you'd like that?"

"yessss" you whine, closer than ever, completely losing your sanity at the idea of having your name forever imprinted on your boyfriend's perfect skin. "pleasee joongie"

"cum. cum for me baby" he grants you.

you didn't need more to come undone around him and at the end of his expert fingers. he brought you to delirous summits as you shuddered under him and your walls flutered around him eventually taking him with you as your strong grip tipped him over the edge, delivering copious amount of burning hot cum inside you, your name hanging from swollen lips.

he rolled next to you careful to keep himself locked deep inside of you, his inked arms snaking around your waist and pulling you into his warm embrace.

"i'll make an appointment with the tattoo artist tomorrow"

[ghaniblue]

Fic recs: June (HP + Challengers)

Fics I enjoyed lately. I'm making an attempt to get back into reccing fics, hopefully posting monthly lists of fics I enjoyed. Expect a lot of randomness. I'm all over the place currently.

🩸this strange effect by harDeehar / @dryrsheet (Drarry, M, 30k)

Harry hated his job, his cousin, and his inability to figure out how to fit into the boring, depressing world around him. He kept his peace until Draco Malfoy turned out to not be dead like Harry thought he was. Deadly, though? Harry was going to figure that out.

🏕 your braids like a pattern by @hoko-onchi-writes (Drarry, E, 31k)

Harry runs a camp. Malfoy is the new counsellor, and he's driving Harry to the brink of insanity.

🌿 Dragon's Blood and Meadowsweet by Musyc (Millicent/Draco, M, 16,5k)

Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble. For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

Draco Malfoy takes an apprenticeship with a potions master after the war, and discovers the way to make a brew he never expected with a component he never considered. Side effects may occur; results may vary.

🔮 Unfogging the Future by Naidhe (Tom/Lavender, E, 14k)

Lavender takes one step forward and – just like the snap of a finger, the blink of an eye, the drop of a pebble – Hogwarts is left behind. There's no jump, no flashes of light, no whirlwinds of disconnected images. Just one little step; behind stood her war and in front stands 1947. "Huh," she says to herself, "didn't see this in the tea leaves."

🫖 A Generous Minute by papermonkey/ @dracomort (Tom/Abraxas, E, 7k)

Abraxas Malfoy is in love with himself. Tom Riddle is planning a murder. Possibly ten.

Or: when one walking red flag meets another

✉️ The Letters From No One by strawberrybasil (Regulus & Sirius, Marauders gen, T, 38k)

An unexpected find in Godric's Hollow. While cleaning out the Potter cottage after Voldemort's defeat, someone discovers a bundle of letters addressed to Sirius Black.

🪴 sweet poison by @imdamagecontrol (Jegulus, E, 76k)

By the third week of school, Regulus’ crush is out of control. He’s always been a top student. Not to mention, law is his thing. He excels at it, but he can’t focus in class. Not when his professor looks this good in his suit, fabric hugging all the right places. Not when he runs his fingers through already messy hair and makes it messier. Tanned skin and broad shoulders, a brilliant smile paired with infallible kindness. Regulus has never wanted anyone more.

Or, Regulus offers to take care of a houseplant and ends up sleeping with his professor. Oops?

---

And 2 Challengers fics

brutalizer by spqr (Art/Tashi/Patrik, E 8,5k)

If you win tomorrow,” Tashi tells Patrick, "I’ll let you fuck him.”

i may destroy you by @oknowkiss (Art/Patrik, E, 3,4k)

Patrick Zweig was born with a lot. Art Donaldson’s always had more.

>> July recs <<