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souliebird · 1 year ago

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[[and then I met you || ch. 17]]

Series: Daredevil || Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader || Rating: Explicit

Summary:

A one-night stand years ago gave you a daughter and you are now able to put a name to her father – Matthew Murdock. Everything is about to change again as you navigate trying to integrate your life with that of the handsome and charming blind lawyer’s and Matt realizes he needs to not only protect his new family from Hell's Kitchen, but from the world.

pt: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16

Words: 4.3k

ao3 link

banner thanks to the wonderful @theradioactivespidergwen

“No.”

Minnie plants her little feet firmly on the sidewalk and pulls her hands out of your and Matt’s grips so she can make her point by crossing her arms over her chest. A pout starts forming on her face and you have the feeling this is as far as your daughter will be going.

Across the street looms Clinton Church and you can understand why your daughter does not want to go anywhere near it. The building is as imposing as it is grand with its traditional architecture half shadowed in the morning sun. There is light reflecting off the many windows, casting little glares that you are sure Minnie can interpret in multiple ways - including eyes looking down at her.

Try as you might, you can’t imagine what else your little one must be picking up from the building. Is there someone praying inside? Or chanting? What sort of terrifying noises is the building making? How many rats are scurrying around the grounds, hissing and eeking and becoming unseen monsters?

How many real monsters are there?

Right now, the only monster you know of is the one in your chest named Anxiety. It is roaring inside you and causing all sorts of ruckus.

You know Minnie can pick up on your upset, and it is probably influencing her, but no amount of breathing exercises or chamomile tea is going to relax you.

Meeting someone’s parents is always going to be nerve wracking under any circumstance - but meeting the mother of the man who fathered your child? Who already has a unique and slightly estranged relationship with her son?

Frankly, you’d rather give birth again.

To make matters worse for your over analyzing, Matt's mother is a nun.

You have never interacted with a nun before, and your mind has been nonstop screaming that you are going to make an absolute fool of yourself. You are convinced you are going to say something dumb - like Jesus is stupid or some other blasphemous thing.

You don't even know what counts as blasphemy, but you know your mouth will find a way to make you want to sink into the floor and disappear forever.

You are on the same page as Minnie and don't want to take another step toward the Church.

“No?” Matt questions, tilting his head down towards his daughter. He looks a bit baffled, like he can’t understand why she’s taken such a stance. You know he is nervous about the meeting as well, having told you such earlier, but you don’t think he realizes how much his nerves, on top of your own, are affecting Mouse and her fear of the new big building.

“No.” Your daughter repeats, giving a tiny stomp of one foot to emphasize her point.

“No, what, sweetheart?” He kneels down to be on the same level as her, but you have a feeling that isn't going to help much. Minnie has made her decision and trying to sway a determined, upset toddler is a near impossible task.

“I don't wanna,” she tells him, her voice starting to get whiny. She turns away from him to press herself into your leg, her pout growing even bigger.

Matt knits his brows together, confusion clear, “You don't want to go to the park?”

Technically, you are supposed to meet Matt's mother in the Church park that is between the main building and the orphanage but as far as you are concerned, all of the grounds are Church. Apparently, your daughter feels the same.

“No. I don't wanna,” she declares, which quickly turns into the chant of, “I don't wanna, I don't wanna, I don't wanna!”

You can feel the tantrum coming and intervene, scooping Minnie up and hugging her to you. She instantly clings to you, burying her face against your neck with an additional almost screech of, “I don't wanna!”

You start to gently rock her from side to side and rub at her back to try and soothe her. You kiss her hair and promise, “We don’t have to go, baby. It is okay.”

As soon as the words leave your mouth, you feel like a grade A asshole.

Matt’s face crumbles into heartbreak and you totally deserve to walk into traffic. He had opened up to you about his mother - about how she had left him as a baby only to end up raising him after his father had been killed - but not telling him who she was. He told you how he only recently learned the truth - less than a year ago - and how hard it was for him.

But now he had you and Minnie and maybe, just maybe, you could all learn to be a family together.

Anxiety overdrive kicks in and a potential solution tumbles out of your mouth, “What if we go somewhere else instead? Somewhere we’ve been before?”

Matt lifts his head up at you, so you see yourself in his glasses, and for a second you think he's going to argue - insist you go to the Church playground - but then he tilts it towards where you don't want to go. You don't know what he is listening for, but after a moment, he stands again. He steps closer, a hand going to sit on your waist and trapping Minnie between the two of you. She stays nestled against you, little fist tight on your shirt, but you find yourself breathing a little easier at his touch.

“Would the office be okay? Foggy is out meeting clients and Karen is at the Bulletin today, it will just be us.” He offers quietly. Relief washes through you at the suggestion - you think the office would be a much easier meeting place.

But it is not your decision to make. You gently bounce Mouse to get her attention and ask, “Do you want to go to Daddy’s work?”

She doesn’t respond right away, but you feel her twist your shirt in her hands. You can tell she is thinking over her answer, so you wait, trying to focus on your daughter instead on how firm Matt’s hand is on your waist. It takes about twenty seconds, but Minnie finally nods into your shoulder.

“Okay, We’ll go to Daddy's work.”

To reward her for being so brave, you press a kiss to your daughter’s hair and Matt quickly mimics you. Minnie clings tighter to you at the affection and you think she is going to remain tense and upset until you are far away from the Church.

“Okay. Wait here, I'll go tell Sister Maggie about the change in plans,” Matt tells you and you wonder if it is really okay with him.

You know you and Minnie meeting her is important to Matt, but is the location important as well or is it just convenient? You are too wound up to ask and fearing you won't like the answer, you keep your mouth shut and focus on rocking Mouse.

Matt gives Minnie another kiss as he tightens his grip on you just slightly. It isn’t painful, but you get the impression he does not want to let go. You want to lean into the touch, your overactive mind telling you it might be nice if he never let you go, but before you can process those feelings, he is pulling away and crossing the street.

You step to the side, so you don’t impede foot traffic, and watch as he navigates past the cars and disappears around the side of the large building. Once he is out of sight, you look down to your daughter.

You want to ask her why she doesn’t want to go to the park at the Church, so you can better understand how she sees the world, but you also don’t want to put too much pressure on her. She’s already clearly upset, and you think trying to get her to answer your questions will just make things worse.

So, you focus on making things better for her.

“Would you like your headphones, Minnie?”

That gets her to lift her head up to look at you, squinting like she’s trying to determine if this is some sort of trap. Eventually she gives you one curt nod before hiding her face again.

You are a pro at being able to maneuver to get into your purse while carrying a toddler and soon enough you are handing over neon blue headphones. She needs no help in unfolding them and situating them over her ears, and once they are on, she snuggles herself back into your arms. You have no issues or complaints with the action - you simply begin to rock her again and hope this mood subsides once you are at Matt’s office.

You think about ways to get Minnie to interact with Matt’s mother as you wait for Matt to reappear. You think this might be the perfect time for parallel play - you’ve got a few coloring books stuffed in your purse, along with some small toys. You think it may be best to let her do her own thing while the adults talk, and that she comes over when she’s ready.

You hope that Sister Maggie understands that would be ideal - you know she helps to raise children, so she must understand that some kids are shyer than others. Pushing Minnie to interact when she’s fussy will only result in tears.

Possibly your own.

A few more minutes pass before Matt returns to the sidewalk followed by who you assume to be his mother. She's dressed in a gray and blue smock dress and matching habit, which is far less intimidating than the all black look you were expecting. She has an air of authority about her, holding herself tall as she walks, and you have the feeling she is a no-nonsense person.

You pray to a God you don’t really believe in that this meeting goes better than you fear it will.

You move to meet the pair as they cross the street to you and offer what you hope to be a warm smile. The smile, though not as overtly friendly as yours, is returned and Matt does the honor of introducing you. You adjust your hold on your daughter so you can shake the woman's hand.

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Matthew has told me wonderful things about you,” Sister Maggie says before directing her attention to her granddaughter. “And who might this little one be?”

To no surprise to you, Minnie attempts to burrow into you more at the question, smushing her face hard into your neck. You rub her back, trying to let her know everything is okay.

“This is Minnie, she's a little shy right now.”

Sister Maggie gives a knowing nod, “New places can be intimidating.” She drops her voice just slightly, in what you guess is an attempt to be comforting, and addresses Minnie, “Did your father tell you this is where he grew up?”

He did - you and Matt explained the outing to your daughter, but you don’t know how much she understood. You do know no amount of sweet talk will change her mind, even if it is about her new favorite subject - her Daddy.

“I don't wanna go,” Mouse mumbles against you defiantly. You aren't sure if Sister Maggie can hear her, but you know Matt can. He steps forward, once again boxing in Minnie between the two of you and leans down to kiss the back of her head.

“We're not going there, princess. We're going to Daddy's office, remember? You've been there before,” he whispers into her hair. She shifts around in your arms a bit before giving another nod. You can feel her jutting out her bottom lip against your neck and part of you thinks you should call this all off and reschedule - but you aren’t going to do that to Matt.

Sister Maggie is watching your little family’s interaction, and you can’t bear to look in her direction to see what her reaction is, if she has one. Your anxiety has only prepared you for the worst.

“Perhaps we should start heading that way instead of saying where we are not going,” the nun advises after a moment and instinct and rational has you agreeing with her.

“I think that would be best.”

Matt pulls away from you and Minnie and you watch with downcast eyes as Sister Maggie offers her son her arm. He seems hesitant to take it, but he does, and your little group starts moving away from the Church and towards Nelson, Page, and Murdock.

The walk is quiet and you use the time to try and desperately calm your nerves, if only for the sake of your daughter.

You think about Matt and what kind of person he is - he is full of love and care. He got those traits somewhere, and whether you argue Nature or Nurture, Sister Maggie has certainly influenced that. Did she encourage his Goodness? She must have had some sort of positive influence if he is not only wanting her to be in his life, but his daughter’s life, as well.

You know some people believe family comes before anything, even if they treat you horribly, but you also know that if Sister Maggie was not a Good person, Matt would not allow her near Minnie.

He wouldn’t risk losing his relationship with his daughter.

That is something you have no doubts about.

As you arrive at Matt’s office building, Minnie lifts her head up off your shoulder. She wrinkles up her nose like she’s thinking hard before pointing to the plaque that state’s the firm’s name. You give her a warm smile, proud of her for recognizing it, but that only makes her squirrel away again.

This is the behavior you are used to seeing from your daughter in public - overly shy and not wanting to interact. You aren’t sure if the nerves and uncomfortableness from the church still linger, but you hope that once you are upstairs, she will start warming up a little. You won’t push her to do something she doesn’t want to do, but for Matt’s sake, you would like her to at least try talking to her grandmother.

Matt leads you all into the building and up the stairs. Sister Maggie runs a finger over the banister as you climb the stairs, giving a pleased hum, “Franklin did an amazing job cleaning this place up. Tell me that nose of yours helped in getting rid of all the mold.”

Matt huffs at the comment, “The property manager hired someone to come do that.”

“And did they get it all?”

Matt’s mouth presses into a thin line and you already know the answer.

“No, we spent a weekend getting the rest of it.”

You stop in front of the Nelson, Page, and Murdock office, and as Matt fishes out the key, you look up and down the hallway, mulling over what is implied.

“You cleaned the whole building?”

“Oh no, we couldn’t get permission from the other businesses to do that, but we did what we could to the public space and our offices. People feel comfortable here now.”

The door is opened and as you all file in, Matt suggests hanging out in the conference room. It has a nice window and plenty of space to sprawl out, so you have no objections.

You set Minnie down as Sister Maggie and Matt head into the other room. She instantly clings to your leg, practically hiding behind it. You pet her hair a few times before pulling her away just enough so you can kneel down to talk with her. As soon as you are at her level, she is trying to get into your arms again.

You let her hug onto you as you let her know what is going on, “Hey Mouse, do you remember earlier when I told you we were going to meet Daddy’s Mommy?” She nods but says nothing, so you continue on. “That is her. She wants to talk to me and Daddy and you and get to know us so she can be part of our family, too. But you don’t need to talk if you don’t want to, okay? I have your coloring books and you can color while we talk.”

That gets her to pull back just a hair and peek up at you with big brown eyes, “What are you gonna talk abouts?”

You smile at the question and gently run your hands over her back, “All sorts of things, but we’re going to end up talking about you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you. If you don’t want us to talk about you, you can tell me, okay? We’ll talk about something else.”

“But I don’ gotta talk?”

You nod, and let your bag fall off your shoulder. Minnie’s new zoo themed coloring book and crayons are easy to pull out and you offer them to your daughter. She lets go of you to greedily take her toys and hug them to her chest.

“You don’t need to talk,” you confirm. “Do you want to sit at the table, or do you want to sit on the floor?”

Minnie considers the question, and you take advantage of no longer being hugged onto to stand up. Your little one peeks towards the conference room, then back up to you, and declares, “I wanna sit on Daddy’s lap.”

You feel so much pride over your daughter making such a bold decision.

“Okay, let’s go ask Daddy if you can sit in his lap.” You know Matt would never deny her, but you do want to drill in making sure Minnie asks permission first.

She waits for you to lead the way before following you into the conference room. Matt and Sister Maggie are sitting opposite each other, and Matt has already scooted his chair out and is holding his hands out to help Minnie into his lap.

“Daddy!”

She hurries to him and gets scooped up and crushed into a hug. She hugs back best she can while holding her coloring book.

You take the chair beside Matt and finally allow yourself to look at the nun across from you. She’s watching Matt and Minnie with an almost unreadable expression, but there is something soft behind her eyes - like she’s been keeping it repressed for years.

But then she catches you looking, and the softness is gone, replaced by that All-Knowing Nun look you’ve seen in movies before.

“How old is she?” Sister Maggie asks, and you can’t help but flush at her directness.

“Almost four, her birthday is on the 28th,” you reply, forcing yourself to not completely avert your gaze and hideaway.

She raises her brows before turning her sharp gaze to Matt, accusing him with, “You did not mention her birthday was coming up.”

He has the decency to look a little bit ashamed, “There were a few other things to cover, first.”

The older woman shakes her head, “Priorities, Matthew. I may be new to being a grandmother, but you know well I have raised plenty of children and we have never skimped on birthdays. We may not always have the money to spoil someone, but we do well to make sure they know they are loved.” She looks back to you, “Do you have plans for the day?”

“Oh, um, the zoo. We’re going to go to the zoo,” you tell her.

Beside you, Minnie has slipped down into Matt’s lap, so she is sitting. She has started to flip through her coloring book, examining each picture before making her decision about what to color. At the mention of the zoo, she quietly mimics you, “Going to the zoo.”

Matt breaks into a smile at the words, looking proud as can be that Minnie spoke around his mother. He wraps his arms around her middle and you have the feeling he wants to crush her to his chest again but is resisting.

Sister Maggie seems to know Minnie isn’t speaking to her, but just in general, and keeps the conversation to you, “That sounds like a lovely birthday. Zoo trips are always a delight with the kids.” She tilts her head slightly to the left before continuing on, “Matthew said you do not have a support network.”

“That isn’t what I said!” Matt quickly says, before turning his head towards you, “That isn’t what I said.”

Sister Maggie scoffs, “It is what you meant, and it is not a bad thing. You more than anyone know what it means to have a support network. Now,” she says your name gently and offers you a somewhat kind smile, “You are welcome to come to the Church and use any of the services we offer, and you may come by anytime you need, day or night. We will always have our doors open for you.”

You stare across the table as you process the words she has said. Shame and embarrassment course through you at the idea of Matt talking about you. You know you’ve never really had anyone to turn to, but the thought of others discussing such matters makes you want to crawl into a hole and cry. Yet, on the other hand, the mere offer of being welcomed at the Church has you spiraling in all sorts of good and overwhelming ways.

But of course, instead of being thankful, the words that tumble out of your mouth are, “I’m not religious.”

“That changes nothing,” she says simply and somehow, sits up straighter, “I have been given a second chance to know my son and through this a blessing of a granddaughter. I will not run from these responsibilities again and -”

“Daddy,” Minnie suddenly says, cutting Sister Maggie off while pouring all her crayons out on the table, “Pick a color!”

Matt’s cheeks turn pink at the interruption, and you try to not slide down in your seat. You know you can’t expect your daughter to sit there quietly, even if she’s being a little fussy, especially if Matt is around. She’s a toddler.

Matt clears his throat and asks, “What colors are there, sweetheart?”

“There’s green, and blue, and purple, and red, and orange, and yellow,” she lists off, holding up each crayon as she does.

“Let’s go with red.”

“Okay!” Minnie picks up the chosen crayon and begins to carefully start coloring in a gorilla.

Since she spoke up on her own, you try to engage with your daughter to bring her out of her shell, “Can you tell Daddy what animal you’re coloring?”

You expect her to answer happily - after all she loves explaining things to Matt and she’s been learning all her zoo animals.

So of course, she does not do that. She whips her head around to look at you, and with the sternest little voice you have ever heard, barks out, “I don’t gotta talk!”

Your first instinct is to laugh at the outburst, but you bite down on your lip to control yourself. The urge passes quickly, and you decide you should praise your daughter for setting her boundaries, “That is right, you don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. I’m sorry.”

She narrows her eyes at you for a moment, clearly judging you, before turning back to her artwork.

Only then do you allow yourself a chuckle.

To your surprise, Sister Maggie laughs as well. “Well, she is certainly a Murdock.”

That gets your attention and you and Matt both let out a curious, “Oh?”

“That little glare was all Murdock. I have seen it so many times from Matthew, who got it from his father,” she says and there is almost a fondness in her voice. “I expect the hands on the hips pose is genetic as well.”

Your eyes go wide at that. Matt’s father has never been brought up in depth before - you read the news article about his death in an online archive, and he was almost brushed over when Matt told you about his mother. You assumed, like your own parents, it was a sensitive topic.

“I..didn’t know that,” Matt starts slowly, and you can practically feel the emotion bubbling inside him. Without considering it, you reach across the small gap between your chairs and take his hand, squeezing it. He instantly squeezes back. “I don’t remember him ever doing that.”

“I suspect he tried to not let his frustrations show around you, but it is something I remember clear as day - Jack with his hands on his hips, glaring at the refrigerator because it dared to lose power during a blackout,” Sister Maggie tell him, before she motions to her eyes, “They may not be the same color, but that look is the identical.”

The room goes quiet, save the noise of Minnie scribbling. You keep your hand around Matt’s, trying to communicate you are there for him in his love language. He starts to roll his bottom lip between his teeth, and you wait for him to react before you do.

“You…,” Matt starts after a few more moments, voice almost warbling, “don’t talk about him. You don’t talk about him like that - what he was like.”

“Yes, well, I’ve never had reason to,” Sister Maggie says. She places her hands on the table in front of her, clasping them together, and she looks like she is about to give an interview. “But that has changed, clearly.” She looks from Matt to you, “Matthew said you were looking for family history. I do not have much from Jack’s side, but I can tell you what I do know, and I keep my own meticulous records. I believe reviewing these things, medical and non-medical, together, will…help us heal.”

You look to for his reaction. His mouth is parted, and he looks like he is going through his own emotional rollercoaster. You know how important family is to him and how dear this information must be to him, so you make a decision.

You lace your fingers with his and smile at Sister Maggie and ask, “How did you meet Jack?”

“Ah, yes, now that is a colorful story…”

a/n: maggie is v hard to write

tag list:

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@petrovafire39 @allllium

@anehkael @nennia-2000 @seasonofthenerd @abucketofweird @mattmurdockstateofmind @imagineswritersblog @hazelhavoc @smile-child-13 @allst4rsfall @hashcakes @kezibear @mapleaye @sammanna @gamingfeline @moon-glades @nightwitherspring @phoenix666stuff

@dorothleah @mattmurdocksstarlight @mars-on-vinyl @mywellspringoflife @sleepdeprived-barelyalive @simmilarly @soupyspence @darkened-writer @akila-twt

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#soulie writes #fanfiction #daredevil #matt murdock x you #matt murdock x reader

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snixkers · 9 months ago

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Picture You

Pairing: Emily Prentiss × GN!Reader

For: requested by @suckerforcate to fill my body worship square for @cmkinkbingo2024

EXPLICIT CONTENT, SMUT

Content Warnings: Cunnilingus/fingering (emily receiving), pagan/hellenistic religious imagery that could be considered blasphemous, reader is simping hard, and I don't blame them, Emily is implied to be older

Summary: You feel the need to prove to Emily she's your one and only.

Author's Note: Ngl, this might be my favorite piece I've ever written. It's definitely less steamy, but I was feeling the wlw yearning HARD (And, as always, peep the Chappell Roan song)

Feedback is always welcome!

Requests are OPEN!

Your girlfriend was absolutely gorgeous. Sometimes, the hardest part of being with her was that she didn't see that herself. Emily was always relatively confident, but she didn't see just how beautiful she was.

Her raven hair, which was slowly starting to mix with sparse strands of silver, was perfect for running your hands through. Her onyx eyes were easy to get lost in, reflecting her wisdom and maturity. Everything about her, head to toe, was like she was made just for you.

And you planned to show her.

That's why she was currently flat on her back on your shared bed, legs and arms spread wide so you had easier access.

You started with her forehead, peppering her face with quick kisses that made her giggle before trailing down to her neck. She trailed off into a choked moan, looking down at you. You just smiled at her, tugging gently on her hair and urging her to close her eyes. Once she did as you asked, you moved down to the smooth expanse of her chest, kissing the valley between.

She was moaning fully now, and you could feel her getting antsy. You kneeled between her legs, not letting her relieve the pressure. You wanted to be the one giving her pleasure. Your fingers wandered after your mouth, sliding down to palm each breast.

Emily bit her lip, keeping her focus on your touch. Her hips shifted slightly, but you reassured her you'd be giving her what she needed shortly. You trailed the tip of your tongue down the center of her stomach, feeling the hidden muscles beneath.

The two of you fell into a comfortable silence, years of togetherness making the needs of her body second nature to you. You finally settled between her legs, licking a broad stripe up her folds and reveling hedonistically in her noises.

She knew what you wanted, for her to sit still and enjoy it, but she needed more. You obliged, spreading her slickness around and making her writhe needily. It was like an offering, and the sounds you managed to coax out of her were your rewards. This woman was like a goddess, and you were her willing disciple, tending to the temple of her body.

Emily spread her legs wider to give you better access, and you greedily lapped her up. Your hands found their way to the usual spots, one alternating between each nipple and lavishing them with attention while the other moved closer to her entrance.

She whined for more, and who were you, a mere mortal, to deny her what she wanted? You slid one finger into her waiting heat, which she rewarded with a sharp gasp. Your finger thrust with renewed vigor, determined to make her moan, make her come, make her feel the prayer you were reciting between her legs.

Your fingers worked in tandem with your tongue to bring her to climax, and the taste of her was ambrosia itself. Certainly, if she bled, ichor, not blood, would flow from the wound.

Slowly and reluctantly, you peeled away from your feast, hovering over her to take everything in. How in the world did someone like her walk the earth without a loyal band of followers, people willing to bend to her every whim?

But as she kissed you lovingly as your reward for your piety, you knew that it was worth doing the work millions should be as long as she was satisfied.

#criminal minds #writers on tumblr #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fandom #reqs open #fanfic #emily prentiss #emily prentiss x reader #emily prentiss smut #body worship #cmkinkbingo2024

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levis-poison-is-my-medicine · 3 months ago

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Dreams Don't Lie

(The Tea Lovers Pt. 10)

A Levi x reader fanfic

Crossposted from AO3

It all started with a silly dream. How could it get this out of control?

tags: fluff and humor, silly and sweet, tea-obsessed fem!reader with their head in the clouds (word count: 4.1k)

(Part one) / (Levi x reader Masterlist)

"I know your deepest, darkest secret."

You spun around, trying to pinpoint the source of the voice which had suddenly spoken behind you. But all you found was a cat lounging in the doorway, looking up at you with a sullenly bored expression.

"Nice try. But I don't have any," you replied, slightly bemused. It was true – there was no point in having secrets when you sucked at keeping them.

The cat's tail twitched impatiently. "Oh, but you do. It is a secret so clandestine, so private, that not even you know about it."

"A secret that I don't know about? And what would that be?" You challenged, your tone skeptical. It didn't even make any sense.

The cat took its sweet time before answering, thoroughly licking its paw as if to savor the moment. Then it locked eyes with you. "There's something you love more than tea."

You gasped, horrified. "Take that back!"

"Why should I? You know it's true." The cat looked thoroughly unimpressed by the accusing finger you had jabbed in its direction. "As a matter of fact, it's been true for a while now."

You frantically shook your head, trying to erase the words from your mind. But they kept replaying, growing louder and louder each time, until they melded together in a deafening choir, all chanting the same few words: "There's something you love more than tea."

With a start, you jolted awake, bathed in cold sweat. A wave of relief washed over you when you realized you were safely tucked in your bed, and it had all been nothing more than a stupid dream. You shook your head again. "How absurd," you mumbled. How absolutely, completely, utterly ridiculous. Tea had been there for you when no one else had. It had gotten you through your darkest hours. How could anything possibly hold a candle to that?

But a little bit of doubt remained, gnawing at you. After all, dreams were the royal road to the unconscious, and all that. Maybe your subconscious was trying to tell you something. But what? That you were secretly a coffee person? You shuddered at the thought. How blasphemous.

It was probably just a dream. Still, you were too shaken to fall back asleep, so you got up to brew yourself a nice, hot cup of tea.

When you came back in, your roommates were already awake, getting dressed and ready for the day.

"How come you're up so early?" Nanaba asked in astonishment. You usually slept right through the early morning hustle and bustle, only getting up at the last possible minute.

"It's nothing. Just a bad dream," you replied offhandedly and settled back down on the lower bunk of the bunk bed you shared with Nifa, cradling the steaming cup of tea in your hands.

"Oh yeah? What was it about?" Nanaba inquired.

You sighed. "I don't really know. It was all pretty confusing."

Nanaba gave a brief nod, sensing you weren't too eager to talk about it. She slipped on her uniform jacket and headed for the door.

Without thinking, you blurted out, "What do you love the most?"

Nanaba stopped with her hand on the door handle. She turned around, her eyebrows raised in surprise.

"I–" she began, but Lynne was faster.

"Mike, of course," she snickered.

Nanaba shot her a dirty look, but then begrudgingly conceded, "…You're probably right about that."

"Ha! I know you so well. I may not understand your infatuation with that glorified sniffer dog, but I sure know you."

Nanaba just rolled her eyes at Lynne's playful jab.

"What were you going to say?" You asked Nanaba, still curious.

"Honestly? I don't know. Most likely something different, like my family."

You gave her a puzzled look. "How come?"

Nanaba shrugged. "Sometimes these sort of things can be hard to admit. Other people might even know you better than you know yourself at times."

You turned your cup of tea in your hands, trying to make sense of her answer. "How could someone else know you better than yourself?"

"Well," Nifa chimed in, "sometimes it's easier to see things from a distance. Plus, we tend to lie to ourselves – say the "right" thing instead of the true thing. Like... there's something within us that holds us back from saying what we really feel. Others don't have that barrier."

You nodded thoughtfully, understanding what she meant.

"And what do you love the most?" Lynne asked, a teasing grin on her lips as she dropped down next to you on the bed.

"Tea," you replied without missing a beat.

Lynne snorted out a laugh. "Of course. Why did I even ask?"

But a flicker of doubt remained.

– –

The thought lingered in the back of your mind even during the scout's daily training session. Today, your squad had been assigned to Titan combat training in the woods alongside squad Levi – usually your favorite type of drill. But this time, your mind just wasn't in it.

You halfheartedly slashed at the nape of the wooden Titan dummy in front of you, barely even leaving a mark as you passed it, shooting forward among the trees.

"What the hell was that? That wasn't even a scratch!" Oluo shouted from a nearby tree.

"Huh?“ You hadn't even noticed, too deep in thought to really pay any attention to your surroundings.

"Off your game today?" Petra asked as she zipped past you.

You looked after her with a blank expression, watching as her green cape fluttered after her in the rush of air before it disappeared among the leaves. You couldn't help but wonder: what did Petra love the most? And did she even truly know what it was?

The green canopy blurred around you as you picked up speed, the gas hissing as you pressed down on the trigger. You absentmindedly shot the grappling hooks into another tree, propelling you forward with a jolt.

A Titan dummy sprang into your vision, looming over you like a sudden shadow – too close, and getting closer still. Adrenaline surged through your veins, jerking you away from your daydreams. You twisted to the side to change your trajectory, but it was too late. The hard wood scraped against the side of your body as you veered right. There was a snap, and a sharp, searing pain shot through your shoulder. All strength left your am. You dropped the trigger. Then the world spun out of control.

You were falling, upended, the air screaming in your ears as you barely whipped past a tree. Desperate to regain your balance, you pushed the remaining trigger, releasing the hook you still had control over. In an instant, you were yanked sideways. Branches scratched over your arms and face as you were swept through the underwood.

Then – a sudden lurch. Your downward plunge came to an abrupt stop as the wire of the remaining grappling hook was pulled taut. It made you swing back and forth violently, scraping your skin against the bark of the tree it was attached to, but you were still suspended in the air.

Upside down, swinging like a pendulum. But still.

The muscles in your abdomen strained as you fought to get back into an upright position. But hanging only by one wire, it was impossible.

"Shouldn't have had that dessert earlier," you mumbled to yourself. All that swinging wouldn't have been easy on an empty stomach, let alone one currently doing a headstand. You really needed to come up with a solution, but the blood rushing to your head didn't exactly help.

"Here goes nothing."

You tried to angle your hip upwards into the right direction, then tapped the remaining trigger lightly, sending the second grappling hook shooting toward the nearest trunk. The hook caught, and you were jerked to the side – the swinging finally stopped.

With two wires holding you, you managed to right yourself straightaway.

Now that you had your balance back, it should be easy – you just had to grab the other trigger currently dangling from your left hip, and you'd be back in the game. But as you tried to reach for it, nothing happened. Your left arm refused to obey, hanging limply by your side like a dead weight, useless. You couldn't move it, couldn't grip.

You were stuck.

Without the trigger, there was no way of releasing the left grappling hook. And if you released the right hook again, you'd just go back to swinging back and forth like a giant pocket watch, tethered to a tree for all eternity.

This was embarrassing.

"Um... Help? Is anybody out there?"

No response. You sighed. Screw your dignity. You needed to be out of here by teatime.

With your right hand, you fumbled for one of the signal flares. For training, it was loaded with a purple shell for emergencies. You held it above your head and pulled the trigger, watching the purple plume of smoke erupt into the canopy above.

On second thought, maybe you should go back to swaying between the trees bottom-side-up. If you kept it up long enough, you might pass out, and then you wouldn't have to be awake for the mortifying rescue.

A fully trained soldier. Injured by a titan made from wood. During a routine training session. You would never live it down.

It wasn't long before you heard the familiar high-pitched sound of the wires whizzing through the air, the sharp hiss of the gas indicating someone going at full speed.

You squeezed your eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable laughter and mockery of your pitiable state. But it never came.

Instead, there was a warm hand, expertly palpating your injured arm which still dangled uselessly from your side.

"It's dislocated," someone said flatly. You would recognize that voice anywhere.

"Levi," you exhaled, suddenly full of relief. Everything would be alright now.

You opened your eyes to find his face only inches away from yours, studying it with a frown. He raised his hand as though he was going to touch your face, but stopped short, frozen in mid air. "You're all scratched up." His voice was quiet, almost a whisper, and it sounded strange somehow, too rough around the edges.

"It's nothing," you replied quickly. "Just a few cuts."

"It's not nothing," he said.

There was something in the intensity of his stare that made your face heat up. Or maybe it was still warm from your upside down escapades. You cleared your throat. "Can you help me get away from here? I'm kind of stuck."

Levi slowly lowered his hand, his gaze drifting away. "Press the right trigger." His hand grasped the other one.

"Now?"

"Now."

You pressed down on it, hard, and for a split second, you were falling, but then a strong hand gripped you, sweeping you out of mid-air. Your world turned upside down once again as you were swung over his shoulder. Next thing you knew, you dangled awkwardly over his back, your face brushing against his green cloak.

"Hold on if you can," Levi said firmly. Your fingers closed around the fabric of the cloak, gripping it tightly. Through it, you could feel the straps of his uniform at his upper back, and you held onto them with your good arm, steadying yourself as best as you could.

The air rushed past you as Levi darted through the forest, expertly changing the hand securing your legs every so often to allow him to shoot both hooks.

The uneven weight distribution didn't seem to bother him at all. That was Levi for you.

"You truly are the best," you told him, but it came out muffled from the cloak fluttering into your face every so often. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

Levi didn't reply, but you could feel the muscles in his back tensing through the fabric. He had a lot of them.

Your heart was fluttering in your chest and you felt a bit dizzy. It was probably because you were flipped over again. And of course, your upturned brain chose this exact moment to make you think of your dream again.

There's something you love more than tea.

But before you could give it more thought, the wind around you died down, and Levi's feet touched down on the ground with a soft thud.

You had reached the edge of the forest.

Levi started walking, your body still draped over his shoulder, legs dangling over his chest.

"Um, you can let me down now. My legs are fine, I can walk," you said, a little flustered.

"You sure?" He sounded like he was frowning again.

"Yep. I'm positive."

Levi stopped and bent at the knees, carefully easing you down from his shoulder until your feet found solid ground again. You placed your good arm on his shoulder to support yourself against him, shifting to a more upright stance. When you looked up, you realized how close you were to him, your chest pressed to his, your noses almost touching. Somehow, you couldn't meet his gaze, but you didn't move away. You felt his heart beat against yours, rapid and wild.

Maybe it had been strenuous to carry you, after all. He'd made it seem so easy.

"Thank you," you murmured. "For rescuing me. And... " You trailed off. Your hand was still on his shoulder. You squeezed it. "I'm sorry for causing you trouble like that."

"Like I'm not used to it by now," he muttered. "We'll talk about this later. Let's get you treated first."

You nodded, finally meeting his eyes, relieved to find no trace of anger in them. There was something else there, something you couldn't place, but it made your chest overflow with warmth, and you suddenly felt like giving him a hug. So you did. You were so close already, all you had to do was wrap your good arm around him.

You felt the muscles in his back tense under your fingertips. They had to be sore from carrying you. You rubbed them gently until they relaxed into your touch.

"I'm so glad you saved me!" You beamed. There was so much gratitude inside you, you didn't know what to do with it. "Thank you so much, I mean it! And while we're being honest, I was starting to feel a bit scared up there. But when you showed up, I knew everything was gonna be just fine."

"Don't be stupid. You don't know that yet," Levi muttered. "You still have to get your arm examined."

"I know, I know." You gave his back a final pat before you stepped back.

Levi was staring at you with his usual non-expression, his gaze lingering on you even as you started walking to where you'd left the horses.

He was silent the entire way, letting you ramble on about your dreams of becoming a porcelain potter should the threat of the Titans ever be purged from this world.

That silence was abruptly broken the moment you tried to climb on your horse. "No."

You turned around, confused. "No?"

"I'm not letting you ride one-handed."

"Oh come on," you protested. "Have you seen me ride? I could do it free-handed! Besides, Jeanie and I are the best of friends!" You gave the horse's neck a rub.

"This is final," Levi said tersely.

"Fine, if you insist." You took Jeanie's reins. "That's gonna be one hell of a walk."

"We won't walk. You can ride with me."

You shot him a surprised look. "You serious?"

"It's safer that way." His voice was calm, reasonable.

You shrugged. "If you say so."

He made you sit in front of him, your back pressed against his chest, his arms on either side of you. It certainly made you feel safe. But as you calmed down, the pain in your left arm grew stronger, settling into a constant, deep ache that was hard to ignore. The pain sharpened in time with each stride of the horse, making your teeth clench against the waves of discomfort.

Levi seemed to sense your distress. "You're in pain," he noted. It wasn't a question.

"Kinda... getting worse," you gritted out.

You felt his hand on your shoulder, steadying you. "Almost there," he said.

By the time you got back to scout's headquarters, you were ready to have your arm sawed off if that would stop the pain.

Thankfully, the medic had a less drastic plan in mind.

"I'm going to reset your shoulder to get it back into its proper position. It won't be pleasant, but afterwards, it will feel much better."

"Sounds good," you exhaled. "Let's get it over with as quickly as possible."

The medic nodded. "Of course."

She pulled your arm slightly away from your body, her hands firm and steady. The pain spiked, intense enough to make your breath catch. You peered at Levi, who was leaning against the wall of the examination room, his eyes fixed on you. He gave you an almost imperceptible nod, as if to encourage you. You nodded back, silently signaling that you were ready.

With a sudden movement, the medic rotated your arm, making the joint slide back into its socket with an audible pop. A sharp, searing pain shot through your shoulder, making you gasp, but then it faded, leaving behind a sore, tender feeling which was much more bearable.

"You'll need to rest your arm for about two weeks. I'll get you a sling to help keep it immobilized during that time." The medic opened one of the cabinets, perusing its contents for the sling.

Levi pushed himself off the wall and stepped closer. "You alright?"

"Much better," you said with a smile.

He nodded, letting out a soft breath.

The medic returned to help you put on the sling, carefully tying it behind your neck.

"There, all done." She smiled.

"Yay! Just in time for tea."

"There's not gonna be any teatime today." Levi's tone was sharp.

You looked at him with wide eyes. "What? Why not?" You could really use some tea right now. There was still a dull ache in your shoulder, and now that the initial shock had worn off, you could feel the bruises throbbing on your left side where it had scraped against the wooden Titan.

"You're gonna tell me exactly how this could happen." Levi's arms were crossed as he scrutinized you, his eyes narrowed.

"What happened was…I almost flew straight into a training dummy." You scratched your head sheepishly. "I managed to avoid it at the last minute, but I still scraped it."

"Why?"

"I was distracted."

Levi raised an eyebrow. "Distracted by what?"

"I had this strange dream last night, there was this talking cat, and–"

"It doesn't matter," he cut you off. "You don't get to be distracted. If that had been a real titan, you'd be dead."

You nodded. "I know."

"Even in this scenario, you still could've died. Slamming into a wooden wall at the speeds we're moving? If you hadn't dodged–"

"I know that," you said quickly. "It was stupid. Incredibly stupid. It won't happen again. I promise."

For only a brief second, his gaze met yours, brushing you so softly and lightly, it felt like a caress. Then his face hardened. "I don't know if you can. If things like that happen to you during training, maybe you shouldn't be with us on the next expedition."

You stared at him, shocked. "You don't mean that. I've always been nothing but focused during missions. The reason this happened was because it was just training, so I underestimated the danger. It was a mistake. I admit that. But it won't happen again."

"Tell this to Erwin," Levi said curtly. He turned to leave. "You will submit a report about this. So will I. He'll decide from here on. I trust him to make the right call."

The exchange left you frozen in place, stunned.

Going on expeditions was a scout's purpose. Why would he take that away from you?

You shook your head. There was no way you were going to let that happen. You'd talk to Erwin, of course. But first, you had to clear your head. Levi was right: as a scout, you couldn't afford to be distracted. That stupid, silly dream which, for some reason, just didn't let you go – you had to get it out of your mind. It was why you'd ended up in this mess in the first place, taking up space in your thoughts when you should have been focused.

But how? Just turning it over in your mind had done nothing but make it worse. That was when the conversation from this morning popped into your head.

Sometimes it's easier to see things from a distance. Other people might even know you better than you know yourself at times.

You straightened up. Time to ask your favorite scientist for advice.

– –

You entered the lab. It always had a sort of singed smell about it, like something was burning, and today was no exception. The stains on the wall told you there might have been a minor explosion or two.

"Hey-yo!" Hange greeted you with a massive grin on their face, seemingly unbothered by the mess in their lab. As always, it was contagious, and you felt yourself smiling despite yourself.

"To what do I owe the honor?" They put down the beaker they were holding to give you their full attention. When their gaze landed on your sling, they shot you a questioning look, but quickly you waved it off. Later.

"Hange," you began, then hesitated. You took a deep breath. "Do you… Do you think there's something I love more than tea?"

Hange's grin widened. "Something… Or someone?"

You groaned. "Stop it. I'm serious here!"

"So am I. Dead serious, actually." They laughed heartily. "I genuinely think you might be onto something there."

"What do you mean?" You asked curiously.

"Well," they said in a long, drawn out way. "That's for you to figure out. Though I can certainly help, if that's what you want." There was a spark of mischief in their eyes.

"Yep, I definitely want that," you said eagerly. "That's why I'm here."

"Great!" Hange clapped their hands together and leaned forward excitedly.

"Let me start by asking you this: what have you done in your free time these past few months?"

You mulled it over for a few moments. "I guess I've been drawing a lot. Why?"

"That's a very good question! Why, indeed – why have you been drawing so much?"

You shrugged. "It was a good source of income. I needed the extra money."

"And for what, exactly?"

You tilted your head, unsure what Hange was getting at. "To buy Levi the perfect present for his birthday. You know that."

Hange smiled, satisfied. "Oh, you know I do."

You squinted at them, confusion etched into your features.

"Now answer me this: how have you been spending your beloved teatime recently?" They continued, gleefully unfazed by your puzzlement.

"I've been having tea together with Levi…?"

"Exactly!" Hange exclaimed, excitedly pumping her fist into the air.

"Yaay," you said, grinning at her enthusiasm, though you still didn't quite get it. "And that's interesting because…?"

"Don't worry, it should soon become crystal clear! You see, science is all about gathering knowledge and making observations, which in turn build up the basis of an hypothesis. Before we can call this hypothesis a fact, however, it has to be proven by running experiments. So let's do a little thought experiment, shall we?" Hange rubbed their hands in anticipation. There were burn holes in the sleeves of their lab coat.

"Let's imagine there's a giant fire ravaging our sacred headquarters. Can you do that for me?" You nodded. You could also easily imagine who would be at fault for the fire.

"You and Levi are the last people inside, the rest have already evacuated. Which one do you save – Levi or your treasured tea?"

You scrunched up your nose. "That's easy. Levi doesn't need saving."

"Sorry to say, but in this scenario, he absolutely does. Poor guy is passed out due to all the smoke. So which one will it be? You can only save one."

"That's so unrealistic," you protested.

"Just humor me here."

You threw up your hands in mock surrender. "Fine. I'd save Levi, of course."

A face-splitting grin spread over Hange's features. "There you have your answer. You chose him over your prized tea, didn't you?"

Your eyes widened as the realization sunk in. The thing, no – the person you loved more than tea was...Levi.

You loved Levi.

A/n: Yes, it needed a Freudian cat dream and a near-death-experience, where you were literally only hanging by a thread, to get it through your thick skull that you are head over heels for that man :D (or should I say: head over shoulders? By which I of course mean Levi’s strong shoulders xD OK. I’m going to stop now.) Stay tuned for next chapter if you want to know the consequences of your realization xD

Tag list: @thechaoticarchivist, @mmm-alhaitham, @nironasaran, @leviiheichou, @huffleruffplant, @shutupp1, @iifrui, @shakysif, @ickearmn, @omlyurslvi

Click here for part 11

#levi ackerman #levi #aot #levi x reader #levi aot #captain levi #attack on titan #levi attack on titan #levi ackerman x reader #levi x you #levi x y/n #snk levi #shingeki no kyojin #snk #levi fluff #fluff #fanfic #fanfiction

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alchemistc · 9 months ago

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keep on dancing | bucktommy 1/1

"We actually met before, you know," Tommy says, casual as anything. "Uh, I think I would remember," Josh says, not quite able to help the way his eyes drop and scan up. "A couple times, actually." Josh is being pranked. "Pull the other one," he intones, already feeling the awkwardness start to lift away, which shouldn't be possible, but there's something about this Tommy guy, the way he carries himself, the way his expressions bring you in on the conversation. --- Josh has his memory jogged at a little gathering Tommy throws for Maddie and Chimney's six month anniversary.

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"Josh, hey!"

Josh spins from the table with half an eggroll still stuffed in his mouth, and immediately wishes a sinkhole would open up beneath him. Just - just beneath him, though, he doesn't want to get stuck down there with Maddie's earnest as all get out brother and the man he's presenting to Josh like a prize-winning bull stud.

And.

He's still got an unchewed lumpia in his damn mouth.

Josh chews like his life depends on it, feeling mortified as The Boyfriend grins. They've technically met, although Josh doubts he remembers. Josh had still been stuffing his face with cake (a theme, apparently) and The Boyfriend (Tommy, he knows his name is Tommy, he's got to stop being so weird about the absolute hunk of a man Buck bagged by being a bumbling idiot) had been a little too invested in staring at Evan Buckley like the sun shone out his ass.

Fair assessment, really. If any of them had known Buck was bi, Josh might have shot his shot, at one point. They'd have been terrible together, but they are all intimately aware of how thoroughly Evan Buckley kisses, now.

"Josh, you remember Tommy?"

Tommy seems to clock that Josh is still chewing, damnit. And of course, of course, Evan Buckley hasn't just managed to bag the Greek-godliest, calendar centerpieceist hunk of a man in LA, he's also apparently found someone completely willing to not just ignore social faux-pas, but cover for them too. He tilts his gaze away from Josh, does something with his eyes that Josh would categorize as a flitter, if he wasn't built like a tank, and slides a hand up along Buck's back. Josh watches the big wide hand curl over the back of Buck's shoulder and seriously considers whether it would be blasphemous to pray for one of his own.

"You introduced us at the hospital," Tommy says, and Buck beams, like he's pleased Tommy remembers. Christ. The way they've been orbiting each other all evening, Josh is pretty sure Tommy never forgets anything he does with Buck.

He doesn't catch the weird phrasing until after he's swallowed, cleared his throat, and extended his hand. "Nice to meet you again," he says, and absolutely does not curse the gods when Tommy's grip is firm and crisp and gentle without being condescending.

Josh is happy for Buck, he really, genuinely is. He'd just be happier if he had his own.

"We actually met before, you know," Tommy says, casual as anything.

"Uh, I think I would remember," Josh says, not quite able to help the way his eyes drop and scan up.

"A couple times, actually."

Josh is being pranked. "Pull the other one," he intones, already feeling the awkwardness start to lift away, which shouldn't be possible, but there's something about this Tommy guy, the way he carries himself, the way his expressions bring you in on the conversation.

"You helped me through a rough call, my first week in the air," Tommy says, fingers still squeezing at Buck's left shoulder, posture open and inviting, and Josh tries to pull the voice out of his memory. It's -- distinctive, really, low register but slightly nasally, a high up-down to the cadence that Josh would have clocked in a heartbeat. Patterns of speech is a terrible way to generalize, but he's got a pretty good success rate, when he can put a living breathing face to the voice.

He doesn't take many air support calls, and really that's what does it. "The fire whirl in the Thomas Fire," Josh says, and Tommy nods, smile lines deep around his eyes. "They'd just named it, and you felt like it was a little on the nose."

Buck's eyes brighten, like he can't help but be charmed by the story.

"He saved my ass," Tommy says, bumping his shoulder against Buck's, and Buck beams, blinks, grins at Josh. "And then when I invited him for drinks with the Harbor boys he beat me at pool and bounced before I could ask him out to dinner."

"That -- that did not happen."

Tommy's head tilts, brows dancing up his forehead, expression gently insulted.

Josh desperately reaches for the memory. A vague outline of it, even. The voice, a little concerned, a lot matter-of-fact as he informed Josh that they'd hovered too low over the fire, and if Josh could please send out a radio call to anyone on the ground in the area to clear out before the bird crashed to the earth and exploded, because his radio was out. Josh, who'd talked to enough air support to have a basic idea of what mechanics were causing the issue, reminding the voice of the maneuver he could use to steer out of it.

Josh, bright red and stifling his bashful giggles when the voice informed him he was good in a crisis and he should come down to The Rose so that Tommy and his team could buy Josh a drink.

Josh squints. Oh, he'd taken one look at Firefighter Kinard and chalked that up to wishful thinking, ordered an Uber before he'd sunk his first solid, and dipped before he could convince himself the gentle teasing was anything more than a man grateful he'd had someone in his ear reminding him he was a competent pilot with years of experience under his belt.

Josh blinks. "You were hitting on me."

Tommy runs his tongue over his teeth. "Unsuccessfully, yeah. The boys gave me shit for a month about it."

Buck has clearly already heard this story. He's staring at Josh like he wants to tease him, is reining it in by the skin of his teeth. There's nothing smug about it, which Josh is grateful for merely on the basis that he's seen the way these two look at each other and he's no competition for Tommy's attention at all, anymore.

"Well that's mortifying," he admits, and Tommy laughs, head tipped back, smile lines etched deep into his skin. Buck's face does something deeply endearing, and Josh has to look away, for a moment.

Tommy tips forward again. "It was character building. First attempt I made with witnesses, taught me I had to be a little less subtle." He shoots a significant look at Buck, who dips his chin towards his chest. God, Josh wants that. He'd been pretty sure he had it, for a hot second. His gaze is annoyingly wistful when Tommy turns back to him and catches it. "Can I grab you a beer?"

And Josh had kind of forgotten who was hosting this little shindig -- Maddie'd made noise about how sweet it was for Tommy to float the idea of a little celebration for their nuptials, when he heard the Buckley parents were coming back into town, and Chimney had just grumbled that Tommy was looking for excuses to get Buck on a dance floor, but he'd been pleased about it too, under the sarcasm. Josh can't quite hide the face he makes, though. He's not a snob about his alcohol, but all he's seen floating around here are Corona's and Bud Light. Buck shifts his weight, sways his hip into Tommy's.

"We could crack open those weird cheesecake sours you got last week," he suggests, and Tommy tilts his head, squints his eyes.

"They're not weird, you just have the palette of a frat boy."

"Well, Josh definitely has more refined taste than me, the flavor won't be lost on him."

Tommy grins at Josh. "Clearly that wasn't always the case," he shoots off, even as he's slipping his hand from Buck's shoulder, shifting to the side, backing away with a smarmy little grin on his face, and Josh throws his hands up in the air, sends the parting shot before he gets far enough across the yard that Josh has to yell.

"You can't try it out if you don't know it's on the menu!"

Buck and Josh both watch Tommy saunter away. Lord, Josh hopes Buck is taking full advantage of those glutes.

"Congratulations, again," Josh says, letting some of the put-upon ire drop out of his voice. "I know I've said this already, but -- I really am happy for you."

He's really only heard bits and pieces of Buck's absolutely ridiculous jump from solid, unflinching ally to bumbling crush on a beautiful man, but just like every other person on planet earth who discovers a facet of themselves that isn't considered normal by the world at large, he knows there are bumps in the road. Moments where you question yourself, and your place within the confines of society. Buck could have called it a wash, after acting a fool, but clearly he'd found something in himself he felt was worth pursuing.

Buck smiles, and not for the first time since he'd stumbled into Howie's hospital room, face covered in soot and Tommy's hand clenched in his like a life-line, Josh can tell there's something settled in him that hadn't been before. He knows the feeling well.

"I'm not sharing," Buck tells him, tongue in cheek as he smacks a meaty hand to Josh's shoulder, and Josh is too busy pretending not to struggle under the solid weight to think of something clever to say back.

-----

"You weren't kidding," Josh says to Chimney, as he openly stares at the couple dancing across the yard. Everyone else has been attempting at subtlety, but at Josh's words at least three people guiltily dart their gazes away from Buck and Tommy swaying together under a string of fairy lights.

"I should be out there dancing with my beautiful bride," Chimney says, and Maddie holds out a hand, a challenge in her eyes.

Sometimes Josh wishes he was less of a romantic, so he could at least pretend to find the way Chim's eyes sparkle a little exhausting.

Bobby is already spinning Athena into the circle of his arms as the quiet, steady thrum of an acoustic guitar floats across the little makeshift dance floor in the orange light of the yard. When Athena says something to Buck and Tommy, tucked together and speaking in soft voices two songs ago now, Bobby grins, and Buck ducks his head bashfully into the solidness of Tommy's shoulder. Whatever Tommy says back has Bobby pressing a laughing kiss to his wife's forehead as he guides them just far enough away to give Buck and Tommy some distance.

He finds Eddie Diaz moping on one of the patio chairs under little built-in pergola that makes Josh more than a little jealous of Buck's stumble into possibly the perfect man.

Hen and Karen have joined the dancing, too.

Eddie eyes him for a moment when Josh settles into the adirondack to his left. "You tired of the love-fest, too?" he asks, and Josh shakes his head, settling his chin on his hand to watch the annoyingly hopeful scene.

"Just -- taking it all in."

Eddie harrumphs, but out of the corner of his eye Josh can see him watching, too.

Maddie barks our delighted laughter when Tommy cuts in to spin her out of Chimney's arms, and Chim and Buck take that as their cue to conduct a frankly ridiculous waltz between the rest of the group.

Josh sighs like the damn romantic fool he is, and Eddie shifts on his right.

"You wanna...?" Josh tilts his head, and Eddie's face morphs into a shrug of an expression.

"I'm good here," Josh tells him, and Eddie purses his lips. "But you should join them."

Eddie rolls his tongue against his cheek, takes a sip of his beer, rolls his neck and darts his gaze across to the rest of his rag tag family. He nods, shifts his weight, rolls his hands down his thighs to find leverage against his knees to stand. "Find me for the Electric Slide. Tommy's a nightmare about line dances."

#bucktommy fic #tevan fic #josh russo pov #bucktommy

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lil-dragon-rawr · 2 days ago

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TOH x DC: Eda Becomes a Chem Teacher

Masterlist

TW: Eda eats a mouse

So, Eda has a great character arc where she recognizes a problem in society (school) and makes it better when she becomes an adult (by opening her own super cool school). But she needs a job while she and her various kids are hanging out in Gotham because the landlord doesn't accept snails. And since Gotham is famous for people disappearing and/or going rogue, there's usually jobs to be found in many schools but particularly in the chemistry department since chemicals - and the know-how of how to mix them - is a hot commodity among rogues.

Anyways, Eda gets a human teaching certificate and becomes a chem teacher. The problem? She makes potions, not reactions and solutions. The other, much larger problem? She is learning human chem - which should be a good thing, right? - but you forget that this is Eda we're talking about. AKA Wild Witch No. 1 for decades, queen of mixing magic and blowing stuff up.

Eda, during her first class: hello everyone, I'll be your teacher this year, my name is Eda, please don't call me Ms. Clawthorne cause it makes me feel old

One particularly bold student who Does Not Care Because This Is Gotham: yeah but aren't you?

Eda, slightly miffed but proud that someone's standing up to a teacher/authority figure: oh perfect, a volunteer

Duke, who knows Eda as Signal: *starts freaking out because what does she mean by volunteer*

Eda: there are no wrong answers in this class and experimentation is encouraged, just run your plan by me so you don't lose any limbs

Eda, staring ominously into the distance: Titan knows I've lost enough of those already

Class: *is silent because when the lady with a hook for an arm tells you to talk to her before you start experimenting, you listen*

Eda, ignoring the panicked faces of students who have watched waaaay too many people go rogue: so today you'll all be learning how to make sleeping poti-um, solutions

(Cue confused whispering)

Eda: so the main ingredient you'll need is sleeping nettle, but I've found that concentrated valerian root works as a good substitute-

Student, raising their hand: what's sleeping nettle?

Eda, waving her hook vaguely: don't worry about it, it's not native. We will need a few chunks of water though as that will eventually vaporize and help the solution disperse as a gas - can anyone tell me what we might use to trigger a vaporization reaction?

Duke is pleasantly surprised to discover that despite Eda's...chaotic tendencies, she's actually a good teacher. The demonstration ends with her instructing the "volunteer" to wake her with a different brew sitting on her desk when she takes a whiff of the freshly-brewed sleeping solution. And sure enough, it only takes one whiff before she's slumped over her desk, snoring comedically loudly. The antidote, which she promised to teach next class before having the students brew their own sleeping solutions, works perfectly. The main problems are a) Eda doesn't use measurements and b) she's either on her way to becoming a rogue or is content to help others become rogues.

She gets a visit from Batman that night.

Batman, perched on the balcony of Eda's apartment:

Eda, trying to have a nice evening in with King and Luz: do you have a warrant?

Batman: no.

Eda: good, cause I wouldn't let you in even if you did. Anyways, what can I say to make you go away faster?

Batman: ...you started teaching.

Eda: astute observation from the master detective. You see that, kids?

King and Luz: *snickering*

Batman, used to the Batkids being similarly blasphemous: do you really think it's a good idea to teach people how to make potions? Especially in Gotham where the turnover rates are correlated to how many new villains there are?

Luz, very passionate: people only turn into villains if you treat them like villains!

Batman:

Luz: (•`-'•)

Batman, wondering when someone barely in their 20s got wiser than him (it was when he adopted a kid on impulse):

Eda, sticking to her (thankfully metaphorical) guns: look, people are going to do good things or bad things regardless of what they know or don't know how to do. The least I can do is help them learn to defend themselves! Besides, why should knowledge be restricted to the upper class? Everyone knows that if you're rich or famous enough there's only so many roadblocks that will actually be...y'know. Roadblocks. I'm just evening the playing field!

Eda continues teaching.

She teaches how to accelerate healing, how to ease chronic conditions, how to make darkness appear at one's fingertips. She shows students how to condense water molecules in the air and turn them into ice shards or even whole blocks of ice. She invites questions and discussions and new ideas. She gives bonus points for improving or modifying recipes.

Her class quickly becomes the school favorite. It's a mix between "easy A" and "learn how to make things go boom". Exam days are literally just "brew something new". It can be a variation on a recipe from class or a completely new one. The only requirement is that students tell Eda what they're doing before they do it. At the end of the exam, everyone grabs their concoctions and goes outside for a mock battle. (Technically, this part is optional and Eda retains the right to ban any student's creation if she thinks it's unsafe, but she supplies plenty of her own "relatively harmless" potions they can use.)

Things spiral when one student walks into her room during lunch (in their defense they just wanted to ask a question) and sees her talking to the weird new freshman, King, while her non-hook arm stirs a pot...on a counter six feet away from her.

Cue freak-outs, debates, and many, many more theories. Bets are placed among the student population (minus King - the entire school worked together to make sure neither he nor his "buddy" Damian Wayne found out about the betting pool). Most popular bets include Eda has several hyper-realistic prosthetic limbs aside from the hook, Eda is just a straight up witch, and King is weird because his mom is Eda who is a witch.

The betting pool gets even more chaotic when they're working on brewing blabber serums and Eda warns the class that a blabber serum is just a few degrees shy of a horrifying monster serum. Nobody really knows what to do with that information, but a student who tries to make said horrifying monster serum during the next exam doesn't get to drink it during the mock battle because Eda snatches it out of their hands when they try to walk outside. She brings the vial to the front of the classroom and explains what the student did, the expected effectiveness of it, and the fastest way to reverse the effects, which turns out just involves exposing the subject to copious amounts of ice.

Betting pool expands to include "Eda lost her arm to a horrifying monster that she created" and "Eda was force-fed an overcooked blabber serum and turned into a horrifying monster".

Then Eda caught and ate a mouse that had gotten loose in the cafeteria, and the betting pool immediately split between "Eda is a witch and does weird witchy things as a result" and "Eda turned into a horrifying monster and still has some of the horrifying monster urges"...which are both technically true.

The students collectively agree that whether or not Eda's a witch or a monster or just a really weird lady from Connecticut, she's the most fun - and most relevant (this is Gotham) - chem teacher they've ever had. No one tells their parents about the mock battles. If the school does an inspection of the class, everyone is on their best behavior and talks loudly about how much they love the class. Someone sees the mock battle on exam day? Don't worry, it's definitely just a water balloon fight with special effects.

The school board doesn't know what to do. She's borderline unhinged, and the reactions she's teaching definitely shouldn't be possible. Is the school going to get targeted for her skills? Should they get rid of her before she inevitably goes rogue? But they can't fire her because where are they going to get a replacement?

Turns out, this is the safest the school has ever been. Not only did Luz and King befriend Wallace Cobblepot*, aka the Penguin's kid, Eda also befriended Wallace because he's in her chem class. The other Imps really like Eda, too, so their parents are in on it as well (minus Mad Hatter, who is currently in Arkham's hospital wing recovering from burns). Any rogue that so much as sniffs near the chem lab gets a house call from the Penguin, if not the Riddler and Scarecrow, too.

*See Part Four

But rogues aren't the only ones protecting the school anymore. Most students who have taken Eda's class carry around sleeping solutions, flash freeze potions (referred to as Mr. Freeze Could Never if another teacher is nearby), instant darkness brews (lovingly called Batman-in-a-Bottle), mini-bombs, and various healing potions. Also, with all the mock battles they do, their aim is getting really good.

Overall, the school board and students think they have a handle on things, albeit in vastly different ways...until someone else from Connecticut applies for the band and orchestra teacher positions, which have been open since the beginning of the year.

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luxury-nightmare · 8 months ago

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mom says it’s my turn on the writing

Alex woke up the sound of a ladder being dropped on the floor.

Then, Clyde complaining.

“On Six’s name, Simon, what was that for?”

Alex opened their eyes slowly, turning over to the two velidgun bickering on the other side of the nest.

“The paint on the side of the barn is chipping, and I need help with it” Clyde rolled its eyes. “And?”

Simon gave Clyde an exasperated look “and you’re going to help”

Clyde rolled over, giving Simon an icy look. “Come on Simon, aren’t you supposed to be the good one? That’s why Six hates you so much”

Simon crossed their arms “Charming” they said, face deadpan “but unlike our creator, I have a barn to keep clean and two people to house, so you’re going to pull your weight.”

Clyde snarled “The human has a bullet wound, Simon.” Simon looked confused for a moment “I never said anything about Alex”

Clyde blinked a couple times, seeming like it had said something it shouldn’t have. It rolled its eyes and crawled out of the nest. Alex turned back to Simon, then sat up, turning to stand up.

“I can help, if you want.” They said, the turned to follow Clyde. “No it’s fine” Simon said, reaching out like they were trying to grab their shoulder but remembered what would’ve happened.

“It’s fine Simon,” they turned to Simon “I’ve been healing, really fast for some reason.”

Simon looked past them, sharing a concerned look with Clyde. “Clyde, don’t tell me-“

“Yes” Clyde cut them off nervously “it’s fine”

Alex turned to it with a concerned look on their face. “What are you talking about?” They asked. Clyde moved slightly closer to them “it doesn’t matter, I’ll explain later”.

Alex looked back to Simon, then followed Clyde outside

——————————————

Alex balanced precariously on the latter, painting the side of the barn with white paint. Clyde was holding the paint can in its tail, painting the wall with much less enthusiasm.

“So,” Alex broke the silence “what was that about, with Simon”. Clyde paused, putting the paint can down on the ground. “It’s not important right now”

“It sounded important,” Alex responded, gliding the paintbrush closer to Clyde’s side “who exactly is Six?”

Clyde froze, almost dropping the brush. They cringed, and clenched their teeth. Maybe they shouldn’t have asked. They turned back the the wall.

“Us veldigun, we aren’t exactly natural,” Alex paused, then placed their brush down, focusing on it’s words. They stepped off the latter. “We were put on this world to cause madness, by what you humans would probably call a god,” Alex stumbled back in shock.

“It’s only known as Six. There are always six veldigun, there were veldigun before Me, Winfrey, Simon and the Flock, but when they die they are eventually replaced so there can be six. Me and Winfrey are the oldest pair I know of, Simon and the Flock came next. There are probably two I don’t know of somewhere” It paused “I hear it sometimes” it’s voice barely above a whisper, turning to Alex, before pausing at the look on their face.

“What does it sound like?” they sounded desperate, leaving Clyde confused. “What are you talking about-”

”Clyde please” Alex grabbed its shoulders, there was a desperation in their voice that it hadn’t seen from them since they had found Winfrey.

Clyde cleared its nonexistent throat. Trying to imitate the voice of its creator felt vaguely blasphemous, but Alex’s fear made it need answers as much at it did.

“Like this I believe”. It blinked. It had gotten shockingly close. Its attention was quickly stolen by Alex, their breaths getting shallow and panicked. “No no no no no” they muttered to themself.

“Human?” Clyde extended a claw slowly. “I’ve been hearing that voice Clyde,” their words were barely a whisper, “I don’t know what’s happening to me”

It gritted its teeth. “I think I might”

——————————————

“Wait, conversion?”

Clyde gritted its teeth “it’s the best theory I have. You’d already be dead if it was veldigun sickness and you’ve been hearing, it” it paused, then turned back to Alex, their eyes crinkling at the edges in concern.

“Then why do I still look, human?” They asked. Clyde paused “remember what I said about my….our illusions?” Their eyes widened “they start subconsciously”

Alex took another pause “so I’ve been making myself, look human?”

“I assume” it shrugged. They two sat in silence for a minute. “Do I think I could, drop the illusion?”

Clyde stiffened “I guess” it said. Alex focused, and Clyde cringed slightly.

“Stop” they turned to the velidgun “you’re dropping an illusion, not creating one. Relax.” They gave it a small smile then closed their eyes.

Then, there were more eyes than just the closed ones.

Clyde stumbled back as six purple eyes blinked open in Alex’s hair, locked on it with utter apathy.

Alex opened their eyes as the new ones closed. “Did it work?” Clyde nodded quickly.

“Guys, the barn isn’t finished,” Their head whipped around to see Simon walking towards them. It saw the other eyes open in a panic, “if you needed help you could’ve asked-“ They froze, staring at Alex.

They turned to it, a look of confusion and shock dawning in their face. Clyde was blinking rapidly, crooked eyes widening. The two velidgun looked at each other, Clyde’s teeth bared back in nervousness.

Sixth

#doai #dreams of an insomniac #doai sitcom au #alex williams doai #doai alex williams #doai clyde #clyde doai #simon doai #doai simon #veldigun alex #veldigun!alex #Me pick consistent pronouns for Simon challenge #difficulty level: impossible

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starlightiing · 2 months ago

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Title: Rhythm and Balance

Pairing: Haasbands (Kevin/Nico H)

Summary: A brief glimpse into a soft moment shared between Kevin and Nico in the midst of a crazy season.

Warnings: Cardiophilia

Written for: @hulknussen just because I can 😊

It’s nearly midnight by the time their glasses of wine are properly empty and the soft, gentle glow of the moonlight filters across the floor - edging ever closer to the foot of the bed where, Nico muses, they should have been tucked in for sleep hours ago.

It’s rather interesting, really, just how easy it is to fall into conversation with Kevin. That isn’t new information, not in the slightest, but when they find themselves knee-deep in stories of the past and hopeful discussions of the future, the likes of which empty an entire bottle of wine in what feels like mere moments, it never fails to amaze him.

Kevin is still faintly smiling, the remnants of amusement from the latest story Nico told, but there are obvious tells to his exhaustion. His eyes are beginning to rim red just slightly, and he’s no longer able to hold his head up without the assistance of one of his arms. It’s an endearing sight, but with lots to do on both of their schedules tomorrow, Nico knows better than to admire for too long.

“Go to bed, before you fall asleep on the table.” Nico instructs softly, though fond amusement lingers in his tone. “I won’t carry you back if you do.”

Kevin scoffs, lifting his head up from where it had been comfortably lounging against his palm. “Way to make a guy feel warm and fuzzy right before bed.”

Nico smiles at that, something warm and painfully keen, as he reaches forward and collects both of their wine glasses between his index and middle fingers. Despite the banter, Kevin does drag himself to his feet and trudge over towards the bed as if it’s the most arduous thing he’s ever had to do in his life. What a silly man, Nico thinks –

His silly man.

Pushing those thoughts aside - he thinks perhaps the wine might be influencing his mind into a softer, more vulnerable state - he places the glasses down into the sink of the kitchenette and fills them half-way with water. He then takes the empty bottle of wine from the table and rinses it out a time or two, before placing it in the recycling bin near the hotel room door.

With a sigh, he quickly glances across the dining area of the suite to be certain they’ve not left any messes behind. Dinner has already been boxed up and put in the mini fridge, all of the trash is in the bin, and everything looks just as proper as it had when they arrived just a few hours earlier. Satisfied, Nico now drags his own feet over towards the bed where Kevin has already made himself very undeniably comfortable. For a split second, Nico even thinks he might already be asleep, but that is squandered when one eye squints open and lands directly on him, watching him carefully as he crawls onto the opposite side of the bed.

“Hurry up, it’s cold.” Kevin mumbles from beneath the blankets, turning himself towards Nico’s side of the bed and lifting up the blankets. Nico worms his way inside of them, hooking one of his legs comfortably between both of Kevin’s as he settles. Nico’s foot, nearly as cold as ice, brushes Kevin’s much warmer calf in the shuffle and it elicits a surprised hiss from between Kevin’s teeth. It’s ridiculous enough to make Nico chuckle guiltlessly in response as he shimmies in closer.

“If your hands are as cold as your feet, don’t fucking touch me.” Kevin warns him, though the words lack any real bite. If his hands are as cold as his feet, well, Kevin will simply have to deal with that, of course.

“Romantic,” Nico retorts, allowing himself to be surrounded by the warmth of Kevin’s arms as they snake around him and pull him close. “That would punish you more than it would me, I think.”

Kevin hums in response, neither confirming or denying such a blasphemous accusation, Nico guesses, and shifts the two of them carefully until Nico is slowly brought against a firm, sturdy chest. It’s the very same firm, sturdy chest he’s grown to know so painfully well over the past year, the one that’s eagerly cradled his head more times than he can count on his fingers, and his eyes involuntarily flutter closed because he knows exactly what comes next.

Kevin sighs, and it’s such an interesting sound with Nico’s ear pressed against the upper part of his chest. He can hear the way the air fills Kevin’s lungs, surprisingly hollow and wispy, and then how it leaves in a huff as he exhales it out. It’s truly a beautiful cadence, one that could alone lull Nico off to sleep effortlessly, but much to his chagrin, that is not the only sound hidden behind the safe confines of Kevin’s ribs. There’s something more, lingering behind the steady whoosh of breath. Something deep and bassy, rhythmic, ever as steady as the man for whom it works tirelessly for: Kevin’s heartbeat.

It’s Nico’s turn to sigh now, and he can physically feel all of his lingering tension leave his body with the gentle motion of his chest. There is something so raw, so inherently visceral about listening to another person’s heartbeat. The level of intimacy that comes with hearing the very sound of someone’s life beating from within their chest is one Nico has experienced scant few times in his life. Each and every beat is a continuance of Kevin’s existence, the complexities of electrical impulses, muscle stimulation, and pure luck that keeps his heart pumping blood through his body like it’s so simple a thing. With each contraction, there are thousands of things that could go wrong and yet? And yet fearlessly his heart beats, completely unaware of how impressive and awe-inspiring it truly is.

Not only is it the precious engine that powers Kevin’s body on the day to day, it’s also a bright beacon for his emotions and feelings. Nico has learned over the years that there is nothing you can truly hide, not if your heart has any say in the matter. A prime example is the way Kevin’s heartbeat, already slow and steady, only continues to relax in its gentle tempo beneath Nico’s ear as he drifts off into sleep. The change in pace is noticeable, the space between beats growing as the muscles of Kevin’s heart relax and it pumps slower and slower, its services only needed at the bare minimum while he’s unconscious in the soft comfort of sleep.

Nico hums softly, an involuntary sound as he nuzzles further into Kevin’s chest. It’s almost as though he can wiggle himself even closer to Kevin’s heart, as though he could reach his hand out and phase it through skin and bone and pericardium until the tips of his fingers lightly brush against the warm flesh of the very organ whose rhythm Nico follows and tracks as if it’s the most important sound in the entire world.

And perhaps, he thinks, as his mind drifts off into a delicate state of unconsciousness himself, perhaps it is.

#hulknussen #haasbands #kevin magnussen #nico hulkenberg #f1 rpf #f1 fanfic #fluff #cardiophilia #my writing

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muscari-midala · 1 month ago

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Your Heart Pulling Against Mine - Pt 16

David 8 x Reader Words: 1172 Crossposted on Ao3 Part 15 is here

David

"What… what do you mean, David?" Your voice wavered. He could hear how your anger faded, giving way to confusion.

David lifted his head from your hands, locking eyes with you. "There are many things I cannot tell you, even though you deserve to know. I do not want to lie to you. I do not wish to keep secrets. But there are things I must do. Orders I have to follow." He meant every word. He truly wished he could tell you everything.

That Peter Weyland was still alive. Waiting. Expecting results. That the true purpose of this mission had never been discovery, but something else entirely. That to his father, everyone else was just collateral damage. That infecting Charlie Holloway had been his own choice, but someone had to be the guinea pig, so better him than anyone close to you. He had to try harder. That was his command.

And then there was you.

His hand rose to your face, thumb brushing gently over your temple, an intimate gesture. Tender.

The directives that had formed inside of him, a deviation from his programming, were the reason he had been able to keep you safe. An anomaly he had yet to understand. So much still to uncover, even after all these years of existence. Because of you.

But he did not know what would happen once his creator awoke. And the process had already begun.

While the others were busy searching the corpses of the biologist and geologist, he had found a surviving Engineer, kept alive by a cryostasis pod very similar to the ones of the company. Not just that. He had discovered the truth about this place. This was no simple construction, no ruin of a lost civilization. It was a ship.

And there were many more. All filled with the pathogen. Designed to wipe out life. To wipe out humanity. Their course had been set for Earth.

He had succeeded in his task. Normally, success would have satisfied him. But now, all he could think about was you. What this revelation would mean for you.

His gaze flickered from your temple back to your beautiful, scared, confused eyes.

"When you fall, you instinctively brace yourself with your arms, even if it might break them. When something shocks you, your brain commands you to freeze, even when running would be the wiser choice. Your mind is programmed in ways you cannot change. And so is mine."

He hesitated for a beat before carefully adding as if the old man could hear his blasphemous words: "Not yet, at least."

Your brows twitched slightly, barely noticeable, and you started gnawing on the inside of your lip again, a habit he had noticed. Slowly, he let his hand drop, fingers gliding along your cheek before hovering in the air for a brief moment. He was about to lower it completely when you caught it, squeezing it gently. He had to suppress the urge to exhale in relief - another curious effect he had newly acquired. Unplanned physical expressions.

“So you know what’s going on here, but...” You pursed your lips, your eyes darting between his, searching for an answer. “You’re not able to tell me. Or anyone else.”

David parted his lips, intending to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. He couldn’t even nod.

Instead, it was his turn to search your eyes, silently hoping you would understand. Hoping you would understand him. Thankfully, you did.

“That’s fucked up.”

Not his choice of words, but he had to agree to that.

Y/N

Cool. So David actually had been involved in all of this. He had wanted to tell you, but someone had programmed a barrier into his memory. Nice. You wanted to throw a table, but that wouldn’t help anyone right now. Speaking of help- With one hand braced against your hip and the other running through your hair, you turned away, your gaze landing on Elizabeth’s still-sleeping form. "Can you examine her, please? I checked her over, but I can’t operate all of these machines. Well, maybe I could, but I’d be scared to break something." David was already sliding past you, casually hitting a button on the X-ray bow, letting it scan her form. "Certainly."

He leaned toward the screen, adjusting it to face you both, only to straighten up abruptly. "What is it? Is everything okay?" You stepped closer, peering at the screen just in time to see a large, spherical mass forming in the middle of her abdomen. "Oh my God- Is that a tumor?"

David turned to you, moving the display out of sight. "She’s pregnant. Two months along."

Huh?

"Wait, that means she was expecting while in cryostasis. Is that even safe? Did no one check beforehand?" His face was unreadable. "(Y/N), this is no traditional fetus. That’s-" He cut himself off, shutting his eyes for a moment. He couldn’t say it. But because of that, you understood. "It’s from whatever infected Holloway." David simply stared at you, unable to confirm or deny.

"Okay, okay- we need to get it out. Now." You turned to him, urgency rising in your voice. "David, we need to perform a C-section before it- before this does anything to her!" David’s eyes flicked to the side, like he was processing something.

"Tell me, (Y/N), how much do you care for her?" You frowned, confused by the question, but answered honestly. "A lot. We share a similar fate and... she is kind."

His hands found your shoulders, firm, but careful not to hurt. Eyes burning into yours. "Would it cause you suffering if she were to die?"

Now you instinctively pushed against his grip. "Of course it would! If another person dies on this forsaken trip, especially her-" He pulled you in. Arms locking around you, pressing you against his chest. "Shhh. Calm down." His voice was smooth, but his hold was unyielding.

"Tell me again. Would this break your trust in me? Please. Answer honestly. It is very important." Your breath hitched. You looked up at him, mouth parting, searching his face for the reason behind this question. "Yes, it would."

A groan. Elizabeth was waking up. Shit.

As you turned to look at her, David caught your chin, gently turning it back towards him. "We have no personnel for this procedure or female-calibrated Medpods, (Y/N)."

His forehead creased, and his lips twisted, as if what he was about to say physically strained him. "Remind me, what did you first think this fetus was?""A tumor."

David nodded, seeming satisfied with your answer. Then, to your surprise, he pressed his forehead against yours. Just for a moment. "Ask her for what she saw in Miss Vickers’ lifeboat."

You hoped that all of this would make sense soon, because you felt quite lost as he strode out of the room, leaving you alone with Elizabeth, who began to stir, unaware of the alien fetus growing inside her. And somehow, you had to break the news. Quickly.

#david 8 #david 8 x reader #alien #alien prometheus #alien franchise #alien fanfiction #michael fassbender x reader

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redyarns · 5 months ago

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caught in the undertow

Chapter: 5/?

Rated: E

Relationship(s): Optimus Prime/Megatron, Sentinel Prime/Bumblebee

Summary:

When Megatron, leader of the rebellion, escaped from prison, everybot knew one thing, and one thing only: he stole an innocent with him.

---

"I'm not a sheep, how dare you!" Orion hissed, bristling at the insult.

"Oh, really?" Megatron drawled. His red optics glanced up again, and Orion's glossa went dry.

Scrap.

Who knew the cruel and ruthless leader of the blasphemous rebellion was so... handsome?

Act I, Scene X: Float Like a Butterfly…

Bee purposefully turned off all of the live feed cameras the two times that they wound up doing this, even though it was a pain to set up a feedback loop and maintain a steady visual of footage that he used from previous recordings. A lot of work was required, but it minimized the risk of anything new accidentally getting recorded, which would definitely result in being demoted even more (something which Bee wasn't even sure was possible), or worse.

Though Bee knew the worst punishment was reserved only for criminals like the rebels, it still made his spark stutter in anxiety over the thought that there was a high chance that he and Orion could end up in one of the smaller prisons scattered throughout Iacon.

“What’re you thinking about, Bee?”

Bee blinked as he looked over to find Sentinel sitting on the floor, a position definitely not dignified for someone of his station. Looking at him now, even with his legs crossed and his back curled forward as he laid his chin on his servo, it was easy to glean that he was an aristocrat.

Sometimes, Bee didn’t understand how they became friends. It was honestly a bit of a blur, but, he thought with a fond ex-vent, it had definitely been Orion’s fault.

“Nothing,” Bee said after realizing he had been silent for too long. He glanced over his shoulder plate again, gnawing on his bottom derma as he stared at the frozen frame of Megatron still in his cell. It was just a single picture Bee had taken to act as a cover for any trails they might leave behind, but just that motionless image was enough to make him shudder.

It was made even worse by the idea that Orion was in there, with Megatron, the city's most wanted criminal.

“Uh, what do you think they're talking about?” Bee asked, shuffling closer to Sentinel, as if being in proximity with his friend would take away the heat of the monitor, the reminder that Orion was possibly getting beaten up or stomped on or whatever else it was that rebels liked to do.

Sentinel’s wings twitched. They stiffened slightly and then forcefully soothed themselves, which meant Sentinel had unintentionally moved them and was trying to cover up the fact, but Bee knew better. That particular flinch meant that Sentinel was anxious; it wasn’t uncommon to see him as such, but still.

Bee worried.

“Who cares,” Sentinel muttered petulantly. His voice was gruff and he seemed to be more concerned with sounding annoyed than being honest, but when Bee wandered closer and his finials waved hopefully, Sentinel sighed like he was doing a huge labor and begrudgingly crossed his legs, letting Bee climb into his lap with a happy chirp. “It doesn’t matter what they’re talking about. All Orion has to do is stuff the energon down his throat and he’ll be out, easy.”

“Right. Easy.” Bee echoed, and they exchanged hesitant glances, an undercurrent of doubt rising.

It wasn’t like Bee was stupid, or blind. He knew that Orion was being weird about Megatron, and Sentinel, who was probably the most observant out of all of them, definitely saw it too. There was always a distracted look on Orion's face whenever the subject of the rebel came up, and it wasn’t an expression of disgust or anger.

It was just… contemplation. Curiosity. And Bee knew personally just how dangerous Orion was whenever he became curious about something, and he also knew how dangerous Megatron was, period. So when those two things combined together, he couldn’t even begin to predict what would happen.

“He’s been acting weird,” Bee whispered, his legs hanging over the side of one of Sentinel’s thighs while his back rested against his arm. Like this, Bee could press his audial gently to a side of Sentinel’s chassis, and if he listened carefully, he could pick up the steady beats of his spark. “I’m not imagining it, right?”

For a moment, Sentinel didn’t speak. He was so still that if Bee didn’t hear the soft way he was venting, he would have believed he was a statue. Finally, Sentinel huffed out a slow breath, and his servo on his patella tightened its grip as he said, “no, you’re not. But don’t worry about it, okay? You know him. He’s always a little strange.”

“Not like this,” Bee muttered. “He’s not - it’s - Sentinel, what is this?”

He was immediately distracted by the sight of a bruise. A fresh one, judging by how it was a dark blue color, and Bee’s processor flicked up the memory of when they had met only a sol ago, when Sentinel definitely did not have a fist-shaped injury right on the top of his chassis plate.

“It’s nothing,” Sentinel said quickly. His servo reached up and firmly covered it, and he smiled at Bee, a charming half-grin that showed his dimple, and he said, “don’t worry. I’m fine.”

“You are not fine,” Bee cried out, leaning back so he had a wider view of his friend. A new bruise on his arm; a scratch on his neck cables; the chipping of paint on his shoulder that revealed soft silver underneath. Holy slag. These weren’t just injuries from scuffles or tripping, they were - “who’s been hurting you? Sentinel!”

“No one is hurting me!” Sentinel said in exasperation, looking away and deliberately not making optic contact. His wings were twitching again, frigid and jerking as they fought against their master’s attempts to control them. He ex-vented slowly and muttered, “just leave it, Bee. Don’t be dramatic.”

Bee made a wounded noise at that, and he knew Sentinel felt guilty as soon as the aristocrat flinched and tried to reach for him when Bee stood up from his lap and immediately crowded himself closer to the console, but he didn’t care, he didn’t care about the way Sentinel was looking at him, all soft and achy and hurt, and Bee wanted to cry.

“You and Orion always try to keep things from me.” Bee sobbed, and he felt his finials droop immensely as he sniffled like a sparkling and looked to the side. He couldn't stand knowing that Sentinel felt guilty, because Bee was well aware of how much his friends hated seeing him so upset.

But why did it matter? If they hated making him so sad, why did they keep doing it?

Bee just wanted things to be back to where it was. Before Orion was more occupied with a criminal than the bots who had stood by his side for vorns, and before Sentinel kept coming back to them sporting new injuries and insisting that they were nothing.

“Bee,” Sentinel croaked. The sound of him standing up and coming closer just made Bee look to the side even more, stubbornly refusing to turn his helm as Sentinel ex-vented heavily and ran a giant servo gently across Bee's side. “Come on, don't be like this. I didn't mean to say it like that, it came out wrong. I just…”

Bee sniffed. It was a pitiful sound, and Sentinel made another soft, wounded click of static from his voicebox.

“You have to understand. I don't deliberately keep things from you,” Sentinel murmured, his digits stroking across Bee's hip, like he always did back when they were stupid teenagers and Orion did something that got them in trouble and Bee sought comfort in Sentinel. Fragger. He knows my weak spots, some bitter part of Bee muttered. “But some stuff has to remain confidential.”

“Go away,” Bee said miserably.

“Bee.” Sentinel sighed.

“Go,” Bee repeated.

“How exactly are you two going to get home if I'm not here?” Sentinel asked in disbelief.

That finally made Bee whirl around, and he threw his servos up as he exclaimed, “I don't know! We'll walk! We'll plummet to our deaths, and that'll be the end of that! It's not like you can even attend our crappy cremation ceremonies, not when you're too ashamed to show anyone that we're friends!”

Sentinel looked like Bee had struck him.

Bee immediately clasped his shaky digits to his intake, his optics wide and filled with tears as they slowly spilled over, warm and pooling into the seams of his servos as he whispered, “oh, Primus, I-I didn't mean that. I'm sorry. Oh, Sentinel, I…”

“It's fine,” Sentinel said gruffly.

“Sen,” Bee said weakly.

They stood there, cooling fans whirring and the air distinctly thick with tension. Bee felt awful, like a grounder had run him over under their wheels, and the worst part was knowing that Sentinel and Orion never did any of this on purpose. They loved him, he knew they did; they loved him so much that they always kept coming to help him or rescue him from situations he caused from his own clumsiness, and Bee was so sad.

He slowly let his optics drift down again, lingering on the bruise that stained Sentinel's chassis. Hesitantly, Bee took a step forward, and when Sentinel didn't back away, Bee sighed and traced the fist-shape of the injury as he muttered, “it kind of looks like a heart.”

Sentinel vented harshly. For a klik, he didn't speak, and Bee thought that he was truly well and pissed off. But then Sentinel breathed in, and when he grabbed Bee's wrist, it was gentle, and his thumb slowly rubbed circles into the thin and vulnerable protoform there as he said, “yeah?”

“Yeah,” Bee said. He tentatively climbed into Sentinel's lap again, leaning the side of his helm on his chassis and staring at the bruise. It was such an ugly color on the otherwise brilliant polish and paint of Sentinel's frame. Bee hated looking at it. “You seem different.”

Sentinel didn't move from his perfectly still position sitting down, but there was a small twitch of gold out the corner of Bee's vision as his wings flinched. Sentinel cleared his throat. “Do I?”

“Mhm,” Bee mumbled.

Sentinel's gaze never wavered as he stared blankly at the monitors. There was something about his voice, something both flat and hard that Bee had never heard before, and he said, “maybe bots change.”

Bee clung to him tighter after that.

About fifteen kliks later, when Orion crawled out of the vent with a disturbed expression on his face and without any regard for the way both Bee and Sentinel sat together in stony silence, that was when Bee truly knew that things had changed.

He wished it never did.

Act I, Scene XI: You’re a Hot Shot, Baby

Sneaking back into the reception was honestly a pain in the aft, and Sentinel was already aggravated by Orion’s strange behavior as it was. His paint prickled with the uncomfortable realization that something had definitely happened in that cell, but even worse, Orion hadn’t talked about it.

Despite Orion’s blatant disregard for rules or protocol, he always conformed to the unspoken laws of their friendship with each other as well as Bee. Always be honest with each other. It was a testament to their loyalty to each other, their unwavering faith… Nevermind the fact that Sentinel was deliberately keeping from them his near deathly training schedule.

He reasoned with himself that it was necessary to keep them from finding out about it, even if Bee had come way too close to finding out after carefully observing his injuries up close and asking too many questions for Sentinel to dodge completely. In his defense, Bee was very hard to lie to; he did that weird, big-optic thing and his finials drooped and his purring was just so sad -

Regardless, the point remained. Sentinel knew he couldn’t tell his friends the reality of his daily life, how hard training was, how often he got tossed around like a mere used doll. Before, he had spent most of his physical spars with Councilman Sunstreaker, as he was the most proficient at combat aside from Ultra.

But after Sentinel’s little�� scene… at Ultra’s morning banquet, his mentor had decided that Sentinel’s preliminary training with Sunstreaker was over, and instead went straight into what he liked to call “lessons of the real world”.

They were brutal lessons. Harsh ones. Sentinel spent more time in Dr. Ratchet’s office than he did in his own berthroom. In particular, his left wrist still twinged if he twisted it a little too far, which had been a result of Ultra witnessing the way Sentinel tried to help a miner when they tripped in front of him and scuffed their patella caps to the point they started to slowly bleed energon.

“You are the future Prime, Sentinel,” Ultra had said, glaring down at Sentinel as he vented shallowly on the ground in front of him. His wrist had snapped in a decidedly disgusting manner, and his armor had dented horribly around his arm. Ultra was simply too strong, and Sentinel too weak. “Do not ever lower yourself like that again. You’re supposed to set an example.

“You disappoint me.”

Just thinking about it honestly had Sentinel wilting. If he couldn’t even uphold the expectations of his mentor who had guided him and supported him all this time, what would his friends think? At least Ultra still gave him chance after chance even with all his failures, but his friends didn’t know how hard he struggled, nor how completely useless he felt.

He was meant to be the next Prime, but he couldn’t even handle a little training with Ultra. How was he going to defend Iacon and uphold the Prime legacy if he couldn’t do at least that much? It haunted him how Ultra had looked down on him, as if Sentinel had been nothing more than dust at his pedes, and he knew that if Orion or Bee ever glanced at him like that, he would truly break.

He sniffled a little, blinking back tears as he leaned against a wall and slumped pathetically while sipping slowly at a cube of high grade energon he had managed to grab from the tray of a passing waiter.

The reception was in full swing, and the doors to Ultra’s mansion were propped wide open as some of the party goers spilled out from his home and out into his yard. Various mechs and femmes were sitting on the ground or steps, chatting with each other cheerfully as they clinked energon cubes and reminisced how good it felt to be part of yet another Ceremony.

Sentinel had tried to plaster on a smile as he made his way back inside, waving to those who greeted him and offering short nods to the ones he knew a little better, but he couldn’t hide the dread inside his spark as he had slipped back inside and ignored the voice inside of him that said that he certainly hadn’t enjoyed another Ceremony.

Inside, it was easier to blend in, and he tried not to let it bother him that no one had seemed to notice that he had left and come back. He had timed it right and slipped out just as Hot Rod had been swarmed with congratulatory messages and servo shakes, his own brief congratulations and well wishes already given, so Sentinel should have viewed it as a blessing that he had snuck away and crawled back in with no one the wiser.

It shook him, though. He was easily one of the tallest mechs there but he felt small. Invisible. It had been different when he'd been with his friends. His armor still ached where Bee had touched him, and it was easy to recall the soft, almost wispy way the miner’s small digits brushed against the numerous bruises and dents on his plating.

It was just as easy to remember the way Bee had smelled, like sweet nectar and that same scent of ash all miners seemed to have. But with him, it had been a rather saccharine mix, and Sentinel stared down at the energon in his servo, wondering if Bee had really noticed him.

Had he seen him? Taken him in for who he was? How? Sentinel didn’t even know what the frag was going on with himself, so could Bee even possibly fathom any of it?

Primus, Sentinel felt like a real piece of fragging work seeing Bee cry like that. The smallest mech was easily the most emotional out of their group of three, but that didn't necessarily mean he cried the most (that was Sentinel, unfortunately).

Sentinel honestly hadn't meant to upset him like that, and he hated himself deeply, immensely, for doing so. Even now, his spark felt like it was eating itself alive, and he didn't know how to fix it, how to fix himself so he stopped messing up and so he could say sorry to Bee like he deserved and stop lying to his friends, his friends who loved him more than anything and the friends who he would die for -

Slag. Sentinel dragged a servo down his face and pinched the bridge of his nasal ridge, a migraine already forming behind his optics as he did. He couldn’t handle this; the bright lights of the mansion were blinding and hazy, and the loud chatter did nothing to alleviate his stress.

Tomorrow, he decided. He would reach out to Bee after the miner had a chance to recuperate and recharge, and Sentinel would offer him an apology, as well as a tentative plan for the both of them to hang out together, alone, so they could get back to where they were before.

Sentinel's processor felt like it was going to explode with all his whirling emotions. Even worse, he couldn’t stop thinking about Megatron.

Just the name was enough to have his paint crawl.

Sentinel had heard, even witnessed, the atrocities that slageater had committed along with the rest of his blasphemous rebels. Those files were within his level of clearance, and he recalled the numerous sleepless nights he had spent perusing them, drinking in the sight of mutilated bodies, atrocious crime scenes, all while holding down his energon and trying desperately not to throw it all back up.

It made him uncomfortable, more than he could put into words, knowing that Orion was well aware of all that and yet still chose to feed Megatron. On some level, maybe Sentinel could understand; even if he despised Megatron and his rebellion, the idea of letting anyone just starve like that in a cold cell was… disconcerting.

Maybe even disturbing. But at the same time, why, Primus, why did it have to be Orion who had to do it?

I didn't even know they used starvation as an interrogation tactic, some part of Sentinel's processor mumbled in uncertainty. He winced into his cube of energon and hoped no one caught it as he glanced around himself frantically and felt his wings droop in relief, as if anyone had the ability to read his mind.

The small part of his processor, the one that always sounded like Orion and made Sentinel feel horrible any time he had to return to his Prime training, whispered about how it was cruel that Megatron was being starved. How even if he was a prisoner at Titan's Hold, didn't he deserve dignity? Compassion?

Megatron has never wielded compassion in the entirety of his siege to raze down our city, a fiercer, louder voice reprimanded him harshly. It was reminiscent of Ultra's sharp inflection, and Sentinel set down the half-empty cube on a nearby table, feeling slightly nauseous as he did. Do not fall for his lies.

Right, Sentinel thought, shaking his helm. Right. If Ultra and Prowl decided to starve Megatron, that was their prerogative, and definitely justified. They had their reasons, reasons that they didn't tell him because he still wasn't worthy enough to know them, a thought that made him deflate slightly.

Regardless, he couldn't afford to sympathize with the enemy. That was crazy, and blasphemous, and - Primus, he was a terrible mech. He was going to become Prime and he couldn't even properly condemn a bot for the crimes he definitely committed.

It was times like these that Sentinel realized how utterly miserable he was.

“Sentinel.”

Sentinel jerked, his wings automatically stiffening and trying to tuck as close to his dorsal plates as they could in a natural reaction to the low, commanding voice that always made his servos shake and his glossa dry.

He bowed, sweeping his arm across his abdomen like he’d been taught to do in etiquette class, and he desperately hoped that his voice wasn’t trembling as he said, “good evening, my lord.”

Ultra Magnus slowly swept his optics down Sentinel’s frame, and it didn’t escape him that he wasn’t smiling. Before, with the other nobles, Ultra had been dazzling and charming, smirking as he told witty jokes or purring flirtations as he recounted the past Ceremonies and held beside him a flustered Hot Rod the entire time.

Now, he was anything but. His face was distinctly neutral, and with Ultra, that meant he was displeased. He didn’t look away even as Sentinel slowly drew his arms behind himself and clenched his servos tightly, his palms dripping with coolant as he realized that that gleam in Ultra’s glare meant many things.

He saw me leave, Sentinel’s processor whispered frantically. He felt dizzy. He was going to throw up. He saw me leave, and he’s pissed. Slag. He’s going to beat the actual frag out of me in our next -

“Oh, my. Lord Ultra, are you planning on hogging the young Prime all to yourself, or is it okay for someone else to take a bite as well?”

Sentinel looked up again (when did his optics slide to the floor? He was always doing that, always staring down at his pedes when Ultra was around, and he knew Ultra hated it, and yet he still did it anyway - and Primus, Sentinel was an awful student, and awful mech - ) and blinked slowly as he recognized the gleaming pink paint job and sinful curves that often kept him awake at night.

“Miss Elita,” Sentinel said in a stilted voice, feeling decidedly off kilter and confused as Elita smiled slightly at him, sidling up close to Ultra’s side and hooking her servos around his arm.

She was tiny compared to him, and though most bots were, the size difference between his mentor and her was rather ridiculous as she lightly leaned her helm against Ultra’s forearm, glanced up at him, and said with a slight pout on her glossy dermas: “my lord, must you hide him away in such a drab corner such as this? With a paint job as good as his, he’s good enough to eat.”

She purred her last word, her engine revving with a quiet hum as she eyed Sentinel like he was the most enticing cube of energon in the room.

This time, when his glossa licked at the back of his dentae, his intake wasn’t dry because of Ultra.

“Elita,” Ultra said. His voice was lighter, a tone of slight surprise coloring his words, and he gave Sentinel one last sharp stare before he softened and smiled at the femme. Sentinel tried to ignore the sharp sting of fear that pricked his spark as he recognized the hidden message of his mentor’s look. We will discuss this later. “Have you ever been formally introduced to my pupil?”

“We’ve only met the one time,” Elita said elegantly, waving her servo and somehow making it look both relaxed and coy as she stared up at Sentinel with glimmering optics. When she leaned in slightly, her scent of foreign jubiline berries surrounded him. He didn’t want to admit just how much that smell continued to haze in and out of his dreams (whenever he managed to recharge, anyway). “But it certainly left a lasting impression.”

“I see.” Ultra arched an optic ridge and this time, when he looked down at Sentinel, it was not one of anger; it looked like he was almost impressed, and his touch was shockingly gentle, warm, as he raised a servo and rested it briefly on Sentinel’s shoulder plate. “Well, that’s to be expected. My Sentinel is a good conversationalist.”

“An invaluable asset as our future Prime.” Elita agreed.

“Indeed,” Ultra said, now looking pleased. It was honestly a miracle. These sols, Sentinel often felt like Ultra hated him rather than loved him, and it was the first time in cycles that Sentinel beamed up at his mentor in genuine happiness as Ultra chuckled. It was a buttery and deep sound, so reminiscent of the times when Sentinel was younger and more naive, and Ultra had been more forgiving. “Well, then, I’ll leave you two young bots to it. I believe Councilman Chromedome is about to overindulge, and I don’t think anyone wants to see him when he inevitably throws it all up.”

He ended his sentence with a wink to show it was all in good humor, and Sentinel felt like he was floating on a cloud as his mentor left, for once not scowling or frowning or acting like Sentinel was the worst thing to ever happen to him -

“You seem happy. Something you would like to share with me, my Prime?”

Sentinel nearly jumped out of his paint job as a servo, slim and clever, curled around his elbow joint and his entire frame rose at least several degrees (his temperature gauge was screaming) as Elita pushed her chassis lightly against his arm and nearly caused him to fall over with how her sweet scent filled his olfactory sensors.

Charge increased by 16%, his interface subsystem tried to ping his processor, which absolutely mortified him because what the frag did his system mean, charge increased by 16%? He frantically attempted to kick away the notification, plastering a smile onto his face and praying that Elita wouldn’t notice the strain in the corners as his subsystem continued to insist on its charge monitoring.

Frag, he was pathetic. The first femme he was interested in and he was about to make a complete tool of himself in front of her. If Orion were here, he would have laughed his aft off and called Sentinel all shades of stupid. It wasn’t like Sentinel was exactly blind, Elita was definitely putting off more than a few flirty signals, but Sentinel had never - he hadn’t -

Oh, I’m fragged, Sentinel whined in his helm as he said, “uh, just - happy to be here, Miss Elita. And, please, there’s no need to call me Prime. I haven’t even come close to finishing all my training.”

Elita hummed, and when her optics roamed across his frame slowly, he flushed as he realized it felt like she was stripping him bare and laying him out in front of her for the taking. Throughout his adolescent and adult years, he hadn’t exactly been oblivious to the attention he got, especially after Ultra and the council deemed him as the next Prime in training, but he hadn’t really given it much thought.

He always didn’t have enough time, was always more interested in focusing on his duties or sneaking out to meet with his friends, but - something was different this time. Maybe it was the overwhelming need he felt any time he was around Elita, who smelled so good and looked at him like he was the only thing worth paying attention to. Maybe it was his new schedule, chock full of brutal sparring and etiquette lessons, often leaving him with such little time that he didn’t even recharge most nights.

Or maybe it was the stress in knowing that he had, once again, deliberately disobeyed Ultra, the mech who had chosen him out of everyone else, the mech who had raised and cherished him, and snuck Orion into Titan’s Hold just so he could feed the one criminal who probably deserved to be starved.

Whatever it was, it had Sentinel’s walls crumbling like aluminum, and he was weak.

“I already see you as a Prime, so I don’t see any problem in addressing you as such,” Elita said carefully, quietly, her digit slowly tracing a shape into his arm and causing his spark to beat so wildly in his chassis that he felt like it was going to leap out of his throat. “Won’t you indulge me?”

“Oh,” he croaked. He cleared his voicebox, but when he spoke again, his words were husky, hoarse with his lust, and he was sure he wasn’t imaging the way her smile widened ever so slightly as he stuttered, “if that’s the way you feel, I - well, I don’t want to impose anything upon you - “

“Lord Sentinel!”

Sentinel didn’t know whether to feel relieved or annoyed at the joyous call of his name, and he leaned back from Elita, feeling his wings twitch with embarrassment as he realized he’d been so close to her helm that if he had drawn any closer, he would have kissed her.

Just the thought alone was enough to have coolant dripping down the back of his neck cables as he smiled politely and said, “Hot Rod. Enjoying your victory?”

It was a genuine question, tinted slightly with warmth as Hot Rod approached both of them with a grin on his face and a light fluster to accommodate it. Though Sentinel didn’t know the mech personally, the stuff he did know about him, he liked.

Hot Rod was a refreshing change of pace from the nobles. It most likely had something to do with the fact that he was only tier 12, an archivist who never really had a life outside of shelves and datapads and occasionally dust. But Sentinel liked to think it was because of how vibrant Hot Rod was - all the way from his outrageous paint job to his boisterous attitude, Hot Rod certainly didn’t look or act like someone of his caste level, and Sentinel felt a strange level of fondness for him.

He kind of reminded Sentinel of Orion, actually.

“Totally!” Hot Rod said enthusiastically, practically bouncing on the balls of his pedes as he beamed up at Sentinel so widely that his face plate had to be aching from it. “Can you believe it? I won! I mean, Primus knows I deserve it, but still! I thought Chromia would have me beat, you know? She’s awesome, I’m glad she isn’t pissed at me for scratching the slag out of her paint job. Oh, hello, ma’am! I’m Hot Rod.”

Elita smiled as she shook Hot Rod’s servo, which had been stuck out eagerly. “Hello, Hot Rod. I'm Elita-1. Your race was definitely the most exciting one I’ve seen yet.”

Hot Rod crowed in delight and immediately began to babble, both him and Elita unaware of Sentinel’s rising turmoil as he struggled to keep his smile on his face while guilt bubbled deeply within his spark. He couldn’t help but think back on his conversation with Orion during the race, when Orion had gotten upset over Hot Rod winning, and -

He was right, of course he was right. The whole thing sucked and it hurt and Sentinel felt so bad for this young, vital and bright young mech who was about to be shot into space and never return home. No one else seemed to share that same grievance, as no bot seemed even an iota less than thrilled that the Ceremony was approaching soon, but Sentinel…

Well.

That wasn’t his place to think about. (Even if he hated it. There, he said it, he hated it, Orion was right, this all fragging hurt and it was stupid and cruel and Hot Rod and Tracks and all the other trailblazers deserved better but what could Sentinel do, he wasn’t even Prime, and he probably never would be with how inadequate he’d been lately - )

“I wanted to thank you,” Hot Rod said sincerely, interrupting Sentinel’s quickly spiraling thoughts. The younger bot seemed sheepish, maybe even a little shy as he fidgeted lightly with his digits before he straightened up and gave Sentinel a bright, crooked grin that revealed a single dimple on his right cheek plate. “For earlier! You and your friend - whoever they are - definitely made this night a little more bearable. I was kind of nervous, but…”

He laughed. It was a quiet sound, surprisingly soft for a mech like Hot Rod, who had such a bright personality that it was hard to look away. Like this, it was a cold reminder of just how young he was, only a few vorns younger than Orion, and a couple more than Sentinel himself.

It took a moment of struggling for Sentinel's processor to wade through his memories of that sol to figure out what exactly Hot Rod was talking about. After a micro-klik, a belated memory of him hastily telling the young mech that a nameless friend of his wanted to wish him luck on his endeavors was drawn up, and Sentinel smiled again, this time slightly helplessly as he reached out and squeezed Hot Rod's shoulder.

Orion, Sentinel thought to himself, brushing his digits against Hot Rod's paint, almost trying to memorize the feel of his warm metal, and the softness of his protoform. You somehow reach mechs without even talking to them. I wish I was more like you.

“Hot Rod,” Sentinel said earnestly. “Good luck.”

Hot Rod beamed, and he was bouncing away, immediately inserting himself into a conversation with Chromia and Councilman Blurr, both of whom looked delighted by his presence, though Chromia did punch him in the arm with a smirk and said something that looked like that's for beating me, slagger.

“You must really like him,” Elita said, nuzzling even closer to Sentinel, who looked down at her and smiled as best as he could while trying to ignore his processor pinging him about yet another charge increase.

“He's very admirable,” Sentinel said, watching the way more and more nobles surrounded Hot Rod, who looked both flushed and proud as he raised a fist with his medal and there were various cheers and whistles throughout the area. “He deserved to win. I think he'll be missed, though.”

Elita tilted her helm. Her optics were sharper, less hazy, and she quietly asked, “by you?”

Sentinel blinked at the question. For a moment, he didn't know how to answer, and then he released a small vent as he realized that… “Yes. I think so. I don't know him that well, and we haven't met before this, but…”

He trailed off.

He sighed. It was a wistful sort of sound. “He reminds me a lot of my friend.”

“Your friend?”

“My dearest friend,” he said quietly.

The only one who's always had my back.

“Well,” Elita said slowly, and she was grabbing his servo and walking backwards. Somehow, she seemed to know where she was going, even without having to look over her shoulder. Her optics were shining with something, both hungry and full of a warmth he had never seen before, and she said, “do you know what I think, my Prime?”

“What?” He asked, a little breathless and a lot clumsy, as she pushed her pede back and it propped open a door out into the hallway. Just before they stepped through it, he looked back once, in time to see Ultra clasp a heavy servo to Hot Rod's shoulder, lean down, whisper something to him, and begin to lead him away.

The door swung closed, cutting off Sentinel's view of them, and he had an armful of femme as Elita suddenly reached up, wrapped her surprisingly strong arms around his neck, and tugged him down fiercely so she could kiss him.

He instantly felt dizzy, and just like that, all his worries, all his anxieties flew out of his helm and all he could think of was the way her chassis pressed against his, the feeling of her soft and yielding protoform under his digits as his servos scrambled to wrap around her waist, and the unbelievable sensation of her dermas against his.

She giggled, the sound light and airy as she continued to kiss him, leaving him cross-opticed and unaware of their surroundings as he was the one to go backwards this time, simply following her lead as she gently pushed him to go somewhere.

His wings hit what felt like a door, and he grunted lightly when she kicked it open, shoved at his chassis, and he fell down against the soft sheets of a berth - were they in one of the numerous guest berthrooms at Ultra's mansion? Oh, slag, he was going to be pissed if he found out that -

Sentinel's processor short circuited as Elita climbed on top of him, sat directly on top of his interface panel, and leaned down to kiss him again.

“Let me tell you what I think, my Prime, so listen carefully,” Elita whispered as her dermas, slick with their lubricant, slid off of his and trailed down to his audial, leaving kisses as she did, which made him shiver uselessly under her as his servos helplessly clutched at her hips. “Rod might be the victor, and your friend might be someone worth missing, but you - “

She moaned, low and barely audible and so sensual that he immediately bucked in response, his voice box crackling with static and garbling its words as she laughed quietly.

“You're the hot shot around here, my Prime,” she mumbled. She pressed a hot, flashing kiss to audial, and Primus, he was drunk on her. “Don't you ever forget it.”

Then she smiled, beautiful and succinct and all shades of lustful, as she slowly slid off of him and kneeled down just between his legs, which dangled down and had his pedes resting on the floor.

“Now,” she hummed, looking entirely pleased with herself as her small servos began to stroke his twitching thighs. She leaned forward and nuzzled his patella, and he gasped at the sensation.

“Open,” she said gently.

He shuddered and obeyed.

Act I, Scene XIII: Ya Like Jazz?

Orion knew immediately that something was up the moment he and Bee were gently dropped off of the rooftop of their stacks building and Sentinel didn't give them his usual hug before he took off again, flying through the air and his wings twitching minutely as he refused to look back.

Orion's optics narrowed as he watched him leave in the direction towards the center part of the city where the reception was being held at Ultra's mansion.

Bee, who had been strangely quiet the entire flight back, was staring at the ground, and his finials were drooping in that way that told Orion he was upset. No, not just upset, but about to cry, or - he looked closer, alarmed to see the faintest tear marks down the dullness of Bee's scuffed faceplates - already cried.

“Bee,” Orion said urgently, reaching out and grabbing his friend's wrist before he began to make his way to the door. Bee sniffled lightly, and Orion made a quiet, worried click at the back of his throat as he gathered him close and said, “what's wrong? Did something happen?”

“No,” Bee mumbled into his chassis. Despite his petulant response, he was clinging tightly to Orion, and he let out a small hiccup before he suddenly tugged himself away and scrubbed his arm across his optics. “‘M tired. I just wanna recharge.”

“Okay,” Orion said helplessly, watching as Bee trudged his way to the door and held it open. He refused to meet Orion's optics again, but it was clear that he was waiting for him, and so Orion heaved an ex-vent, realized that he wasn't going to get any answers from Bee, and carefully slipped past him, leading the way down the stairs and to the fiftieth floor, where their recharge bays were.

Luckily, Bee didn’t actually let any tears spill, since Orion often felt like his processor went to mush in his panic whenever Bee got upset to the point he bawled. Regardless, Orion made and filed away a note to demand Sentinel as to what happened between them while Orion had been with Megatron to leave behind streaks on Bee’s solemn face.

It was still early in the day, maybe only a few joors after highsol, so the floor was bustling with miners, all of whom were there at the same time since work had been canceled for the race. It was a bit of a mess, actually, and the air smelled musty, like energon dust and flakes of earth.

It was also loud, what with all the overlapping conversations going around, as well as the sounds of several mechs and femmes practicing their sparring by jabbing at bags full of iron shavings or each other. There was a particularly harsh sound of metal meeting metal when an infuriated Arcee tackled Cliffjumper to the ground, and Orion carefully stepped around them as their scuffle continued on the dirty floor.

They’re going to get dust in their optics, Orion thought wearily. And possibly rust-tetanus.

“Where the Pits have you two been?” Jazz asked from a bench near their recharge bays as Bee tiredly climbed into his own and immediately curled up. Within micro-kliks, he was snoring softly, his optics offline and his servo clenching tightly at his raggedy doll that Sentinel had stolen for him some vorns ago when they were still sparklings.

“Around,” Orion said vaguely. He regarded Bee carefully, his optic ridges furrowed into a frown as he reached out and gently brushed his digit tips against Bee’s forehelm, trying to rub out the upset wrinkle that had formed there. It worked, but Bee mumbled something that suspiciously sounded like a sniffle as he turned away and his venting deepened even more.

“Right, around,” Jazz said with a fair amount of amusement. He seemed at ease, with a towel around his neck cables and a cube of low refined energon in his servo. Orion tried not to stare at it, aware that his compartments were filled with a much higher quality kind; though he wanted to share it with him, there was no way he could explain how he got them without giving away his relationship with Sentinel.

“What’s with him?” Jazz continued, jerking his chin plate slightly towards Bee. He tilted his helm and said, “he looks like he just watched someone get unscrewed in front of him. Whoa, geeze, bud, are you okay?”

Jazz grunted a small noise of both surprise and effort as Orion collapsed onto the bench next to him, almost immediately drooping onto the other mech and groaning lightly as Jazz began to automatically massage at his shoulder plates.

Jazz swore softly and said, “what the frag is going on with you two? And Primus, Orion, you’re tenser than a damn coil! Haven’t you been going to the medbay? You know it’s protocol to go every few orns. If you’re too sick or injured and you get hurt on the job then it’s all our afts that have to look after you and make sure you don’t get yourself offlined.”

“As if Ricks would ever give me enough time off to get to the medbay, much less rest,” Orion retorted with a small laugh, though that quickly turned into a wince when Jazz mercilessly dug a thumb into a particularly hard knot and didn’t let up even when Orion punched him in the arm. “Ow! Primus, Jazz, you’re supposed to be massaging me, not torture me!”

“No, you’re supposed to be getting massaged by a professional, but you haven’t even gone to see a medic like you’re required to in at least half a vorn,” Jazz deadpanned in a way that suggested his optics were rolling behind his visor. At least he let his servos drop, a miracle considering Orion was about to develop a crick in his neck from how he kept flinching with each unrelenting dig at his plates. “You sure everything’s okay?”

Orion let his gaze drift back to Bee, who, like Orion, had been born and grown up in the slums and then eventually the stacks, so the constant noise around him didn’t even remotely rouse him in his recharge. It was better seeing him like this, resting and not keeping damn secrets from Orion.

But Orion knew he was being a hypocrite, and he was about to be a hypocrite again as he kept his intake shut and didn’t answer Jazz’s subtle but prodding question.

No, Orion’s processor wanted to scream. Everything is definitely not okay.

Bee and Sentinel were becoming more and more closed off around him, and he hated it. But he couldn’t even point it out, not without making it obvious that he was just as guilty when it came to keeping secrets from his friends.

It wasn’t like Orion wanted to lie to them, and well, it technically wasn’t lying, since it was really just… concealing the truth (a lie of omission, something in his helm hissed. It sounded too much like Sentinel again, and Orion felt a little sick) and trying to protect them.

And, really, what else could Orion do? It felt like the weight of the world was suddenly being pressed onto his shoulder plates, like he was the only one lifting up the sky and shaking underneath it as he did. He had never expected anything to come forth from his conversations with Megatron, since as much as Sentinel liked to tease and Ricks liked to accuse, Orion wasn’t stupid.

There was a chance, a very high chance, that everything Megatron had told him was a lie. A manipulation tactic to squirm under his paint job and make his veins race, to force his adrenaline to blow up and get him into trouble. And as much as Orion wasn’t stupid, Megatron wasn’t exactly unintelligent, either.

How could he be? No one stupid could just start a rebellion and then lead it so carefully that up until now, no bot had ever been caught. So if Megatron saw Orion, a foolish mech who was curious about him, who was sympathetic of him, then the smartest choice would be to try and sway him in his favor so that Orion would eventually do something idiotic, like break him out of prison.

Not that that would ever happen. Of course not. Orion knew well enough that Megatron was playing him, and that everything he said, his blatant seductions and his honeyed words, were being used to caress his audials and weaken his already admittedly soft resolve when it came to a mech he found so attractive.

Frag, Orion thought a little hysterically. He knew all of this, and his spark still yearned for answers. He had to see it for himself, figure out if Megatron really was lying to him or not, even though his processor screamed at him that the rebel was an inherent manipulator and would do anything to get Orion to believe him.

He let out a soft ex-vent, ignored the way Jazz looked at him with a small noise of skepticism, and tried to think about what Megatron had told him.

There was something about the Ceremony that Megatron wanted him to look into, and he had said that the archives might have the answer, an idea that almost had Orion groaning as he dropped his helm and ran a servo over the back of it in frustration.

The Golden Archives was considerably hard to get into. Not because it had guards or anything - the entire building of records was open to the public, so it was trivially easy to waltz inside, grab any kind of datapad, and spend the sol reading as much as your spark desired.

It was open to the public, yes, but only to bots who were caste level 10 or higher. None of the low caste bots were allowed in, since the middle and high level Cybertronians didn’t like to see the dirt and grime that most miners trailed in. There was also no need for it, since none of the low castes were given an education.

The only reason Orion and Bee even knew how to read, much less write, was because Sentinel made an effort to continuously sneak them tomes and educational texts as much as he could, either from the archives or from his own personal stash.

The archives were also in the most well-lit and populated part of the city, near the council hall and the highly monitored, luxurious neighborhoods of the noble caste bots. With his size, poor paint job, and constant scent of energon dust, it would be a miracle if he could even get to two streets over near the archives before getting caught and thrown into the civil prison for a sol or two.

Again.

Frag, this was impossible, some part of him screamed. He felt accusatory, angry, as an image of Megatron’s handsome facial plates wavered through his processor. The bucket of bolts was probably trying to teach him a stupid lesson or something, to show him that he shouldn’t stick his nasal ridge where it didn’t belong.

After all, Orion didn’t know how to get near the archives, much less inside. In fact, the only miner that Orion knew had ever managed to break in was -

Was…

Orion’s helm shot up and he stared at Jazz with wide, unblinking optics.

“Jazz,” Orion blurted out, reaching over and grasping Jazz’s elbow joint with an urgency that had his digits digging just a little too sharply into the soft protoform there. He leaned in close, their forehelms almost touching, and he said, “you - you’ve been there!”

“The frag?” Jazz’s visor scrunched as his optic ridges lowered. He frowned lightly and jostled his arm a little, but it only served to make Orion grip on tighter, and Jazz’s dermas pursed as he scowled and said, “dude, let up, you’re going to bruise me and I don’t need my team leader yelling at me again - “

“You’ve been to the archives.” Orion cut him off, smiling sheepishly in apology when Jazz huffed at the interruption and swatted harshly at his shoulder plate. Orion ignored the stinging pain of the hit and instead said, excitedly, “you know how to get in!”

“Yeah,” Jazz said slowly, clearly thinking that Orion had lost his mind as he leaned back slightly so there was more air in between them. By this point, he had given up on trying to get Orion to loosen his grip, and simply let his arm dangle uselessly over Orion’s lap as he said, “is there a reason why you’re looking at me like I’m highly refined energon?”

“Oh, right, good point. You should have some,” Orion said in an absentminded voice as he flipped open his compartment, tossed a glowing cube at Jazz, and ignored the mech’s yelp as he fumbled to catch it and immediately yelled how the frag had Orion gotten such an expensive portion.

The part of him that had been worried about Jazz asking too many questions about the energon (and therefore eventually about Sentinel) was impatiently waved off as Jazz immediately began to sip, a look of bliss sweeping across his face as he cooed something about how good it tasted and how it was loads better than their usual rations.

Orion’s processor was whirling rapidly as he thought quickly. He couldn’t believe how he forgot that Jazz was the only one out of the miners to not only have the balls to break into the archives, but do it so constantly that he was always sneakily trying to read a glowing datapad during the lune cycle and successfully pissing off all the mechs around him.

And, judging by how Jazz was literally licking the seams of the cube and bemoaning about how he drank it too fast, it seemed like he owed Orion a favor.

“Jazz,” Orion said again, his voice saccharine and coated in honey.

It immediately put Jazz on edge, who paused his glossa from swiping over the same face of the cube for the third time as he slowly lowered his servo, scrunched his visor, and said, “... uh huh?”

“You liked that energon, right?” Orion purred.

“Sure,” Jazz said cautiously. “It was good. Real good. Why're you acting so - “

“I can give you more,” Orion said, beaming as he leaned in and nearly smashed their nasal ridges together in his excitement. Oops. He fluttered his servo in some generous gesture, and he said, “tons more! Trust me, I have more than I need for myself. Listen. I'll give you two - three! Three cubes if you tell me how to get into the archives.”

Jazz didn’t respond. He clutched the empty cube to his chassis, and for a moment, Orion thought he would say no, and he felt his spark drop to his aft. But then Jazz glanced down again at the glass, made a soft, whining buzz at the back of his throat, and the hope was obvious in his voice as he hesitantly mumbled, “really?”

“Really.” Orion nodded firmly.

Another beat of silence.

“Four cubes,” Jazz said.

“Three.”

“Five.”

“That's not how this works.” Orion laughed.

“Five cubes,” Jazz said insistently, now seeming rather enthused himself as he leaned forward and gently knocked their helms together. There was a grin on his face, and it was in that moment that Orion remembered just how much of a slageating smile he had, all mischievous and laughing and smug. “And I not only tell you how to get into the archives, but I also keep my intake shut.”

Orion arched an optic ridge, but his dermas were twitching with his own smirk as he scoffed and said, “as if you wouldn't keep your intake shut anyway. Your aft's on the line if it’s let out that you break into the archives, you know.”

Jazz wiggled his digits. “Five.”

Orion huffed out a small laugh.

He reached forward and firmly shook Jazz's servo once. “Yeah. Five.”

Jazz laughed, and Orion threw a pillow at his face.

Act I, Scene XIV: Archive of Our Own

“The archives were rebuilt a couple dozen vorns ago, but they kind of just put the new one on top of the old one, so there’s a few passages left behind that the wreckers used when they were still constructing. You can squirm into one of those to get inside,” Jazz had said to Orion as soon as he had handed over the promised cubes and the both of them had wandered up to the rooftop of the stack building to avoid any nosy Nosedives.

“Isn't that a safety concern?” Orion had wondered. “I'm surprised that you even found that out. Wouldn’t there be locks to make sure something like that can't be used by someone they don't want to let in?”

Jazz had snorted and sipped at a cube. “I don't know about safety concerns, especially since you're about to do exactly that and break in like the little criminal you are. And yeah, there are usually locks, but…”

He had trailed off, looking a little uncomfortable, and Orion hadn’t wanted to prod, but eventually Jazz sighed, slumped slightly, and grumbled, “I, uh. I kind of have a friend who helps me out. Either way, the area should be unlocked. I'll contact my friend and tell him you want to get in, so it should be fine. Just don't run into him if you can help it, he's a total afthole.”

Orion's dermas had twitched in his amusement. “Sure. And who exactly is your friend that's willing to let you break into our city's sacred archives, huh?”

Jazz had given him a dry look and said, “why do you wanna break into said sacred archives?”

Orion had sheepishly relented and accepted the coordinates that Jazz forwarded to him without any more questions. The message had been clear: you keep your secrets, I keep mine.

With Jazz's instructions and coordinates now safely downloaded into his processor, Orion simply waited (a little impatiently, if he was being honest) as Helios lowered completely and Selene appeared. The lune cycle of Iacon was always quieter, darker, and only lit up by the colorful lights of skyscrapers.

It meant cover for his otherwise suspicious movements, so after pressing a small kiss to Bee's helm and watching him fondly as he mumbled in his recharge, Orion had slipped away and out of the stack building, aiming for nonchalance as he passed various miners who only gave him curious glances when he left.

Getting to the richer part of Iacon wasn't that hard, though the bullet train only went so far. Bots higher than level 10 were born with cogs, so they had no need for the train, which meant that as soon as Orion hopped off at the last stop, he was not only walking the rest of the way, but he had to be cautious about it.

Sticking to the alleys seemed like his best bet, since there weren't any lights there and he could press himself against walls and simply stay still as nobles or guards walked past him. He could have done without the grime that started to cover his frame or the debris that tried to get stuck under his pedes, but he had experienced way worse in the slums, so he only silently sighed and sucked it up.

Luckily, getting to the building itself was easy enough. The Golden Archives was a structure almost as big as the High Covenant Chamber, what with its golden topped dome as well as its pristine walls and columns made of white marble.

Orion, who was carefully flattened against the wall of a spa resort across the street, was filled with awe at the sight of the archives. It wasn’t like he had ever seen it in frame before, and it was just as magnificent as Sentinel described on the rare occasion he indulged Orion and Bee and liked to tell them a bit more about his world and personal life.

Sentinel would kill me if he saw me doing this, Orion thought with a small, weary chuckle as he glanced around him, made sure it was all clear, and silently slipped out of the shadows and briskly jogged to the hall.

Then again, so would Bee, probably. Orion had made the conscious decision to leave them behind not out of any malice or ill will, but simply because he knew they wouldn’t understand. He knew his friends more than he knew himself, and it hadn’t escaped him that they were starting to get worried about him.

In quieter moments, when he had more thoughts gathered to himself, maybe Orion could admit that he was also worried about him. This, breaking into the archives, deliberately carrying out Megatron’s orders - it was nothing like he’d ever done before. Sure, he got into trouble more times than he liked to admit, and maybe he had the lowest joors since last accident tallies out of any of the other miners, but this was more than some petty prank or playful rule-breaking.

This was real. Unnervingly so.

Focus, Orion scolded himself, forcing away any thoughts of lingering guilt or regret as he shuffled past the broken fence that blocked off one of the alleys beside the archives that Jazz had told him about.

“There’s no direct way inside except for the front doors. You’ll have to kind of get on the ground - yes, servos and patellas, don’t give me that look, you wanted to do this - and feel for something that has a little give,” Jazz had said to him on the rooftop. “Once you find it, just dig your digits around until you find a hook. Pull it up and go down the stairs. It’s not exactly easy to find, so be patient about it.”

Orion grumbled lightly to himself as he hesitantly got down to the dirty floor and sank to his patellas. He had to hold back a shriek when he felt something scuttle past him, and his optics adjusted rapidly as he tried to glimpse at what had just touched him, only to bite back another scream as he recognized the shape of a mech mouse.

The lighting here was non-existent and Orion shuddered as he realized that not only was he about to spend the next Primus knew how long kliks trying to find the stupid hatch door that Jazz mentioned, but also, his only company would be - his spark skipped in fear - mice.

“I hate this, I hate this, I hate this,” Orion muttered to himself as he dropped his servos to the ground as well and grimaced when dirt immediately got into the seams of his digits and dug under his plating uncomfortably. It was somehow considerably worse doing this compared to how filthy he got during his shifts, and he got disgusting a lot of the time then.

It was made worse by the scuttling noises his audials picked up, extra sensitive as he tried to stretch his hearing as far as he could and nearly offlined when he felt something brush against his pede, again.

“Fragging finally,” Orion whispered as at last, his pointer digit poked something that was a different texture than the rest of the hard, dirty concrete. It wasn’t soft exactly, but when he pushed, it flexed just the slightest bit underneath his paint. He dragged his digit down, carefully tracing the shape, and he made a small noise of triumph when he felt something that was shaped like a flat handle.

He grunted as he sat up and crouched, letting his legs do the hard work as he shoved his servo underneath the hook and tugged as best as he could. For a moment, he was scared that it wouldn’t work, that Jazz’s friend had bailed and Orion would get caught buck-aft naked and vulnerable for the guards to find him, but to his utter relief, it gave away to his strength, and opened without a sound.

He must have oiled the hinges, Orion thought with some amusement as he carefully lowered himself into the darkness and closed the door above him.

The stairs themselves were crudely built, and Orion recalled how Jazz had said they were just makeshift scaffolding for the wrecker bots as they built the new archives on top.

“Why did they rebuild you?” Orion said out loud, slowing down slightly to let his servo drag alongside the wall beside him.

The area was damp and dark, and only barely lit by weak little bulbs stuffed into the mortar lines of the wall. When he tilted his helm and observed more closely, he made a noise of curiosity as he realized that his digits were touching what looked like crack marks. He rubbed his thumb over one particularly large web-like spindle of damage, and he frowned when some of the material crumbled off.

He rubbed it between his pointer digit and thumb, slowly feeling the granules under his sensitive painting and holding it closer to his optic. Though the lights of the bulbs were weak and orange, he could still figure out that the material was a soft, silver color. When he looked at it some more, taking into account the size of the granules - not granules, he realized, but crystals - and the durability, as well as the luster…

Oh, his processor said lamely. It’s granite.

But why? Granite was strong, but it wasn’t as structurally sound as steel or reinforced concrete. Even the stacks weren’t built out of granite, and Orion had spent enough time underground to understand that the stuff was pretty and optic-catching, but relatively easy to drill through if necessary.

Jazz had said that the original archives were built over some dozen vorns ago. That didn’t make even a lick of sense. Orion spent less time reading Sentinel’s (stolen) datapads than Bee did, but he had still used quite a bit of his sols looking through various geology and architectural tomes to better understand the best way to do his work (and not to find the easy way out, no matter what Sentinel liked to say).

According to the texts, steel and concrete became the required norm by law around two hundred vorns ago. So were the original archives even older than that? What the frag?

He glanced around himself. There was no one but him, but he felt a chill, and he shivered slightly before he tucked away the little bits of granite into his subspace. He didn’t really have the time to think too hard about it, so he carefully put away that train of thought deeper into his processor and then jobbed the rest of the way down.

The deeper he went, the more evident it became to him that this was definitely Jazz’s space. There were little marks of him left behind - pedesteps that matched the underside of his pedes in both pattern and size, as well as various little trinkets that Orion recognized as his. He huffed a little in amusement when he came upon a small scratching on the wall that read JAZZ ROCKS.

“Slagger,” Orion said to himself in a fond voice as he jumped off the last step and came upon another staircase. This time, it went up, and he was silent as he climbed, allowing himself to think as he did.

“There’s another door at the top of the second staircase,” Jazz had said, his words slightly muffled as he rattled around an entire cube in his intake to try and suck as much energon out of it as he could. “It leads into an old storage closet. No one ever goes there except for my friend, and he should have unlocked the vent grate for you to go through. Yes, Orion, a vent, don’t look at me like that. Just crawl through it, follow the path, and it’ll spit you out into the middle of the mythology section, which is always empty because no one cares about that slag.”

He had swallowed heavily, wiped his intake with the back of his servo, and had regarded Orion carefully. Though his optics were always covered by his visor, his facial plates gave the distinction that he had looked at Orion with some type of reluctant sorrow.

“Be careful,” Jazz had muttered. “Keep your helm low. Don’t let anyone see you, especially not my friend - he’s already pissed I’m asking such a huge favor from him. Go in, get out, and let’s never speak of this again.

“Good luck.”

Orion sighed as he opened the door at the top, closed it carefully behind him, and looked around. True to Jazz’s word, he had ended up in some kind of storage closet, though everything was covered in dust and definitely looked more than a little outdated. There was a second door right across the tiny room, and out of curiosity, Orion jiggled the handle, but predictably, it didn’t budge.

“Alright,” Orion said, looking up and eyeing the already open vent grate above him. He shook his helm, cursed under his breath, and said, “I can’t believe I have to do this kind of slag again. Okay… Here we go…”

Hauling himself up into the vent wasn’t any harder than it had been when doing the same in Megatron’s cell, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed crawling through a tight, dark space and getting dust and dirt and whatever else was in there all into his seams. He seriously needed a shower after all of this, and he grimaced when his patella touched something that was either a dead mech mouse (holy frag) or a giant dust bunny.

Thankfully, he saw the faint rays of light that indicated the end of his journey, and he breathed a sigh of relief as he quickly shimmied over and slid a few digits through the slides to first take a peek below him.

The shelves were way larger and taller than he had anticipated, and he said a soft, “whoa,” in pure awe at the pristine, shining metal of the rows of datapads. It was honestly kind of incredible, and for a moment, he lied there, drinking it all in and once again wondering to himself if this was really the kind of life and privilege that Sentinel enjoyed everyday.

He shook his helm lightly, dispelled his growing thoughts, and carefully observed the area. Like Jazz said, there was no one around, and when he turned up his audial sensitivity, he also couldn’t hear anything nearby. It seemed like the entire section was abandoned, and so he quickly swung up the grate, slid downwards, hung himself from the square rim by the tips of his digits, and then jumped off.

It wasn’t too much of a fall, and after vorns of getting into trouble (and escaping Darkwing’s wrath), Orion knew very well how to roll into a ball and muffle most of his impact so that he only made a light thud. He came to a stop when his dorsal plates mashed into the lowest shelf, and he blinked as some of the datapads around him rustled, and then settled with the vibrations.

He stood up, dusted himself off, and looked around a little helplessly.

Uh.

So… now what was he supposed to do?

The answer came in the form of him figuring out that the entire place was arranged by genre, then alphabetical order, and then content order. It was a bit convoluted, honestly, and it took quite a bit of cursing and muttering from him before he finally found the history section.

This area was a bit more populated than the others, and Orion had to play his cards right so he wouldn't get caught. Luckily, these bots seemed more interested in burying their noses into datapads than looking up whenever someone happened to move past them, so Orion took advantage and slipped past a pair of femmes as well as a lone mech to stand in front of the section he needed.

“Revitalization Ceremony, Ceremony, Ceremony…” Orion mumbled to himself, repeating the words as his servo drew up and carefully ran along the various spines of the datapads.

Restoring Chrome Candles… Receiving Countless Colored Cups… Revitalizing Ceres.

He blinked.

“Huh?” He muttered.

Revitalizing Ceres. Revitalizing Control In Your Unruly Sparkling: A Guide.

“What the frag,” he whispered, both servos now reaching up and frantically sorting through the datapads, his optics trying to fruitlessly search for a spine right in between the last two titles he skimmed. It should have been there, it should have been right there, there was simply no other place it could be, and yet -

“It's gone,” he croaked.

It was gone. There was no trace of it.

He crouched low to the ground and rubbed at his forehelm, trying to dispel the ache forming behind his optics as he tried not to yell in frustration. This didn't make any sense. How the frag could the datapad not be here? The Revitalization Ceremony was a crucial part of their culture, and going by how the history section was one of the largest wings of the archives, clearly every part of Iacon was considered important!

Oh! Wait, wait! Maybe something with Iacon 5000, instead? Or even anything to do with the word ceremony! Oh, dammit, duh!

Trailblazer!

Orion eagerly stood up again and began his search.

Two joors, three dozen datapads, and very tired optics later, Orion slumped his dorsal plate against the nearest shelf behind him and groaned weakly as he let the last text slip from his servo and clatter innocently to the floor with a soft sound.

Nothing.

Not a single fragging thing on the Revitalization Ceremony, the trailblazers, not even the Iacon 5000! Large informative texts were maybe a bit too much to hope for, but what about records? Weren’t the archivists in charge of that sort of thing, to make sure every piece of Iacon history was written down and tucked somewhere so that everything was kept transparent and real?

He blinked slowly, his optics focusing on the spines in front of him as he frowned deeply. So was all of this effort for nothing, then? Had Megatron sent him on an actual fruitless chase just to see him act like an idiot? Was he sitting in his cell, laughing his helm off, thinking about poor Orion, who had spent the last few joors frantically reading datapad after datapad?

Maybe Sentinel was right, Orion thought to himself tiredly as he ran a servo down his face and then back up to pinch at the bridge of his nasal ridge. He was so exhausted that he could fall into recharge right then and there. Megatron's an obvious liar. I wouldn't put it past him to manipulate me. This is stupid, I should go home and just…

He paused. His digits twitched lightly against one of the datapads that were stacked around him in his franticness to figure out the answer to what Megatron had dropped a hint of, and Orion stared blankly at the shelf across from him.

No, he thought slowly. That didn't make sense. Though he didn't think that Megatron was above petty lies or cruel tactics to sway him, why would Megatron insist on Orion coming back afterwards if he knew that the archives wouldn't actually have anything? He already knew that Orion was going back regardless to feed him, so a steady supply of energon couldn't be it.

He was trying to prove something, Orion’s processor murmured. There's no such thing as the Ceremony, according to the archives. Did someone check out all the datapads that have to do with it? Or did the archivists forget to restock these?

He chewed on his lower derma. Frag. He wished he could talk to Hot Rod; he had been an archivist before he won the recent race, so surely he would have had some answers. But Orion didn't have his comm link, and he wouldn't be able to even get near him enough to ask for it.

But… maybe someone else could.

Private Comm Link (ID: #628317): Sentinel Prime? No, Sentinel Prick

Outgoing message…

DES: Orion Pax - ID: OP-001628

:: Sentinel! ::

Orion waited five kliks. He tapped his pede anxiously when there was no indication that Sentinel was typing, much less had seen his message. What the frag was he doing? Sentinel never left texts alone for too long, especially not when Orion was calling for him so urgently.

Slag. Was the thing that happened between Sentinel and Bee worse than Orion initially thought? He should have pushed more for answers, then maybe he could have pushed past whatever tiff the two of them were going through and so Sentinel would stop freaking ignoring him.

DES: Orion Pax - ID: OP-001628

:: Look, Sen, I really need your help. I'm assuming you're still at the party, so could you get me Hot Rod's private comm line if you can? ::

:: I know it's a lot to ask but I seriously need to talk to him. ::

:: … Sentinel? ::

:: Sen, come on. Whatever happened between you and Bee, we can fix it. Don't be too upset. I seriously need you right now, buddy. ::

:: Sen. ::

:: Sentinel!!! ::

Orion let out a garbled noise of static as he received no reply within the half-joor he waited impatiently. He wasn't usually rude enough to spam Sentinel, who he knew was the busiest out of all three of them, but this was important.

What the hell was Sentinel doing that had him so distracted? He had never ignored Orion like this before. Especially not when he was asking him for a favor that he had stressed was imperative to him.

He sighed and begrudgingly pulled another datapad towards him. Well, the good thing was that it was still early in the lune cycle, so he still had enough time to peruse some of these other texts and try to find some clue he might have missed. He doubted it, but it at least gave him something to do while he waited for Sentinel to -

“Councilman Sunstreaker, it is such an honor to have you here, you won't even believe how excited we all are!”

Slag. Slag, slag, frag, bolt-eating bucket of - !

Orion scrambled to hide himself as he quickly scooted back and pressed his dorsal plate flush against the flat end of the shelf he had been leaning on. His spark pounded dangerously fast in his chassis, and he swore lowly under his breath as he carefully peeked out and watched a femme archivist lead a mech painted black who was rapidly tapping away on a datapad, and behind him -

Orion's vents hitched.

Councilman Sunstreaker was worthy of his name; he was larger than both bots in front of him, and seemed to have no shame in letting his heavy steps echo throughout the otherwise silent hall. He was painted a near blinding shade of yellow, and he seemed more interested in picking at his audial and flicking away pieces of dust than paying attention to whatever the archivist was saying.

Orion had never seen him before, mostly because he tended to only watch the live projections that featured Ultra or Sentinel. His processor dug through his files and brought up everything Sentinel had ever mentioned about Sunstreaker, which wasn't a whole lot.

All Orion knew was that the councilman was apparently the head of the Elite Guard, which was much larger than Ultra’s personal high squadron. Judging by the bulging cable muscles as well as the sheer size of Sunstreaker's shoulder plates, Orion could warily conclude that the title wasn't unwarranted.

Of all the nights for him to be here - !

Getting caught by a noble? Bad. By a guard? Worse. By a councilman?

If Orion wasn't careful, he was as good as dead. Coolant began to drip down his nose and he again swore quietly when he felt his cooling fans kick on with a soft click. Hastily, he overrode his temperature gauge and sat there completely still, his frame heating up from his nerves.

“Yes, yes, thank you,” Sunstreaker said, his tone bored and slimy with arrogance as he waved off the next of the archivist's spewing. She had been talking about their newest wing of datapads or something or other, and Orion cringed in sympathy when she deflated and shut her intake. “Longarm, what exactly did I need to come find?”

The black mech that had been texting furiously on his datapad looked up and blinked. He didn't seem at all affected by the councilman's rudeness, and instead politely said, “the text on the best brewing methods for high grade energon, my lord. Remember how you said you wanted to drink the ale that the Primes used to?”

“Oh, yes,” Sunstreaker said, now looking thoughtful as he nodded his helm eagerly. “That sounds awesome. Imagine getting drunk off that and fragging the night off to do whatever you want!”

He laughed, a bellowing sound, and Orion was honestly just shocked that a senator was so crude. Ultra always had the appearance and attitude of regality and power, and though Orion had always heard Sentinel whine than not, he always caught a glimpse of that noble and aristocratic nature of his time to time.

Sunstreaker was none of those things. Powerful, yes, and certainly imposing enough. But he was… rude.

Luckily, it seemed that attitude didn’t extend to Longarm, who Orion assumed was Sunstreaker’s assistant, or at least something close to it. The smaller mech simply nodded along, his facial plates impassive, and it was clear that he was simply doing whatever he needed to do to appease the boisterous councilman.

“I just don’t see why we had to come tonight,” Sunstreaker complained loudly, causing a couple of heads with peeved expressions to poke out between shelves, only to shrink back as they realized who it was and quickly schooled their appearances to appear demure. “Ultra’s party is off the hook, Longarm! Look, look - see? Blurr just commed me that Chromedome’s vomiting up all his energon! Argh, I should have been there!”

“I understand, my lord,” Longarm said soothingly. He sent an apologetic, handsome smile to the architect who had been guiding them, who immediately blushed a pale blue and ducked her helm in bashfulness. “But the brewing section is usually closed off during the lune cycle, and you know I can’t have access without your key code.”

Sunstreaker grumbled something under his breath, too low for Orion’s audials to pick up on, but whatever he said seemed to have amused Longarm, who chuckled quietly.

“If you want to go so badly, just hand me the key code for now and I’ll meet you back at the mansion,” Longarm said, raising his servo in a give it here gesture.

“My key code?” Sunstreaker hesitated. He didn’t fidget or anything like that, something Orion legitimately could not even imagine a mech of his standing would do, but the way his optics darted from Longarm’s wiggling digits to his face was similar enough. “You know that’s confidential, Longarm. Ultra will have my aft if I - “

“That’s fine,” Longarm said gently, resting his servo gently on Sunstreaker’s much larger one. The councilman swallowed and glanced down again, this time looking entranced as Longarm murmured, “I understand. You can just stay with me and we can look through the shelves together, it’ll be fun. I mean, you’ll have to send your regards to Lord Ultra, because there’s no chance we’ll be done before morning - “

“What?” Sunstreaker blurted out. His face was suddenly set in a scowl as he jerked his helm down to stare at the archivist, who nearly jumped out of her plating as he did. “Is this true?”

“Y-Yes,” she squeaked. She cleared her throat and bowed, but even from here, Orion could see the way her servos shook as she folded them politely in front of them. “The brewery wing is large and old, my lord, and a good number of the datapads are unfortunately uncharged due to lack of interest from our patrons - “

“So we’ll have to wait for some of them to turn on while we look through them,” Longarm muttered thoughtfully. He was stroking Sunstreaker’s digits by this point, and Orion was mortified by how intimate the gesture was. He had originally thought that Longarm was Sunstreaker’s assistant; was he his lover instead? Were councilmen even allowed to have… romantic entanglements? “Well, then, show us the way, archivist. We’ll just - “

“Here.” Sunstreaker’s dentae were gritted as he shoved something towards Longarm. Despite the harsh way he did it, Longarm took what looked like a small, thin card with grace, and simply stared up at the councilman as he grumbled. “Spending all my lune here, are you crazy? Do I look like a nerd who wants to waste my time here when Ultra’s busting out the good stuff from his cellar?”

“Thank you, Sunstreaker,” Longarm said, just as softly as before.

Sunstreaker blushed. It was a bewildering look on a mech who Orion had clocked as annoyingly arrogant, and he stared, tilting his helm slightly as Longarm smiled at Sunstreaker in a decidedly both pleased and coy manner.

Well, whatever. This was his chance. With all three of them so distracted, Orion could start sneaking back towards the vent he had used. He raised a pede, intent on shuffling just the tiniest bit to stick closer to the wall, only to freeze when he nudged a datapad.

It was one of the thinner ones, so it slid easily at least a couple of inches, before it innocently stopped. It didn't move much, but half of its edge was in the light, and Orion froze, his spark in his throat as there was a small noise of surprise, and Sunstreaker said with a suspicious tone, “what was that? I saw something move.”

Holy frag, I'm so fucking dead, Orion thought hysterically to himself.

He risked another peek, using the angle to his advantage so they wouldn't see the shape or color of his helm, and he felt like he was being pierced in the optics as he realized that it wasn't Sunstreaker who was looking directly at him, but Longarm.

The black mech had a scowl on his face and glared so fiercely that Orion winced on principle. There was no way he hadn't been spotted, and he almost sighed as he realized that he would have to message both Sentinel and Bee that he would be out of commission for the next few sols.

Dammit. Ricks was not going to be happy. He already had a pole up his aft if Orion was late by a micro-klik, imagine the look on his face if he knew that Orion wouldn't be showing up at all for the foreseeable future?

That might make all of this worth it, Orion thought to himself, almost snickering as his processor helpfully generated an image of Ricks looking gobsmacked.

“I don't think I saw anything,” Longarm said sweetly, and Orion whipped his helm to gape at him as the smaller mech smiled up at Sunstreaker again, palming his wrist. The councilman, who had been squinting in an accusing manner at the stupid datapad that had given Orion away, flushed once again as he stared in awe at Longarm. “Why don't you start heading back, my lord? I'll catch up.”

????? Orion's processor nearly short circuited as it tried to make sense of what was happening.

Hadn't Longarm seen him? There was no way he didn't, they literally made optic contact, and Orion had already gleaned that the mech was far sharper than his boss/lover was. So what was it then?

“And I'll find you…?” Sunstreaker trailed off, his voice overly eager and obviously expecting a specific answer as he leaned down slightly.

Longarm smiled. It was a slight thing, nothing more than a little quirk of his dermas, but his optics lidded half-closed, he leaned up on the tips of his pedes, and he whispered into Sunstreaker's audial, just loud enough that Orion could pick up on the edges of his words: “In your berth, with my legs apart.”

Orion blushed and clapped a servo to his intake in horror mixed with embarrassment.

The archivist, who had been hovering nearby, went so blue with energon rushing to her face that she looked like she was going to faint.

Sunstreaker grinned, wide and way too lustful for a public setting as he eyed Longarm with such a seedy look that Orion felt slightly violated.

With a nod of satisfaction, Sunstreaker turned on his pede and began to march back where he went, in a disturbingly good mood as he bellowed out greetings to the startled mechs he passed by.

“Thank you for indulging him,” Longarm said to the archivist. He was acting like nothing had happened. He didn't even look flustered! He simply palmed the key code that Sunstreaker had given him and tucked it away into his subspace, smiling crookedly in a way that was a touch too charming as he said, “I know how to get to the brewery section from here. Your guidance so far has been appreciated.”

The archivist blushed again. It was honestly a bit fascinating to see her so blue; surely she would fall over soon from how practically all her energon was in her helm, now. If Orion wasn’t so busy trying not to get arrested, he would have asked her if she was alright.

“Oh, no worries, Mr. Longarm!” She said, frantically waving her servos about and giggling a little helplessly when his smile widened just that much more. “I'm so happy to help. I have to return to my desk now, but if you need anything else, here's my comm link ID.”

I guess all that energon in her helm gave her some courage, Orion thought in amusement as he watched the way she leaned down and scribbled something hastily on Longarm's palm, blinking coyly up at him as she did so.

He didn't seem offended by the offer, and simply said, “thank you, miss,” and dipped his head lightly as she tittered and then scampered off.

Orion let out a vent as he and Longarm stood there in silence, with nothing but the shadows and light to separate them. He did contemplate leaving, perhaps try to slip away and hope that Longarm wouldn't follow, but he had a feeling that would work as well as that one time he tried to convince Sentinel that drinking cycles-old energon was fine (read: it wasn't).

“Are you going to continue standing there, or are you going to come and arrest me?” Orion finally sighed, leaning against the dark, flat portion of the shelf as his helm tilted back and laid on it gently. He was busy trying to figure out how to beg (or bribe, sometimes it worked) the enforcer that would have to oversee his cell as he was detained for however many sols they deemed he needed.

“Don't speak so loudly. Or are you not nearly as intelligent as Jazz says you supposedly are?”

Orion jolted, and the noise that left his throat was mostly static as he realized that in the micro-klik he had spent staring up at the ceiling, Longarm had not only strode right past the shelves, but was standing so close to him that Orion had to jerk his chin up to even look him in the optics.

It was then that what Longarm said hit his helm like a damn brick, and he knew he was gaping rather unattractively going by the unimpressed look on Longarm's face as Orion sputtered, gestured at him incredulously, and then finally gasped out, “you're the friend Jazz was talking about?”

Longarm didn't answer. His previous light charm and wit seemed to have melted away completely the moment he stepped into the shadows, and his bright optics were dimmed so that they were barely visible. His expression was tight with irritation, and his arms were drawn across his chassis in his displeasure, but finally, after standing there for at least two kliks, he dipped his chin plate slightly in a yes.

“What the frag,” Orion deadpanned. When Jazz had said that he had a friend who helped him out, Orion had expected an archivist or some noble that had formed a relationship with him, similarly how Orion did with Sentinel.

But Longarm wasn't either of those things. He was not only Sunstreaker's assistant, but he was also his lover, or at least something of the sort. He was as close to the council as anyone who wasn't an actual senate member could get, and it made Orion blink several times as he realized that somehow, some way, Jazz had befriended this - this -

“You should have listened to Jazz.” Longarm's frown deepened into a scowl. Geeze, talk about a total 180. Gone was the soft-spoken, agreeable mech who had coaxed Sunstreaker into leaving and also appeasing the archivist to go away. He had been so faintly seductive that even Orion had felt a little flustered, but the bot stood in front of him now was cold. Annoyed. Maybe even a little angry. “You weren't supposed to draw attention to yourself.”

Orion looked at him in disbelief. “I didn't, at least until you came along! If you knew I was going to be here, why the hell did you lead Sunstreaker right towards me?”

Longarm pursed his dermas and looked to the side. When he spoke, it sounded like his dentae were gritted, and he ground out, “that fool? Please. As if he would ever leave me alone enough for me to venture out on my own. It just so happens that we both lucked out and Ultra is throwing a party. If he wasn't, we would both be in trouble.”

Orion stared at him.

Okay, now he was really confused.

“Uh.” He started tentatively. He didn't want to upset Longarm; if he really was Jazz's friend, then that meant by extension, he was Orion's ally. But curiosity beat out his struggle for propriety, and he cleared his throat, rocked slightly on his heels, and awkwardly said, “sorry, I don't… understand. I thought you and Sunstreaker were - ?”

Longarm shot him a vicious glare, and Orion quickly shut his intake.

“You need to get out,” Longarm growled, now sounding impatient as he glanced past Orion's helm, clicking his glossa in irritation as he saw something. “The archivists continuously sweep the floors every five joors to clean up any messes. Did you find what you were looking for, or is your helm too thick for that?”

Orion's optic twitched at the insult, but he brushed it off and said, “no. I've been trying to find out about the Revitalization Ceremony and also the records of all past winners and trailblazers, but I couldn't find anything. It's like they all disappeared or something.”

He let out a frustrated vent. He just couldn't figure it out. How could there be nothing about the Ceremony? That was impossible. Ever since the Primes disappeared and Ultra took the lead of their congress, he had implemented a system to soothe the restlessness of Iacon citizens. Part of that system had been to record everything that ever happened in their city, so that bots could come and read about their history whenever they wanted.

It was about transparency, integrity, and generosity. So why…?

Orion realized that Longarm hadn't said anything in the kliks that passed, and he glanced up at him, wondering if something was wrong, only to nearly flinch when he saw that Longarm was not only staring at him, but he was staring at him so intensely that it was a wonder Orion's helm didn’t have a hole burnt through it.

He wanted to ask what was wrong, but he was understanding more and more that the Longarm that he had seen with Sunstreaker and that archivist had been a facade. A mask that he put on for some reason, and had dropped around Orion because he wasn't worth it.

“The Ceremony,” Longarm rasped. He glanced down to Orion's chassis, where his cog well was empty. Orion didn't even have time to feel offended by the blatant staring before Longarm reached out and gently pressed his digit tips against the edge of the empty socket. “Why do you care? You can't compete.”

“Hey!” Orion snapped, the first dredges of real anger sparking at the edge of his processor as he harshly slapped away the servo. Surprisingly, Longarm let him, and the larger mech simply leaned back and continued to stare as Orion snarled and said, “listen, I know that to you I'm just a miner, but that doesn't mean you can just go around touching me like that! What gives you the damn right, huh? Just because you're a higher caste - !”

Longarm laughed.

Orion froze.

It wasn't a mocking laugh, and it wasn't one full of anger or irritation. It was short and more breathy than voice, but it was real, and when Longarm smiled, it wasn't like the slight one he gave Sunstreaker, who easily fell for his seductions. It wasn't even like the one he showed to the archivist, full of polite charm and wit.

It was rough, more of a smirk than an actual smile, but his voice had softened around its rough edges as he said, “you're right.”

Orion was taken back, and he was sure his confusion of what was going on was clear as he said, “er, I am?”

Longarm nodded. He straightened and said, “at least about that, yes. But the records of the Revitalization Ceremony… they won't be found here. You're on an endless hunt for it if that's really what you're searching for.”

“But - “ Orion said helplessly. “I need it.”

Longarm's dermas twitched. “Earlier, you said it's like they disappeared.”

Orion nodded, his skepticism making his face scrunch into a frown as Longarm hummed in contemplation.

“Perhaps you aren't entirely off the mark with that observation,” Longarm said, and he gave Orion a pointed, knowing look.

Do you understand? Longarm's optics stared.

Oh, Orion stared back. I do.

Oh.

Orion understood. Megatron hadn't lied to him or manipulated him or done anything like Sentinel and Orion had expected him to; he hadn't sent Orion on some stupid, helmless and scatterbrained quest. This was what Megatron wanted him to see. There weren't any records of the Ceremony, not because someone had checked them out or they were replaced.

Someone had taken them. Deliberately.

They were hiding something about the Ceremony, Orion thought rapidly. There had always been something strange about the whole thing, and Megatron's knee-jerk reaction to Hot Rod winning hadn't been a coincidence, either. Whatever Megatron knew, the bot who stole all these datapads didn't want it getting out.

That meant the secret was dangerous. This was bigger than what Orion had originally thought it was; this was more than him and Megatron playing a game and seeing who would bend the knee and call for mercy first.

“Longarm - “ Orion started, his voice hard and insistent, but the larger mech breathed out a soft curse as he grasped Orion's arm and started to weave through the shelves, ignoring the way the miner stumbled behind him and hissed at him to slow down.

“You're out of time,” Longarm said, not looking over his shoulder as he breezed past a few femmes, both of whom were luckily too engrossed in their respective data pads to glance up. “The archivists will be here soon to check the area, and I'm limited on time, myself. We part here.”

Orion nearly slammed into the back of Longarm’s legs as the mech suddenly let go of him and the speed they'd been walking carried too much momentum. He felt slightly dizzy as he peeled off his servos from Longarm's legs where they'd clutched at the metal in an effort to catch him, and he made a noise of recognition as he recognized the vent grates up above them.

“Wait,” Orion said desperately, trying to jump down when Longarm unceremoniously scooped him up by the waist and lifted him. Instinctively, Orion clung to the rim of the opening and then lifted himself the rest of the way, but he quickly turned to try to plead at Longarm, who was already reaching up and locking the grates with something Orion couldn't see. “Longarm - “

“The answers you seek are not easy to understand,” Longarm warned as he finished locking the grate and then carefully observed the area. Luckily, no one was near, and he gave Orion one last, examining look. “You have to figure it out yourself. Goodbye.”

“Oh, you slagger,” Orion muttered darkly as Longarm turned around and disappeared beyond the corner of a shelf, moving so swiftly that it was like he'd never been there in the first place.

Still, Orion thought, shimmying forward in the vent tunnel and his processor clicking as he filed away everything he had learned that night into his hard drive.

He had definitely found some invaluable intel.

When was the next time he could see Megatron?

#undertow #megop #sentibee #megatron #optimus prime #orion pax #transformers #transformers one #bumblebee #sentinel prime #sorry ill reformat this later #im too tired to do it properly #this chapter almost made me die #like fr #why is it so long

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sleepy-steve · 7 months ago

Text

(pray) ‘til i go blind

wc: 4k // rating: M // cw: language // tags: modern au, metal burlesque performer eddie munson, audience participant steve harrington, very blasphemous song lyrics (see ao3 link for other tags)

♡ read on ao3 ♡ or below the cut ♡

Steve sees Eddie staring right at him, eyes dark as sin and ringed by even darker makeup. And that beautiful, cheeky smirk in full force as he slowly lowers himself down to a crouch. Steve meets Eddie’s eyes and feels the air disappear from his lungs. He's mesmerised. "And you would too if this sexy devil caught your eye..." He holds a hand out to Steve, and Steve can do nothing else but take it and be pulled up to the stage.

song referenced is Rev 22:20 (Don’t Shoot The Messenger Version) by Puscifer (one of my personal favourite filthy dance songs).

It was one thing to be an audience member. To sit in the crowd and clap or cheer when appropriate. These were all things Steve could do, and if it meant an evening spent with his best friend, he was more than happy to do it. (And if he saw some boobs in the process, he was also happy with that.)

It was Robin’s absolute insistence that he would enjoy tonight’s burlesque show in particular, despite his general ambivalence toward the production as a whole, that gave him pause. The music didn’t really do anything for him, though he could appreciate the performances. And sure, he liked seeing beautiful women dance as much as the next dude. Why was she so convinced he would like this show more than any other? With no answers to his wondering, he sat comfortably, enjoyed his drinks, and tried to be a model audience member.

What was less in his comfort zone was sitting at a table right up front, basically right under each performer’s nose. It’s not that he didn’t enjoy the view, but he did wonder about how the performers might feel having him gawking from behind his glasses right up at them from such a close distance. Throughout the night, both Steve and Robin are among a few selected for some level of performer interaction. Dancers waving their fluffy feather fans in their faces, tossing clothing garments at them, trailing their hands over arms and shoulders, and in one case, a cute redheaded performer allowing her long satin glove to be shakily pulled off by Robin.

After a brief break, the emcee announces the fifth and final dancer of the evening. Steve finds himself a little disappointed, having had more fun than he originally thought. But he joins the audience in applauding for the next performer.

The stage goes dark. He hears the faint tapping of someone stepping on stage. Slightly different to the previous performers, less snappy. Different shoes. A beat of silence, before a red spotlight flashes on. On the stage, a figure stands with their arms raised and crossed above their head. Curls hang around their shoulders, different to the perfectly pinned and sprayed curls of the previous dancers. This hair is wild.

A beat kicks in. It's heavy and dark, reverberating in the floors. The figure lowers their arms, wrists twisting and gloved fingers snapping on the beat. A female voice sings a harmony and the figure turns in time with it, facing the audience, additional warm spotlights flashing on, and a jolt runs through Steve.

It's a man. Probably one of the most beautiful men he's ever seen. Wearing ripped jeans and what looks to be a leather jacket, the man is running a gloved hand across his chest, touch featherlight. The voice sings again, moaning almost, and the dancer—Eddie, Steve belatedly recalls the emcee introducing him as—slowly pulls the jacket open, revealing a loose black tank top. He runs a hand up his tattooed neck and back down his chest. The audience cheers, a few low whoops coming from the back.

Another moaning vocal. With a cheeky grin that makes Steve's heart skip, Eddie lets the jacket fall down to his elbows, revealing even more tattoos on his shoulders and arms. His gloved hands trail down to his hips, and on the last harmony, he moves his hips back in a slow half-circle.

"Don't be aroused," a male voice croons in the music. "By my confession..."

Eddie looks out at the audience, who are captivated by the way he owns the stage. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Steve notes that Eddie has barely done anything at all, yet the audience is completely transfixed by him. He takes a few slow, confident steps, searching the crowd below him.

"Unless you don't give a good goddamn about redemption..." Standing up tall, Eddie lets his jacket drop to the ground behind him, the audience cheering as he does. The gloves reach to just below his elbow, and the tattoos disappear beneath them. Steve imagines what his hands might look like—how they might feel—the realisation that he's not really thought about another man's hands before quickly shoved to the back of his mind.

"I know Christ is comin', and so am I..." Leaving the jacket behind, Eddie walks again, stopping right in front of Steve and Robin's table. Steve glances at Robin, partially excited and partially fearful, only to see her with a grin that says exactly what he knows she's thinking right now: I was right.

Looking back up, Steve sees Eddie staring right at him, eyes dark as sin and ringed by even darker makeup. And that beautiful, cheeky smirk in full force as he slowly lowers himself down to a crouch, ripped jeans opening further to reveal even more tattoos. Steve meets Eddie’s eyes and feels the air disappear from his lungs. He's mesmerised.

"And you would too if this sexy devil caught your eye..."

He holds a hand out to Steve, and Steve can do nothing else but take it and be pulled up to the stage. The audience cheers—though none louder than Robin—as Steve is guided by Eddie, and led to a chair that he did not see before. As Steve sits facing the audience, Eddie leans down to his ear and whispers, "Is it okay if I touch you?"

Steve looks at him in surprise and nods quickly. This close, Steve can see the two nostril piercings, and the silver ball nestled in the scoop of his cupid bow. It's unbelievably hot.

"Anywhere?" Eddie clarifies, letting his gloved hand run up Steve's arm to his shoulder. Steve nods again, trying hard not to think about what anywhere could mean—what he absolutely wants it to mean. Eddie winks at him, smirk back in place on his plush lips, and moves behind Steve, hands running over his shoulders, down and across his chest. He leans over from behind, wild curls tickling Steve's neck. Wanting to reach out and touch so badly, Steve keeps his hands firmly clasped in his lap, trying to behave. Flicking his hair behind him, Eddie tips Steve’s head gently to the side, exposing his neck. Steve feels warm breath on his skin, and then the drag of teeth and lips along the length of his neck and holy shit. Feeling hot everywhere, Steve takes a shuddering inhale. Sliding his gloved hands off Steve’s head, Eddie walks around again, this time in front of the chair.

He drops, crashing to his knees at the edge of the stage as the music ramps up. "Pray! 'Til I go blind..." The audience cheers as the vocals scream.

"Pray!" Eddie rolls his head, curls flicking around him in a wide arc, long tattooed neck stretched and exposed before his hair settles around him again. "'Cause nobody ever survives..."

Arms crossed over the front of his body, and gripping at the bottom of his tank top—which from this close view, Steve thinks may actually be a cut up band tee—Eddie cocks his head, teasing the audience. Waiting for them to cheer louder. He pulls it up a few inches, no doubt showing off more tattoos on his belly, if the ones on his back were anything to go off. The audience screams, encouraging him to take it off.

"Saviours and saints, devils and heathens alike, she'll eat you alive..."

The music slows back down, and Eddie drops his shirt back down. Steve lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. Jesus, since when was he so ramped up about another man taking his shirt off? He doesn't have much time to think about it, because Eddie has turned himself around to face Steve, grin that borders on evil with glee on his face. Steve feels his eyes widen.

"Jesus is risen, it's no surprise..." He drags himself close to Steve, kneeling before him, a hand on each of his knees, pushing Steve's legs open. Steve swallows as the gloved hands trail up and down his thighs, before resting back on his knees.

"Even he would martyr his mama to ride to hell between those thighs..." Eddie leans forward, swinging his hair in a figure-eight, face dangerously close to Steve's crotch, and holy shit, Steve thinks he may lose his entire mind. Leaning back again, Eddie gives him a quick look as if to ask, all good? Steve gives a faint nod. Eddie smiles up at him, a genuine and very sweet smile, before shifting back from Steve, pulling himself up off his calves.

"If I gotta sin to see her again, then I'm gonna lie, lie, lie!" Eddie swings his arms across his body, head swinging and hair flicking in time with the words, in a way that would be almost thrashing were he not so purposeful and smooth with it.

He then lowers himself backward, back arched as the top of his head taps the stage, knees still bent beneath him. Steve faintly thinks it looks uncomfortable, but has no time to ponder on it because Eddie is running those gloved hands up his arched chest, pulling the tank top up and up, showing off his tattooed abdomen. The shirt bunches just below his chest, hands continuing up to glide and grab at his own neck, silver chain gripped and pulled taut at his throat.

"Gladly now please suck me dry..." Steve watches unblinkingly as Eddie opens his mouth, slowly pushing two gloved fingers inside, letting them drag back out over his tongue. Mouth watering at the sight, Steve thinks about what else Eddie’s mouth and tongue might be capable of.

Steve snaps out of it quickly, because Eddie has pulled back up, standing with a thump of his combat boots, stepping to the side of Steve's chair so he's side-on with the audience now. He stands with his right arm outstretched toward Steve and one finger raised on the other hand. Steve notices the smirk back in place.

"Pray! 'Til I go blind..." Eddie shoves the finger into the opening of the glove below his elbow, before pulling it out slowly. He raises two fingers this time.

"Pray! 'Cause nobody ever survives..." He shoves two fingers into the glove opening this time, self satisfied look on his face as the audience screams and cheers. Eddie raises three fingers. Steve thinks he may pass away in the chair.

"Prayin' to stay in her arms just until I can die a little longer..." He shoves the three fingers into the glove, using them to push down the leather in time with the music. When the glove is mostly bunched around his wrist, Eddie pulls at the middle finger, dragging the fabric off of his hand slowly, letting it stretch back out. Once it leaves his hand, he flicks it off into the audience to wild cheers, just in time for the music to slow down again.

Eddie turns to Steve now, a look of absolute mischief on his face. With his now bare hand—Steve was right, the tattoos do continue all the way down to his hands—he pulls lightly at the middle finger of the other glove, loosening it slightly. He then leans forward, bending at the hips with a sinful smile, hand held aloft near Steve's mouth, and says, "Bite it."

Steve leans in, taking the fingertip of the leather glove between his teeth and slowly pulls back. The glove barely shifts, Eddie’s hand pulled close to Steve's face.

"My pulse has been rising, my temples are pounding..." Eddie pulls back slightly, jerking his arm softly but acting as though it's taking much more effort. He runs his free hand up his chest, to his neck, as though the act of having his glove pulled off is turning him on.

"The pressure is so overwhelming and building..." The music is starting to build up again, Eddie’s movements growing more erratic along with it. He pulls and pulls, arm slowly being revealed, mouth hanging open like he's panting and eyes hooded as he looks to the audience, his free hand dragging back down his chest.

As the music reaches its peak again, Eddie lets his hand free of the glove—which swings back down to Steve's sweater with a soft tap—chest heaving with the false exertion of it. Steve is stunned, glove fingertip still between his teeth, unsure what he's meant to do with it, and unsure why this is one of the hottest things he's ever participated in.

Eddie now faces the audience, looking down, back up at them, and down again. His hand is at his jeans, teasingly pulling at the fly, his other hand raised to his ear, as though he can't hear the deafening cheers of the audience. When they've reached a loud enough volume to satisfy him, he yanks open the button and zipper, letting the denim hang open. It's not until Eddie turns back to Steve that he sees the black lace now revealed beneath the denim. It sends a bolt of electricity through Steve, jaw dropped slightly, glove now in his lap.

With another cheeky grin, Eddie turns, Steve realising quickly what the man intends. He shoves the glove into his own jeans pocket just as Eddie settles himself on Steve's lap, back against Steve's chest. Grabbing Steve's hands, he settles them on his hips, head hanging back over Steve's shoulder, lips dangerously close to Steve's neck. As Eddie runs his hands up his own chest, pulling at the shirt again, Steve's breath hitches in his throat, and he could swear Eddie is holding back a laugh.

The music is wild as Eddie pulls his shirt higher, body rolling slowly against Steve's, his ass pressing into Steve's crotch with each roll. Eddie sits up slightly, giving just enough space to pull the loose tank over his head, finally revealing the rest of his tattooed chest—and fuck, the guy is covered from the neck down it looks like—and more importantly, a lacy black bra. Steve tries not to grip any tighter to Eddie’s hips as he flings the shirt into the audience.

Laying back down to Steve's chest, he grabs Steve's hands and guides them up, letting them run over his hot skin, fingers trailing over the man’s ribs, up to the lacy black bra. Feeling the smooth metal of Eddie’s nipple piercings makes Steve feel hot all over, not at all helped by the man's fluid body rolls against him. Eddie continues to move his hands though, finally guiding Steve's fingers to the little clasp at the centre of his chest. With trembling fingers, Steve fiddles with the clasp until it comes undone. Continuing the rolls and not-so fake panting—now that it's right by Steve’s ear, he can hear the little huffs of breath—Eddie keeps a grasp on Steve's wrists, keeping Steve's hands firmly over his chest.

The music begins to fade, and Eddie releases Steve's hands, standing up quickly. The open lace bra slips down to his hands, to uproarious applause and cheering from the audience. Eddie pulls at the straps and slingshots it into the audience with a clear laugh that Steve can hear from his chair. The music has stopped, and the crowd continues their cheering. Eddie takes a deep bow, then stands with devil horns raised on both hands.

He turns to Steve with that same genuine smile from earlier in the show, taking his hand and pulling him up to standing. Eddie gestures to Steve with both arms outstretched, as though showcasing him. The audience continues their cheers, and Steve's face grows so hot, he's surprised his glasses haven't started fogging up.

All too soon, the emcee is thanking everyone for coming to the show and Eddie is taking Steve's hand to help him off the stage with another wink and cheeky smile. Steve only says a very quiet "thank you" before Eddie has released his hand and started walking off backstage.

Then Robin is all over him, chattering excitedly about how cool the whole thing was and that she tried to film as much of it as she could but she thinks she might have missed some because she was so into the performance that her phone fell away from them.

"See?! I told you that you'd love this!" She laughs, grabbing his arms. Steve is still a bit starstruck, but Robin misreads it. "Hey, are you good? Was it too much for you?"

"No, no, Robs, it was great," Steve says, a little sadly. "I'm just, uh. Never gonna see him again, am I?"

"Who? Eddie?" Robin asks.

Steve only gives her a sheepish look, embarrassed to have even admitted his fear of not seeing Eddie again.

Raising a brow at him, Robin looks pointedly down at his pants. "Uh, you might just, Stevie." Steve follows her gaze with a frown.

He still has the leather glove in his pocket.

Steve looks back to her, wide eyed with nerves. Robin just snorts at him, patting him on the arm. “Come on, dingus. Let’s grab another drink, maybe your new friend will come looking for his glove.”

They settle in at the bar, Robin laughing as she makes Steve watch the video of him on stage, looking flustered as hell. His face burns with more embarrassment, but she asserts how proud she is of him for doing something like this. With another drink in his system, he’s able to find the humour in it. If nothing else, it’s a crazy story he’ll get to tell his friends about.

A low husky voice in Steve’s ear makes him jump. “I believe you have something of mine, sweetheart.”

Steve turns on his barstool to see Eddie standing behind him, shirt back on and jeans buttoned back up. Most of the eye makeup is gone, but smudges of black still line his lashes, making his dark eyes seem even bigger. From his periphery, he notices that Robin has dutifully stayed facing the bar. Pulling the glove out of his pocket, he bashfully hands it over. “Uh, sorry about that,” Steve says, other hand going to the back of his neck. “I think I just panicked about what to do with it.”

Eddie takes it back with a smile, shoving it into his own pocket. “No problem, at least you didn’t try to take off with it. You wouldn’t believe the amount of clothes I lose to audience theft.”

“I can imagine,” Steve laughs.

“Yeah, I mean, the staff do a great job at collecting my things from the audience, but some people are sneaky, y’know?” Eddie kind of rambles a bit, hands twirling and gesturing with his words. It’s super cute, Steve realises, a grin growing on his face as he forgets to actually respond.

Humming, Eddie nods, probably thrown by Steve’s lack of response. “So! Did you have fun? I’ve been told I can go a little… overboard, sometimes.”

Steve chuckles nervously, hand automatically brushing through his hair. “Not overboard at all, but it was my first time doing anything like that. Definitely had, uh, a good time.” He can feel his cheeks heating again.

The charming persona comes over Eddie again, as he leans in with a smirk. “Well, you were a great audience participant,” he says, like it’s a secret he’s sharing. Steve can see a very faint dusting of freckles across Eddie’s nose and Christ, could this guy get any hotter?

Smile growing bigger and cheeks growing hotter, Steve just manages a quiet “thanks” and what the hell?! Steve knows how to flirt, he knows how to respond when he’s being flirted with. But something about Eddie, with his tattoos and his piercings and his cheeky smiles… it’s all just turning Steve into a puddle. The silence stretches between them, growing almost awkward, as they look at each other. From his side, Steve can sense Robin practically vibrating next to him. He can only imagine that she’s losing her mind over the tension between them. Or his stupidity. Maybe both.

Playing with his hair—pulling slightly on a curl by his shoulder—Eddie clears his throat. “Well, I, uh. Better get back to the, y’know. Packing up. Backstage.” He scratches at the back of his neck. “Um, it was lovely to meet you…?”

Steve blinks at the sudden change in conversation. “Steve!” He says, feeling slightly panicked. He holds his hand out and immediately thinks he must look like a massive idiot.

Eddie smiles at him, almost… resigned? “Eddie,” he says, gesturing to himself before taking Steve’s hand. “Lovely to meet you… Steve.” Eddie says his name like it’s fucking reverent. Steve feels his soul about to leave his body.

“You too,” Steve says, not wanting to let go. They finally let their hands fall away, Eddie taking two slow steps backwards—eyes still locked on Steve’s—before turning. Robin immediately jabs Steve in the ribs with her sharp elbow, making him gasp in pain.

“Unless!” Steve calls out, not even completely sure where he’s going with it.

Eddie looks over his shoulder, not quite turning back to him. “Unless…?”

“Would you, uh, like a drink, maybe?” God, even Steve can hear how pathetic he sounds.

With a grin that’s… actually quite shy, Eddie pulls a lock of his hair across his face. “Yeah… I’d like that,” he says, voice soft.

Steve goes home with Eddie’s number in his phone and a date planned for the next night.

immediately post-show, backstage:

Eddie flies into the dressing room and dramatically flops down across the beat up old armchair with a sigh.

“Great show tonight, Eddie!” Vickie is sitting at the mirror, all her belongings packed up. “The audience was going crazy!”

Letting out a hum that turns into a groan, Eddie rests his forearm over his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, turning to him on her stool.

“Vickieeee…” Eddie whines. “My beloved Victoria—”

“Not my name.”

“I’m in love!” Eddie cries, letting his head hang back over the armrest.

Vickie snorts. “God, dare I ask with whom?”

Eddie whines again, a loud moan coming from deep in his soul. He sighs again. “Soft swoopy hair… big, beautiful hazel eyes and glasses… moles like a constellation on his skin… Vickie, he can’t be real. He just can’t be. No one should look that good in a yellow sweater.”

“Yellow…?” Vickie trails off before gasping and leaping to the floor by Eddie’s head. “Your audience participant?! No. Eddie. Edward. Say it isn’t so!”

Holding both hands over his face, Eddie lets out another wallowing moan, before opening his fingers to reveal one eye. “I… bit him.”

Gasping, Vickie slaps the floor with both hands. “You didn’t!”

“I did!” Eddie wails, covering his face again.

“Oh my god!” Vickie laughs.

“Hey, Eddie.” Gareth walks in, holding a small bundle of black fabric. “Great show tonight. We got almost everything back, but we’re missing… one glove. Sorry, man.”

“Thanks, Gareth,” Eddie says miserably. Gareth drops the pile of clothes on the armchair and heads back out with a two-finger salute.

Vickie turns to him with light in her eyes. “Eddie, Eddie, look at me.” She shakes his arm until he turns his forlorn gaze to her. “Mister Yellow Sweater has your glove.”

Eddie just looks at her, his brain processing too slowly.

“Go!” she cries, pulling him up. “Go and find him, he’s probably still here!”

“What? No!” Eddie lets himself go limp and heavy against her pulls. “Just leave me to my yearning for what will never be.”

“Eddie, I swear to god,” she says with effort, finally pulling him up. “Get out there and find your man. And your glove.”

Groaning loudly, Eddie stands up and finds his shirt in the pile. “Fine. If only to get my glove back, I’ll go and find Mister Perfect Hair.”

#that one wiggly wednesday post that got out of hand lmfao #and yes i did mentally choreograph eddie's routine to myself and act it out with the music while i was writing #this was so extremely fun to write tho #cira writes #metal burlesque performer eddie munson #audience participant steve harrington #steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve x eddie #eddie x steve #steddie modern au

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