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cripplecharacters · 1 year ago

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Write more Deaf characters!

[Large Text: Write more Deaf characters!]

When answering questions about deaf and hard of hearing characters, I have noticed they are overwhelmingly about:

A character who is deaf in one ear or hard of hearing because of an accident

A character who was born deaf and knows sign language, but seems to have 0 connection to the broader Deaf community

This is not the experience of most d/Deaf people! So, here's your primer to Deaf community and culture, and writing a Deaf character, because they are sorely underrepresented.

(Disclaimer: this post was written using viewpoints I, a singular Deaf person in the United States, have encountered. I tried to make this as general as possible to encompass many Deaf views, but it is possible that I have misconstrued something. Do not take this guide as the be-all and end-all of your knowledge on Deaf culture. Keep reading and researching the Deaf community, and explore viewpoints from many different Deaf people of all backgrounds.)

Why do you write Deaf with capital D?

[Large Text: Why do you write Deaf with capital D?]

The term "deaf" with the lowercase d means not being able to hear. The term "Deaf" with an uppercase D refers to the cultural identity formed by deaf people. This identity is difficult to explain but it includes knowing sign language and engaging with other Deaf people.

There are varying opinions within the Deaf community on who is allowed to call themselves culturally Deaf. Some Deaf believe that only those who were born into the Deaf community (whose family is Deaf, who attended a Deaf school, and/or who have sign language as a first language) are allowed to consider themselves culturally Deaf. On the 'flip' side, some Deaf believe that anyone with hearing loss can claim the label. And of course, you can find someone Deaf with any opinion in between.

This is all intracommunity nuance. If your character is born deaf and learns sign language at a young age or as a first language, they are likely culturally Deaf.

Sign Language Use

[Large Text: Sign Language Use]

Sign languages are the language of Deaf communities. (Note that there are many sign languages in different regions, and they are not related in the same way spoken languages are!)

Most sign languages did not originate alongside spoken language, either, so they usually have different grammar than the spoken language in a region. This means that someone whose first language is sign may have difficulty learning even the written version of the spoken language due to the different grammar and translation. For native signers, the spoken language of their area is their second language.

Sign languages are fully developed languages, with grammar and structure. Sign language is not "less" than spoken language, and encouraging sign language does not discourage speech. (Even if it did, that's not a bad thing! Sign languages are still a valid and rich communication form!) Sign languages have slang and expressions/idioms too.

Sign languages typically have a "manual alphabet" otherwise known as "fingerspelling". This is a way to represent words that don't have a sign. Fluent signers very rarely fingerspell; normally fingerspelling is for proper nouns which don't have a name sign.

Name signs are the last big point I want to cover about sign language. A name sign is a way to refer to someone so you don't have to spell their name every time. It's usually related to someone's attributes, like dimples or a specific way of moving. Sign names can only be given by Deaf people who are fluent in sign language.

Deaf Education

[Large Text: Deaf Education]

For a long time, deaf people were considered unable to learn, just because they couldn't hear. And since 1880, for about 100 years and even still today, the prevailing tradition in deaf education was/is oralism--a teaching method based on speech that rejects sign language.

Historically speaking, if deaf children were to receive an education, they would be sent to a Deaf residential school. These still exist, although there are also many Deaf schools that are typical day schools, just for d/Deaf/hoh students.

Deaf children may also attend "mainstream" schools; they might have sign language interpreters and other accessibility accommodations, or they may be forced to rely on lipreading and context, or placed in special education where their needs often still are not met.

Oralism still has lasting effects today. Deaf people have received, and still do receive, worse education than hearing people.

One common problem is language deprivation. Many deaf children grow up without access to sign language. About 90% of deaf people are born to hearing parents; even if hearing parents do send their deaf kids to a Deaf school, they may not learn sign language themselves, so the child must rely on what they can gather of spoken language at home. Sign language is even discouraged by some audiologists and speech professionals, because it "might interfere with speech". But by depriving deaf children of sign language, more often than not, they are being deprived of all language.

People who are born deaf do not learn spoken language naturally, even when provided with aids like hearing aids and cochlear implants. Many deaf kids who learn speech learn it through extensive speech therapy, and often have a "deaf accent" from copying mouth shapes but not being able to hear or process what sounds they are making, which may also include having an atypically pitched voice (e.g., very high-pitched). Lip-reading is inaccurate and the best lip-readers can only follow about 30% of a conversation, and that's by intently watching with no breaks.

It is possible to learn a language at any age. But it is easiest to pick up a new language when one is young. Children who do not learn a first language by around age 5--the age at which they would start school--have more difficulty learning any language, and may have frequent outbursts or trouble expressing emotions as a result of communication difficulties.

Another problem, especially within the Deaf community, is literacy. Spoken languages are often unrelated to the signed language of the same region. Learning to read and write, as a Deaf child, is like learning a whole new separate language, with different grammar and structure than their native language. This is why captions are not a perfect accessibility tool--it is, for many Deaf people, being offered an alternative in their second language, if they have learned to read and write at all.

Deaf Culture Norms

[Large Text: Deaf Culture Norms]

To hearing people, Deaf conversation can seem very blunt and to the point. This isn't to say Deaf people are inexpressive--quite the opposite: sign languages often use facial expressions as part of the grammar, and there is a lot of expression that can be incorporated into a sign--but there isn't a lot of "talking around" things. You can see part of this culture in name signs, which are usually based off a trait of the person. It's not offensive--it's just how they're recognized!

Another conception is of Deaf people being over expressive, but again, that is just part of sign language grammar. Face and body movements take the place of tone of voice, as well as other grammatical clarifications.

Deaf people talk a lot! It's very hard to end a conversation, because there will always be something else to say or a new person to meet. Hugging and other physical touch are really common greetings.

Tapping people on the shoulder to get their attention is fine. Other ways include flicking the lights or rattling a surface (for vibrations). Eye contact while signing is also important to make known that you are listening. Groups of Deaf people will sit in a circle so everyone can see everyone else. It's rude to talk in a Deaf space. If you are lost in the conversation, you'd ask if you can write or type instead.

Deaf Space also refers to design concepts that are more accessible to deaf people. This includes good lighting, minimal signing-height visual obstacles (e.g., low waist-height shelves), visual indicators instead of bells, open spaces so people can sit in a circle to talk, and automatic doors and wide hallways/passages so it is easier to continue a conversation while walking.

It's also very rude to comment on a Deaf person's voice. Do not mention you're surprised they can speak. Do not call their accent "cute" or "weird" or anything like that. Do not ask them to speak. Do not say their voice sounds really good ("for a deaf person") or that you wouldn't be able to tell they are deaf.

Deaf Views on Deafness

[Large Text: Deaf Views on Deafness]

The Deaf community is incredibly proud of their Deafness. You'll often hear the phrases "hearing loss = deaf gain" or "failing a hearing test" as "passing the deaf test". Continuing the Deaf community and culture is highly valued, and learning sign language is encouraged for everyone.

Many people in the Deaf community dislike cochlear implants as their success is incredibly variable and they require invasive surgery and therapies from a young age. Another big argument against CI is that they are often presented as the only or the first option to hearing parents, who misunderstand CI as a "cure" and then do not give their child access to sign language.

Deaf people also reject any sort of cure for deafness, especially genetic therapies. Many Deaf people do not think of their Deafness as a disability.

(Deaf people will often point out the advantages of Deaf culture and sign language, such as being able to talk over long distances, through windows, and even underwater.)

Most hard of hearing and some deaf people have hearing aids, although it is really an individual choice whether or not to wear them. Many d/Deaf/hoh people are overwhelmed and startled very easily by noise (since they're not used to that much auditory input) and get tinnitus from auditory overstimulation. They may also struggle with auditory processing--locating sounds, interpreting sounds, recognizing and interpreting speech, and other issues.

The Deaf community doesn't have any general complaints about hearing aids, just many prefer not to wear them. Do know that they are an imperfect aid; they just amplify sound, which doesn't improve processing or understanding, and it doesn't make people hearing. Not everyone even benefits from hearing aids--their specific hearing levels may make hearing aids a bad choice of aid.

A big point you'll hear in Deaf spaces is Deaf Can (and Deaf Power). Hearing people have historically treated deafness as a sign of incapability, but Deaf people can do everything hearing people can--except hear.

Myth Busting

[Large Text: Myth Busting]

Myth #1: All Deaf people are completely deaf. This is very far from the truth! Most deaf people have some degree of residual hearing, although this may require very loud sounds and/or at very specific pitches. Plus, there are many culturally Deaf people who are not deaf/hoh at all--CODAs, hearing children born to Deaf parents, are part of the Deaf community.

Myth #2: (Non-speaking) Deaf people do not make noise. Also very far from the truth! First off, Deaf people laugh. Many Deaf people also vocalize without knowing or intending, especially when excited. We can get very loud!

Myth #3: (Speaking) Deaf people talk loudly. While this can be true, often d/Deaf people talk more quietly than expected. This is because with severe to profound levels of deafness, no speaking volume is really going to be audible, so they will often rely on feeling vibrations in their throat to know if they're making noise. Vibrations are detectable at lower volumes than hearing people like to listen to.

Myth #4: Deaf people can't drive. I actually have no idea where this one came from but it's false. Deaf people can absolutely drive, and tend to have a lower rate of accidents and violations than hearing drivers. There is a common trend of treating d/Deaf people like they can't do things unrelated to hearing, but deafness on its own only affects hearing.

Deaf Struggles in the Hearing World

[Large Text: Deaf Struggles in the Hearing World]

A huge problem is just basic accessibility. Many places do not have captions or visual indicators, or rely on hearing (like drive-throughs). Movie open caption screenings are often at awkward times, and caption glasses are hard to find or access and awkward to wear.

Deaf people are also at increased risk of police violence. Police often treat signing as aggression, rather than attempts to communicate. When they yell, talk quickly, or shine a flashlight in Deaf people's faces, it's even harder to understand what is going on. Deaf people are also not often provided with a qualified interpreter and may not understand what is going on or why they were arrested.

Deaf people, specifically those who are mainly kept in the hearing world, have higher rates of drug use and addiction.

Hearing people also treat Deaf people as incapable or lesser. Gallaudet University had only hearing presidents until 1988 after the Deaf President Now protests; then-chair of the board at GU said in a statement that received heavy backlash from the students, "deaf people cannot function in the hearing world".

When writing your Deaf character:

[Large Text: When writing your Deaf Character:]

Were they born to hearing parents or to Deaf parents? (90% of deaf children are born to hearing parents.) Is anyone else in the family d/Deaf?

At what age was their deafness noticed? (It can be at birth, or it can take several years, even for children born deaf.) Is their hearing loss progressive? Is their hearing loss significantly different in each ear?

Were they eligible for cochlear implants? Did they get CI? Did they get hearing aids? (Consider cost as a factor: CI requires the surgery as well as intensive speech therapy; hearing aids are also expensive and can need replacement and refitting.) How well do the aids work for them? Do they have them in one or both ears?

What advice did their family receive from audiologists and speech therapists about sign language and communication, and did their family listen? Did they learn sign language? At what age? Did their parents and family learn sign language? Are they language-deprived? Did they go through speech therapy? What is their speech like? Do they like using their voice?

Did or do they attend Deaf school? Is it residential or day school? If it's residential, did they understand what was happening when they were dropped off? Does the school use sign language or rely on oralism? (Consider time period; most schools now use sign language, but from 1880-about 1980 the predominant method was oralism.)

If they don't attend a Deaf school, what accommodations are they receiving in mainstream setting? Are they in special education? Are they in a Deaf program at a mainstream school? Do they have an interpreter? How much do they understand what is going on in class?

How involved are they in Deaf community and culture? Are their friends and family involved and supportive of the Deaf community? Do they treat deafness like something to cure? Do their friends and family frequently ignore or "forget" that they are deaf?

In general, consider their scenario, what ableism they've faced, and what their Deaf identity is.

Happy writing, and please continue to send in your questions!

Mod Rock

#mod rock #writing guide #writing resources #deaf character #cultural deafness #sign language representation #long post

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socialobligation · 2 months ago

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hi cool person!!! i was wondering if you could do texting iida? like any context, but just make it iida as our bf or friends to lovers or something. thankss

manual override | t. iida

dating tenya iida is like loving a perfectly alphabetized fire drill—structured, intense, and somehow exactly what you needed.

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woradat · 10 days ago

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SCENARIO: FIELD BUTCHER

PAIRING – first aid, ratchet, ambulon x reader

NOTE – literally just medbot-in-order. There's no Pharma because he's gone crazy. He's not a good-old-doc to be around here. So if I decide to do a Decepticon version, we might find him there instead

and none of them like mc at first I'm telling you

F I R S T – A I D

The lights in the Lost Light’s medbay were harsh in that painfully clean way—white, clinical, and far too bright for someone used to working in the shadowy wreckage of battlefields and abandoned storage bays

You stood still, bathed in sterile light, as if the room was trying to disinfect you through sheer judgment

The walls gleamed. The floor was spotless. Instruments were arranged in neat, alphabetized rows along the wall-mounted tool racks. You were fairly certain someone had even polished the oxygen scrubbers

You, in contrast, looked like a walking oil stain

Your plating still bore the smudges of a recent field repair —one that had involved a bent servo, a crowbar, and a lot of screaming (some of it yours). There was a rag tied around your wrist for no apparent reason. A wire hung from your hip. The tray you’d brought with you—holding a screwdriver, a rusted clamp, and something that may have once been a tooth—ticked every few seconds from residual static

Across the room, First-Aid stood frozen

Not from fear. Not quite. More like the horrified tension of a bot watching someone carve up a first-aid manual page by page to use as coasters

His servo clutched a datapad so tightly that the metal casing creaked faintly under the pressure. His optics darted back and forth over the text like he was searching for some line—any line—that would explain what you were and why the hell Rodimus had let you on board

And you?

You waited

Waited exactly two minutes and seventeen seconds—yes, you were counting—before breaking the silence with your usual charm

“So” you said, rocking back on your feet

“do I pass the inspection, or do I need to fail harder to really make an impression?”

Your voice echoed slightly in the too-quiet room. The medbay didn’t know how to handle that tone—wry, reckless, thick with the kind of confidence only the truly unhinged could wield comfortably. First-Aid blinked, his optics snapping up. He looked at you like you’d just walked in wearing a cape made of patient charts

“This says” he began, voice tight and rising slightly “you performed open spark surgery using engine coolant as a sterilizer—”

“I asked him if he wanted anesthetic”

you cut in smoothly “and he said no. Or, well, he passed out, which is close enough”

He stared. You smiled

“Besides” you added with a flick of your fingers “if your patient doesn’t scream at least once, how do you know the nerves are still working?”

He made a noise—choked, strangled, high in pitch. His hand dropped to his side, the datapad hanging limp now, like the weight of your words had physically knocked the strength out of him

“That is not how we—how anyone practices medicine!”

Your stride was unhurried, yet somehow radiated the same menace as a pressure gauge ticking toward red. Not loud, but felt. Like the moment before a sneeze, or the exact instant someone realizes they’ve left the surgical clamp inside the patient

“And yet” you said, almost to yourself, as your optics skimmed across a chart still glowing faintly on the screen “they survive”

There was no real context. Which made it worse

First-Aid startled like you’d slapped him with a used energon rag. He backed into the diagnostics table so fast he nearly knocked over a sterilization wand. One hand grabbed the edge like it might anchor him to reality. The other hovered mid-air like it couldn’t decide whether to call security or the clergy

“Rodimus… let you on board”

His voice had that brittle quality of someone trying to convince himself the building wasn’t on fire, despite the visible smoke — You turned toward him with a grin like a cracked energon cube—shiny, unstable, possibly lethal “He said I’ve got potential”

you chirped, cheerfully oblivious to the rising alarm in his optics “Also mentioned something about overflow triage, vent maintenance, and ‘creative solutions to personnel shortages’ I was flattered” You mimed placing a hand over your spark. It was unclear if you were pledging allegiance or checking for a heartbeat

“You’re a hazard!”

“A licensed hazard” replied proudly

“Well, semi-licensed. Regionally certified. Technically. Look, I passed a test. Might’ve been psychological. Or about my psychology” You said it like it was a party anecdote. Something between “I once dated a Decepticon” and “I ate a medgel cube on a dare”

He blinked at you

You blinked back—twice as fast, like a corrupted interface just to mess with him

Then you laughed — Oh, Primus, that laugh – It ricocheted around the medbay like someone had set off a proximity mine made of bad decisions and surgical anecdotes. Loud. Inappropriate. Joyous in a way that only made sense to people who’d once stitched a spark casing back together with their teeth

First-Aid realized it in the exact moment your smile caught the edge of his attention—lopsided, easy, and radiating a kind of mischief that had no place in the tightly regulated sterility of the Lost Light’s medbay. It didn’t match the gleaming metal surfaces or the scent of disinfectant that clung to everything like expectation. It didn’t belong. You didn’t belong

Everything about you—your stance, your grin, the way your optics flicked around like you were casing the place for fun—declared you as someone utterly outside of protocol.

You stood like a joke in a surgical ward. Like entropy had decided to walk upright and wear a field medic’s badge as a joke. To First-Aid, you weren’t just unqualified. You were an infection with vocal cords. A walking contradiction wrapped in self-confidence and duct tape

“You’re not touching any patients without strict supervision” he snapped, recovering his dignity like a dropped datapad—hastily, but with determination

“Perfect! I love being supervised. Makes everything feel so... official. Adds flair. Drama. Mystery” You leaned in just a inch, enough to trigger personal space alarms “You supervise. I improvise. You keep people alive. I keep things exciting. It’ll be like a buddy cop show, except with more bleeding"

He looked like he aged three upgrades just from that sentence. You tilted your helm, expression softening into something that looked, horrifyingly, like sincerity “Unless, of course… you’re scared?”

He straightened. Field tightening. Optics narrowing. Classic reflex. You knew the symptoms “I’m not afraid”

“Excellent” you whispered “Because I absolutely am. Isn’t that thrilling?” You stepped back just enough to give him room to ventilate again—bless his overworked filters—and smiled like you’d just named a scalpel after him

He stood frozen, halfway between protocol and panic, like someone trying to treat a patient who was also on fire and beneath it all, you saw it: that tiny, involuntary twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile but a crack — first one

And you were already getting out your chisel

“They’ll get someone killed one day. But they’ll probably save two more first"

"If I keep standing close enough.. I might learn how"

He don't like you. Not in any textbook sense of the term. He disliked your methods. Your hygiene was borderline offensive. You called him "Textbook" like it was both insult and compliment, and your favorite surgical instrument appeared to be a pair of rusted pliers you refused to throw away. There was, by every metric he knew, nothing about you that should have drawn his attention so strongly and yet

He found himself noting how you adapted under pressure. How quickly you moved—not recklessly, but responsively, like someone who’d memorized chaos. He found himself listening for your voice in the medbay. Not because it soothed him—but because it kept him sharp. Awake. Alive

There was something about you that defied logic in the same breath that it completed it

He saw hands—your hands—moving with terrifying steadiness in the center of madness. He saw logic surrender to instinct, and instinct thrive. He saw you rewire a collapsed spark chamber with copper wire and what could only be described as sheer nerve

He saw you whisper something ridiculous to a bot mid-panic— “If your coolant line bursts, I’ll tie it off with tubing. You won’t die. Probably” and watched the patient laugh through the terror

He saw you fail, once

And sit beside the body for two hours afterward. Not a word. Not a joke. Not even that crooked grin. Just your hands folded in your lap, and your optics dim with something First Aid didn’t expect you were capable of: stillness

That was the day something shifted in him—too quiet to name, but too loud to ignore

R A T C H E T

The medbay, for all its polished surfaces and antiseptic precision, felt unusually tense today—as though the very air was bracing for impact. Bright overhead fluorescents beat down on sterile countertops, illuminating every instrument laid out in methodical rows, each with its own assigned place, its own specific function, its own carefully maintained integrit and then… there was you — Standing like a conceptual glitch in the otherwise orderly space, elbow-deep in a patient’s chestplate and humming to yourself like someone rearranging furniture instead of vital systems

The patient—a junior security officer from Deck Seven—looked moments away from cardiac arrest. His field fluttered in anxious pulses. You, meanwhile, appeared serene. Playful, even. Your servo hovered over a critical energon valve with a laser probe gripped like a stylus

“I’m just saying-” you said conversationally, tilting your helm slightly “if I aim just right, the whole line depressurizes at once. Instant results. High drama. Very efficient”

You shifted your grip to emphasize the stab part of the process

It was at that exact moment that Ratchet—who had up until now been engaged across the room rechecking supply records—snapped.

“stop. Stop—Primus help me—STOP!”

The bark of his voice cracked across the medbay like a circuit surge. Several instruments rattled from their trays. Somewhere in the hall, someone dropped a datapad. He crossed the space in three thunderous strides, snatched the probe out of your hand with a snarl that suggested divine intervention, and inserted it himself with precise, scathing control—clicking the pressure seals into place as if punishing the procedure itself

He didn’t look at you

He didn’t have to.

“Sit and watch, don’t touch anything unless I hand it to you” There was a silence, then the dramatic creak of a stool as you flopped onto it with the practiced flair of someone deeply accustomed to being scolded. You sprawled like a guilty schoolbot in detention—arms crossed, legs swinging, dignity entirely unbothered.

“You’re no fun” you muttered, loud enough to be heard

“No flair. No edge. Where’s the danger?”

“This is not a carnival” Ratchet snapped, still working with ruthless efficiency “You don’t get extra points for flair. You get extra lawsuits”

The words were muttered through clenched dental plates as he handed you a sterilized injector. His tone remained clipped, professional, but his optics—those infamous optics—were starting to twitch “Now. Take this. Line it up with the main coolant artery. Slowly. Deliberately. Like someone who isn’t trying to impress a Wrecker with a death wish”

You took the injector with mock reverence, pinching it between two fingers like it was forged from myth. Your optics narrowed with exaggerated concentration. One might have thought you were defusing a bomb rather than delivering medication. Then—without hesitation—stab. Click. Inject.

Dead center

Ratchet froze mid-motion. His optics flicked to the readout. Then to the injection site. Then, slowly, to you “…Huh”

You turned your helm toward him with deliberate, theatrical slowness—like a drama-bot preparing for their final monologue—one optic ridge raised in exaggerated pride. The smug curl at the corner of your mouth was pure mischief, unconcerned, untouched by caution

“Impressed?”

Ratchet didn’t miss a beat

“No” he said flatly “Alarmed”

You handed the injector back with the kind of smug grace that bordered on performance art, your smirk still annoyingly intact. “What? I can follow instructions.”

He gave you a look

“So you choose not to. 99% of the time?”

“Obviously” you said with a shrug, as if the logic was self-evident “Where’s the drama in doing everything the safe way?”

Ratchet groaned then—low, guttural, and thoroughly exhausted—the kind of sound that belonged not to a medic, but to a war veteran on his eighth recitation of “Why are you like this?”

His servo came up, pinching the bridge of his nasal ridge in a gesture that seemed less about managing his temper and more about holding his spark together with willpower alone

“You’re going to give me a stress reboot..”

You beamed, utterly unfazed “Aw, come on. Admit it. You love this. It’s like babysitting a grenade. A very enthusiastic grenade"

Every fiber of his deeply overworked frame screamed that you were a liability. A threat. A disgrace. You’d read no formal medical doctrine. You quoted battlefield myths like gospel. You told a patient—his patient—that if they died, you could “recycle the good parts" And yet. You saved them. Not with finesse. Not with dignity. Not with anything he would ever sign off on. But they lived. Their spark stabilized. Their pulse calmed. They breathed

He hated it — He hated how you looked at the result, not the method. He hated how you grinned afterward, like it wasn’t a miracle but a game. He hated how he couldn’t stop watching you work, because somehow, somehow, you understood something that textbooks didn’t teach. Worse still?

He hated how you reminded him of himself—before he got old and tired and afraid of trying things that weren’t already proven

He looked at you like one looks at a half-defused explosive with a smug attitude—and yet, he didn’t argue. Not really. Instead, with a resigned grunt and the heavy grace of someone who had long since accepted their fate, he passed you the dermal sealer. No lecture. No muttering. No carefully worded disclaimer about liability — Just a tool. And a sliver of trust—quiet, grudging, and far more meaningful than anything he’d said out loud

You accepted it with uncharacteristic silence. No sarcasm. No dramatics

Just the work

You sealed the incision with smooth, steady lines, each motion executed with a clarity that had nothing to do with instinct and everything to do with experience. The edges came together cleanly. The weld held. The patient’s vitals stabilized. Textbook

When you returned the sealer to his waiting servo, Ratchet didn’t speak right away. He examined your work with the same scrutiny he gave to battlefield casualties and self-diagnosed captains—careful, thorough, unwilling to be impressed without reason

But then, after a moment…

"That’s… good work” he said at last. His voice was quieter than usual, and it carried the faintest edge of something approaching reluctant approval

You responded with a theatrical bow—an unnecessary flourish, complete with optic twinkle “I learned from the best"

“You’ve never trained under me”

“Not formally” you said, lips quirking into a grin “But I’ve read your case files. Watched all your lectures. Stole a shrine someone made of you and rewired the lights. Y’know. The usual academic stalking"

He stared

You held his gaze like you were daring him to ask which shrine, or how recently

“You’re a legend, Ratchet” you added, tone somehow both sincere and wicked “I just prefer being a cautionary tale. The punchlines are better”

There was a long exhale through his vents—rougher this time, full-bodied with fatigue and disbelief. A snort followed, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, as though his processor had tried both reactions and settled for the only one that wouldn’t kill him

“Primus help me… I’m going to miss you when you’re dead”

“Aww. You do like me”

“No, I just like knowing where the trouble is”

You winked. And that, more than anything, seemed to unnerve him. But he didn’t take the sealer back. Didn’t snap at you. Didn’t say what was obvious in the silence between his words: That somehow, against all logic and regulation, you had earned your place here and he was starting to suspect—against all odds—that the medbay might just survive you

Maybe

“They’re everything I hate and somehow, they make me wonder if I’ve spent all these cycles doing it the wrong way" "..Maybe I’ll let them stay. Just long enough to prove them wrong”

He didn’t like you – Not in the way people liked each other. But sometimes, when he saw you work—with your smudged fingers, and your muttered jokes, and your solutions that made no sense but somehow stopped the bleeding— He didn’t stop you.. instead sometimes, he took note

You were worse than the stories. You walked into medbay like you belonged there, with grease on your fingers and a grin that screamed liability You waved off his stare, offered him a bent spanner like it was a gift, and asked if his cortical relays had “always looked this grumpy”

He’d threatened to throw you out. You’d laughed and asked if he needed help with the overflow. He should’ve said no. He didn’t

He’d tried to report you, once or twice.. or six times

Ultra Magnus said you weren’t technically violating any protocols. Drift said he liked your “energy” Even Rodimus, whose opinion mattered the least, somehow mattered more when he said: “They saved someone with cable ties and chewing gum. That’s genius, Ratch. You can’t train that”

Ratchet disagreed

Loudly

With charts and yet

He saw the way you looked at broken things. The way your optics narrowed in focus—not cold, not analytical—but alive. Invested. You did see patients as puzzles that you wanted to put back together. Even if you used the wrong tools. Even if your hands were too fast, your grin too wide, your ethics questionable at best

You cared

Primus help him again, you actually cared. And it wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t orderly. It wasn’t the kind of “caring” you could measure in paperwork. But it was real

A M B U L O N

It happened mid-cycle, during what should have been a routine diagnostic on the starboard maintenance corridors. One moment, there was peace—a checklist, a loose panel, the quiet hum of the ship’s gravity stabilizers – The next, a shriek of metal. A pressure wave. A storm of sparks. Ambulon hit the floor as the emergency bulkhead slammed down behind him, cutting the corridor in two like a guillotine. He staggered upright, sensors ringing—and saw you

You were already on your knees beside the injured miner, whose leg had been crushed beneath a collapsed junction panel. Energon pooled beneath him in thick, syrupy waves, bright and bubbling. His ventilations came in erratic gasps, static-laced and shallow. His optics darted in panic

Ambulon froze

Not out of fear. Not exactly. Out of memory

The panel. The screaming. The way no one had moved for him. The way no one had thought to. He stood motionless as echoes of that past clawed up through his spark

And you— didn’t hesitate

You were already elbow-deep in the panel’s edge, stripping wiring with your teeth when your cutters couldn’t reach. Your voice cut through the din like a plasma torch “Hold him still or he’s gonna bleed out through ports he didn’t know he had, and I am not losing another leg-case today, I swear by Primus’ recycled panties— MOVE”

Your tone was wild. Sharp. Irrefutably commanding

He moved

His hands found the bot’s shoulders, pressed down. He murmured stabilizers, tried to regulate field output—anything to help. Anything to ground himself. Anything to distract from the fact that you were doing everything wrong

Unsterile tools. Unorthodox technique. No scanner, no chart

And still— The bot’s vitals leveled

The bleeding slowed

You rerouted two energon feeds using leftover wire from the collapsed panel and some insulation from your own armor. Your servos never shook. Your focus never wavered and when it was over—when the miner’s spark stabilized and his frame stopped twitching in pain—you sat back on your heels, fuel-streaked and grinning like you'd just cheated death at cards

“There. Still twitching. That means I did good, right?”

Ambulon couldn’t speak

He just stared at you—at your filth-smeared plating, your scorched fingers, the mess you’d made of the scene—and realized something deeply uncomfortable: That this wasn’t carelessness. It wasn’t showmanship. It was confidence. The kind forged in fire, in loss, in the terrible intimacy of holding someone’s spark between your hands and deciding, again and again, to try..

In his experience, the phrase “Just make do” translated with chilling consistency into “This is going to get someone killed". He’d seen it. He’d lived it. He was it—once. He still remembered the wrench.

when he heard there was a new medic aboard the Lost Light—a rogue practitioner with no license, no formal training, and apparently no discernible regard for sterile procedure– for two first weeks since you arrived, he didn’t so much as glance at you in the corridors. He refused to take joint rotations, changed schedules to avoid shifts with you, and logged three formal complaints that Rodimus may or may not have used as coasters

He’d vented to Ratchet. To First Aid. To anyone who’d listen “It’s reckless” he had hissed, servo trembling around a scalpel “It’s a lawsuit waiting to happen. It’s a sparkline drawn in graffiti"

You were elbow-deep in a dying technician’s chestplate when Ambulon entered—his silhouette framed in the medbay doorway like a portrait of disapproval wrought in steel. The light behind him cast a stark outline, and for a moment, he looked more like a statue of order than a living medic. Unmoving. Unyielding

He didn’t speak right away. He didn’t need to. The air shifted the moment he arrived—cooling under the weight of his expectations

You didn’t look up. Your hands were too busy, navigating the chaotic ruins of another bot’s insides with the kind of manic grace that only came from far too many near-deaths and not nearly enough sleep. A half-sterilized patch cable coiled in your fingers like a snake you meant to charm

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” he said at last, his voice flat—sharp as a sterilized scalpel, but with none of the warmth of intent behind it

You snorted—unapologetic, unbothered

“Neither is most of his internal plating” you replied. “We’re all trespassers today"

Ambulon stepped further in, hands clasped tightly behind his back in a gesture so stiff it looked painful. Like every fiber of his being wanted to intervene, to stop you—but protocol had trapped him in silence. He watched as you worked: the way your fingers moved like they’d never been trained, only tempered; the way you anchored the junction in place with a firm tap of your knuckle

The mech on the table twitched. A spasm. A flicker. The faintest betrayal of life. You beamed like you'd just pulled a rabbit out of a collapsed spark chamber “See? That’s the twitch of life. Textbook success"

“That’s the twitch of residual nerve current from a poorly rerouted interface—”

“Semantics”

Ambulon exhaled through his vents—sharp, audible, like a hiss from a sealed valve being opened just a little too fast “You didn’t sanitize your tools properly. You didn’t even scan him before cutting him open—"

That made you pause. Not in guilt, but in irritation. You turned to face him, optics steady, voice edged with defiance that had been honed by far worse than judgment

“He didn’t have time for a scan” you said “He had five minutes before the energon starvation reached his neural bridge. I gave him six. That’s a net win where I’m from"

Ambulon’s jaw clenched—not visibly, but you could see it in the shift of his plating, the microadjustments of someone trained to hold still even when every part of them wanted to move

He approached slowly, optics darting between your hands, your instruments, the readouts flickering behind you—as though he could still catch the error that would make it all make sense

“Do you even remember his name?”

You blinked “Nope”

You wiped your digiy down your thigh plating, smearing a dark trail of fuel across the silver as casually as a chalkboard scribble “But I remember the position of his spark post-blast, and the way it started to slip into cascade. I remember exactly how to cradle it so it wouldn’t rupture the surrounding. That count for something?”

Ambulon hesitated, lips parted—searching for a definition, a category, a box to put you in “That’s not medicine” he said, voice low, almost lost beneath the hum of the medbay’s ambient monitors “That’s—”

He faltered

Because whatever he wanted to call it, it wasn’t wrong. You tilted your helm, a crooked smile playing faintly across your face “Field instinct. Improvisation. Controlled madness. Take your pick"

There was silence again—dense and hot between you. The only sound was the quiet tick, tick, tick of the life monitor behind you

Still alive

Still working

Ambulon’s shoulders lowered—not in defeat, but in something subtler. Something more human. The drop was minimal, almost imperceptible, yet it was there: a soft, unconscious collapse of posture that spoke of tension long held finally beginning to ebb

“I don’t understand how you do it” he murmured. The sharpness in his voice, once honed like a scalpel, had dulled—not into resignation, but into confusion, like someone standing at the edge of a cliff, unsure if what lay before them was the drop or the sky

“You ignore every established procedure. You tear up the blueprint and redraw it mid-operation. You never—never—repeat a process the same way twice"

He wasn’t accusing anymore

He was asking

You took a single step toward him. Measured. Gentle. Not to challenge. Not to provoke. But to meet him halfway. To bridge. Your voice, when it came, was quiet. Not diminished, but deliberate—as though shaped carefully around a truth you’d carried too long to let it shatter now

“Because every bot breaks differently” you said “They fracture in different places. At different angles. For different reasons. And if you treat them all the same—if you paste the same solution over every bleeding wound—you miss the thing that makes them salvageable"

You watched his optics flicker—register, resist “You think healing is math” you continued, your tone somewhere between a confession and a creed “But it’s not. It’s jazz"

Your lips curved faintly—not in mockery, but in reverence “It’s dirty, violent, brilliant jazz. You improvise. You listen. You adapt. You hit the wrong notes and find beauty in the discord. You keep going even when the rhythm fails"

He held your gaze now, steady as iron

“And yet” he said—this time louder, sharper, more certain, as if the weight of his argument was all that kept him grounded— “you treat them like scrap. Like spare parts you glue together with hope and hazard tape. You gamble with lives as if they’re puzzles to be solved, not sparks to be protected"

The words landed heavy in the air. You didn’t react. Not outwardly. You let them settle—allowed the silence to breathe around them

Then you inhaled. Long. Slow. Controlled

“No” you said at last

“I treat them like machines that deserve to keep running. Even when their frames are twisted. Even when their cores are cracked. Even when the files say they’re not worth" Your voice was soft, but it hit like gravity. Steady. Inarguable “Even when every protocol tells me to walk away… I don’t"

The room fell silent, thick with unsaid things. The soft electronic click of the life monitor behind you pulsed like a metronome for a song neither of you were quite ready to finish. You met his optics again—this time without posture, without pretense. There was no fire in your words. No sarcasm. No armor of wit — Only belief

Naked. Raw. Unshakable “Maybe it’s ugly. Maybe it’s not precise. Maybe it’s not what the manuals say it should be"

You glanced at the technician still breathing behind you “But it keeps them alive”

Ambulon didn’t respond immediately

His optics stayed fixed on yours, unblinking—like a mech trying to see through the dark and not entirely sure whether he wanted to find what waited there and then you saw it. The thing he didn’t mean to show – Not anger. Not rejection but fear. The quiet, aching kind that came from understanding—finally understanding—what you were, and what that meant for both of you

“…You scare me” he said at last

The words were barely above a whisper. But in their smallness, they struck with the clarity of truth. You didn’t laugh, didn’t smirk. You only smiled—a small, still thing, steeped in something older than pride and softer than defiance. A smile that didn’t reach your optics, because it came from somewhere far deeper. Somewhere that remembered every loss, every line you’d crossed to keep someone else breathing

“Good” you said quietly “That’s how you know I’m doing it right”

“I still don’t trust you. I still think you’re dangerous.. but maybe, just maybe… you're the first one who’d know how to fix someone like me”

It had been jammed into his frame during a particularly violent triage attempt, back when he was less of a medic and more of a shape that could carry equipment. The others hadn’t known his name. Just his alternate mode. Just what he could turn into. That was all that mattered. Not who he was, not how he processed fear

They’d needed parts? He was spare

Ambulon had never liked improvisation. Improvisation meant danger. It meant desperation. It meant something had already gone terribly wrong and someone, somewhere, was about to pay for it in energon and trauma. Improvisation was not a skill—it was a symptom. A last resort wrapped in false confidence

That night, long after the alarms had quieted and the medbay returned to its usual order, Ambulon found himself standing outside its entrance — The lights in the corridor had dimmed into their late-cycle glow, casting soft amber reflections across the polished floor. Shift change had come and gone. No footsteps echoed through the hall now—only the quiet, ever-present thrum of the Lost Light’s engines, pulsing like a distant heartbeat against the walls

Ambulon stood perfectly still, his posture rigid, his arms tucked behind his back as though formality might hold back the tide of thought rising slowly inside him. He wasn't sure how long he’d been there. Minutes. Cycles. Time felt suspended—like the ship had graciously decided to grant him a pause in motion, in momentum

He stared at the floor

Thinking

He thought of how many times he had been overlooked. How often his worth had been calculated by usefulness—by utility. He thought of the term "spare part”—how it had followed him like a shadow

For all your mess—your irreverence, your recklessness, your maddening improvisations—you treated everything you touched as if it were reclaimable. As if being broken wasn’t a sentence – as if the fragments still meant something

You never said it outright. Never declared it but Ambulon had seen it. In the way you held your hands steady even as your mouth ran wild. In the way you muttered to the dying like they could hear you. In the way you never looked away from the aftermath — not even once — You believed, somehow, in rebuilding. Not because it was efficient. Not because it was clean. But because it was possible and in your eyes, even the worst-off patients weren’t salvage. They were worth it

Every single time

You treated every part—every bot—like they could be rebuilt. Even the broken ones. Even the one that others had left behind

Even him

#transformers idw #transformers x reader #first aid x reader #ratchet x reader #ambulon x reader #cybertronian reader #reader insert

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izzih22 · 8 days ago

Text

Chapter 3

The Grand Reveal

Note: there’s an Easter egg in here so if yall find it lemme know😂😂

If Paige bounced her leg one more time under the table, Azzi was going to step on it.

“Stop moving,” Azzi hissed under her breath.

“I can’t, Az. They’re all here. Both of our parents are literally ten feet from the baby.”

Azzi gave her a look. “The baby is still the size of a lime. They’re not gonna sense its presence.”

Paige dramatically placed a hand over Azzi’s stomach like she was protecting royalty. “Don’t listen to her, baby. Mama is here to defend your honor.”

Azzi laughed quietly, reaching over to rest her hand on top of Paige’s. Their fingers laced. Hearts calm, but barely.

Both families were gathered in their living room moms, brothers, even grandparents everyone chatting and passing around snacks like it was just another casual Sunday dinner.

It wasn’t.

Azzi had made lasagna. Paige had made a slideshow.

Yes, a literal slideshow.

And it was about to go down.

“All right,” Paige said, suddenly clapping her hands. “Can I get everyone’s attention? I have something to show you.”

Azzi covered her face with her hands. “Oh my god, this is actually happening.”

Paige was already plugging her laptop into the TV.

“I swear to God if there’s a sound effect—” Azzi began.

“Dun dun duuun!”

Paige added the sound effect manually. With her mouth. And a dramatic spin.

Azzi groaned.

Everyone else was clearly amused.

“Okay, okay,” Paige said, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “So, as you all know, Azzi and I have been together for a while now. You’ve supported us through long-distance, college ball, WNBA stress, every major injury, and every insane road trip snack haul—”

“Where is this going?” Azzi’s mom asked, laughing.

“I’m getting there, Mama Fudd.” Paige clicked the remote. The first slide appeared on the screen:

“The Next Chapter: Building a Legacy”

Complete with sparkles and a baby emoji.

“What the…” Azzi’s brother whispered.

Paige cleared her throat. “This isn’t about basketball. This is about something bigger.”

Azzi leaned in. “You’re such a drama queen.”

“I’m a showman, baby.” Paige clicked to the next slide:

“Azzi and I are…”

Another click.

“Expecting a new teammate.”

Then, finally—she clicked to the final slide.

A picture of their sonogram. Front and center. With a tiny UConn onesie below it and the words:

“Baby Bueckers arriving April sixth!”

Silence.

And then—

Absolute chaos.

Azzi’s mom gasped so loud it echoed. Paige’s mom screamed and ran over, hugging them both at once, while tears started falling. Paige’s grandma shouted something about being the “youngest-looking great-grandmother ever,” while Azzi’s brother immediately looked mildly traumatized and confused.

“YOU’RE PREGNANT?” her mom cried, hands flying to her face.

Azzi nodded, suddenly tearful too. “Yeah. About ten weeks now.”

“I knew it!” her mom yelled again. “You’ve been glowing and emotional and eating popsicles at 9 a.m.!”

“That’s just who she is,” Paige said with a sniffle, wiping her eyes. “But yes. Also pregnant.”

Her mom hugged Paige tightly. “You’re gonna be such a good mom. I’m so proud of you.”

“I already have a baby name list,” Paige said through the hug. “Alphabetized. Categorized by theme.”

Azzi’s dad just blinked. “You… made a PowerPoint to tell us?”

“Obviously,” Paige said. “I wanted it to be memorable.”

“It’s that,” her mom said, still crying. “It’s so much that.”

⸻

Later, after the hugs and tears settled, everyone moved into the kitchen to eat while Azzi sat on the couch, finally taking a breath.

Paige joined her, sliding an arm around her shoulder. “You okay, mama?”

Azzi rested her head on Paige’s. “I’m good. You were… extra.”

“Of course. I only get to tell our families we’re having a baby once.” She kissed Azzi’s cheek, then her stomach. “I’m so in love with both of you it’s stupid.”

Azzi smiled. “You’re gonna be that parent with a fanny pack full of organic fruit snacks and a playlist for every errand.”

“Damn right I am.”

They sat there quietly, watching their families laugh and eat and buzz with excitement.

And for a moment, everything felt exactly how it was supposed to be.

⸻

The next afternoon, Azzi stood courtside, tying her shoes while glancing at Paige across the gym.

“You are not gonna make it through this,” she muttered under her breath.

Paige was on the opposite sideline with Nika and Caroline, trying to act normal. Trying being the key word but the way she kept glancing at Azzi every five seconds like she was made of glass?

Not subtle.

KK jogged over and looked at Azzi suspiciously. “Okay, not to be dramatic, but what’s with your girl today? She’s acting like you’re about to break.”

“She’s always dramatic,” Azzi said, brushing her off. “Maybe she’s just in love.”

“She pushed Ice out of the way earlier so she could bring you your water bottle.”

“She forgot it had my name on it.”

“It literally said ‘AZZI’ in huge letters—”

“Let it go.”

But KK wasn’t the only one noticing. Ice and Caroline had been whispering like middle schoolers by the bleachers for ten minutes.

“She’s glowing,” Ice said, eyes narrowed.

“She’s definitely glowing,” Caroline agreed. “And Paige is acting like she’s guarding a national treasure.”

“That’s because she is a national treasure,” Paige said, suddenly behind them like a ghost. “You talkin’ about my wife again?”

Ice crossed her arms. “You’re hiding something.”

“I hide a lot of things. Like my secret brownie stash and my fear of clowns. Try again.”

Caroline squinted. “Paige.”

“What?”

“Why are you holding her bag like it’s a newborn?”

Paige blinked. “…No reason.”

Azzi sighed from across the gym. “Paige.”

Paige whipped around. “What?”

Azzi gave her a look. The one that said: Either you tell them or I will, and I will not be using a PowerPoint.

Paige ran a hand through her hair, dramatic as ever. “Fine. Fine! Everyone, circle up!”

The girls groaned.

“Seriously?”

“We’re literally trying to stretch.”

“Circle. Up.”

Eventually, they all did. Even Nika sat down, eyebrows raised. “What’s this about? Are you retiring again for the third time this month?”

“Ha ha,” Paige deadpanned. Then, her face broke into the goofiest, biggest, softest grin they’d ever seen. She walked to Azzi, grabbed her hand, and said, “We wanted to tell our families first, but now it’s your turn.”

Azzi smiled, a little shy. “We weren’t sure when to tell you guys, but…”

“We’re having a baby!” Paige practically shouted.

There was a solid three seconds of stunned silence—

And then?

Screaming. Absolute. Chaos.

Caroline jumped up and tackled Paige in a hug, both of them laughing and crying.

KK spun Azzi in a circle, yelling, “YOU’RE KIDDING. YOU’RE KIDDING. I’M GONNA BE AN AUNTIE?!”

Ice collapsed onto the court like she had been personally attacked by joy. “I knew it. I KNEW IT. I SAID SHE WAS GLOWING. OH MY GOD.”

Nika wiped her eyes and stood. “This baby better have my passing skills or I’m disowning them.”

The whole gym turned into a mini celebration. Everyone hugging, laughing, asking a thousand questions at once.

“How far along are you?”

“Do you know the gender yet?”

“Wait, did you plan this?!”

“Can I be godparent? I’m amazing with kids. I taught my cousin how to shoot free throws at age two.”

“WE’RE GONNA THROW YOU THE MOST OBNOXIOUS BABY SHOWER.”

Amid the noise, Paige had her arms around Azzi again, forehead pressed to hers. “Told you they’d freak.”

“You live for the drama,” Azzi teased.

“I live for you. And now this baby. You’ve been promoted to number two.”

Azzi laughed. “That’s fair.”

As the team kept buzzing with excitement, Paige looked around the gym and saw it her family, their family, chosen and bonded through basketball and love and chaos. All surrounding the two people she loved more than anything.

It was perfect.

#pazzi fics #paige x azzi #pazzi #paige and azzi #paige bueckers #uconn wbb #azzi fudd

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1800titz · 4 months ago

Text

TDIAG MASTERLIST

(the reupload)

The one in which there's a sex club, Greek stage names, an exploration of boundaries, an open house, a pair of dress shoes, and and two evident sides to the same coin.

TDIAG things | TDIAG asks | NSFW ALPHABET | TDIAG extras | THE MAIN MASTERLIST

CHAPTER 1 > 11.7K wc

The pilot episode feat. a gangbang

When Harry was twenty two, if a dangerously overconfident, time-hopping doppelgänger had pulled up in a freaky, rubber balaclava ('listen, mate' — hand on the shoulder and everything, like the reenactment of a cliché, time-honored rite of passage), and told him that in the very near future, his Friday nights would be indefinitely spent wearing a Greek moniker in the form of a fetishized allusion, that he’d be garbed by a latex mask to protect the sacred, fragile veil of secrecy— Well. He'd probably get a head start for padded walls and a straight jacket. Consider he was doing himself a favor with that one. But if he were told the same thing at twenty three, he'd probably choose to overlook the minor detail of reality imploding and sit back in his armchair, swirling his whiskey with excitement. Twenty three was an eventful year. He’d started casually enjoying whiskey after a long workday (honestly, a palate milestone in and of itself) and became enlightened on the fine art of tactically-applied suffering (and with it, gained a whole new appreciation for high-quality restraints). Because sometimes, a well-placed bruise and bliss just happened to go hand-in-hand.

CHAPTER 2 > 17.3K wc

The one with a negotiation, boundary explorations, and banana flavored condoms

"I don't like inflicting pain to inflict pain," he tells her, then, smiling like they're talking about their favorite movies, "the same way you don't enjoy the pain of pain. It has to be backed by something, right? And for a masochist, that's pleasure, whether it's derived from a combination of the pain and physical pleasure, or arousal from dirty talk, or, I dunno, endorphins. S'all stuff I'm sure you're very self aware of." "Right," the young woman tells him, nodding. He's right— the pain, the pleasure derived from pain, it's all a sort of graceful balance on a wire spindled from a concoction. "And for you?" "For me?" "What makes you enjoy inflicting the pain?" "Your pleasure."

CHAPTER 3 > 14.9K wc

The one with the grape shoplifting, the commandments, Choose Your Own Adventure! (feat. CLANG and mysterious door no. 2), flogger versus tickling (the final showdown), and three(!) more orgasms than usual

"That's a lot of cherries." Isla turns. The man behind her is tall, attractive. She blinks. If his sculpted features, lightly moussed, coiled hair, and striking gaze hadn't already bewitched her into a wordless stare, the way he plucks and eats grapes, straight off the vine, straight from the bag, in the self checkout lane like an absolute maniac, would. She casts her gaze to her basket. There's a variety of items on her buy-list, like a lone jar of salsa and ...some unsightly, extra absorbent tampons— anyways, why is this stranger ogling the contents of her basket? There are, in fact, three plastic carts of cherries, stacked, which take up the majority of the space. She clears her throat, "Yeah there was, a, uh. Discount." "Was there?" She's still staring obnoxiously, and the man seems to catch on. He swallows the grape his strawberry mouth had closed around, lips curling softly as he expends a vague explanation, "I missed my lunch." She purses her lips slightly, head tipping forwards in an understanding nod, and attempts to ease her way into politely disengaging back into that aimless stare ahead. She can't do it. She just can't force herself to manually avoid scrutinizing Baldo's crack in the impending foreground. Anyways, the intrusive stranger is certainly easier on the eyes. "That's a— uh. A lot of grapes," Isla tells him after a beat. "Is it, really? D'you think?" The attractive stranger moves the back in his obnoxiously large palm as if weighing it contemplatively, "I'd say, 32 ounces, maybe. Well." The corners of her mouth buckle as he shoots it a sheepish glance and his pillowy mouth quirks in an obvious attempt to bridle a grin, "Less. Now."

CHAPTER 4 >13.1K wc

The one with the bracelet, the really bad day, Mr. Eros doesn't like hearing his own name, Harry: Bark like you want it (mention), and a mysterious set of knots

"Yeah. It's really pretty. So, I just use that little pin thing to take it off? Like, to shower?" The male peers up at her, pausing his handiwork, bemusement morphing the features she can see, "S'gold. You don't have to." "Right, but. Just to take it off," she clarifies, fully intent on giving him the benefit of the doubt despite the blatancy of the flags marking up the territory of the conversation, "For work, and stuff. You'll show me how to use the little key?" For a moment Eros just looks up at her, and then the corners of his mouth, a muted berry, buckle smugly, "No." No? Isla feels the shudder rolling down the knobs of her spine as the dominant licks out and leaves his bottom lip shimmery in the wake of his tongue, before clarifying, no jesting to his cadence, "It doesn't come off. Not for you. I'll have the key."

CHAPTER 5 > 11.4K wc

The one with the mysterious set of knots pt. 2, a house tour, regularly scheduled rope-swing shenanigans, and a very familiar pair of dress shoes

Isla thinks she's going to fall and crack her head open. So she tells him, brutally candid, "I'm going to fall and crack my head open," in an impressively even voice— it's beyond ludicrously impressive, honestly, given the way the cord vibrations are sending her nervous system through an earthquake. She should earn an award just for that. Harry's eyes slowly trail over her silhouette, more in a way to absorb the image than anything else. The concern, although valid considering her predicament, is a moot point— there are safety guidelines, of course, in place; one of which being safety distance. And, in accordance with the way her limbs are currently occupied (particularly with the way her hands aren't free to catch herself if she were to slip), by his calculation, the safety distance is at zero. Given that Harry has never been one to ditch precautions or any general rules involving the safety of a scene— that his hypervigilance is on max caliber and he's close enough to feel the warmth of her body heat radiating against him— the likeliness of her concern is quite literally the equivalent of the safety distance. Zero. The dominant's amusement suffuses through the form of a head tilt, a soft curl to his mouth, a scoff. His counterclaim offers no comfort, "No you won't. You'll just get rope burn."

CHAPTER 6 > 19.4K wc

The one with the birth of the infamous yada yada, Isla "what happens at three?" Cleery, the glove (singular!) comes off, a very jittery ottoman, a cane, and some (unwholesome) late night talking

"Okay, okay, okay, I'll count right!" she smacks the back of the armchair with the heel of her palm softly in resolve. Her toes curl. Harry's tongue peeks out from his mouth to swipe, "Will you?" "Yes." "Yes, what?" Isla's head twists over her shoulder, "...Yes, Sir." He lifts the strap and gestures at her threateningly, "Yada yada me one more time. I dare you. Eyes ahead." She doesn't say anything, for once, and her head pivots back towards the wall obediently. Harry steps back, pleased. And then he hits her with the strap just as she starts to say, "yada, yada," so her insubordination morphs into a squeal, and that's just divine timing, Harry thinks. Isla blows out a breath, starting over, "One—" and grunts when he smacks her again. "Just couldn't help yourself, could you? That doesn't count," he tells her, tone firm, and if Isla wasn't in her current predicament, she'd laugh at how sober and dark he sounds when he tells her, "You yada yada'd me."

CHAPTER 7 > 18.5K

The one with another house tour, a ...vivid imagination, the rise of the green-eyed monster, Harry "your actions have consequences" Styles, the importance of taking breaks, now kiss Barbies, and "what the fuck?" honorable mention

"But between you and me," Faunus leans forward a smidge, elbow braced over the marbled bar countertop, "This one's a bit of a handful." Harry grins politely. Yeah, the reminder that this man has manhandled his submissive in the same manner he has makes him go a bit neon green. What the fuck. And Isla— she just squirms against him. Harry's well aware that the nonchalant small talk regarding her, with no acknowledgement, like she's not stood in the midst of the conversation, riles her in a filthy way. And Faunus seems to know this tidbit of information, too— his irises, glinty under the lights overhead, slink from Harry to Isla and back again. It's a subtle motion, but it shows Harry enough. The dominant's mouth quirks, gaze subtly steely in the narrowing of his half-mast lashes. "Mm. Well, between you and me," the hand that'd previously settled on her waist slips up to her hair, cards through past the nape of her neck, digits entangling in the roots, "she knows her place with me," Harry shoots her a look, and tugs firmly by slowly tightening his fist. It's a subtle motion— but the pinpricks of pain that burst over her scalp, as a result, have her pulse quickening. And Harry knows. He knows and his lips nearly crook up, but he curbs his smirk. And Faunus can ogle all he wants— but he can't touch. Can't draw the same reaction from her. That thought has satisfaction blooming in his chest. "Don't you, darling?"

CHAPTER 8 > 17.6K

The one with (more) brewing emotions, a ham and cheese croissant, an oatmilk latte, a book about pain-slut-ism, the discovery of villain origins, and another exploration of boundaries

"You," his tone becomes more ...suggestive, growing lower as the conversation dips into more lighthearted territory, "always treat me like an evil, little ...demon for getting off on the marks. But it looks like you and I are one and the same, after all." Isla's unable to stifle the bark of nervous laughter that leaves her cheeks teeming with warmth at the insinuation. She leans back from him a bit, because— no, "Oh— we are not the same. And you are like an evil, little demon." "Well, that's just impolite.""You are— it's like," she pauses, unable to come up with a credible argument, and she scoffs, motioning with the hand that'd so fondly brushed over the bridge of his nose only moments prior as the corners of the man's mouth buckle in dirty knowing. "It's like...?" "Well, it's different!" the young woman exclaims, but she's not the least bit convinced by her own statement, even when she tags on, "It's different because I don't get off on leaving them on other people— therefore, I am not an evil, little demon." "Now you're just kink shaming— that's quite rude, you know," the dominant tells her, raising his eyebrows and feigning seriousness despite the obvious nature of their banter. She knows him far too well to fall for it, anyhow. "Why does either of us have to be the evil, little demon?" "I guess—" again, the young woman's shoulders rise in a shrug, "Neither of us has to be. But those were your words," she points with her index at his chest, the pad of her finger digging into the linen a bit, "not mine." "Exactly," Harry lifts the palm that isn't gripping and manhandling over her thigh to motion and cocks his head, eyes rolling in with exaggerated mirth, "Neither of us has to be. So you agree?" "Agree...?" He ducks his chin, a crease between his eyebrows behind the rubbery hood, "That we're just two sides of the same coin?"

CHAPTER 9 > 19.7K

It's not a premeditated notion; what happens next. It's actually got a sort of a ...chaotic energy to it, considering they haven't discussed that. And it feels out of the blue, even for her, because she hasn't called anyone that, since Dan Sever— who had a kind of preference. It's sort of expected, when he says things like want my mouth between those pretty thighs and fill you up, get you all messy again after. It's a no brainer. It grows and looms over her— the give— consuming, and it creeps up her throat before she has half a mind to bridle it. And when she says it, she sounds absolutely wrecked. "Daddy..." For a moment, Harry is quiet. He's warm and firm against her, and his fingertips twitch over her chest. But he's quiet, is the thing, as if letting the title sink in and process. Because that's— yeah. That one sounds nice. He hasn't heard that one in a while, and never from Isla. But it sounds so pretty falling from her mouth. It wakes something in him, something hungry and desperate and sharp. Daddy.

A/N: Slowly reworking this one but. IT’S officially BACK ON WATTPAD

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