#tf fic ideas

[bad-tf-fic-ideas]

(230) We all know the only reason Starscream is still alive is that the Decepticons really can't afford to lose even a medium-competent commander. The good news for the Autobots is that he can be convinced to defect with very little fuel shed — he just has to be provided with a role befitting his grandeur and commensurate with his elevated importance, obviously.

In which Starscream negotiates his own defection contingent upon marriage to Optimus Prime. This has the effect of disproportionately enraging Megatron, for reasons that seem mysterious to Optimus Prime but are incredibly obvious to everyone else. (It's jealousy of one or both of them.)

This fic could go in many directions but I think it would be most fun to make it a twisty little OT3 get together adventure. Starscream is disgustingly smug, Megatron is jealous of them both (and pretending he's actually mad about the defection instead), and Optimus Prime, having a more or less adequately developed sense of empathy and not being a raging asshole, is very much the odd mech out.

[lauraneedstochill]

Can't help falling in love

summary: 5 times Aemond was in love with you + 1 time he finally confessed his feelings

warnings: friends to lovers (at the age of 9, 10, 15, 17, 19), a pinch of angst (Aemond healing after losing his eye), but overall so fluffy and sweet you may want to skip dessert

words: ~ 5500 (I got reeeally carried away with that love confession)

1.

Aemond is weeks away from his tenth birthday and he feels as miserable as ever. That feeling is an iron weight upon his heart, his mood irritated and face features grim more often than not. He is still without a dragon — and it’s the only thing he can think of, day and night, steadfast and stubborn in his obsession that most of his family finds to be blown out of proportion. It might have stang him less if only it wasn’t for the constant teasing and pitiful jokes that added to his distress and the never-ending heartache. He learns to keep a straight face and act as if he doesn’t really care, but deep down he does, way more than he’ll ever admit.

His training sessions are a way to channel his anger, and he lashes out at a straw man, again and again, clinging to the thought that, at least in these moments, he is not entirely powerless. He keeps his focus on the target, attentive to Ser Criston’s advice — “Soften your knees”, “Keep your feet light, your hands heavy”, and for a couple of hours he forgets about his misery.

It’s when the training comes to an end, the dreaded realization sinks in again, and Aemond is lost in his thoughts, mindlessly twirling the wooden sword in one hand, his gaze wandering around the yard.

And then his eyes fall on a bright green spot — and all of a sudden, he sees you. A girl of his age, the hem of your green dress a bit dusty, boots covered in dirt, a few strands of hair fallen loose, a coy smile on your face. You meet his gaze and wave at him excitedly.

Aemond looks dumbfounded. A girl in the training yard. Waving at him. He blinks once, twice — and in the next moment, you're standing merely a few steps away, glancing curiously at his sword.

"It looks so hefty! Is it heavy? What is it made of?" a string of questions, your voice sweet and joyful.

There’s a brief pause and maybe you mistake his stiffness for arrogance as you are quick to add:

“Oh, my manners!” gasping but showing no actual regret. “Forgive me,” you curtsy, your smile growing even wider. A timid smile appears on his face in return and he finally comes to his senses.

“It’s made out of red oak. It’s not very heavy, you get used to it,” Aemond raises the sword, letting you take a closer look. Within another blink of an eye he finds himself talking to you, your questions endless and maybe a bit naive but he genuinely enjoys it.

That’s until you both hear a loud cry:

“Lady Y/N!” your nanny comes running in, out of breath and scowling. “I told you not to wander around...,” she chokes on her words at the sight of the young prince. She curtsies, too, but it isn’t nearly as cute as when you do it.

She sprints decisively in your direction:

“It wasn’t very polite of you to interrupt the prince’s training, you little menace!”

And then Aemond, to his own surprise, moves to stand in her way.

”Y/N didn’t interrupt a thing,“ he disagrees, lips thinned into a tight line.

The nanny stops and looks at Aemond dubiously, switching her gaze from him to you.

Ser Criston is the one to resolve the conflict — he comes from behind, with a polite smile plastered on his face.

”Young lady can watch from the balcony. The guests are very much welcomed,“ he calls for the maid to escort you and your nanny up there. While you’re away, he looks at Aemond with a grin:

”Already wooing the ladies, my prince? Let’s hope you are as good with your sword as she thinks you are.“

He does make Aemond work for it but the prince fights back, winning one bout after the other. He keeps glancing at you and you wave at him every single time.

Aemond is too young to know what love is, too shy and guarded to even entertain the thought of it. But when you look at him, with your childish grin and your eyes bright with mirth, he doesn't feel lonely anymore.

2.

It's been two weeks since Aemond lost his eye and he hasn't left the bed once. The pain is still blinding, burning and constantly making his only eye water. But what hurts even more is the humiliating disability. The triumph of claiming Vhagar died down, and now the prince was faced with the harsh reality he needed to adjust to and the process wasn't an easy one. The fever has only recently gone down, leaving his body weak and freezing from the lack of movement, but he couldn't bare the thought of stepping out of the room.

His mother wouldn't leave his side and even Aegon often came to visit, clearly blaming himself for not being there for his little brother. Yet their presence barely brought Aemond any comfort and most of the time he would pretend to be asleep to avoid any conversations. He knew they only meant well and he was being cruel but he couldn't help it as his pride was shattered and he gave in to sadness.

That is until one night he wakes up to a weird sound. He's only half-awake when he hears a vigorous tapping that clearly comes from the outside. Except it's not from the other side of the door — but rather outside his window.

He's startled by this guess and suspiciously walks closer. It takes him a few seconds to focus his gaze and discern a human's silhouette — and then another few to realize that it's you standing on the window sill. He feels like his heart will jump out of his chest as he rushes to open the window.

You climb through and clumsily drop to the floor. But before he can get worried, you are on your feet again, eyeing him with concern.

“Oh, Aemond,” your gaze and voice are both so soft, it makes his lower lip quiver. You carefully approach him and put your hand on his shoulder, gently sliding it on his back in a soothing motion and then cuddling him. He welcomes your company with a sigh of relief. You smell of oranges and you give the best hugs.

"They told me no one was allowed into your chambers," your hushed whisper burns his ear. "The silliest thing I've ever heard!" you pull away from him, still lightly panting, cheeks flushed and hair messy. "I knew I had to find a way to come see you."

You examine his face, frowning at the scar that's still healing.

"Does it hurt?"

He only nods, afraid that if he opens his mouth, he won't be able to hold back a sob. You move closer, resuming the gentle motion of rubbing his back.

Ever since that day in the training yard, you kept in touch, regularly sending each other letters, chatting about everything and nothing, sharing your little secrets and observations. You recently mentioned that your parents allowed you to come see him again, but with the tragic change of events, Aemond completely forgot about the preplanned visit. 

"I will take his eye," you say out of the blue, caressing the unharmed side of his face, your voice laced with anger. Aemond thinks he might've heard it wrong.

"...Whose eye?"

"Luke’s! I shall take his eye, as payment for yours," you tell him with zero hesitation. For a girl of your age, you’re way too eager to plan such a thing, yet he somehow has no doubts that you can actually do it.

Aemond shakes his head:

"You shouldn't," his voice quiet but firm. "The King was very adamant about that, no payment is needed."

"Well, maybe he is too old to think straight," you retort. "You are his son and you lost an eye! Justice must prevail," you tilt your head at him, clearly thinking that you’re in the right.

And he knows that you are but he also knows no justice will be served. It’s the last straw for Aemond — he looks away in shame as tears, hot and angry, start falling down his cheek. You waste no time hugging him again, letting him cry on your shoulder, and the two of you stay like that for what feels like an hour.

And then, in the comfortable silence of your embrace, he hears you asking, very seriously:

"Are you sure I can't take his eye?"

At that moment, he can't stop himself from letting out a laugh — a weak one and barely audible, but still, he laughs, for the first time in two weeks, and you are the sole reason for it. 

Your cheek is pressed to his, your fingers running through his hair, and Aemond realizes he can't lose you.

He begrudgingly persuades you that taking Luke's eye isn't worth the trouble.

3.

By the age of fifteen Aemond becomes quite accustomed to the eyepatch and it gives him a boost of confidence. Losing an eye only made him train harder and his persistence pays off when he’s the one to win, time after time, no matter who his opponent is. His hair grows longer, now silky smooth and with no sign of his boyish curled ends, his face features sharpen. He learns to walk with his head high and hands clasped behind his back, mastering the intimidating look that makes most people want to stay away from the one-eyed prince. 

His tricks could’ve never worked on you, though.

You come to visit him a few times a year, and he eagerly awaits your arrival. All the days in between, you keep talking through letters, them getting longer as you get closer. He keeps those letters locked in a hidden compartment of his table. And sometimes, for no specific reason — or maybe for the reason he can’t yet formulate — he is drawn to reach for them, which always ends with him rereading the letters for hours. Some of them he knows by heart and yet it never stops him from having the pleasure of seeing your handwritten stories and little jokes that were only meant for him.

Today is no exception and Aemond is so enthralled by reading, he almost misses the knock on the door. The sound brings him to reality but he is in no hurry to react. The knocking comes again, and the prince groans, annoyed at the maid's persistence. He carefully puts the letters back and goes to the door, armed with his cold gaze.

And then he opens it — and it's you standing in front of him. 

Aemond barely has time to register what's going on when you launch yourself at him, your arms immediately enveloping him in a tight hug, your laugh ringing in the air. He hugs you back and, while you can't see it, he's grinning from ear to ear.

“I swear you’re getting taller every time we meet!” you look up at him, beaming, and he lets you in. “I soon will need a ladder just to hug you properly".

"I’ll be sure to let my body know of your disapproval," he sneers and you stick out your tongue.

"While you are at it, shall you also work on your friendly face? I overheard the maids being frightened to go into your chambers," you try giving him a scolding look but end up giggling at his reddened cheeks.

"I am friendly enough!"

“Yes, nobody glowers quite like you,” you snicker and flop right on the floor, the move always making him smile. Aemond tried persuading you to sit on any other surface that’s actually meant for sitting but you insisted that his fluffy rug works just as well, so he eventually gave up, deciding to join you. He never complained since.

Before he knows it, he’s immersed in the conversation while you enthusiastically share the recent news and everything that’s happened to you on the road. Only about half an hour in, he notes a small bag you're clasping in your hands.

“You come bearing gifts?”

“Oh, I almost forgot I had it,” you laugh, abashed. “I decided I should bring you something to replace this crumpled-looking thing".

It takes Aemond a minute to realize that you're talking about his eyepatch. But he has no time to protest as you silence him with a gesture of your hand:

“I took it upon myself to count for how long you’ve been wearing this one already,” your tone gets serious. “I must say, that number is disturbing.”

There's a moment of silence and then he clears his throat, his voice unsure:

“Very kind of you to think of that, I shall replace it later on.”

He reaches his hand to take the bag but you quickly cover it with yours, fingers brushing over his, and he freezes.

“Are you still not convinced that I can take a look at it?” you try to make eye contact but he averts your gaze.

“Aemond, I was with you and I think I’ve seen enough back then — none of it scared me.”

“It is not a sight for the faint of heart,'” the prince mumbles, his bravado faltering.

“Well, I don’t remember fainting the first time. You should have more faith in me,” you try to reason, holding his hand.

Aemond ponders for another minute — or maybe ten, he isn't sure, and you patiently wait, not wanting to press him any further. Then he finally makes a decision and, after taking a long, sad sigh, he removes the eyepatch and looks at you, the sight of him is the very definition of insecurity.

You stay silent for about five seconds before concluding:

“Oh, it healed so nicely!” with no hint of uncertainty in your voice. Your smile reassures him a little as you peer at the sapphire, looking very pleased.

"The gem compliments your eye very well," you give him your verdict, taking the new eyepatch out.

"We might have a different understanding of what a compliment is."

"This is me trying to say that I really like the way it looks," you chide him lightly. "And I consider myself to be quite understanding, thank you very much. Will you stop pouting and let me put it on?"

At this point he surrenders, giving you permission, and you move closer, giggling with excitement. You gently fix his hair, making sure it’s all combed back, and then lean to put the eyepatch on. You have a habit of biting your lower lip when you're too concentrated on something, and Aemond can't help but gaze at that part of your face while your teeth graze over the pillowy surface. 

He’s never let anyone this close — and not just in the sense of physical proximity. The moment is very intimate, and the softness of your movements tugs at his heart. He is suddenly very aware of the very short distance separating you two, and he holds his breath. You are oblivious to his stare and soon lean back, satisfied with the result and glaring at him with something akin to fondness.

He wishes he could paint a picture of you right at this moment, so tender and caring and sitting by his side.

He also wishes he could kiss you — and that thought scares him to death. And yet, once it appears, it never goes away.

4.

Aemond is seventeen and his life has been pure torture since you stopped visiting him. He hasn't seen you in over half a year (seven months and eleven days, not that anyone's counting). It's not your fault as your father has unexpectedly fallen ill and you couldn't leave his side. The prince exhausted the maester with questions, asking for advice to write back to you, worried sick that your separation would be stretched for way longer than he could handle.

Luckily, the Gods took pity on him, and he was glad to learn that your father got better, and you will come to the King's Landing soon. Your visit coincided with Aegon's birthday, but Aemond didn't care about the feast, his mind only occupied with the thought of seeing you. He was both nervous and excited to the point of not even hiding it, which led to Aegon teasing him relentlessly. Helaena, on the other hand, wholeheartedly supported Aemond's sympathy for you.

“She will be delighted to see you, too, I am sure of it,” his sister tells him the day before the event.

“But the reason for it might be of a different nature,” Aemond remarks, and Helaena gives him a compassionate look.

“You will never know her true feelings unless you ask,” she encourages. “The two of you are so close, I consider Y/N part of the family.”

Aemond knows that he’s of age and his mother hinted that, despite him showing no interest in courting, some ladies still found him attractive. He dismisses the idea but then finds himself thinking of it from time to time. When the realization forms in his head, it’s nerve-wracking but oh so compelling — he thinks he would’ve really wanted to marry you. He just doesn’t know how to tell you about it.

The day of your arrival comes, and Aemond wakes up at dawn in anticipation, determined to confess his feelings. He tries to come up with a speech, but it feels wrong and sounds weird, and he decides it will be better to improvise. He all but runs to the courtyard to be the first one to greet you. However, when you step out of the carriage, smoothing your dress, and your eyes meet, Aemond stops dead in his tracks and the world around him stands still.

His confidence might’ve blossomed — but not nearly as much as your beauty did. Somehow in those recent months, you’ve matured into a woman that takes his breath away.

It’s not a drastic change, it's all in the details: the contours of your face are more defined, the cheekbones prominent, your hair knotted up high in a perfect style and even your pace is much slower and gracious. You walk towards one another, both suddenly cautious. But when you are a couple of meters apart, a well-known smile appears on your face and you hold your arms out to him and he finally hugs you again, after all this time. Aemond relaxes, inhaling the familiar scent of fruits that you undoubtedly munched on your way here.

“You look exactly as I remembered you,” you say as you slip from his embrace.

“And you are a sight to behold,” he breathes out, taking you in, and your cheeks heat up at the compliment. You’ve never been shy with him before, so this is also new. He wonders what might’ve caused this change.

As the two of you walk around the castle, it feels a bit awkward at first, and you keep glancing at him with emotion he can’t read. But Aemond is too happy to see you to give it much thought, and within an hour you ease into the conversation, too. By the time the evening comes, the tension disappears, and you are laughing at his sarcastic remarks again, and he savors every second of it.

The feast in honor of Aegon is lush and crowded, but you stay by Aemond’s side, enjoying each other’s company, and he only has eye for you. When the music gets too loud, you sneak out and soon find yourselves in his chambers, just like in the good old days. Aemond is in the middle of telling you about Aegon’s recent foray to the Flea Bottom, when you say:

“It’s just the two of us,” your fingers sink into the fluffy rug. “You don’t have to wear it with me. You know it, right?”

He wears the eyepatch with everyone, only taking it off before going to sleep. Moreover, he actually cherishes it because it’s a gift from you. Aemond hesitates:

“I thought you quite liked it.”

“I only gave it to you because yours started to look like it was pulled off a dead man’s body!” you laugh.

Before he can think of an answer, you lean closer — your shoulder brushing his, your hand touching his face, the same gentle warmth he remembers so well, — and remove the eyepatch yourself. The sight doesn’t bother you in the slightest as you confess:

“I accept you the way you are, Aemond,” and then, a moment away from him opening his mouth and saying the thing that’s been on the tip of his tongue for the duration of the day, you add: “That’s what friends are for — and you are my best friend.”

And just like that, with this word alone, his plan goes out the window.

A friend. Aemond can’t even be upset at the reveal, because, honestly, being your friend feels like a blessing in itself and he wouldn’t trade it for the world. How could he be so selfish and foolish to even think about risking it all, risk losing you?

So he keeps his feelings to himself, locking them away deep in his heart, and doesn't argue with you.

Maybe he should have.

5.

By the age of nineteen Aemond reaches the conclusion that he wants to take the risk. Otherwise, he thinks he might actually die as his heart can not hold all his feelings anymore. In two years' time, there isn’t a single thing about you that he hasn’t come to love, and keeping it a secret becomes harder with each day.

Aemond is ridden with doubts to the point where he can't hide it any longer and he decides to seek advice — and the prince can't think of a better person to talk to than his mother. Unbeknownst to him, Alicent was the first one to notice. Years ago, when you were kids, she quickly sensed the effect you had on her son, and it brought her joy as she watched the two of you get closer with time.

So when Aemond bursts into her room, anxiety radiating off of him as he starts jabbering away, his pacing erratic and voice trembling, it takes her about a minute to realize what's going on.

“My dear, I think you must talk to Y/N,” she approaches him, an understanding look on her face.

Aemond cuts his speech short, eyeing her with wonder:

“You don't seem surprised.”

“Your affection for her is as bright as a fire blazing,” Alicent chuckles. “I believe Y/N is the only one who doesn’t see it.”

“Should I tell her...?” he doesn’t dare say it out loud, not yet.

Alicent briefly takes his hands in hers, squeezing them.

“You should tell her the truth.”

Her encouragement gives him a dash of hope, lifting a weight off his chest. Aemond knows in an instant that the letter won’t cut it, and you must have the conversation face-to-face. Fortunately, your next visit is in a month, so his suffering won’t last for much longer.

Aemond almost reaches the door but then sharply turns to his mother again, his cheeks flushed:

“Will you give me your approval?” and this time, he looks straight at her as he wants to see her genuine reaction.

Alicent smiles, quick to reassure him:

“Yes, Aemond. Your betrothal would only make me happy.”

The prince feels elated, almost euphoric, as he finally goes to meet you and runs the remaining distance from his chambers to the yard. But when he sees you, the smile disappears from his face because he notices that something is wrong.

You look visibly upset, your eyes watering and fingers fumbling with the dress, even though you try to force a smile in return. The hug you give him is weak and you keep looking at your feet.

“What is the matter?” he’s never seen you this sad, but you brush him off.

“It’s just a headache, no need to worry.”

Yet that’s exactly what he does, offering to call for the maester, or to prepare you a warm bath, or bring you some tea...

“A cup of water would be nice, thank you,” he leaves you in the hallway to go and get it himself, the task only takes a couple of minutes. When he returns, you stand with your back to him, your shoulders are shaking — and he hears quiet, muffled sobs. If it wasn’t for the nearby table, he would’ve thrown the cup away, his focus on you alone. As he rushes to envelop you in a hug, you don’t fight it, instead nestling your face against his chest, not hiding your tears anymore.

Aemond gives you some time before asking again:

“This doesn’t look like just a headache. What is the cause of your anguish?” now he’s the one running his fingers up and down your back.

You let out a sound that’s a mix between a groan and a whine.

“My father says I am to be betrothed soon. He says I am of age already and... and he wants me to meet some of my cousins,” you sniffle. “I told him I have no wish to get married but he refuses to listen,” you bite your lip, not wanting to cry again.

Surely, that’s not how Aemond wanted to ask you. But he decides to take his chance.

“Mayhaps there is another way out that could make you feel better.”

“Please don’t tell me Vhagar will burn them down,” you jest but the smile doesn’t reach your eyes. Aemond thinks your idea isn’t that bad — but he has to try his first.

“If he insists you should marry but doesn’t have a particular candidate, maybe you can pick one yourself?”

“I’ve met all my cousins — and half of them are imbeciles, the others are too old to survive a wedding,” you scoff.

“Then pick someone you are not related to,” Aemond suggests.

“Do you have a particular candidate in mind?” when you ask with a tinge of annoyance, you don’t think he will answer. And then you look at him — and see him grinning before he says:

“Me”.

You glare at Aemond with eyes wide and mouth agape, the expression frozen on your face for a good minute. 

“Are you laughing at me?” you manage to say.

“I wouldn’t dare,” his nerves are as tight as a wound-up string.

In the blink of a moment, your face lights up. You're looking at him indecisively, searching for words, agitated. But Aemond mistakes your confusion for rejection.

“At the very least you will marry someone you know,” he tries to reason — but it backfires, wiping the joyfulness off your face. Taken aback, you inquire:

“You pity me?”

He doesn’t grasp the poor choice of his words yet.

 “You pity me and that’s why you want to marry me?” you give him a look of disbelief, your eyes glossy, and he can't get his head around what just happened.

“Oh, it was so silly of me to think that...,” you choke back a sob, putting your hand over your mouth.

Never in his life he thought he would be the reason for you looking so heartbroken. Aemond covers your hand with his palm — and you let him, as he tries to gather his courage.

“Y/N, I only meant to say that I —”

And then you recoil, snapping your hand back.

“Aemond, don’t,” you take a step back from him, then another one. “You have said enough. Please, let me be,” you turn away and leave the hall in a hurry before he can utter another word.

... 1.

He finds you at your usual spot, under the blossoming cherry tree. You’ve always said you liked the color of it, little white flowers reminding you of early spring, your favorite time of the year. You don’t know that Aemond insisted on planting that tree specifically for you. Just so he can sit nearby and, as you were basking in the sunlight with your eyes closed, he would get a chance to look at you with all his unconditional love and have those moments engraved in his memory.

Come to think of it, he had so many memories of you — and every single one of them was bliss, and he can recall them so easily like it was yesterday.

And so he does.

“When we first met, you wore a green dress,” his voice startles you, but you don’t turn to face him, sniffling with your arms folded. “It was the color of forest trees. Black lace around the hem of it, the matching hair ribbon that you kept losing,“ he keeps his distance, his hands shaking.

"Yes, I remember it pretty well," you sigh, avoiding his gaze, baffled by his sudden outburst.

"The second time was when you climbed through my window, almost gave me a heart attack," there’s a hint of a smile in his voice that you catch even without looking. "Blue dress, you tore a huge piece of it and couldn’t care less. You were the first person to make me laugh in two weeks even though it seemed impossible. But not with you."

He sees your eyebrows furrowing, hands sliding down to rest on your knees.

"Helaena’s name day came next, your dress was bright pink. Luke tried to make fun of it and you threw a cup full of water in his face. To this day, it’s one of my fondest memories."

You dare to look up at him, perplexed, your eyes wet from crying. 

"Three months after was the light-blue dress, then the peach one and the brown one. Then the white one which didn’t survive the horse riding lesson, and Helaena gave you one of hers. Light green, too long for your liking, even though you pretended otherwise to please her," the corners of your lips tremble, your face softening.

"Then for a year you only wore violet, much to your nanny’s dismay as she thought it made you look ill. And I thought you were the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen, no matter what dress you were in," he can’t take his eye off you.

Your face expression melts into a stunned one.

"I didn’t realize it back then. Or maybe I didn’t know how to call it. I just knew that your visits only brought me happiness," he takes a step toward you, uncertain, but you don’t move from your spot.

"When you were fourteen, you picked the autumn colors — orange, dark yellow, deep red. Your started braiding your hair, tried to braid mine," you can’t hold back a smile. He was fussy when you first voiced the idea but he ended up loving the process so much, he would allow it just to feel your fingers flowing through his hair.

"I think you actually enjoyed it", you mumble, and Aemond smiles, too.

"I did. I enjoyed every minute that I got to spend with you."

You stand up then, feeling your pulse quickening.

"The day you brought me the eyepatch, you wore emerald green. I was terrified to show you the scar," he pauses, catching his breath. "You assuaged my fears with your kindness. But then I was terrified to learn that I wanted to kiss you". 

You think you are dreaming. Is it possible that you fell asleep under the tree? You don’t want to get your hopes too high, but when he looks at you like this, your own fears start melting away.

“Then was the black dress, the grey one, another white one. The golden one you wore to meet Vhagar,” when he saw you that day, he almost forgot how to breathe. You showed no sigh of apprehension as you fearlessly approached the dragon. He was absolutely besotted.

“And then came the agony of not seeing you for over seven months,” he closes his eye for a second, overwhelmed. He almost misses it when you speak:

“Seven months and twenty-five days. Not that I was counting,” his eye snaps open, instantly on you again.

You gravitate toward each other without even noticing. Aemond’s heart skips a beat when you’re at arm's length, your eyes shining and lips slightly parted. Even in the state you're in, you look so beautiful, it's mesmerizing, and the words are stuck in his throat. You are the one to break the silence:

"Aemond, please don't give me false hope," your heartbeat is too loud, you don't hear your own voice. He does.

"I do not wish to marry you out of pity," Aemond takes the last step. "I want you to be my wife because I'm in love with you," he wipes away the remaining tears off your face, his fingers linger, making you shiver. "I've been in love with you for quite some time. For a few years, actually," his voice gets low. "For what feels like an eternity," Aemond murmurs.

"Why haven't you told me?" you pout, nervously toying with the collar of his shirt.

"I was afraid you didn't feel the same. I still am but maybe... Maybe I am wrong?" his gaze is fixed on you, one of his hands following the contour of your waist, your body warming at the touch.

"Tell me that I am wrong," he whispers, begging.

You look at his lips, the soft curve of them that you’ve dreamt of for so long.

Aemond always thought yours were the most kissable he’s ever seen.

You don’t know who closes the distance first — but his mouth is suddenly on yours and the sensation leaves you disarmed. Kissing him is like being swept with a wave of tenderness, and you’re floating in it, his lips so fervid and supple — truly perfect — your head is spinning. The kiss is not awkward nor modest as you hastily cling to each other, his hands gripping your waist, your chest pressed into his.

Aemond feels like he’s drowning, and he wants more of you — all of you, and then your fingers tug at his locks, eliciting a groan from him, and it is simply a miracle that his heart doesn’t explode. You move in impeccable sync, in the passionate harmony that erupts from years worth of mutual pining. His lungs burn but he resists the urge to break the kiss and stretches it out the best he can until you are breathless, too.

"Never knew that you were so fascinated by my wardrobe choices," you tease, and his hum turns into a chuckle.

“You know what my favorite memory is?” you ask, your forehead resting against his.

“When we were thirteen, and you were teaching me how to hold a sword. I tackled you to the ground and scraped my knee,” you both smile at your then enthusiasm. “And you set everything aside to spend the rest of the day with me even though it was hardly a wound. And I remember thinking,” you hook your finger under his chin, “that there’s nowhere else I would rather be than with you, with this favorite boy of mine.”

The air around you tense, and you are enchanted by each other.

“Did that help to prove you wrong?”

“I may need some convincing,” his breath fanning over your lips.

“You can take your time,” you laugh — and then the sound of it is muffled by his athirst mouth.

His favorite memory will be this.

And every other moment with you that's to come.

author's note: I'm sorry if this came out messy and rushed. I tried my best to write a shorter fic (this is short for me lmao) and idk how I feel about it. I much rather prefer them longer because I'm a sucker for stories about two people getting to know each other and falling in love BUT I get it that others don't want to read long ass fics (which kinda breaks my heart but I'm being so very brave about it) anyways, I hope this was bearable, thank you for reading!

💙 the longer version of this fic might have looked like this (yes, this is a shameless plug! because I adore this one to pieces!! bite me) 💞 my masterlist 🎵 the title is a quote from Elvis Presley's song (duh). there are quite a few covers of it but one of my favorites is by Twenty One Pilots. there's also a female version — by Ingrid Michaelson — and I think both of them fit the story really well. P.S. I'm also on AO3 (lol, who isn't), in case you prefer to read fics there.

English is not my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any major mistakes!

[helpimstuckposting]

Steve agrees to play D&D as long as Eddie plays too, so they get Will to DM. Somehow, Steve rolls three nat20s in a row and Eddie’s like ‘no fucking way, not possible, give me those’ and rolls with Steve’s dice. He immediately gets a nat1

[blighted-lights]

so i know ive already made art for this before (here and here) but i CANNOT get the idea of ravage and frenzy staying together when they are abandoned on earth out of my head. i am so unwell about them + the idea of ravage taking care of frenzy as his sonic powers start hurting him.

also i just love drawing ppl resting against ravage. there's no pillow like a ravage pillow

[tossawary]

None of the Transformers cartoons that I've seen so far (G1, Beast Wars, TFA, most of TFP, some of the live-action movies years ago) have brought up the fact that the Cybertronians have to be offering humans the English translations of their original names / designations. (I assume one of the comics has explored something like this at some point?) I have generally assumed that Cybertronian languages are probably utterly unpronounceable by human vocal chords and possibly also going at at least 10x speed or something.

I think it would be fun to write a fic for pretty much any continuity in which the Autobots begin their time on Earth choosing their "Earth names". Some Cybertronians may have VERY different designations and designation styles in their own languages, depending on their origins, AND THEN based on their individual personalities, they may choose a very literal translation of their original designation, a more artistic interpretation of their designation, a translation of a nickname, or they might straight-up take the opportunity to choose something entirely new. Or have their new human friends choose for them!

Which is all very cute and has the potential to be heartfelt and bittersweet! And then I started thinking about Earth names for Decepticons, which is VERY FUNNY to me, in part because I don't think every version of Megatron would care to introduce himself to Earth. Humans aren't worth talking to. In which case, when the humans ask for information on which Decepticon is which, the AUTOBOTS are probably the ones who first have to come up with Earth names for the Decepticons.

Like, can you imagine Starscream, 1-3 months or so into being on Earth, turning towards the humans to gloat about how he's going to rule this planet, going into a long introduction with an extremely lengthy and flowery interpretation of what he thinks humans should call him? ("Your Glorious Celestial Majesty" or something at the shortest.) Only for Optimus Prime or someone to say semi-apologetically: "We've already told them that an acceptable translation of your name is 'Starscream'."

Starscream: "WHAT."

Optimus Prime: "YOU weren't talking to them before. We had to call you something besides 'the red and blue plane'."

[schneiderenjoyer]

A few of the many fic WIPs I have in the back log excluding TWTR and TATA. Yes, I draw my ideas first before writing them down, haha

[lets-try-some-writing]

Innocent Abominations

Optimus can feel it, he can feel the twisted nature of the Terrans. Logically he knows they are good, they are kind and wonderful sparklings who need only love and guidance to grow. But Primus... the Matrix screams that they. Must. Die.

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙

They were a dying race, that much was clear. The youngest amongst them was Bumblebee, and he had not even lived to see the height of Cybertron's glory. He was forged during the war and only knew its wrath. Such was their reality, where their youngest had been in existence for millennia. Without the Allspark, their people were doomed to extinction, a slow and agonizing end to a species that once dominated their corner of the galaxy and forged wonders greater than any others of their time.

As such, the enframing of newsparks should have been cause for increadible celebration... and yet, as Optimus looked upon the two sparklings that were bound to the human spawn born of Dorothy, he found himself conflicted. His spark sang with joy at the revelation of new life, regardless of its Earthly origin. The Terrans were forged on Earth, but all their scans showed they were most certainly Cybertronian down to the core of their CNA. The bonds they held with the humans were unusual, along with their ability to live without energon to fuel them, however aside from those oddities, they were normal. Twitch and Thrash were wonderfully innocent, both so very kind and untainted by the curse of war.

The parts of Optimus that remained Orion demanded he spend time with the new little lives that frolicked around him. However as he looked upon them, another part of his being, the places where the Matrix dug into his spark... they revolted in disgust. The Terrans were to the part of him that was changed to be a Prime, a disgrace, a taint, a threat. The Matrix prodded, it made its demands, and while it seemed hesitant, it grew adamant as it urged him onward, pushing him to draw his axe and end the sparklings before they could grow and become and anathema worthy of note. His nature from his time as Orion screamed in outrage at that idea, and thus, Optimus found himself forever at war with himself.

Twitch was such an excitable sparkling, so eager to learn and willing to mature. She would become a fantastic leader and a wise teacher given time. Thrash was similarly enthusiastic, but he was calmer, more inclined toward the calmer things in life, at least that is what Optimus predicted should the sparkling be given time. They were young, and while they learned much from humanity, they needed to recall their origins, to know their progenitor race. That was what the parts of Orion preached. At the same time, the Matrix grew increasingly upset the more he spoke with the Terrans, its anger and primal disgust growing more with every interaction. He needed to keep them safe, but he could not be near them, not while he was so volatile.

Thus, he gave the sparklings Bumblebee to be their teacher, and for their own safety, Optimus left. He threw himself into his work, unwilling to interact with the little Terrans for fear of the Matrix's anger growing hotter. He could sense them, every moment of every cycle... their presence on Earth forever lingering at the back of his processors for reasons he could not decipher. Why did the Matrix despise them? He did not know, the relic within him offered no answers. Still he tried to be there for the Terrans as much as he could by hiding them from G.H.O.S.T and periodically prodding Megatron until he would go visit them.

His careful time away ensured that the odd times he interacted with Thrash and Twitch, he remained composed. Combat protocols still ran beneath his plating, screaming and demanding activation, but it was manageable. He could still smile and offer the two Terrans words of wisdom and small amounts of affection. But touch? His whole being blanched when the Terrans came too near. He tried to keep Megatron and Bumblebee between him and the Terrans whenever possible. He couldn't be trusted around them, not when he was so very torn. Megatron found his behavior odd and questioned him a time or two, but usually Optimus's excuses worked and he was able to slip away without too much suspicion.

He could handle it. Just so long as the Terrans stayed a safe distance away, he could pretend, he could maintain a smile and not be drowned in the all encompassing desire to see them obliterated. Never more did he wish Ratchet were with him, or even a medic like First Aid or Ambulon. Someone, anyone, he just needed an explanation, or some sort of reason as to why he felt the way he did. The Matrix offered no answers despite the fact that his desire to raise young directly conflicted with its disgust toward the new sparklings. He knew no one would understand, he knew none would have an answer, and so he continued keeping to himself, doing everything in his power to destroy the pinpricks of primal hatred that constantly rattled his being.

Bumblebee: The Terrans are progressing well in their training. They have trouble focusing, and I admit that it is very irritating, but for their age, they are performing well.

Optimus: That is good to hear.

Bumblebee: I haven't seen you in a while Optimus, and I am sure the Terrans would love to hear from you again. They haven't seen you since the incident with Soundwave.

Optimus: No. I cannot do that. I cannot be near them.

Bumblebee: What? Optimus is something wrong?

Optimus: No, nothing that should concern you... just keep working with the Terrans. I will do my best to convince Megatron to visit in my stead. He is better acquainted with the Terrans anyway.

Bumblebee: But Sir-!

Optimus: Thank you for giving me your report Bumblebee. I hope to hear again from you soon.

It was hard enough keeping suspicion off him with just two Terrans constantly leaving his plating itching and some part of his being shifting unsettlingly. But then three more had to be forged, three more blessings that had Optimus's spark screaming in agony as his natures combatted. He had to grit his denta and clamp his field down tight enough to ache as he greeted the newsparks and learned their designations while planning for their attack against Mandroid. The humans didn't know. They didn't know what lurked amongst them. Neither did his fellows. They couldn't see, they couldn't sense the Terrans for what they were.

À̷̡̢̛̖̼͈̑̐̓́b̵̖͕͖͒̈̓́̌̚ớ̴̧̧̤̻̝͓͎̰̥̙̟͈͗͂̈́̄̀̈́͐̒ͅm̷̖̹͗̀̅͑̐͂i̷̤̗̰̳̞̜̦͕̲̐͋̑͜n̴̡̹̹̯̫̪̥̫̗̗͐̑̿͛̍̌̀́̑͆̕͝ͅä̸̧̦͖́̈̀̋t̷͎̱̠̻̰͇̹̱̫̓̈́̾̃́̀̈́͊̈̓͊̐͋i̸͇͙̮͚̪̽̓̀̊̉͑͒͐͋͒͂͘͜͠ŏ̴̱͍̳͇͕̮̠̞͈ͅṉ̶̤̺͇̼̠̳͉̘̟͚̜͑̔͋̏̿̓͑͌̿̄s̶̛͕̹̙̻̈́̒̉́̎̿̓̃̀͒̓͘. Ḯ̶̬͍̬͖͎̪͈̄̈̈̆͂̋̐͑̈́́͠ṇ̴͎͎̪̤͔̮͎͈͉̪̘́̃n̵̦͑̚̕͝ō̷̧̘͉͍͚̬̗̊̊͒̇̀́͝ͅc̶̛͙̰̳̮͕̃̉̀̾̂̇́̿̾̑́̌͂̾ȩ̵̡̛̝̻̺̜̰̮̪͈̠͙̖̀̋̐̉͜͜n̵̢͓͙̪̪̯̪̠̰̪̦̳̈̾͂̍͌̈͋͝͝ͅt̵̢̬͍͔͉̥͉͓͕̲̥͙̟̀ ̷͉͍̺̑́́̈́̓͜m̴̢̢͚̹̥̝̘̪̟̀ǫ̸͕̣̪̗͙̗͎̝̞̠͌̅͌̓͌̄̀̏̆́͑̅͋̏̚ͅǹ̷̨͍͈̱̄̿̎͂̍̓ͅs̵̛̯̆͛͊̽͒̋̑͂͆̌̔̅̚͠t̶̟͔̼̖̜̺̲̬̩͖̺͍̦̊́͊ẽ̸̬̻̯̫͙͕̞̱͋͗̀͋̔̈́̀̈́̊̀͘͘͜͝ŗ̶̯͔̩͇͂̄̂̈́̈́̄͒̎͊́̕̚̚͠͝ṣ̷̬̘̰̠̹̔̌̄͗̎̈́͗͑̈́͘.̴̡̤̻̲̗͔̋ͅ

His optics locked onto Hashtag as she walked, scanning her endlessly for weaknesses. His audials forever perked as he observed Jawbreaker, primed and ready to find the slightest hint of aggression. His axe burned within its compartment as he watched Nightshade frolic with joy, innocently pleased to be alive. Combat protocols itched with such intensity that he had to dig his digits into his own plating with ever leap into the air Twitch took. And he had to clamp his field down so harshly ever time Thrash even looked in his direction that he could tell Megatron knew something was wrong. He wanted, no, he NEEDED to end this threat. The vermin were spreading, their taint growing as they spawned more of their number. The humans were unwitting hosts, housing parasites that were going to devour them.

The taint was spreading, and the parts of him that remained Orion could no longer fight against the Matrix's truth. All that kept him from killing the Terrans right then and there was the more heretical threat in the form of mandroid. The Terrans managed to live a day longer and it was entirely because Megatron noted his barely contained bloodlust and sent them away.

Megatron took him back to headquarters and tried to prod. But Optimus said nothing, merely twitching every now and then as he retreated to his quarters. It BURNED. His plating itched every moment of every cycle he tried to keep himself composed. Any word of the Terrans nearly had him flinging himself into a rage. The Matrix ordered that they must die. While that which remained of Orion screamed in denial and desperation, it meant nothing against the all encompassing pinpricks that ran across his frame at all hours. It took time, but the desire only grew worse. With his last bout of empathy for the little things, he reached out to Megatron with a simple order.

Optimus: You must guard the Terrans, Megatron.

Megatron: Optimus, what's going on with you? You've been off since the moment the Terrans were forged.

Optimus: If you wish for those things to continue living, you must watch them, protect them, keep them away from ME.

Megatron: Optimus-

Optimus: It burns and aches, the Matrix has made its demand. I cannot keep it contained. Those things... those innocent little abominations... I cannot be near them.

Megatron: What in Primus's name has gotten into you? What has that relic done?

Optimus: Those things... the Terrans... it hates them, it despises them. It wishes them DEAD. If you care for them, do not let our paths cross. They will not leave my grasp unharmed next we meet.

Megatron: This isn't like you. I've never seen you like this before Optimus. Whatever this is, we can deal with it. It would be difficult, but Shockwave or Starscream may have knowledge of where our medics are.

Optimus: I am out of time Megatron. They are not like us, they are tainted. I will kill them the next time they are near. Do not let them near me. Do not make me kill those sparklings.

Megatron was shocked, but he listened. He did what he could to help by taking over reports from Bumblebee and taking up residence with the Malto family for their own safety. The Maltos were rightfully concerned, especially when Megatron began to forbid the Terrans from wandering without his supervision. They didn't understand, and if possible, Megatron intended to keep it that way. Bumblebee was quickly brought into the loop and together they kept dutiful watch, always tracking the Terrans and even getting Arcee and Elita involved in tender to the Terrans when possible.

The threat was growing, and they could sense it as a new presence made itself known night after night not long after they set their watch.

Optimus tried to stay away. He tried to keep calm. He TRIED to ignore the call. But nightmares haunted his every recharge cycles, visions of the Unmaker sending force an army of his spawn... his Terran abominations. His whole frame burned and agony assaulted his spark as the Matrix pulsed, sending shocks through his body as it demanded action. It showed him visions over and over again, causing Optimus to hide in his quarters as much as physically possible for the sake of his fellows. It meant little though when G.H.O.S.T began to make their moves and Optimus found himself creeping out of his quarters in the dead of night.

The call was too strong. He could not stop himself as night after night he tread silently through the forest, taking care to keep himself out of sight as he approached the Malto home. He did not wish to harm the humans, no, he merely needed to remove the parasites. He stayed at the edge of the tree line, watching, waiting, preparing himself for an opportunity to snatch away one of the abominations and destroy it. But he could not act, he could not move, not while Megatron and Bumblebee kept their optics locked onto him at the edge of the forest every night, ensuring he remained at bay. The Matrix would not stand for him harming his own. No... just the Terrans, just the abominations needed to be removed.

It became endless habit for him to stalk the edges of the woods around the Malto home, his gaze locked onto where the Terrans rested. Periodically he would try to step out, to make progress and come nearer, but Megatron and Bumblebee were dutiful. The moment their gazes locked onto him, he hurried back into the forest, waiting for an opportunity. It helped to be on the hunt, it caused the burning to fade as duty settled instead. But even that grew to be insufficient with time. He needed to eliminate the threat, there was no other option. And so slowly but surely over the course of weeks, he came nearer and nearer before allowing himself to retreat in response to Megatron and Bumblebee raising their weapons in his direction.

Nearer and nearer, bit by bit. Soon he would have his chance. Soon he could put an end to the threat. Soon... Soon...

H̶̡̘̭̭̀̀̅̇̀̐͐̐͝ẽ̶̮͇̖̠͚͕͋̾̀̈́ ̷͉̮̝̞̫͈̅̂͒͛̎̂͌͘ć̴̥̬͝ö̷̢̖̠̣́͒̀̔̂́̈́̊̕͘ų̴̡̧̜̭̤̖͖̬̇͐́̔̚l̵̢̺̦̣̦̠̘̭̮̀̃̔̀̕̕͜ḑ̷̥͔̰̦͓̳̏͊̊ ̷̧̥̳̖̼̹̒ͅḿ̷̥̲̰̩̤̦͉̻̠͔̂̿͑a̴̠̙̩̦̿ǩ̶̞͚̪̝͎͔̘̲͙̺̬͐̇͑̐̃̉̑̏ē̶̢͉̣̥̭̘͚̭̟̣͚͑̈̿̓̾̀͑̈́͐͌ ̴̛͔̝͚͖̣͙͓͈̦͎́̓̀̈́͂̊̀̏i̵̫̩̪̺̗̜͕̿͌̒ͅt̷͍͉̭͓͔̒̔̓ ̷̗̗͈͓̥̲̈́̾̎͊̿̐̈́̚̚͠͝š̴̰̈́t̶͎͉̗͕̏̏̑̏͋̓̆̀͜ő̴̘̦̋̒̍̔̊̒̄̈́͝p̶̡̦̳͉̞̳͍̒̓̌̊̂̊͌͋̕ ̵̣̘̰̲͍̭̱͊̋̉̊̋̈́̕h̶̬̰̯̺̓̏̀ự̷̪̺̀̍̐̐̎͌͆̚͘͝ṙ̷̢̺͖͗͌̇̂͛̌̈̊t̴̡̰̼̣̘̯̠̝͙̍̀̂̽̂̚ĩ̵̖͈̝͐͆͊̈́̕͠n̸͇̺̠̝͙̅̐g̷̜̼͈̥̓̂͌͐̂̎̎̐͝

[pricklybruin]

Shockwave fans where you at🌺

[breakitoutwildbreak]

I kinda wanna draw Shattered Glass WaveWave

There’s just something beautiful about the idea of Sir Soundwave and Shockwave courting each other in the sweetest and softest way possible…

[witchofthesouls]

Look, the more I think of Do As the Romans Had Done verse, the more I need to giggle and cackle.

Because out of the three adults, Smokescreen is the normal one of the bunch. June is a cyberformed human, so she acts more off than a newly onlined mecha fresh from the Well with very limited packet installs. And Optimus? Prime he may be, Orion Pax was literally taken from the Wastelands and semi-domesticated by a powerful recluse.

Look, this guy, at one point, literally had no qualms eating from the garbage, honking down raw crystals, and using his own teeth against other frames. Alpha Trion had his hands full tamping down and smothering so much of that feral behavior and Wilder instincts, but some slivers shone through. Like he doesn't flinch eating really awful and poorly filtered fuel. His team thinks he's being stoic and self-sacrificing. No, he has done it before, and his frame still retains the capability to digest that kind of sludge.

The older Prime had to smooth and blunt a lot of the rougher edges to make Orion more palatable to others, especially since he basically took the Wilder under his wing. It doesn't help that Orion absorbed strange lessons by Alpha Trion: be non-confrontational, yet find other ways to subvert authority; be a keen observer, yet leverage information when necessary; what one says may or may not match one's actions; discretion and omission can be key to handling certain topics among specific groups; and so on.

It doesn't help he forged friendships with really colorful characters, so Smokescreen has front row tickets to see Optimus literally forge fake documents to sneak past checkpoints and comfortable making implicit threats to black market thugs, yet severely struggle with small talk at the bar and the community center.

This mech will eat the mud pies the kids hand him because he doesn't know it's just a pretend game. He'll be polite and serious as he offers suggestions to make it more nutritional and easier on a tank.

[bad-tf-fic-ideas]

(229) Brainstorm is thrown out of his engineering degree when new, harsher legislation relating to frame type and function comes in. This minor inconvenience doesn't worry him, though, because he has a devious plan to re-enroll as a ground vehicle.

"And you're going to help me," he assures Chromedome, who did not sign up for this.

This is a story about fraud, identity theft, frame type discrimination and — perhaps most importantly — the friends we made along the way.

[ultra-phthalo]

Transformers Fic Note:

I like the idea that when first placing a human 'spark' into a cybertronian body that the human might treat their body more as a tool than a new aspect of themselves that should be cared for. The way a human tries puzzling out their new abilities and limitations standing out as strange and maybe even a little impressive to on looking cybertronians. If not a little terrifying to witness. Example: Jet mode purposely flying into the ground and using parts of their body as though they were rudders. Taking tight turns and making clouds of smoke in the process. Or a having a seeker that actually likes tight spaces.

[whatwooshkai]

Hot Rod drags himself to the door, rubbing at his optics. Who in Primus' name thinks it's a good idea to call on him in the middle of the primus-damned night? (Well, in their defense, Hot Rod was still up playing video games, so he's playing this up to be way more inconvenient than it actually is). Hot Rod yawns and slumps his spoiler, projecting annoyance and tiredness into his field. Hopefully whoever decided to bother him will take the hint and go away before he has to make them. "Why- what the fuck." Hot Rod's spoiler jumps back up immediately, because why the fuck is Soundwave the Decepticon second-in-command standing on his doorstep in the middle of the night, leaning heavily against the doorframe. He's holding a bottle of high grade in his other hand, and based on the haziness of his field, he's absolutely shitfaced. Why the fuck is Soundwave, the Decepticon second-in-command, absolutely shitfaced on my doorstep in the middle of the night?? "Soundwave-" Hot Rod starts, because holy shit he has so many questions. Soundwave raises his hand with the bottle to cut him off, but Hot Rod pushes the hand away. "Soundwave, what the hell are you doing here? How did you even get here? What if someone sees you-" "You make me feel things I don't understand," Soundwave interrupts, waving the bottle around. His voice is slurred and staticky, but it shocks Hot Rod into brief silence. "So I will express it through song." Hot Rod can't keep the horror out of his field when Soundwave's speakers start blasting a song in English, reverberating off the walls of the neighborhood. "IT'S TEARIN' UP MY HEART WHEN I'M WITH YOU-" "Holy shit, get inside right now-" Hot Rod grabs Soundwave's shoulders and drags him inside the house, slamming the door shut. Hopefully no one comes investigating, because Soundwave shows absolutely no intention of stopping the song, in fact, he clings onto Hot Rod tightly, who can feel the bass reverberate through his frame. "AND NO MATTER WHAT I DO I FEEL THE PAIN, WITH OR WITHOUT YOU-" "Please shut that off," Hot Rod begs, but Soundwave shakes his helm, dragging it across Hot Rod's chest. "No. Understand," he slurs, a beat of something unrecognizable going through his field. Hot Rod hisses a couple expletives through his clenched teeth, but lets his spoiler drop to its resting position. The worst part about this whole situation is that this isn't a new behavior for Soundwave. This aft has been blasting desperately romantic earth music at Hot Rod for weeks now. For example, the peace talks almost a month ago. Hot Rod had vouched for Soundwave. He'd said some rather nice things about the guy, and in response, Soundwave had, seemingly unintentionally, started blasting a sensual saxophone instrumental, which he had desperately tried to turn off. In the moment, it'd be absolutely hilarious and twice as confusing, but Hot Rod hadn't pressed or really thought anything of it. He sure as hell wishes he had now, though. "And no matter what I do I feel the pain, with or without you..."

just a thought. I think they deserved to be happy

[lokislytherin]

devil by the window

pairing: current canon idol!dg x gender neutral journalist!reader

summary: you’re just going to interview dg - your bias, your celebrity crush - on behalf of dispatch. what could go wrong?

chapters: one / two

a/n: dg being sus, as y’all are interested 👀👀 this fic does not have any sussy content as in dg will not be taking his pants off. tits may or may not be bared but his pants and yours will be staying firmly on! title from ‘devil by the window’ by tomorrow x together (txt)! enjoy~

warning: canon compliant violence. also reader is kind of horny but that’s the majority of tumblr dg stans so y’all should be thanking me really

there's no way around it: dg is your ultimate bias.

you've been enchanted by him since the moment he debuted - visuals, vocals, dancing, rapping, he's the epitome of talent. he's young and charismatic too, charming half the women in seoul the second he steps foot on stage for the first time. according to the news, he's only a month older than you. he'll change the idol industry, you told your boss back at the time, eyes bright. he'll change the world.

your boss looked back at you, a lowly intern fresh out of high school with nothing to your name, not even a bachelor's degree, only raw enthusiasm for hunting down the truth. okay.

it's very obvious he didn't believe you. you were a nobody, after all.

now, you're twenty-one and studying media and communications at seoul national university, the most prestigious university in south korea. you've got more experience and reference letters to boot. you're interning for dispatch, the most (in)famous entertainment news company in korea. they say they're willing to take you in as an official journalist the second you graduate. 

even if dispatch is pretty shitty to idols, your old boss can suck it. you’re working for dispatch now.

it's been four years since dg debuted, and you're still his biggest fan. if dg has a million fans, you're one of them. if dg has ten fans, you're one of them. if dg has one fan, it's you. if dg has no fans, you're probably dead.

which is why you're currently panicking, bouncing off the walls with hysteria at four in the morning. all your colleagues know you as the local dg hard stan, so as the one with the most knowledge about dg you've been scheduled to shadow a sunbae from the journalism department to interview the one and only dg for a cover article in twelve hours.

dg doesn't know who you are, but you've been to every single one of his concerts and fan meets, bought every single one of his albums and made a shrine to him out of photocards. you know him - or at least the version he shows the public - as well as you know your own skin. 

you've got yourself a nice outfit: a white blouse with flowy sleeves, a black corset to accentuate your figure, black pants that are just long enough to show off your nice legs. it's better than you've dressed for any date, which would probably explain why you've never had a romantic relationship before. you've always put dg and your studies before everything else, after all.

you’re not sure how long you sleep for, but you shoot out of bed immediately after your alarm starts screaming, and the rest of the morning passes in a similar haze. you don’t even remember getting to the interview spot, but when you do, you’re a whole fifteen minutes early. at least your make-up is looking fabulous.

“excuse me,” says a familiar voice, “are you from dispatch?”

your heart skips a beat. you turn around, and- 

“oh,” you breathe, feeling a little weak in the knees.

dg is tall.

he’s taller than he looks on television, and even though he has only the slightest of makeup on his face, the ceo of ptj entertainment is as beautiful as any renaissance painting. he looks almost unreal.

he smiles down at you, warm and friendly. he feels like someone you can trust. “i’ll take that as a yes, then.”

all you can do is nod, because you don’t trust yourself enough to speak.

“would you like to head in first?” dg gestures towards one of the rooms - there are two security guards outside, both of them shooting you dirty looks. you catch dg shooting them an even dirtier look, and they look away, like wounded dogs with their tails between their legs. “you’re the newbie, aren’t you? we can have a little chat before your colleague arrives.”

that sounds a little like a threat, now. but at the same time, dg could make you do anything he wanted and you’d probably thank him for it. “i- i-”

“be not afraid,” he says, still smiling at you, almost inhumanly beautiful. it’s almost like he knows how you joke about him being angel incarnate. well, you’re not scared of him, you’re scared of you. “i don’t bite.” he leans down, and you go cross-eyed at the proximity. “unless you want me to.”

“i- i-”

“i’m kidding, i’m kidding.” he guides you into the room, relaxing onto the couch opposite yours. you’re a rabbit who strolled into the den of a lion, timidly perched on the edge of the loveseat. dg has no shame in reclining across the back of the couch, legs splayed out so he takes up most of the sofa even though he’s only one man. you try your best not to look at the space between his toned thighs, because even if you want to know whether dg really does have the biggest cock out of all the idols, now is not the time to find out.

only then do you realize you haven’t introduced yourself. you jump up and bow, ninety-degrees. “my name is y/n! it’s a pleasure to meet you, sir, i’m a really big fan!”

that doesn’t even begin to cover how big of a fan you are, but he doesn’t have to know that.

he gestures towards your bag, and you finally notice the limited edition that’s been hanging there the whole time. you had to fight people for that. “i could tell.”

ahhhh, that’s so embarrassing! and unprofessional! 

“it’s cute. you can call me dagyeom, by the way. that’s my name, after all. no need for dg-ssi. we’re around the same age anyway. as for sir...” he smirks. “you can save that for elsewhere.”

“elsewhere? like... where?”

he spreads his legs wider, like he’s making space for something. he raises an eyebrow almost invitingly. “where do you think?”

is he... flirting? with you? oh god, he’s flirting with you.

nothing in all of your years as a journalist or a dg fan has ever prepared you for this. you’ve never heard anything about him flirting. he’s insanely good at hiding from the press and the cameras. you’ve never been assigned to professionally stalk him before (you’re much better with a frontal approach), but some of your colleagues have, and all of them were caught in the act. he barely even does aegyo for the fanservice. 

you give yourself a mental smack in the head. this is the interview of a lifetime! you are face to face with the person you’ve admired for years! you cannot let yourself be horny on main!

he laughs, amusement dancing on his lips as he watches countless emotions flicker across your face in the span of a few seconds. “cute.”

ehhhhhh?

just as that moment, your sunbae barges in. he’s huffing and puffing, clearly having run here, but he’s on time. nobody had told you which sunbae you would be shadowing, but you had been desperately hoping it wasn’t him. you’ve shown nothing but respect for him, as you should, but let’s not even talk about inches, not once has he ever shown you even a centimeter of respect. so he’s late, huh? it feels mean, but you hope he made a bad impression in front of dg. “dagyeom-ssi-”

dagyeom smiles, frigid and unamused, a stark contrast from the way he’d smiled at you. even his spread legs feels less like a calling and more like a threat, although it’s dominant and overbearing either way. “call me dg.”

your sunbae swallows and nods. “dg-ssi, we can begin the interview now.”

wow. dagyeom is really, really biased.

it looks like there’s still a lot you don’t know about him, but your heart flutters in your chest at the feeling of being able to know more.

you’re pretty experienced with interviews - you know the journalist should lead the conversation, and always ask for elaborations from the interviewee. but this time, dagyeom is the one in the lead, constantly offering you chances to speak and ask questions while blatantly ignoring your sunbae.

both of you journalists are helpless under the full force of his charisma as he drives the conversation, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your shoulder. if this interview was a car, your sunbae would’ve been stuffed in the trunk, or tied up with a rope and dragged along behind the car. but when you ask about his past and why he became an idol, he becomes tight-lipped.

there’s probably a reason why he never talks about his past, after all. you were just trying to see if you could get a scoop out of things, or be the first to find out.

“i just thought it was neat,” he says with a shrug. “singing and dancing and making money off that.”

you ask him about his thoughts on aegyo next, and giggle when he makes a face. dagyeom has always hated acting cute for the cameras, but you think he’s cuter when he’s pouting like that and complaining about fan-service.

(you are a much bigger fan for the more… physical kind of fan-service, so to speak. but you would die of shame before admitting to his face that you got all hot and bothered when he ripped his shirt off for a show in the middle of a rap. and that time when he modelled for calvin klein, with the waistband of his boxers peeking out under his tight jeans. and the rich boy concept photos with him in the pool, smirking lavisciously. those toned pecs… the lick-able abs… hhhhnnnnnggggg~

enough, enough! you’ll die of shame right now if you don’t stop thinking about that. luckily, you’re good at multitasking, and you’re fully capable of taking notes dutifully while imagining dagyeom bending you over the table.)

the interview comes to an end all too soon, with all your questions answered except the ones about his past, or his worst fears. he’s been rather vague about some of them, but as an idol and ceo of an entertainment company, dagyeom likes to keep whatever privacy he can, and as a respectful journalist you won’t pry too deeply. even if you did, you’d find out in your own time and never tell him.

just before your sunbae drags you off, dagyeom holds you back, grabbing your hand and pulling you towards him. you gasp as he catches you gracefully when you stumble, steady hands on your waist. his hands are big enough to wrap around you entirely, and the realisation makes your cheeks heat. “i’ll keep in touch. i’ve seen your other works. you’re too good for the likes of dispatch.”

“my other…?!”

you can feel his minty breath fanning across your cheeks when he speaks. “see you soon, jagiya. don’t let me down.”

you’re not sure how you don’t faint on the spot, or collapse completely when an email from ptj entertainment pops up in your inbox half a day later, formally requesting you to join the company as part of the media and communications department.

you email them your cv, resume, all your reference letters. i’m still doing my bachelor’s degree in journalism at snu.

this time, kang dagyeom emails you back personally. that’s perfectly fine with me. you can start as soon as next week.

you terminate your internship contract at dispatch at the end of the week. good riddance to the sunbae who had disrespected you. you’ve got the job of your dreams.

[tossawary]

I really can't remember everything from the 1986 movie or G1 S3, but... I don't really remember Rodimus talking much about his life prior to becoming the Prime. If we're taking lore SOLELY from the show and movie, given how often G1 just had the Autobots or Decepticons just Build New Guys, I don't think it's too unreasonable for some casual (or forgetful, idk) fan to assume that Hot Rod was built on Earth in the time skip period between S2 and the movie. You could totally do an AU interpretation where Rodimus and Daniel are the same age or close to it.

Some Autobot back on Cybertron: "When was this new Prime constructed? I don't recall meeting him before."

Rodimus: "I'm ten."

Some Autobot: "Ten what? Ten million? You wear your years extremely well, then. You can't possibly be only ten thousand, that's much too young for a Prime-"

Rodimus: "Just ten years old, buddy."

Some Autobot: "..."

Rodimus: "And trust me, every single one of them has sucked ass enough for a million. Are we doing these super important galactic politics today or what?"

Some Autobot: "I have energon stones in my filtration tanks that are older than you."

Rodimus: "Yeah, and I have to go beat the shit out of some Quintessons with my bare hands later, AND I still need to squeeze my daily crisis of depression, guilt, and self-loathing in somewhere because Ultra Magnus says I'm not allowed to put it on the official schedule anymore. Are we having this meeting or not? I'm a busy guy."

[sadiecoocoo]

So if Tech did survive that fall (please let him be alive) do you think he would have to some prosthetics like echo? Like he’d need new legs or something, probably more than that but yknow

Need this for a fic… even tho it’s not at all tech centric lol (just set in an au where everyone is happy and back together and go back to doing bounties [havent decided if it’s bounties or if they do jobs for Rex when he needs it… possibly both])… it’s wrecker whump :}