#I had no sense of robot when I was a kid

[theartlockerlocked]

Me:

[al-luviec]

id like to thank ninjago episode snake jaguar for everything but nothing all at the same time

[mrdrhenwardhykle]

Non FNAF old Scott Cawthon art style appreciation post

[welcometogrouchland]

Bee and puppycat lazy in space I love you so so much it's not even funny

[love-and-war-on-cybertron]

Imagine this ✋😌🤚 (Transformers Prime Wise) everyone is in the base chilling and the kids randomly start talking about who’s the most attractive of the bots (based on whatever random criteria list Miko made). while they are all going on about why their personal bot would definitely be popular they start arguing and suddenly call out to reader (who has been minding their business on the couch distracted reading a book or something) and asks them which autobot is most attractive, reader instinctively and with absolutely no hesitation blurts out the bot thats been on their mind for a while nonchalantly acting as if they didn’t pretty much confess their attraction and said bot definitely heard them. (I would love Ratchet or bulkhead, or bumblebee whichever one is easier to write for)(loved your Rodimus fic btw it was so cute 10/10) sorry this request was so long, it’s completely fine if you don’t wanna write this 😭

No need to apologize!! I'm so glad you liked the Rodimus one, it got rewritten like four times XP I still need to catch up on TFP, but I'm a little more familiar with Ratchet from it. I hope you enjoy!

Ratchet was too busy working to pay attention to what the humans were up to. This part had been busted for a week and he needed it for his next project. The talk was nothing but an annoying buzz in the background, occasionally becoming loud enough for him to huff or grunt to try and get them to quiet down.

Something about who the most attractive bot was. How childish! the criteria listed by Miko wasn't anywhere near Cybertronian beauty standards. What did a human know about biolights and kibble? The angular chassis of a tank compared to the smooth curves of a racer frame? This kids would make their observations and laugh, especially when Decepticons were the topic. Prime was called a "daddy" and Bee had "Puppy energy".

"What about you, Y/N?"

Ratchet listens a little closer, but still keeps his focus on his work. You weren't a child, and had a decent processor in that head of yours. You might have some sense not to play this stupid game.

"Ratchet."

Hwat?

Ratchet almost drops his tools in surprise. You, the only human he thought had some sense think he's attractive. Glancing over his shoulder, he sees that you had been just as busy as him when the questioning started. Sat on the couch with your book, looking around, stumbling over yourself to explain. He caught some of it: intelligent, skilled. Handsome for a robot.

Miko seemed to spearhead the grilling despite being the one to start the whole thing.

When you glance in Ratchet's direction, he sees your eyes widen and how quickly you look down when they meet his optics. Shame? Embarrassment? It doesn't sit right to see you teased. Just because you can appreciate an older bot.

"What's so funny?" Ratchet scoffs, "at least one of your kind has some taste." He turns away from the console and over to the platform. Bee chirps and nudges him before getting shoved away by the doctor. "Isn't it time you all leave?"

He leans close, glaring at the kids. Miko tries snarking back about the weekend but Raf mentions a movie playing. Bee volunteers to take them home, perfect excuse for him to go to the drive in.

Wheeljack heads out with them, raising an optic ridge at the medic as he passes by. It's just the two of you left. Ratchet shift, glancing back at you. You don't look at him, sitting back on the couch with your book. Body tense and heated. Trying to look casual and relaxed and clearly anything but.

He vents out and looks back at his project, then at you again. "So... got a thing for old bots huh?"

You hunch down, gripping your book tighter. "Ratchet, I-"

"You uh… sticking around?" He interrupts, "I could use some help."

You peek up over your book. Ratchet had you help a couple times, small hands being able to reach places. And again, being the only human in this base that he thinks has a lick of sense.

"Sure... Yeah..." You put the book down and smile.

Ratchet smiles back, offering his servo for you to climb on.

[brucewaynehater101]

Android Tim Drake AU:

Drake Industries announced they had successfully created realistic-looking androids that passed the Turing Test (and harder versions of it). They were planning to release commercial models to the public within twenty years.

To go a step farther, the Drakes wanted to ensure no one was skeptical of the androids' abilities to pass as human. Thus, Janet and Jack Drake had a healthy "human" baby by the name of Timothy Jackson Drake. The only individuals aware of this are Tim, Janet, Jack, and a small handful of engineers bound with a fuck ton of NDAs. They planned to tell the public when Tim was eighteen.

While Janet and Jack Drake are aware of Tim's ability to mimic emotions, they do not believe him to be capable of actually feeling them. This leads to Tim's childhood being lonely and neglectful. He is a robot.

At first, Tim is incapable of consuming human foods or using his touch sense. They fix his touch sense by the time he is four (and thus Dick is his first hug), and the food by the time he is six. He is constantly undergoing repairs to allow him to mimic the growth pattern of a child. It's when he is nine that he finally gets pain sensors to discourage and alert him to damage.

Tim is, for all intents and purposes, legally a human. When Janet dies and Jack gets into a coma, Tim stops receiving "growth spurts." He remains the same size even after Jack wakes up from his coma.

When Tim becomes Robin, he does not disclose his status with Bruce, Dick, or anyone else. Given that his parents treat him like an object, a machine, and incapable of feelings, Tim doesn't want to be subjected to that by his heroes either.

Instead, he gaslights the hell out of the Bats, villains, and other heroes whenever he gets hit.

["Tim! You got flung into a building. You are getting a medical exam."

Tim narrows his eyes as his eyebrows raise in surprise. "Bruce.... what are you talking about?"

"I saw you get thrown into a building. You're not getting out of this."

Tim glances to the side and then back to his mentor. He carefully places a hand on Bruce's shoulder. "B... Maybe we should have Alfred check you over."

Bruce blinks in shock as his brows furrow. "What?"

Tim purses his lips and shakes his head in pity. "It's okay, B. We'll figure it out. Whatever is going on, we'll fix it."

Bruce is so confused and concerned he doesn't ask Tim to get a medical check and agrees to be checked over instead.]

Tim becomes an expert at repairing himself because he can't explain to the engineers (most of who were let go after Janet died) how he got damaged. He spends a lot of nights alone in his room turning off his pain sensors (which isn't an automatic process and is difficult to reach)in order to fix the mangled hand, the gaping gash, the crooked foot, etc.

Kon, and conversely YJ, are the first to find out about his status (darn x-ray vision and super hearing). This encourages Tim to create artificial sounds within himself to fool Superman when they first meet. This also forces Tim to wear a long-sleeved uniform and a hood to hide from x-ray vision.

Tim finds comradery with Red Tornado.

When Jack wakes up from his coma, he originally treats Tim as he did before: an object. Dana, though, changes this. Jack can't explain why he treats his "son" that way and slowly morphs into becoming a good father.

It starts as only occurring when Dana is in the room and ends with a very bitter and antagonistic Jack when she leaves. He is initially disturbed by how much Tim is "faking" emotions, particularly because Tim learned to conceal his emotions from his parents as a coping mechanism (not that Jack knows this).

As they start spending more and more time together, Jack begins accepting the idea that Tim is capable of emotions. He starts caring and loving the kid as his own.

Because of this, Jack becomes fearful for Tim. When he learns that Tim is Robin, he is both jealous of Bruce's relationship with Tim and absolutely terrified for his son (what happens if people find out that Tim is an android? How would they treat him? Tim told Jack the Waynes don't know about his status. What if Tim gets injured too badly during a mission and they find out?)

This is why Jack initially forbids Tim from being Robin. There is way too much at stake for Tim if he continues (even though, theoretically, Tim can't die. Jack can keep saves of Tim and import him into a new body if necessary. They both don't want to do this, however, because Tim's body is his. It would feel weird and wrong to put him in another one).

While Tim is prohibited from being Robin, Jack bankrupts his company in the process of getting Tim rights. He bribes the hell out of judges, law makers, etc. to subtly put I'm rights for androids. He wants Tim to have full access to his inheritance, to freedom, and to everything humans can do. He doesn't want Tim to be without it.

Tim doesn't understand why Drake Industries is going under and is pissed at Jack for preventing him from being Robin. Robin is everything to Tim. It allows him to be treated as human. It connects him to so many people.

It's only afterwards, when Tim is finally allowed to be Robin again (and Jack has ensured he did everything he could for now for Tim's rights), that Tim fully understands how much Jack loves and cares for him.

Then Jack dies.

Tim is able to hide the fact that he's an android up until a Red Helmet asshole breaks into the Tower. While YJ whisk him away before the Bats can find out, Jason knows. Jason found out.

[revelboo]

Oh my god, I physically NEED a B-127 fated mates fics. He’s so much of a lovable dork, my heart can’t!

I caved… y’all can have the excited, yappy puppy

The Coma Kid

TFO B-127 x Reader

• Tires humming on asphalt, there’s a faint anxiety humming in the back of his processor that’s there wherever he’s under the open sky. A lingering unease that he can’t shake no matter how long it’s been since he left sublevel fifty. Since he left Cybertron. And like he always does when he’s nervous, he talks. Even if it’s just to himself, because he can’t admit to Optimus or anyone else that he’s afraid, can’t even put it into words just to himself. That wide open spaces make him feel so small. So lonely. “This is fine. Totally fine. Absolutely okay,” he says, the sound of his own voice a comfort as it shatters the silence. Because if he says it enough, it must be true. Convincing himself. “I’m okay.” Even if he’s not, he can still smile and keep saying it until he believes it.

• Hair sticking to your nape with sweat, you lean against the rake and work the knots out of your back. Listening to a squirrel fussing from one of the nearby trees, and the peace and quiet is a nice change from the city. Everything feels slower here, more laid back. No stress. No traffic. There’s a faint prickling through you as you stand there that’s almost like that electric taste of lightning on the horizon, a breathless anticipation that whispers a storm is coming even though there’s not a cloud in the sky. That draws your attention to the road.

• Speeding along empty roads, patrolling for Decepticons, he realizes he’s slowing even though he hadn’t meant to. There’s a spark deep ache inside him, pulling at him and he follows it without thinking. Because it echoes through him like a memory. Something familiar. Like the first time he’d met Orion and D-16. Before everything has gone so wrong, when for a short time he’d not been alone. He’d had friends and everything had been perfect for the first time ever. “Where are you?” He mutters and then he spots one of the little organic natives to this world. Little, fragile things. He’s seen them before, but Optimus has forbidden all of them from interacting with them. “I can feel you. Are you calling me?” And he’s transforming without meaning to, seeing you turn toward him, your wide eyes meeting his optics. “Can you feel that? You can, right?”

• Rake falling from your shocked fingers as the car passing by comes apart. Becomes a giant, yellow robot and strides towards you across the lawn, hands outstretched. Hear it talking as it comes at you, reaching for you. A strange feeling of familiarity running through you as you stare at it, that sense snaring you. “Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you.” Those big hands are almost on you when you snap out of that warm haze paralyzing you, because that lulling sense that this is okay is a trap. As soon as you break free of it, you scream and run.

• “Wait-wait.” Lunging, suddenly desperate to catch you, to not lose that sense of belonging, he swipes at your much smaller form. “I said I won’t hurt you! I promise!” You’re fast and he dives, a servo snagging your leg and you go sprawling. Allowing him to drag you back to him by a leg even as you start kicking at his hands with the other. “Stop, it’s okay. I promise it’s okay.” Looming over you, he picks you up and nearly drops you when you try to throw yourself out of his hands. Curling forward around you, feeling the frantic beat of your heart and that sense of home and belonging singing through him as he cages you in his servos. Doesn’t understand what this is, only that he’s never going to be alone again. Never letting go, no matter what. “We’re okay now.” Servos pressing you close to him even as you struggle.

Next

[locomoqo]

Heyyy i was wondering if you could write some Gun and Goo x reader fluff together? Your writing is absolutely amazing! 😁

Also, I was wondering if, in the future, you would ever consider writing for olly wang?

sharking

— gun park & goo kim x reader

details: fluff, the relationship between you and them is all up to you!

A/N: billiards is so cool, I applaud ppl who can play it😋 ..me personally i suck ass at billiards and yes! i'll consider writing for olly wang :DD

Gun and Goo were already mid-argument when you joined them at the pool table, both of them dramatically chalking up their cues. You couldn’t help but laugh as Goo pointed his cue at Gun with a grin that was equal parts competitive and smug.

“Just because you look serious doesn’t mean you’re actually good,” Goo taunted, lining up his shot.

Gun raised an eyebrow, giving him that trademark glare. “And you think you’ll hit anything?” His voice was cold but had that familiar dry humor you’d come to expect from him.

Goo gasped in mock offense. Spotting you, he turned to you, “Bet you’d want to be on my team, huh?” a grin on his face.

“Maybe I’ll just stay neutral and watch you two bicker like an old married couple.” You chuckled, eyeing the table.

Gun actually cracked a small, amused smirk. “See? Even they don’t trust you.”

With a wink, Goo pouted, feigning hurt. “Fine, watch and be amazed!” He dramatically aimed his cue, only to completely miss the shot. You burst into laughter as he froze, trying to save face. “That was…intentional. Strategy, see?”

Gun rolled his eyes, then effortlessly sank a ball in the corner pocket with his usual precision. He didn’t gloat, but the smug glance he shot Goo said it all. “That’s how it’s done,” he remarked dryly.

You clapped, teasing, “Looks like you’re on your own, Goo.”

Goo shook his head with an exaggerated sigh, waving his cue. “One day, you’ll see my true talent,” he grumbled. 

As the game went on, you watched the back-and-forth intensify. Goo kept trying to redeem himself, taking increasingly wild shots—some going in and some not, while Gun played with infuriating precision, each shot calculated and clean. You could feel Goo’s frustration building every time Gun effortlessly sank another ball.

Goo nudged you, whispering, “You’re my lucky charm, right? Just… distract him or something.” His eyes sparkled with mischief, and you rolled your eyes.

“Distract Gun? Are you kidding? He’s like a robot,” you whispered back, shooting a glance at Gun, who caught your look and raised an eyebrow, clearly sensing something.

“I can hear you, you know,” Gun said dryly, leaning down to line up his next shot. He didn’t even need to look up to know Goo was scheming.

“Oh, come on, don’t be so uptight,” Goo groaned, crossing his arms. “Let me have just one lucky shot. I’m doing this for us!” He winked at you, clearly pushing you to be his path to winning.

“You’d need more than luck to beat me, Goo,” Gun shot back, actually cracking a small smirk, which was almost as rare as a total eclipse.

Feeling playful, you moved closer to Gun just as he was lining up a shot. “What if I do distract you, though?” you teased softly.

Gun paused, eyes narrowing when he momentarily glanced at you. “You think you could?” his voice steady, but the corner of his mouth hinting at a smile.

You leaned back, grinning, and just as Gun missed his shot, Goo seized the opportunity, taking a shamelessly quick shot. The ball actually went in, and Goo threw his hands up in exaggerated victory. “See! That’s skill!” he declared, beaming at you as if he’d just won a championship.

Gun straightened, giving him a blank stare. “Lucky,” he muttered, but there was an undeniable trace of amusement in his eyes.

You found yourself caught in the middle of their banter, realizing just how much you loved these moments with the two of them, where even Gun’s serious edges softened.

[ivyyisbored22]

𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐞—𝘑𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯 𝘹 (𝘧𝘦𝘮) 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

A Stray Kids one shot

Synopsis: They are technically yours. But he owns them.

Warnings: Tiddie obsessed Jeongin. No plot, just Smut🔞. Sucking, fingering, pet names, touchy and kinda whiney Innie. Hand kink(???)

Minors do not interact!!!

Note: I'm on a writing rampage right now, did I just post like 4 one shots in a row?!

If this isn't your thing, you're more than welcome to skip it. Reblogs, likes, comments and feedbacks are always appreciated.

ɪ'ᴠᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴏꜰ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ɪᴛ ᴀ ᴍɪʟʟɪᴏɴ ᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ ʙᴜᴛ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴘᴏᴛ ᴀ ᴍɪꜱᴛᴀᴋᴇ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴡʜᴇʀᴇ, ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ʟᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴡ.

Word count: 1.5k

𝑬𝑵𝑱𝑶𝒀!

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Jeongin is the sweetest gentleman, the walking green forest, the best boyfriend when he’s with you.

Surprises you with the cutest dates, refuses to let go of your hand when walking through the aisles in the grocery store, snakes his arm around your waist and pulls you close to him, literally wanting to merge you into his soul. He’s just that devastatingly in love with you.

And this is the same gentleman, lover boy Jeongin who is obsessed with your boobs. And not just obsessed. He possesses your tits. 

The way his face brightens like a thousand suns when he catches you not wearing a bra, has him giggling, if he could deadass replace that piece of clothing with his hands, he would do it without hesitation.

But during some mornings—like today—you have to physically push him away from your chest so that you can get ready for work which only has him sulking the entire day.

He'll act like it's the end of the world, as if the universe is being cruel to no one but him, refusing to do anything, be an emotionless robot at the studio that half pisses Chan off. 

And once you come back, does he greet you with a hello? Hey baby, how was your day? No.

“Get here before I rip that top off.” His eyes burned, hungrily. Arms were crossed as he sat on the couch, waiting for you to get back home. 

“Well hello to you too,” You said, kicking your shoes off and hanging your jacket. Sometimes you wondered if he dated you for you or your boobs but deep down you could feel a blooming sense of pride how Jeongin basically survives just because of your pretty mounds.

"Don't start," he warned, his foot tapping against the floor like he was holding himself back from pouncing on you.

"Innie, you behave like you haven't seen them in years," you teased, crossing your arms under your chest just to test him. His jaw clenched, his Adam’s apple bobbing as his eyes dropped straight to where you wanted them.

A low growl rumbled in his throat before he was up on his feet, closing the space between you in two quick strides. His hands found your waist, firm but gentle, tugging you closer until you had no choice but to tip your head back to meet his gaze.

He scoffed, shaking his head before he pulled the neckline of your top enough to get a peek. His eyes darkened as he hummed in approval.

You smacked his hands away. "At least let me change first!"

He arched a brow. "Change into what?" He looked like you had just insulted him in the face.

His pout was almost convincing, but you knew better. He was the same guy who’d whined dramatically when you wore a turtleneck last week, claiming it was "the worst betrayal known to mankind" because he "couldn’t even get a glimpse" the whole day.

A strong hand cupped your right breast over your top, a dimpled grin deepening on his cheek. “I'm reclaiming what’s mine."

“Huh, excuse you!” You swatted his hand away again playfully and he lost it. 

Jeongin let out a frustrated groan, his fingers flexing at his sides as if he was physically restraining himself from grabbing you again. His jaw clenched, and that all-too-familiar spark of mischief flickered in his dark eyes.

"Come on, baby," he whined, begging you, dragging his hands down his face. "I've been deprived. Starved. Look at me."

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest just to taunt him. "Oh, please. You're acting like you haven't had your hands on me all week."

Jeongin tilted his head back, literally one second away from throwing a tantrum. "Yeah, but that was all in moderation. I need full access, no limitations."

You narrowed your eyes at him and he whined again shamelessly. “Please pleaseeee baby,” he cupped your breast again and you didn’t swat him away this time. “I need it…please...” 

Dear god how can you say no to that voice and those eyes? Big, pleading, glimmering with just enough desperation to make your stomach twist in the most delicious way. That whine in his voice, the way he squeezed your breast in his palm like he’d die without it, had you sighing in mock defeat.

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, but your fingers threaded into his hair, nails grazing his scalp.

Jeongin grinned, a triumphant smug, before his lips brushed your jawline, pressing slow, teasing kisses down your neck. His hand flexed over your breast, massaging, thumb flicking lazily over the clothed peak.

Then he was suddenly gripping the back of your thighs, lifting you effortlessly, walking into your shared bedroom and tossed you onto the mattress. A surprised squeal left your lips as you landed, but he was already hovering over you, caging you in with his arms on either side of your head.

“Mmm, I missed these,” he murmured, nosing along your collarbone before nipping at your skin. “Missed you.”

Your breath hitched, heat curling low in your stomach. “Jeongin—”

“I know, baby,” he cooed, voice dripping with that lazy sympathy as he sucked a mark right where your shoulder met your neck. His free hand slid down, touching the hem of your top and pushed it up, before you knew he had removed it and your pink bra had found a new home on the floor. 

His brain short circuited when his eyes landed on your pretty tits, his huge hands, long fingers closed over the soft flesh, his thumbs flicking over the now hard, sensitive peaks, before the tip of his tongue painted ghost circles over your areola making your thighs clench instinctively.

His lips brushed over the swell of your breast, latching his mouth onto your exposed skin, leaving another mark on you. His tongue flicked, teeth grazing your nipple and took it in his mouth, sucking hard enough to make your back arch into him.

Your fingers tugged at his hair, making him groan against you. His hands roamed, gripping, squeezing, like he had to feel every inch of you at once.

You gasped as he continued sucking greedily with just enough pressure to have your stomach flipping. Jeongin hummed, laving his tongue over the sensitive bud, before moving to the other one, giving it just as much attention.

He couldn't get enough. If he could have his mouth where it "deserved" to belong, he'd stay where he is right now forever. His breathing was erratic but he didn’t care. His slurps and wet groans rumbled through his chest, sending pleasuring shockwaves through you. 

"You're so soft," he murmured, voice husky, lips pressing teasing kisses over the marks he’d already left, his hands kneading, squeezing and playing with your tits. 

Sure, his slender hands, warm mouth gave you ounces of pleasure but touching and tasting you just gets him off and so down bad.

His lips were swollen from the continuous sucking and your nipples were slick with his saliva and still he dragged his mouth across your chest, leaving behind a wet trail of warm, open mouthed kisses.

“Innie,” you gasped when he rolled and lightly pinched the bud. 

“Hmm?” he hummed against your skin, a smirk evident in his tone. “I’m listening, baby.”

He wasn’t. Not really. He was too caught up in you, too obsessed with the way your body reacted under his touch. His long fingers slid down the valley of your stomach before it slipped in your skirt, tracing his fingertips over your soaking panties. 

You couldn't make out words. A long moan slipped past you when he pushed the drenched fabric to the side and thrusted two of his digits inside your cunt while his mouth was reattached on your breast.

It felt like heaven. To you and him.

His fingers curled just right and his mouth worked just right that had you squirming beneath him, your hands tangling the strands of his hair. 

“More…Innie,” your voice was breathless, pleading, and it sent a rush of satisfaction through him.

Jeongin’s smirk deepened at the way you gasped his name, his hands never stopping their slow, torturous exploration. 

His thumb pressed on your clit right as he hit the sweet spot, your release gushed down your thighs and his fingers, the purring hum of him vibrating over your skin as he released your now swollen nub with a pop!

You looked up at Jeongin who's now half groggy gaze never left yours, lips glistening with a lazy smile tugging the corners.

He withdrew his fingers, licking them clean and rested his head back again on your chest, his other hand closing possessively over the flesh. 

“Mine.” He commanded, a feather light kiss brushing past your skin, his eyes closing as he laid his head on you, falling asleep under the sound of your heartbeat.

You had held him gently, threading your fingers through his hair, soothing him into his slumber as he slept on his favourite pillow but you couldn't help but wonder if what he meant was you or your boobs. 

But again, you couldn't have it any other way. 

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Enjoyed this one shot? Consider checking my masterlist for more. Requests? Check 𝚁𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚜 (& 𝚁𝚞𝚕𝚎𝚜)

Taglist: @velvetmoonlght @de-uns-tempos-pra-ca @greyyeti

If you want to be added to the taglist, drop a comment <3 (If I missed someone please lmk)

Thank you for reading!

xx,

Ivyy

[itsabouttimex2]

Fizzling Neon

“…can I tell you something that bothers me?”

There’s not quite a sneer on your coworker’s face, but the expression he wears while turning to you is regardless unhappy. The man’s never much cared for your rambles, and especially not while the two of you were on kitchen duty.

Then, he’s never much cared for you in general.

But if he has to choose between his own thoughts (centering mostly on his ex-wife, if you had to guess) your awkward ramblings, or a droning and dead silence that was cut only by Chica’s muffled gorging, the gray-haired man would probably pick you, though he would do so reluctantly.

Very reluctantly.

“Well?” the aged man finally grunts, arms crossed as he leans back against the counter. His tense posture screams impatience, but at least he’s waiting for you to say something instead of outright ignoring you. “What is it?”

You hesitate, unsure if you should bother, even with his explicit approval. Your coworker doesn’t like you- he’s made that clear enough over the past four months. Still, there’s something gnawing at you, something you need to get off your chest before it eats you alive. A rattling clatter of pots and pans kicks up in the washing area, accompanied by incessant crunching noises- the avian animatronic must’ve gotten into an unfinished dish.

You don’t want to sound like some manic conspiracy theorist, of course- that type pops up on the premises of the Pizzaplex constantly, filming themselves as they harangue the workers and scare the children- only to scurry away when you pleaded with Monty to scare them off- the kids always got a kick out of that, at least.

Still, all antics aside… maybe talking about it would do you some good.

“…it doesn’t make any sense for them to be animatronics.”

He turns to you, sporting an expression that implies you may well have grown a second head, utterly dumbfounded by such an out of pocket (to him) statement.

His brows knit together tightly, lips twisting into a grimace that makes him look even less pleasant than he already does. “What in the blazing hell are you even talking about?” he finally asks, his voice a low growl that barely carries over the distant clang of metal on tile as Chica shuffles around.

You squirm for a moment, then spill in a hurried rush of words built around cobbled knowledge from your childhood.

“It’s just… these are… they’re robots. And, animatronics are, well, they… animatronics- real animatronics, I mean, they’re- they’re puppets! Animatronics are supposed to be puppets hooked to machinery hidden in the ground, machines that host the puppet’s programming for the routines they perform! They’re supposed to be fragile, breakable! You’re supposed to be able to shatter them, shove them around, pick them up and throw them- in case they break down and block people in an emergency! Or, or like… the design specs, in general, they’re- so like, if an animatronic closes around a kid’s hands, the design specs of these things are specifically built to be fragile enough to never exert enough force to hurt the kid! They’re not supposed to be able to move arcade machines, or jostle vending machines, or pick up kids! And-“

“You know what, kid? And I’m gonna be real level with you, just cause I don’t think the management bothers doing it when they really should- nobody gives half a damn about your autist bullshit. They were always called animatronics. From the first fucking pizzeria to the last pissing pizzaplex, they were animatronics, puppets, machines, and no one except for you gives a shit about the name they use. And look, you wanna obsess over this crap, fine. Just don’t bring it up with me again. Got enough on my plate without babysitting your paranoia about trivial corpo branding bullshit.”

He throws his soiled dishrag against the metal interior of the sink before him, then stomps off towards the staff room in order to punch out and head home, probably hoping to down a fifth of whiskey and pass out.

You stand there in shocked silence for a moment, throat tight and eyes growing wet, trying to compose yourself as the angry pounding of his footsteps fades away.

It hurts. You wish it didn’t hurt so bad, especially when the scorn comes from someone you don’t particularly know or care for, someone you know doesn’t particularly care for you.

You want to shove those painful feelings away, because you know if you dwell on it too long, you’ll start spiraling, and there’s no one here who wants to listen- not without mocking you or brushing you off.

Except- the sound of metal footsteps breaks your train of thought, and those steps are heavy and deliberate, echoing through the empty kitchen. You freeze, pulse quickening, because it’s late, nearly time to close, and you’re very certainly the last person in the pizzaplex.

“Oh, Superstar…”

His voice, as always, is smooth and warm, carrying an affectionate tone that he usually reserves for children. You don’t need to turn around to know who that soothing voicebox belongs to.

You swallow, hard, gripping the edge of the kitchen countertop as the sound of metal feet against porcelain grows louder. He’s close now, just behind you, and you feel the subtle hum of his mechanical frame, a strange, ever-present vibration that seems to radiate from him, and you are awash in the cyan hue that drifts from his mechanical body.

Glamrock Freddy.

You open your mouth to respond, but no words come out at first. There’s a lump buried deep in your throat, and with it there’s a fear that if you try to explain yourself, you might break down entirely.

Freddy waits, a patience so unshakable it mirrors the steel he’s built from.

And he waits a little longer still, right up until there are tears brimming in your eyes, threatening to spill, and then one of his large paws reaches to bundle around the back of your head, holding it there as though he’s cradling something fragile, something precious.

At his gentle, synthetic touch your lips press tightly together, unwilling to speak for risk of breaking a dam that spills regardless, and as the first of many tears trickle down your cheek, Freddy’s thumb; soft with synthetic padding, swipes it from your face.

“That was very unkind of him, Superstar. I will be sure to report his behavior to management, for it is in violation of the rules of the Mega Pizzaplex.”

“N-no, Freddy, it’s fine. Really… really, it’s fine, and I don’t want to cause any trouble.

The ursine machine, so many warmth welling behind his eyes that the kitchen feels cold in comparison, he tilts his head, his illuminated blue eyes narrowing ever so slightly, not in anger but in something softer- concern, and to some degree even disbelief. He doesn’t move the heft of his hand, still cradling your head with the care of someone holding glass. “It is not fine,” he insists gently, voicebox unwavering. “Everyone within the Pizzaplec must treat one another with respect. The rules are very clear.”

A bitter laugh escapes you before you can stop it. “Yeah, well, rules don’t really stop people from being jerks, do they? Just… just please let it go, Freddy. It’s not worth it.”

There is a long, lingering moment where he continues to stare, eye lights drooped at your insistence on allowing things to be. But, finally, he lowers his hand, though his frame remains close, looming like a shield against the sterile, fluorescent lights kitchen. “Your feelings are worth it, Superstar,” he says after a beat. “But I will not push.”

Then he pauses, awkward and almost ashamed, then kneels to level his gaze to your own, and quietly speaks. “And I did not mean to eavesdrop on the staff, but I did overhear the management speaking to one another about the weather.

Oh. Oh no.

“So I wanted to tell you that a snowstorm is predicted, and, on behalf of the Pizzaplex, I wanted to extend you an invitation to stay overnight, since you do not have a way to get home if the bus is out.”

Oh, Cassie was going to be devastated.

Freddy straightens up at your lack of apparent response, his hulking frame towering over you once more, though his demeanor remains calm. “I spoke to the daycare attendant about preparing a bed for you- his residence has many cozy spots, and I believe you will find it suitable.”

You cringe when he mentions the daycare, snapping your thoughts from the soon to be birthday girl.

The attendant's dual personalities were a lot to handle during even just the day- but Moon's presence at night, especially, would be downright unnerving. But Freddy, gentle and unyielding, he turns you around with his big paws and nudges you towards the kitchen’s entrance.

The white doors swing open as Freddy pushes you past them, and the sounds of the nearly silent Pizzaplex greet you. The faint hum of machines powering down for the night drifts through the air, and the glittering lights of arcade machines flicker in the distance, while the mascots painted on the walls seem to grin down at you with their smiles.

It dawns on you now, staring up at the acrylic likeness of the lead animatronic that you hadn’t said yes to his offer, hadn’t quite stuck yourself through with the promise of a full night with the daycare attendant… and with Freddy going in the opposite direction, no doubt heading to his own room for the night… well, there wasn’t exactly anyone around to ensure that your footfall led you to the ever-unnerving nursery.

And, for that matter, a revelation dawning quickly upon you- you didn’t even know if the weather had started turning for the worse. If the storm was so bad that it would put out the local bus, sure, then you might not have a choice. But a light sprinkle wouldn’t kill you, and the lost and found wouldn’t mind you “borrowing” a jacket or scarf.

You turn toward the far end of the Pizzaplex, where the staff exit looms. You could just… check for yourself. There’s a strange, dread pang in your chest like the bite of an icicle, the notion that you might be caught going off-course, then returned to your path like an errant child.

Freddy surely wouldn’t mind you only checking out the window, would he?

Definitely not.

But still you step lightly, shoes squeaking faintly against the polished floor as the exit grew nearer and nearer. The Pizzaplex, as well as you've grown to know it, comes to feel unnaturally large when it’s this quiet- without at least a dozen children to draw your attention from the winding halls and the sprawling white floor, sometimes the place feels more like a labyrinth than a glorified daycare.

Though the twin doors come into reach without obstruction, there's still a prickling sense of unease that crawls the length of your skin, sending shivers down your spine as you reach for the silver handles.

Just a peek isn't going to hurt anyone, you tell yourself with a measure of false confidence.

It does not stop the trembling chill that races your heart to pump erratically as you make the move to push the doors open, and your skin grows colder still at the sight before you.

Snowflakes.

Fluffy, chunky snowflakes, cascading from the sky in a relentless flurry, the parking lot and roads already blanketed in white. The wind howls, biting and sharp. The city looks almost like a desolate tundra, smeared in thick strokes of white. The last bus is nowhere to be seen, likely sent back to the station early to avoid the storm.

You pull harshly on the doors, snapping them shut to prevent a gale wind from blowing through, to prevent snow from spilling onto the tile, and then you turn back, resigning yourself to a long night in the daycare, and then there’s a flicker of movement in the reflection of the chilled glass. You freeze, breath hitching sharply.

Slowly, you turn around, expecting to see Freddy or perhaps one of the staff bots patrolling the area.

And there is no one around.

Not that you can see, at least.

But the sound -faint, metallic clicking- tells you something is near. It’s sharply deliberate, like the tapping of long nails against glass.

And then a gangly shadow falls over you, dragging half of a shriek out of your lips right before you slap your hands over them.

Your head snaps up, eyes wide, and there, in a fluid arc of motion, leaping from the ceiling, is Moon, his painted grin wide and unsettlingly toothy in the dim lighting. He cast an eerie silhouette across the room as he lands upright with barely a thud, tilting his head to regard you.

“Why are you out of bed?”

“I was just…”, you start to say, but the words catch in your throat as he draws nearer. “I was only…”

“You know it’s against the rules to wander, don’t you?”

Your heart races as you stumble back, desperate to put distance between yourself and the unsettling animatronic. For all that you (and perhaps none but you and Cassie shared this feeling) had a soft spot for Sun, there was no denying that Moon had grown strange of late, often over-bolstering his “child-caring protocols”, to the terror of his many, many charges. Too often you had to step in and watch over them in his place just to ensure the kids would get some measure of sleep.

“I-I… no, i was just… just checking the weather,” you stammer, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Oh, checking the weather!” he repeats, his tone exaggeratedly bright and overly cheerful, though there’s an unmistakable edge beneath it. “But the rules are very clear- no wandering after hours! And you wouldn’t want to break the rules, would you, Starlight?”

That nickname doesn’t feel the same way that “Superstar” feels, not as warm or bright or genuine.

…but it’s still nice (admittedly less so under these circumstances) to have someone care enough to give you a moniker- and unlike Freddy, who simply maintained that everyone he liked was his special “Superstar”, the lunar half of the daycare attendant was far more reserved with his affections.

If he had let that feeling grow a little longer, that slow drift of bubbling warmth rising around your heart, maybe you wouldn’t have screamed out even past the barriers of your hands as he lunged forward and snagged his thin fingers around each side of your waist.

Instead, you simply shriek and kick.

That doesn’t stop Moon from lifting you slowly, his grip more than firm enough to make escape impossible. He tilts his head, his painted grin never wavering, though there’s something unsettling about the way his glowing red eyes seem to scan every inch of you, as if gauging your intent.

“No screaming,” he chides softly, his voice lowering to a whisper that echoes unnaturally in the empty Pizzaplex. “You’ll wake everyone up. Naughty, naughty.”

Your breath hitches as you struggle against his unyielding grip, your hands clawing uselessly at his smooth, cold arms. Moon holds you aloft effortlessly, his glowing red eyes locked on yours with an intensity that makes your stomach twist.

“Please,” you manage to croak, weak voice trembling. “I- I wasn’t… I wasn’t trying to cause trouble! I just… I just wanted to see if the storm was bad.”

His metal grin remains fixed, the crescent of his face gleaming faintly in the low light. “Storms are dangerous, Starlight,” he murmurs, his voice mechanical but almost sing-song, and still dripping with a strange condescension. “You could get lost. Hurt. It’s better to stay where things are safe.”

There is an unsteady pulse pounding through your chest now, a staccato rhythm that you’re certain he can sense. His glowing red eyes narrow, and his rictus grin; for all that it is fixed in place by steel, seems to grow wider.

He cradles you closer, the warmth of his metallic hands seeping through your uniform. The hum of his inner workings vibrate faintly, a reminder of the sheer difference between your anatomies. His voice drops lower, head leaning in to hiss lowly in your ear.

“And safe,” he whispers, “means staying close to me, Starlight.”

[starsfic]

Friendship Bracelets

This is based off a fun idea by @ldhedgehog, where Sonic and Shadow end up with a quill from each other and can use that to sense each other's emotions.

Fine. He was hedgehog to admit it.

Sonic had a bit of separation anxiety.

He and his parents chalked it up to the sudden loss of Longclaw and the ten years spent alone. Sonic had been so excited for his first day of school, with actual kids his age, but had spent most of the day deep in anxiety. What if being away from him was enough to convince Tom and Maddie that he didn't deserve to live with them? What if something happened to them? What if something happened to them and Sonic was all by himself again-

Sonic spent most of the day clinging to Tom when he got home.

It had gotten better. He had learned that Tom and Maddie were solid in their love for him. They texted each other during points in the day. Tails and Knuckles, once they were enveloped into the Wachowski fold, were also there, steadying him.

And then Shadow had come along and then was suddenly gone. There was still anger at him for hurting Tom, an anger that was only mollified by a bit when Tom admitted that he had spooked Shadow, but there was also grief.

Shadow had complemented him. It was like there was a piece of him missing that Sonic had never realized until he and Shadow were dancing in the stars, miniature shooting stars, and whispering of grief and loss on the moon. He loved Knuckles and Tails, of course, but neither could truly challenge him in speed, not until he met furious red eyes.

He had spent months convinced Shadow was dead.

And then Shadow was back, dragging Rouge the Bat with him and bursting into the scene like something out of an action movie, kicking a Metal Sonic away from Amy.

They hadn't had much time to talk, but Shadow's eyes lit up when they met, and he admitted that he had been grieving Sonic too, his hand tight around his. They weren't miniature shooting stars at the end, but they still could give one hell of an encore to their dance.

Then they had to separate again.

Shadow wasn't safe on Earth, not when GUN was around. Sonic understood, especially when Director Rockwell marched in and started screaming questions a few seconds after they shoved Shadow, Rouge, Amy, and that one robot they apparently stole from GUN through the ring portal. However, the minute they sat down in the truck, ready to head back to Green Hills where Shadow and the others would meet them, Sonic felt tears pricking at his eyes- not the normal tears he usually shed after a battle, but real, frantic tears.

What if he had just been a hallucination? What if something happened to him in the five minutes it took to set up a ring portal? What if something happened to him and Sonic was by himself again-

Panic attacks sucked. That was a fun fact that he learned. Maddie had decided, once he was back to himself, that they were all getting therapy. Nobody protested this.

Especially not Shadow, who spent the rest of the night- because his parents refused to let anyone go hungry, especially after a battle like that- hovering by his side. It took a lot of effort to convince him to let go of Sonic's hand at the end of dinner. Then Sonic had a nightmare in the middle of the night and had summoned a ring portal to Rouge's house, right as Shadow was crawling through his window to apparently check if Sonic was still breathing.

This started a pattern that was rapidly becoming an issue.

So when Maddie said she had a way to possibly help with their separation anxiety, Sonic honestly doubted her.

"It's a thing I noticed," she explained as she worked at the table, the two of them sitting across from her. "Shadow, you had one of Sonic's quills at one point, and you could tell Sonic was alive."

"Yes," Shadow said with a nod. "I think our mutual bond with the Chaos Emeralds may have infused our quills." Nobody mentioned that chaos energy was how Gerald Robotnik had lived way past his prime. The thought of Eggman possibly licking his quill made Sonic want to shiver out of his skin, he did not want to imagine what Shadow thought of his sort-of father figure licking his quill.

"Yeah!" his mom said brightly. "So, I did some research and poked at some of your quills, Sonic." She finished whatever she was doing, revealing two bracelets.

They looked like friendship bracelets, done with red and blue strings. However, when Sonic squinted, he realized that one had a lot more blue. The other had a familiar red tint to it.

"Hedgehog quills are actually hollow, making them flexible," Maddie explained as she held them out to them. "But your two's quills are way more flexible than I expected, more like human hair. I'm guessing that's because you guys aren't actually hedgehogs, but something resembling hedgehogs..." Sonic took the bracelet with more red and slid it on as Shadow slid the blue one on.

He twisted his wrist back and forth, studying the bracelet. It was close-fitting, meaning it wouldn't snag on anything, which was good. Sonic felt a burst of interest in his chest as Shadow's quills caught the light, turning a lighter shade of red.

Then he looked at Shadow, who was studying his own bracelet. The blue looked good on him. He looked nice with blue. He looked nice in general, but right now he looked cutely nice, kinda like a cat with how his ears flicked-

Shadow's ears flicked and Sonic had to resist the urge to squeal.

Shadow's head turned then.

"Did...did you just squeal in your head?" he said, sounding baffled. "I could feel that enough that I could hear it."

...oh. Maybe separation anxiety was better.

[castillon02]

When Jason starts to prioritize cooperation as well as vengeance, Tim suspects Jason's self-control still isn't that great. Since he's Tim, well...

He conducts some tests.

Hood is about to murder someone that they need information from when Tim calls out, "Hey, Hood, has anyone ever told you that you're a Decepticon wannabe who probably fucks himself to the sound of his own robot voice?"

Hood stills.

The drug dealer who sold tenth-grader Benny Garcia fentanyl gapes in a way that shows off his recently-missing teeth.

Hood drops the dealer in a heap and turns his shitkicker combat boots in Tim's direction.

Tim bolts. Batman will swoop in to continue the dealer's interrogation; he and Hood have figured out a good-cop-bad-cop thing, though Batman still seems bemused about the chance to be 'good cop.'

Hood races after him.

---

Tim makes it to a safe house off of Robinson Park. He probably lost Hood about half an hour ago, but it never hurts to be careful. Especially when---oh, shit.

"This place is filthy," Jason says, sitting on the kitchen counter that Tim never uses and looking with disdain at Tim's collection of empty energy drink cans, takeout boxes, and crime yarn. Jason's not wearing his helmet or domino, and he taps his boot heels softly against the cabinet door like a little kid. Not exactly danger signals.

But for a moment, all Tim can look at is the boots. It's stupid; the knife at his neck was closer to fatal. But the kicking had hurt the worst.

"Since you apparently have time to run your mouth," Jason says, "and since someone stole my target, it seems like we both have time to clean up in here. I went out and got trash bags." He nudges a box on the counter next to him. The trash bags are the sturdy kind, not the flimsy cheap kind or the extra-strength hide-the-body-parts kind.

Tim has been meaning to get trash bags for this place for three weeks. It's just that he doesn't visit often, and when he does it's usually when he's injured or tired, and he could get things delivered but that's a paper trail he could avoid if he just made time to visit the bodega down the street... "You're a trash bag," he says, even though it doesn't make sense.

Jason rolls his eyes. "Just for that, we're mopping the floor too. Luckily, I came prepared." He hops down from the counter and opens the little mystery closet next to the fridge. Inside: a broom, a Swiffer, a bucket, a pack of scrub brushes still in their plastic, and a jug of bleach.

Ohhh, that's why the closet is so narrow. It's supposed to hold cleaning supplies. Right. Tim definitely knew that. Tim definitely doesn't just have a roll of paper towels...somewhere...that he sometimes puts dish soap on.

He squints at Jason. Still no green danger-eyes. "Darcy and Elizabeth would never let you be part of a throuple with them," he tries.

Jason pulls out a trash bag. "They've got issues anyway."

"Helen Keller would make up new words so she could sign how ugly your face is."

"She was a socialist," Jason says. He holds the bag and gestures at Tim's kitchen table. "So we'd probably just talk about organizing the working class. I don't think looks would come into it. Also, way to be a dick."

"You're so pathetic that Jane Eyre would give up on you like she didn't give up on Rochester," Tim says, figuring he did the research for this attack, so he might as well use it.

Jason actually laughs a little bit. "First of all, there's a lot of power exchange going on in that decision, so jot that down," he says. "Second of all." He looks Tim in the face. "If I start to lose my temper, I'll leave, okay? Or you can just ask me to."

"Even if I asked right now?" Tim asks.

"Even if you asked right now," Jason confirms, though he eyeballs Tim's mess.

Jason's still holding the trash bag. Hands out, open body language, seemingly not homicidal.

Tim had planned for a lot of things with this encounter, including a body bag. Trash bags weren't one of his considered variables. He starts picking up empty cans. "This one can be for recycling," he says, dumping the cans into Jason's bag. New things from old materials. Jason likes that symbolism shit, right?

(Though...new things. Old materials. If there's anyone who ought to be good at that, it's someone who got raised from the dead.

Tim smirks and keeps the thought to himself. Operation: Limitless has been a startling success; he doesn't need to verbalize all his inside thoughts now.)

("Kid, I can tell you're thinking about a zombie joke," Jason says anyway. "You can only tell me after we've brought this shit-heap back to life.")

[darkmatters-ghost]

While I know that the Sonic Boom cartoon show hype is probably super dead, the way Sonic and Eggman interact has me convinced Eggman did SOME parenting when Sonic was tiny, so here's my headcanon for that. Enjoy!

While Eggman could conquer the island he lived at, Bygone Island, the one he found nearby would be much easier, hypothetically anyway.

While Seaside Island was redundantly named, it was much more his style. The villages on it were smaller and meeker. They had no real way to fight back against his takeover! Which made it the perfect starting point for his upcoming break in his villainy career! If he took that island, surely that would've made his father proud!

Unfortunately, 'if' is the key word in that sentence.

The little blue hedgehog was no older than five years old, but despite his youth, he sucessfully stood between Eggman and complete control of the island.

And the little ragamuffin didn't even talk.

He never said a word, just showed up with his super speed and sharp quills and would put a stop to whatever genius plan he was making by breaking all his robots.

Eggman wished he knew the little nuisance's name, but seeing as he wasn't interested in talking, it left Eggman to hypothesize on appearance alone.

His back quills had ripped right through a shabby brown jacket that he wore, to the point where it wouldn't work as a jacket much longer. His gloves were constantly dirty, and no one on the forsaken island admitted who his parents were. It was like he suddenly existed one day! With no explanation!

The blue hedgehog was often running at ludicrous speeds. Speeds that, depending on the day, neared the sound barrier!

Eggman feared the day that the little blueberry would create a sonic boom.

The 'impending-sonic-boom' as he began to call the hedgehog was rather unpredictible. It all fell on a scale. Going extremely fast one day, sticking his tounge out at him and humming mocking songs, to going at what must've been like a meer jog to him, with no aknowledgement of Eggman at all the next day.

But one day, things were far more unpredictable than Eggman had bargined for.

He was racing the impending-sonic-boom in the Eggmobile. There was no hope of winning, just like there was no hope for his receeding hairline, but he needed a test. He couldn't create a robotic duplicate without anything to base it on! So it didn't matter that there was no hope of winning!

Eggman didn't need to be fancy with it, he just told the five year old koolaid stain that if he reached the end of the course before the rodent did, that he would offically own the island. And being five years old, he took it seriously.

There was no hope of winning. Not with the determination on the little guy's face.

So one can imagine the confusion that Eggman was met with when he won.

It didn't make any sense! He wasn't even- It was just the Eggmobile! It was nothing fancy! That sound-barrier-threatening-lifeform was much faster than that!

Eggman got off of his Eggmobile and stared at the folliage in front of him. Waiting to see blue quills poking out from the tall grass.

"Oh, Blueberry! I'm waaaaiting!"

It took another three seconds for the kid to show up. And when he did, he looked tired.

"Kid, you gotta be faster than that! You're not doing this on purpose are you? If this is just to spite me..."

The rodent shook his head. Eggman wouldn't have believed him if he didn't look so tired.

"Then what gives!? You can't just suddenly be slow! It's narratively inconsistent!"

The blue menace looked up at Eggman with an angry look.

"No... foo." Eggman flinched. He just spoke. He just... SPOKE.

"What? What did you say?"

"No foo...d! No food... No... fast!"

"Your speed depends on your diet?" Eggman tapped his chin, before grinning smugly. "What, did you miss your peanut butter sandwich for lunch?"

He was promptly glared at. "Okay! Geez!" Eggman tapped his gauntlet, and used it to scan the incoming-sonic-boom.

"Let's see, you're about five years old, according to your inteligence and fine motor skills... and you're one foot tall so you should weigh roughly..."

Eggman's stomach sank. He knew for a fact that the arriving-sonic-boom wasn't hitting that number. Not by a lot... Eggman could pick him up like he was a beach ball.

"When did you last eat..?"

Nothing. Nothing but staring.

"Yesterday? ...No? How about the day before? Th-the day before that? Five days ago? How about a week ago?!"

It wasn't until they hit a week and a half that the sonic-boom-in-progress pointed at Eggman. Signifying the correct timeframe

Eggman stared at the incoming-sonic-boom. For anyone, that would be damaging. For a five year old, that was almost a death sentence.

Eggman crouched down to the sonic-boom-creator and put a thumb under his chin. He squirmed violently and pushed Eggman's hand away as he stepped back.

But Eggman saw what he needed to see. There was almost no fat on his face. He was horribly underweight.

Eggman was a villain. Not a monster.

The hedgehog wiped his face, as if Eggman had gotten something on it by touching him.

"Hmm. Well, you're clearly malnourished. I can't declare victory under those circumstances! That would be cheating! Looks like you win this time, hedgehog! Now, come along! We have work to do."

The hedgehog looked up at him in–adorable–confusion. Eggman stood back up on his Eggmobile.

"Well? What are you waiting for? Hop on!"

The inevitable-sonic-boom inched towards it slowly. He gently tapped the base of the Eggmobile. When nothing happened, he looked back up to Eggman. Who groaned.

"Fine, I promise I won't hurt you, got it?"

The sonic-boom stared even more, before inevitably going for it and climbing onto the Eggmobile like a toddler.

It wasn't tipped in the slightest by the extra weight, which reminded Eggman why he was doing this at all.

His Eggmobile floated upwards and flew off. It quickly left Seaside island and then there was nothing but water below them.

He didn't expect the oncoming-sonic-boom to whimper at the sight of the ocean.

Eggman glanced down in time to see him curl up, hiding between his legs and the lower wall of the Eggmobile.

When the sonic-boom leaned against him for support, he winced and stepped back.

"Watch the quills, you blue nuisance!" He yelled.

It didn't stop the incoming-sonic-boom from grabbing him, but at least he was more careful.

Eggman had to remind himself, that the sonic-boom was a little malnourished kid, because he almost made too much food. Twice. The rodent's stomach would be small, too small for him to give the blue guy a full child-sized meal. Unless he wanted the sonic-boom throwing up on Eggman's floor.

Once Eggman had handed him a plate of food, his skittish attitude towards being on an island nowhere near his old one vanished completely. Eggman's place was a chunk of earth and lava broken off of the bygone island, yet it felt safer than the previous island, when it came to that Sonic-Boom of a hedgehog's wellbeing, at least.

The blue stain in his life stood on a chair, his tail wagging excitedly as he immediately started eating what was on his plate. Apple slices, a hot dog cut into little pieces, crackers, and even a juicebox. It might've still been too much.

Eggman watched as sonic-boom ate. Making sure that he was properly eating. It would be a waste if all his cooking didn't help out the blue rat at all.

When he was mostly done with his food, Eggman decided that enough was enough.

"Alright you menacing blue fiend," he said. "I'm going to watch television on my floating screen. Don't break anything."

He walked over to the TV, grabbed the remote, and sat down.

"Maybe I'll watch that new comedy show with the monkey-ape-thing, that should be interesting."

No more than a few minutes had passed before The Sonic-boom came into the room and jumped onto the couch.

"What do you want now? I already fed you!"

The Sonic-boom yawned and crawled onto his lap, before half-tucking into a ball and closing his eyes.

"Ohh, no you don't!" Eggman said, he picked Sonic-boom up by the back quills and pulled him off of his lap. He set him down on the couch next to him. He whined annoyingly. Before racing back on. Great. Looks like that speed is kicking in...

"No, off!"

He raced back on.

"No, off!"

He raced back on.

"No, OFF!"

He raced back on, again. Eggman grit his teeth. "NO, OFF, SONIC!"

Eggman was so caught up in the stupid game that he forgot the rest of the blue hedgehog's title. He didn't care much however, because he had raced back on and clung to him for all he was worth. Eggman sighed and decided that he didn't care enough. He wasn't willing to do this all day, after all.

The Sonic sighed happily, and purred for a moment before he fell asleep.

And if Eggman freaked out? Well, at least it stayed on the inside.

[childrenofcain-if]

Did your school also have that awful baby project where you have to partner up with another student and be “parents” for like a fake robot baby? The one that has sensors in it and it cries in the middle of the night and you have to feed it and carry it around for like two weeks.

I'm imagining if MC and C had to pair up for that project in school. It's a funny mental image of two kids arguing over a fake baby like they're 40 year old divorcees.

Obviously they both want a good grade but they literally won't stop arguing over every stupid thing about the fake baby.

A whole lot of: “You're holding it the wrong way.” “No, YOU'RE holding it the wrong way.” “Why did you have to dress it up in THAT outfit. It looks hideous.” “I thought it was cute! What, are you not happy unless it's wearing formal three piece suit, get over yourself.” “You're supposed to look after it tonight.” “I told you that I'm too busy with practice after school.” “Well that's too bad, we both agreed that Friday is YOUR night to look after the baby. I'll get it back on the weekend.” “But I can't take the baby with me to football practice! Why are you so inconsiderate?" "Great, look it's crying now. That's gotta be your fault.”

Teacher would immediately be so done with them and ready to take off points for “inflicting psychic damage on the baby by means of hostile environment” or some bs 💀

it was supposed to be a simple project—a rite of passage, really. every student had to go through it: the dreaded baby project. the one where you and a partner were tasked with taking care of a robot baby for two weeks, complete with cries in the middle of the night, diapers that needed changing, and a never-ending checklist of parental responsibilities. it was meant to teach you about responsibility, commitment, and empathy, or whatever nonsense the school administration tried to sell it as.

you, on the other hand, had different thoughts. especially when you found out that your partner for this cursed experiment was none other than C Lacroix.

the moment the teacher had paired you two together, you both shot each other the same look of mutual horror. of all the people in your class, of all the potential partners, you were stuck with each other. it was like fate had a sick sense of humor. C, the person who couldn’t go a day without making some snide remark about you, was now supposed to co-parent a fake baby with you? for two whole weeks? this was going to be a nightmare.

“why do we even have to do this?” C muttered under their breath, running a hand through their hair as they eyed the little plastic baby lying in the crib in front of you. “making this project mandatory is ridiculous.”

“you think i’m happy about this?” you shot back, already feeling the tension between you two rising. “you’re not exactly my dream partner either.”

the teacher, mrs. wentworth, stood at the front of the class, giving out instructions as though this were the most serious, real-world task you’d ever face in high school. you had to pick up the baby, name it, dress it, and take care of it as if it were real. the sensors inside the baby would track how well you handled it, including how quickly you responded to its cries, how gently you held it, and whether or not you remembered to change its clothes and diapers.

C crossed their arms, glancing at the little bundle of plastic with thinly veiled disgust. “how are we supposed to pass this if it’s literally rigged to cry at random hours?”

you didn’t bother hiding your frustration as you leaned in closer, keeping your voice low. “well, maybe if you actually try instead of complaining all the time, we could figure it out. just a thought.”

they shot you a glare. “oh, so now you’re an expert on fake babies?”

“better than you, at least,” you muttered, folding your arms over your chest.

the two of you stood there in a silent, seething stalemate for a moment, both unwilling to be the first to back down. then mrs. wentworth walked over with an expectant smile, handing you the baby and the care guide that went with it.

“don’t forget,” she said, her voice overly chipper, “this baby is your responsibility. think of it like it’s a real, living child.”

C muttered something under their breath that sounded a lot like kill me now but managed a tight-lipped smile as mrs. wentworth walked away.

and so the nightmare began.

***

the first night was a disaster. the baby—whom you both begrudgingly decided to name “charlie,” after a half-hour debate that nearly escalated into a full-on shouting match—began crying at exactly 2:14 a.m. you were supposed to take care of it that night, but when the piercing wails filled the room, you groaned and instinctively checked your phone. two missed calls from C. the stupid app linked to the baby must’ve been ringing off for them.

“are you kidding me?” you muttered, rolling out of bed and grabbing your phone.

when you called them back, their voice was groggy and clearly annoyed. “why is the baby crying?”

“gee, i don’t know, lacroix, maybe because it’s a robot baby that cries for no reason? it’s literally designed to do this.”

“i thought you were supposed to be taking care of it tonight,” they shot back.

“i am, but it’s just— can’t you hear it over the phone?” you snapped. “it’s like it’s possessed. i’ve tried everything, but it’s not stopping.”

you heard a sigh on the other end, and then a rustling noise. “fine. i’ll come over.”

within fifteen minutes, C was standing in your doorway, wearing a dark green hoodie and gray sweatpants, looking very much like they regretted every life decision that had led them to this moment. they made a beeline for the fake baby, picking it up awkwardly, their movements stiff and unsure.

“you’re holding it the wrong way,” you said immediately, wincing as the baby wailed louder.

they glared at you. “no, i’m not.”

“yes, you are. you have to support its head.”

“i am supporting its head,” they growled through gritted teeth. “this thing’s just broken or something.”

you crossed your arms, trying not to lose your patience entirely. “great, so we’re already terrible parents and it’s only day one.”

C shot you a look of half-exasperation and half-amusement. “well, it’s not like we’re competing for ‘parents of the year,’ are we?”

“oh, trust me, we’re not even good enough to be in the running.”

***

by the end of week one, things had escalated.

“i can’t believe you dressed it in that,” you said, eyeing the baby’s outfit with utter disdain. it was a simple onesie, with little ducks printed all over it, but to you, it was the equivalent of committing some kind of fashion crime.

“what’s wrong with it?” C snapped, not in the mood for another one of your critiques.

“it looks ridiculous. you couldn’t have picked something more… i don’t know, neutral?”

“neutral?” C scoffed, narrowing their eyes at you. “what, were you expecting it to wear a three-piece suit? maybe a little tie and cufflinks? it’ll end up looking like a mini version of your dad.”

“at least it wouldn’t look like a clown.”

C threw their hands up in frustration. “oh my god, it’s a baby. it’s supposed to look cute.”

“that isn’t cute.”

“i thought it was cute!”

“well, it’s not. and now we look like idiots.”

“we?” C let out a sarcastic laugh. “last time i checked, i dressed it while you were too busy pretending to care.”

“i care!” you protested, your voice rising.

“really? because you didn’t seem to care last night when i was the one who had to stay up until 4 a.m.”

you crossed your arms, glaring at C. “i told you i had practice. we agreed that i’d take care of it over the weekend.”

“yeah, well, the baby didn’t get the memo.” C turned to grab the diaper bag, slinging it over their shoulder. “it’s your turn tonight, by the way. don’t be a deadbeat this time.”

“i can’t take it with me to hockey,” you said, your voice flat.

“then figure something out,” C snapped. “i have chess club to attend as well.”

you groaned, rubbing your temples in frustration. “this is impossible.”

“you’re telling me.”

***

come tuesday morning, you were a zombie. dark circles under your eyes, your body aching from both the lack of sleep and the lingering soreness from practice. when you met up with C in the hallway before class, you didn’t bother hiding your exhaustion.

“rough night?” they asked, though there was a smirk playing at the corners of their mouth.

“i hope you choke on your chess pieces,” you muttered, glaring at them.

they raised an eyebrow. “such hostility. it’s not good for our charlie, you know.”

“charlie’s fine. i’m the one who’s falling apart.”

“well, you’re supposed to be a co-parent,” they said, their tone teasing but with an edge of seriousness. “maybe if you actually tried…”

“oh, don’t you dare lecture me about trying,” you snapped. “you’re the one who left me with the baby for three whole days.”

“you’re the one who wanted the weekend slot.”

“it was monday yesterday!”

C opened their mouth to argue, but mrs. wentworth appeared before either of you could get another word in.

“how’s it going with little charlie?” she asked with a smile that was far too cheery for how sleep-deprived you felt.

“great,” C said immediately, flashing a charming smile that was only reserved for faculty members.

you shot them a look that could kill. “‘great?’ really?”

mrs. wentworth raised an eyebrow, clearly sensing the tension. “is there something you want to add?”

you crossed your arms, biting your tongue. the last thing you needed was a lecture on communication from your teacher. “no, it’s fine. we’re doing… great, yes.”

“fantastic,” she said with a smile. “just remember, it’s important to create a healthy, loving environment for your child.”

as soon as she walked away, you turned to C. “loving environment? you couldn’t even be bothered to show up last night.”

they shrugged, unbothered. “i had chess club after school.”

you let out a frustrated sigh, shaking your head. “i can’t wait for this project to be over.”

***

the arguing reached a fever pitch by the middle of the second week. it seemed like every little thing about the baby was grounds for debate.

“you’re not holding it right,” C said, standing over you as you tried to rock the baby to sleep.

you sighed out in irritation. “oh my god, can you just back off for once?”

“i’m serious, you’re supposed to hold it like this,” they insisted, demonstrating with an exaggerated motion, as if they were some kind of baby-holding expert now.

“you do realize it’s not even real, right? the sensors won’t know the difference.”

“that’s not the point.”

you clenched your jaw, doing your best to ignore them as you continued rocking the baby. it was past midnight, and you were exhausted—more exhausted than you’d ever been in your life. who knew a robot baby could be this draining? C, on the other hand, seemed to be operating on a combination of stubbornness and sheer arrogance, unwilling to back down from any argument.

“why are you so obsessed with doing everything your way?” you muttered under your breath.

“i’m not obsessed, i just don’t want us to fail.”

“oh, please, we’re not going to fail because of how i hold the stupid thing.”

“well, it’s crying now, isn’t it?” they shot back, crossing their arms.

you glared at them. “it’s crying because you won’t shut up.”

C huffed in frustration, running a hand through their hair. “fine. you know what? fine. you handle it. i’m done.”

“who’s the deadbeat now?” you snarked as they started storming off to the corner. they stopped in their tracks when they heard you and, with a barely suppressed groan, stomped back to you.

“back so soon?” you asked in faux surprise before thrusting the baby toward them. “your turn.”

C rolled their eyes, grumbling under their breath as they resigned themself to doing the baby-holding now.

***

by the time the project finally came to an end, you and C were barely on speaking terms. the constant bickering, the sleepless nights, and the stress of trying to keep a fake baby “alive” had taken its toll. you were both exhausted—mentally, physically, and emotionally.

when you handed charlie back to mrs. wentworth, you couldn’t help but feel a wave of relief wash over you. it was finally over.

“well,” mrs. wentworth said, eyeing the two of you with a bemused expression, “i hope this has been a… productive learning experience.”

“yeah,” you muttered, rubbing your temples. “something like that.”

she gave you both a tight smile. “i’ll be docking points for the… tension between you two. i did remind you that it’s important to maintain a healthy environment for your child.”

you and C both opened your mouths to protest, but she held up a hand. “no need to argue. you’ve both done enough of that already.”

as you walked out of the classroom, the weight of the past two weeks hung between you. it wasn’t until you were halfway down the hallway that C turned to you, not meeting your eyes.

“all things considered…” they started, their voice low and reluctant, like they were pulling teeth just to get the words out, “you weren’t that bad of a partner.”

you blinked, turning your head sharply to look at them, unsure if you had heard them correctly. the very same person who had spent the last two weeks criticizing every little thing you did, was actually complimenting you?

“wait, what?” you said, your voice dripping with incredulity. “did you just say something nice to me? are you feeling okay?”

C rolled their eyes, but there was a faint smirk tugging at the corner of their lips. “don’t get too excited. i’m just saying… you didn’t completely screw it up.”

you couldn’t help but let out a dry, sarcastic laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. “wow, high praise coming from you. if this was a real baby, it would probably be dead by now with the way we handled things.”

C chuckled softly, the sound catching you off guard. it wasn’t their usual arrogant laugh, the one that always made you want to punch them. this was different—quieter, more genuine. they shrugged, their shoulders relaxed as they glanced at you.

“yeah, maybe. but…” they hesitated for a second, their pale green eyes flickering to yours before quickly looking away. “i wouldn’t have asked for another partner.”

the words hit you like a slow-motion realization, and for a moment, you couldn’t quite process what they had just said. you stared at them, mouth slightly open, completely taken aback.

before you could ask what them meant, they were already walking off, their long strides taking them down the hallway.

“good luck for your practice,” they tossed over their shoulder, their voice casual, as if they hadn’t just dropped a bombshell on you.

you stood there, frozen in place, your mind racing to make sense of it. what did they mean by that? were they actually being sincere? and why did they say it like it wasn’t a big deal?

the hallway felt suddenly quieter, the distant chatter of other students fading into the background as you tried to wrap your head around what just happened. your heart was pounding a little faster, and you felt an unfamiliar warmth creeping up your neck.

why the hell am i getting flustered over this? you thought, shaking your head as if that would clear the confusion.

you let out a slow breath, your mind replaying C’s words: i wouldn’t have asked for another partner.

why did that make your heart skip a beat? this was C—the same person who had criticized every little thing you did, the one who would normally rather die than give you a compliment. and yet, here you were, feeling oddly flattered and confused.

you were about to turn and head toward the gym lockers to get your hockey gears for practice when you realized your hands were still clenching the care guide from the project. you looked down at it, then back at the direction C had walked off in, their figure now disappearing around a corner.

a small, involuntarily giddy smile crept onto your face.

maybe they weren’t that bad of a partner either.

[zosin-ya]

omg i love your work so much! if your free can you do a fluff scenario of kid where his s/o gives him a ton of cute magnets for his arm and he shows them off like tattoos? 🥰🥰🥰

Character: Eustass Kid Content: s/o giving him magnets for his robotic arm a.n.: I really love this idea and I do love Kid. Hope you enjoy!

Kid was engrossed in his workshop as usual, tinkering away at the scattered items on his cluttered table. Screws, metal scraps, and tools lay in disarray, which he periodically shoved from left to right to create a bit of workspace. Despite the apparent chaos, he had his own unique organizational system, that made sense, only to him. Occasionally, you could hear him mutter curses under his breath, as you watched him from the doorway quietly.

His massive form sat at a well-worn workbench, which had clearly seen better days. The wood bore scratches, burn marks, and a missing corner—hastily patched with a piece of metal Kid had slammed against it. After all, it was a workbench, meant to look used, or so he told himself.

The small light aimed at the bench exaggerated his already bulky form. His foot tapped to the rhythm of the music playing in the background as he continued to tinker. He was so absorbed in his work that he didn’t notice your approach.

With your hands in your pockets, secretly holding the little gifts you had gathered, you leaned over his shoulder to see what his calloused hands were creating. Despite their rough appearance, Kid was deft when handling delicate metal parts. You kept quiet, a small amused smile forming on your lips as you wondered how long it would take for him to notice your presence.

Your breath brushed his shoulder, causing him to pause momentarily before resuming his work. He acknowledged your presence with a grunt, "What ya need?"

For Kid, that was quite polite. Anyone else would likely have faced a flying screwdriver or a loud rebuke for interrupting him. But you, you could bother him anytime. Even if he reacted this way, you knew you were welcome.

"Nothing, just curious," you answered innocently—perhaps too innocently. Kid knew you well and sensed you were up to something. He cocked his head towards you, raising an eyebrow, but before he could make a snarky comment, you pulled your hand out of your pocket and let the magnet fall onto his robotic arm. It adhered instantly.

Kid frowned, examining the small, punk-themed magnet now adorning his prosthetic. Placing his tools on the bench, he turned his metal arm for a better look. It was a small magnet, just his style.

"Where’d you get that—Hey!" You interrupted him by placing another magnet on his arm. He didn’t know you’d been collecting these during your travels. Each time you saw a fitting one, you’d buy it, waiting until you had a good collection to surprise him.

With a low hum, Kid turned towards you, still seated on his stool. This was new. He had never considered decorating his arm, which he saw as a weapon rather than a canvas for aesthetics. Your captain spread his legs, leaning back against the workbench, eyes shifting from his robotic arm to you. "What's this all about, huh?"

You stood between his legs, shrugging nonchalantly with a small smile. "It's like having tattoos. You can change them, too. Thought it was a cool idea. Do you like it?"

Kid might be rough around the edges, but he wouldn’t decline a gift from you, even the oddest one. And this? It looked kinda cool. A confident grin spread across his face as he examined the magnets. Most fit his style, though some were cuter, making his grin falter. He groaned in annoyance.

"Y/N, come on. What is this? I can't be running around like this!" He ripped off a magnet featuring a kitten with big eyes and "Anarchy" written below. Clearly, you’d picked it to tease him. Kid was about to discard it, but you snatched it back and reattached it to his arm.

"It's a gift! It’s not that bad. A real man can wear anything, right?." You taunted with a grin, pinching his cheek gently. Kid pulled his face away, rubbing the spot. You always knew what to say to him to make Kid agree. Going after his manhood usually worked. "...you're lucky I like you, Y/N."

He sighed in defeat, giving you a kiss to thank you for the magnets. He liked most of the them, even if a few were embarrassing. But they were from you, and that made them special. You’d clearly put a lot of thought into this, buying so many and especially picking out specific ones which fit his style.

Later that day, Kid kept all the magnets on his robotic arm. His crew commented, mostly positively, but when they saw the "Anarchy Kitten," they burst out laughing, knowing you’d done it on purpose. To their dismay, Kid discovered he could use the magnets as projectiles, slamming them into their faces and easily retrieving them with his power. With a smug grin, he realized the magnets were more useful than he’d thought.

Kid not only kept every magnet you bought but wore them like a badge of honor. Kitten or not, he looked sick with them.

[Click here for more Kid content!]

[revelboo]

Your skyfire story has me in suspense! Ah! I love how gentle he's trying to be with the reader. In my mind all I can think of when reader gains their senses

"How am I alive???"

Anyways have a great day! Also. Please let me know when you update skyfire because he's too kind for this world

He definitely is the gentlest

Floating Down The River Pt 4

Skyfire x Reader

• Servos sliding against you, he feels you snuggle even closer, face pressing against him. And you’re still shivering so hard. “You can’t start a f-fire can you?” You ask him. “Otherwise, I’m going to get hypothermia.” Freezing, he vents softly. Has no idea what that is, but your tone suggests it’s bad. You’re so delicate, can the cold kill you? Can’t risk it when it’s his fault you’re in danger. Cupping his hand against you, he stands. Moving slowly, he gathers branches and dry brush and retreats under the bridge with them. Sitting he focuses and mass displaces. And realizes he should have warned you when you scream.

• Cringing into a ball as everything falls away under you, but you never hit the ground, you almost bite your tongue. Shuddering, you open your eyes to find Skyfire leaning over you, expression concerned. And he’s… smaller. Ish. Still much bigger than any human, but not massive anymore. And your sprawled in his lap. “Sorry about that,” he says, deep voice rumbling through you as he leans forward arms stretched out over you to start arranging the branches he’d picked up into a tidy little pile. “I should have warned you.” Considering the drop has left you nauseated, he really should have. Optics flicking to you and then back to his project, you’re distracted by his face. Only looking away when you realize he did somehow light a fire for you. Thank goodness.

• Helping you up when you flounder to right yourself, he’s unsettled by how his servos can wrap all the way around your upper arm and overlap. While he’s used to being bigger than everyone else, you’re so fragile as to be almost ethereal. Settling yourself in his lap, he awkwardly rests his hands on the ground until you just keep shivering and venting softly, he wraps his arms around you, half afraid of somehow breaking you by accident.

• “Is this okay?” His hand is bigger than both of yours, a fact you confirm by laying both of yours on the back of his and he flips his hand over, catching both of your hands in that one of his. “Are you warm enough you won’t die now?” He asks, sounding so genuinely concerned you smile despite yourself. If it means losing your alien space heater when you’re still soaking wet and chilled? You’re not about to admit you might have been exaggerating. Besides, the part of you that had loved robots and sci-fi as a kid doesn’t want to let the big guy go. It’s only a tiny, white lie.

• “Still too cold,” you say, as he rubs his free hand against your spine. And you do still feel chilled as he tries to curl himself around you. “Can you tell me about your world?” Hesitating because he doesn’t want to describe the dead husk he’d left behind, he instead tells you about a living Cybertron. Of his people before the war had broke out. Of flying in those skies, feeling that ache of loss deep in his spark. Because that life? Flying with his friend in those beautiful skies? He’s afraid that’s gone forever. Isn’t even sure if Starscream survived the war, too afraid to ask the Autobots. Or to try and reach out, to reconnect to Star. Afraid he won’t be the same mech he remembers after so long fighting an unending war even if he is still alive.

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