#unfortunately i still feel like i'm too lazy to do everything :(

[dapplepersiflage]

Nenuphars are also called water lilies. But they are not just flowers. They are a symbol... A symbol of the eternal life of the undead.

happy Nolan sketch day :)

[harunayuuka2060]

Chubby MC: Floyd, would you miss me if I left?

Floyd: ...

Floyd: Huh?

Chubby MC: The headmage found a way to return me to my world. I'll be leaving in a week.

Floyd: ...

Floyd: Oh. Is that so? Good for you.

Chubby MC: ...

Chubby MC: *smiles* Thanks.

Floyd: Ah, I remember Sea Snake and Crabby saying we have practice this afternoon. Gotta go.

Chubby MC: Okay. See you later, Floyd.

Jade: Floyd, are you not going to see the Prefect off?

Floyd: Nah, I'm too lazy for that...

Azul: Why are you acting like this? You've avoided them for almost a week. We tried ignoring it, but this is too much. I thought they were important to you.

Azul: You won’t see them again after today, so you’d better—

Floyd: STOP TALKING!

Jade: Floyd...

Floyd: I don't want to see Shrimpy go...

Jade: ...

Jade: Aren’t you being selfish, Floyd? MC wants to see you before they leave Twisted Wonderland. Are you really going to let them go without saying goodbye first?

Floyd: ...

Crowley: Prefect, it's time.

Chubby MC: But Floyd isn't here yet...

Crowley: It looks like Floyd Leech won’t be coming. It’s unfortunate, but oh well.

Chubby MC: ...

Chubby MC: Headmage, can I ask you a favor?

Crowley: Well, if it's something I can do.

Chubby MC: *hands him a letter* Please give this to Floyd. To be honest, I feel sad that he didn't come to see me off. Even so, I'm relieved that he's not upset about me leaving.

Crowley: Well then, thank you for helping us until now, Prefect.

Chubby MC: You're welcome, headmage.

Floyd: ...

*MC wrote a letter in the merfolk language, and this is what it says:*

Floyd,

You are the greatest friend I have. I know we won’t see each other again, but still, know that no one will ever replace you in my heart.

Thank you for everything.

Your Shrimpy, MC

Floyd: ...

Floyd: *clutches the letter in his hand as he sheds tears*

[writergirlll]

Will you write a lazy day with Charles Leclerc and Leo? Maybe Charles came back exhausted from a race that didn't go so well and all he needs is a hug from his girlfriend?

LAZY EVENING/ CL16

Charles Leclerc x reader

sorry if this isn't what you wanted, but I enjoyed writing it! It's just a lot of fluff sorry guys!!

Charles was always good at what he did. Cooking, making things, cuddling with your dog, or driving in Formula 1. He broke the curse of Monaco and thus began his huge career. But this race he ran didn't go too well, due to Ferrari's bad strategy and bad tires. And so he got a DNF in the first qualification and placed 5th in the overall race.

Which is certainly not a bad thing, especially since this race was in Las Vegas, where there are always the most participants and the track is very difficult to remember, but for Ferrari, who had to finish the season well, it wasn't enough.

Charles was mainly angry with himself. He knew that he should have tried harder and that he had messed up the race, but all he wanted was to finally get out of the cameras and pitiful stares and get cozy in bed with his girlfriend.

Unfortunately, You wasn't at his race because you had to stay at the hotel and do computer work due to work reasons that you hated. However, you definitely did not miss the race and watched it until the end, when Verstappen, Sainz and Norris stood on the podium.

But as midnight slowly approached and you tried harder and harder to stay awake to wait for Charles, your eyes closed until they closed completely and you fell asleep over an open laptop with work and the TV on with the main broadcast of interviews with F1 drivers.

When Charles came home, he expected you to be waiting for him. Therefore, he opened the door sharply, put his backpack on the floor and gave a small shout; "Love, I'm home"!

You twitched and grunted slightly in your sleep before turning over on the couch to face the TV and snuggling further into the blankets. You didn't plan to open your eyes because in your sleepy state you didn't realize that Charles was home.

Hearing no response, Charles frowned slightly and slowly walked into the living room. When he saw how the TV was on with F1 and you were sleeping on the couch, he couldn't help but feel happiness and love.

You were his everything. In good times and in bad, you were his sunshine. And that's why when he saw you sleeping in front of the TV with the footage of the other Formula 1 drivers, it warmed his heart. He knew very well how sad you felt when you couldn't make it to his race.

He slowly walked over to you, kneeling by your head and slowly brushing your hair away from your face. Then he bent down so as not to wake you and planted a soft kiss on your forehead.

You smiled a little under his touch as you realized who it was and slowly opened your tired eyes. “Hi Char” you smiled at him and reached out to stroke his cheek. “Congratulations on the race” you smiled.

He leaned into your touch and his smile brightened even more. “Shall we go to sleep?” he asked as he saw you close your eyes again even though you were trying not to and you slowly nodded.

“And where is Leo?” he asked one more question before he could pick you up in his arms and carry you to bed. You didn't answer anything and just lifted the blanket, where a small golden dog was hidden by your lap, which has become your "child" for the six months you've had it.

When he saw Charles, he immediately got up and ran his short legs to him for a kiss and a cuddle.

After Charles cuddled up to him, he scooped you up in his arms as a reward for having to wait for him and carried you to bed with Leo at your heels.

He slowly laid you down on the bed, you shifted to your side and waited for him to take off his shirt, change his pants and come to you.

Before long, he finally appeared by the bed in just his shorts and you couldn't help but bite your lip when you saw him like that. You still didn't understand how someone like him could be yours.

He climbed into bed behind you, pulling you to his side and you rested your head on his shoulder. One of his hands caressed your back and the other brushed your hair away from your face. Again. You should probably get a haircut..

“I love you do you know that?” he whispered in your ear and you raised your head to be directly facing him.

“How could I not know Char?” you smiled and leaned down so your lips met his halfway. It was a loving kiss that you thought was more of a good night, but later it got more and more passionate.

When you were both out of breath, you had to pull away from each other. “Are you sure you want to go to sleep?” he asked, looking all over your face.

You did, you think them even though you were actually 100% clear. "I'm not sure..." you whispered before smiling and bringing your head closer to his.

"I think you know" Charles smiled lightly and connected his lips to yours again, this time in a hungrier kiss.

[fuctacles]

I was trying out a new grammarly alternative, prowritingaid, and it sucks even more. so if anyone has anything usable to recommend, I'm all ears.

<< fourteen | 😺 | sixteen >>

It's a baffling concept, underdressing to go to Steph's place. Not that he's been dressing up before, but he would change into a clean shirt from the folded pile on his desk. Now he's willingly digging through his old clothes, the ones buried deep in the wardrobe Wayne has been already putting his winter clothes in. (Eddie refuses to feel bad about it, he knows he will always have a place in Wayne's apartment, regardless of age.)

He finally finds a pair of dark sweatpants, ones he'd wear on chilly evenings while watching TV with Wayne. These days he'd stay in his jeans or pajama bottoms. When looking them over, he doesn't find any embarrassing stains, but what he does find, is a Looney Tunes logo on the left leg. Knowing he won't find any better options, he resigns himself to possible ridicule. It's this or the even older ones with Pikachu, which he's not sure would even fit. He should probably donate them, but he's got them from Wayne, so there's a bit of a sentiment left behind.

His uncle finds him twisting in front of the mirror, checking out his ass. They stare at each other for a few seconds, both frozen mid-movement.

"I don't want to know."

"Good choice."

"Going to Stephanie's, I assume?"

Eddie is an adult and will not blush like a teenage boy with a crush. He won't. And even if it happened, the bad lighting should hide it from Wayne. Like a Schrödinger's blush. 

"Yeah, she..." He realizes he doesn't have an excuse anymore. There's no conditioner to pick up, or cookies to bring. It's just him in a questionable outfit. Hell, he doesn't even know what's the plan for today; he's still worried Steph wants him to exercise. Or maybe she needs him to do some housework, move some furniture around?

"I don't want to know," Wayne reminds him with a raise of his hand, before moving along to the kitchen.

"It's nothing weird!" Eddie protests, before realizing it might be something weird. He kind of hopes it's something weird. 

"Just remember about the appointment tomorrow."

His uncle doesn't seem interested in his explanations anymore, which might be a pleasant change from his previous prying. Eddie's not sure why he feels the need to explain himself. He's an adult, doing adult things with another adult. He sighs. 

"Yeah, I remember. I'll definitely be back before that," he says dryly. Despite everything, he's a good nephew, so he stops at the kitchen door. "You need anything before I go?"

"Nah," Wayne waves him away. He's slowly moving around the kitchen, preparing tea and grabbing snacks. "Good luck wooing your lady."

Eddie lets out a sigh so deep that for a second, he feels like a teenager again. 

"Thanks," he says, because while he might still react like a teenager sometimes, now he knows better how to pick his battles. "I'll be back later."

"Don't rush on my account!"

Eddie puts on his shoes, grabs his keys, and goes out. The sweatpants, unfortunately, don't make walking the stairs any easier. 

When Stephanie opens her door, the place looks the same as yesterday, which scratches off a gym makeover from his list of nightmare scenarios. 

"You look cozy," she says after giving him a quick once over.

"Uh, thanks?" he's not sure if it counts as a compliment. "You too," and that definitely is as a compliment. 

She's wearing gray sweatpants and a faded t-shirt, so nothing out of the ordinary when she's at home. It's Eddie who looks different, matching her. 

Matching her home clothes. 

He steps inside, imagining them hanging out at their home, winding down after work. Completely comfortable with each other in clothes nobody else sees. Unless they are very lazy and do a quick grocery run to the store on the other side of the street. 

"So, what's the plan for today?" Eddie asks quickly, to stop himself from imagining a life with Steph. 

"Nothing much," she shrugs, walking into the kitchen.

He follows her like he's just another one of her cats. 

"Then why am I wearing sweatpants?" he asks, pulling on the fabric pointedly. It attracts Steph's eyes downward, and he feels himself heat up, not used to her looking there. 

"Because I asked you to?" Her eyes linger, good gods, but when she finally looks up, she bats her eyelashes, and he doesn't question it anymore. Whatever she has planned for him, he'll find out soon enough, anyway. 

She serves them both pasta, and they sit on the couch. It's becoming so familiar that Eddie will undoubtedly miss it when he goes back to Indianapolis. Smoking weed with Gareth over pizza has a completely different vibe.

They pick something less engaging than last night, another game show Eddie's only vaguely familiar with. When the food is gone, Steph cozies up to his side without any hesitation, so he follows her lead and throws his arm around her shoulders. 

He wonders if she's just sleepy again, using him like a warm pillow to rest on, until her hand lands on his knee. 

Oh. Oh.

Any coherent thought immediately flees his brain, and his face floods with blood. But her hand just rests there, almost like an afterthought, like Eddie is a convenient arm rest. Is it an upgrade from being a pillow? He's probably going to find out soon enough.

He almost manages to settle down under the touch, when Steph's fingers start moving. Eddie watches them tap against his own knee like it's some kind of foreign film, without subtitles. That he's watching through a window. 

The tapping turns to tracing shapes, turns to dragging her nails against the soft fabric. It sends goosebumps up his leg and towards places he'd rather not think about right now. When Steph's hand dips to the inside of his thigh, tracing the seam of his sweatpants, he grabs it to stop further movement. 

"Hey—" He turns, not sure what he wants to say, if he's going to beg for more or to stop torturing him. But what he gets, instead, is Steph's lips. 

She digs her nails harder into his thigh, making him gasp against her mouth. It gives her an opening to slide her tongue inside, gentle but determined. Steph turns more towards him, and he quickly discards his almost empty beer bottle to give her his full attention. It's like she's been waiting to feel his hands on her, because as soon as he touches her knee, she's swinging her leg over his thighs. 

In a blink of an eye, he has a lap full of Stephanie Harrington, her thick thighs under his palms, and his face squeezed between her hands. They're making out like teenagers, and she was the one to initiate it. Eddie's on cloud nine and wonders when would be appropriate to slide his palms up her thighs and feel her butt, something he's been thinking about for quite some time. For now, he focuses on kissing back and willing his dick not to ruin the moment with its eagerness. 

Steph doesn't seem to have such reservations. 

He feels it when he wraps his hands around her waist to pull her closer, feel her body flush against him. And feel he does, a hardness prodding near the line of his boxers. His heart stutters, and without thought, he presses against Steph's lower back and bucks his hips up. 

Steph's contented sigh reverberates down his spine, and she starts grinding her hips down on him. With a little adjustment of the angle, their dicks finally brush against each other through the soft fabric of their sweatpants. 

They pull apart on a gasp, and Eddie might have an idea why she made him get rid of the denim.

She keeps moving, eyes hooded while she's looking at him. It almost looks like she's riding him, and what a thought that is. Eddie just rests his hands on her waist and lets her do whatever she wants. 

Which, unfortunately, seems to involve stopping. Steph blinks, her eyes looking a little clearer. 

"Can you come like this?"

It's a miracle he doesn't just at this question.

"With you? Yes." 

"Good." She resumes her movement, now with more purpose. "Because it's all you're getting."

"Okay, thank you," he agrees quickly, because it's more than he dared to wish for. 

He lets his imagination run wild, then. Steph naked, her breasts right in his face, riding his dick. Her pussy is hot and tight around him, and he can feel her raw, no condom between them. Her skin against his, their eyes locked, nails digging painfully into his shoulders. 

She leans down for a kiss, breathless and messy. 

"Wanna see your face," Eddie manages between bites and licks. She keeps kissing him for a moment longer, but as her hips start losing rhythm, she pulls away, letting him watch the climax on her face.

It's her slack jaw, the sound she makes deep in her throat, and the small, jerking motions of her hips, that make him come too, right into his boxers. Knowing he's enough to get her there feels like a win in a campaign, endorphins flowing freely through his body in little tremors.

So, he might not know the rules of the game they're playing, but he must have done something right to get this far.

When he comes back from his high, he finds himself wrapped tightly around Steph, face in the crook of her neck, breathing her in.

"You smell so good," he says without much thought, lips brushing her skin. 

Her nails scratch at his scalp and he'd purr if he could. 

"Thank you. You smell okay."

He giggles against her skin, feeling high on his orgasm.

"I'll take that."

@wheneverfeasible @steddieinthesun @hattsy-likes-pretty-stuff @bumblebeecuttlefishes @phantomcat94 @tartarusknight  @tinyplanet95 @steddiefication @estrellami-1 @disrespectedgoatman @madigoround @tartarusknight @blasvemous @cryptid-system @hiei-harringtonmunson @hellowhatthehellisgoingonhere @dreamercec @manliest-of-muppets @bookbinderbitch @marklee-blackmore  @icecat @rootbeerandmusic @mollymawkwrites @milojames16 @ellietheasexylibrarian

[captain-huggy-bear]

Hi! Can I request "Not to be dramatic, but... I would jump off a cliff for you." With keifer Sherwood? 💋💋congrats!!!

Am I still the only person on this app who's written for Kiefer? If I am ya'll need to sort yourselves out and write for my homeboy. 1000 Followers Celly Currently ongoing 🥳🎉 (please read the rules ends 21st April 2025) Big requests/full fic/big idea requests are closed at the moment but drabble and prompt requests are still open. Writing Masterlist

It's one of those lazy summer days, the sort of warm summers day where Kiefer and yourself had found a spot by the local lake, laid a picnic blanket and some pillows down and decided to just relax. Curling up together near the water, napping and eating the snacks you'd brought out to the lake with you.

The season being over brought time together, moments like this, your cheek pressed into his bare chest, the sun warming his skin and you as you blink lazily. Your eyes following your finger as it draws patterns and shapes across his skin. Kief with his arms behind his head, eyes closed, face tilted towards the sun like a human sunflower.

There's such a rush of affection that fills you as you watch him, such love. You adore him...you adore everything whether it's the long season, the nights when you miss him or the way he smiles, how his hair curls perfectly without much effort. You think you could probably write a book of poems just about your feelings for Kiefer.

You sigh out happily, contentedly as you look at him, "Not to be dramatic, but... I would jump off a cliff for you."

Kief pops open one eye, looking down at you with an amused smile. His beard had grown further, to the point you knew he'd shave it soon, reaching the point where he starts to find it annoying, irritating.

"You'd jump off a cliff for me? In this scenario am I also off the cliff?"

"Yes and I'm jumping because I can't let you do it alone." You're being dramatic obviously, the reality is you'd probably not jump off a cliff after Kief, but you would cry...a lot. But, he doesn't need to know that.

"Have you pushed me off the cliff, princess?"

"No!" You shove yourself off his chest, palms flat as you look down on him offended that he'd even suggest that you'd shove him off a cliff when you were trying to be sweet and affectionate. "How could you suggest that?"

"Well...sometimes you get this look in your eyes...pure evil." He's grinning at you, teeth on full display, eyes crinkling, amusement evident.

"Kief! That's so mean! I'm here saying I'd die for you and you're suggesting i'd murder you?!"

"Hey, might not be murder. You're pretty clumsy, could also be manslaughter, sweetheart." You flop back down on top of him, putting your weight a little heavier so that he's winded slightly.

"I hate you.". You mumble into his skin, pressing your face into him as you pout at him. Kiefer's hand finds its way into your hair, fingers pressing and rubbing circles into your neck and scalp that has you melting against him.

"No you don't." Unfortunately, he's right...you don't. You don't think you could hate Kiefer even if you tried...even if he did something horrible. You love him too much.

[artificial-transmutations]

Friday Friendship

Hey there! This one is kind of a spiritual successor to Calling the Plumber - and as such, it is one of the rare gay to straight stories of mine. While I do try to keep it friendly and without any homophobia or hate, feel free not read the story if you don't like g2s!

It was hard to overlook Montgomery and Archibald. Of course, that was always the case. But here, on the dirty construction site of their new home, the expensive silk suits of the couple stood out even more than elsewhere. Yes, the two of them were together - and they made sure everybody knew it. Not only were the two gentlemen standing in a tight hug whenever possible, but their flamboyant and colorful clothing left little doubt about their sexuality.

They were those kind of gays that conservatives were afraid of. Both were old enough to have been alive during the stonewall riots, although only Montgomery was actually there as a teenager. Still, the aged couple embodied everything the gay community prided itself on having achieved during the last decades.

Their house, too, would be a statement. The mansion was the largest construction in the area, and the most expensive one. It was going to be built on a large hill, overlooking the town, and its style was... extravagant. The house was to be built in a modern architectural style, but the two men had insisted that the walls would be entirely covered in rainbow colors, although that was still in the future by now. Surrounding the mansion would be a magnificent garden, a park even.

"My dear, are you satisfied with the construction?" Archibald asked his husband in his lime green suit. Montgomery had dyed his hair in an orange-pink tone today and wore a purple tie to his green suit. It was hardly the first building site he visited, since he had made a fortune in real estate.

Archibald, on the other hand, was a bit more conservatively dressed. His suit was a more subdued shade of beige, although his tie was of a bright sky blue color. He usually didn't dye his hair, and today was no exception: He wore the gray with pride, although he spent a fortune on hair and skin care products. He, too, had a respectable job as a top manager in a logistics company.

"Well, darling, I'm not sure yet." Montgomery replied. "I want it to look great, and the work has been good so far. But frankly, it feels that the workers motivation is somewhat underwhelming."

"I think I know what you mean, my dear." Archibald commented as they walked through the empty shell. "It is barely three in the afternoon on a Friday, and there isn't anyone around anymore. The workers must be out partying already. I can't fault them for that, but it is rather annoying, isn't it?"

"Indeed. It would have been nice if they were a little less lazy, though. The garden is behind schedule, and I believe the electrics are going to be delayed by another month."

"That is quite unfortunate."

Montgomery nodded and they walked a bit in silence. It was true. There was still a lot to do, and it looked like the workers left early for the weekend.

Finally, Archibald sighed.

"I guess I could take a look at the progress the electricians are making. I do know a bit or two about this. Maybe then we can talk to the foreman about their work. It's a pity that we cannot supervise every little thing here, but our jobs demand a lot of our time. If only we had a bit more hands-on control."

"My, what a fabulous idea! I will take a stroll through the garden then, to get a better picture there."

The husbands kissed each other on the lips as they split up and Archibald opened the fuse box. He had indeed done a bit of electrical maintenance in his prime, so he knew that what he saw in the box was nothing less than a mess. He sighed and was about to close the box again, but hesitated. No, he couldn't leave the mess like that. He would just tidy things up a bit, to show those inexperienced workers how it was done.

Carefully, he began to work on the wires, but before long, he felt uncomfortable. The fuse box was located in the bright afternoon sun, and it was just positively hot here. Still, not wanting to leave his work, he slipped out of his jacket and hung it over a nearby wall. He didn't notice that the piece of clothing disappeared once he turned away, nor did he notice that his hands became nimbler as he rearranged the wires.

Montgomery on the other hand found the garden construction even less advanced than he had hoped. Even worse, someone had left a few plants out in the heat. They would surely be dead by the time the construction continued on Monday. Montgomery couldn't let that happen. This garden would be beautiful, and no plant would die under his watch.

He carefully carried the plants to the place they were supposed to be. Of course, he knew - he had planned the park all by himself, so he knew where everything was supposed to go. As he arrived at the shady place, he understood why the plants hadn't been placed yet. The ground was wet and muddy, and there weren't any holes yet. He would need to talk to the foreman about that, but the man was surely already in the weekend as well. There was, however, a shovel nearby. Now, aside from ceremonial groundbreaking, Montgomery had never held a shovel. It wasn't that he didn't understand the concept, but he was just not the type for physical labor.

Well. He looked over his shoulder to his husband, who was apparently still busy looking at the fuse box. It seems like he had some time on his hands, so he might as well. Grimacing, he grabbed the shovel and carefully stepped on the soil, trying not to ruin his expensive shoes or pants. That worked well, for about two steps. But as soon as he tried to break the ground with the shovel, a big clump of wet soil splattered on his lime green silk pants.

Montgomery frowned. Well, that suit was ruined anyway. No reason to stop there. Determined, he pulled the shirt out of his pants and opened his vest. He wasn't going to ruin his custom tailored suit for no reason.

Meanwhile, Archie was getting into his work even more. From time to time, he had to wipe his brow, though, as he was sweating like an animal. His dress shirt was stained with multiple sweat stains already and didn't really *look* like a dress shirt anymore, but more casual. The same could be said for the rest of Archie as well. A certain youth had returned to his face, as he was concentrated on his work. This way, he didn't notice when his hairstyle dissolved into an unkempt mess or when a bit of stubble grew in on his chin. His shirt clung to his body now, drenched in sweat. It had long ceased to be a dress shirt though but had become a plain - although rather filthy - beige t-shirt. His tie was nowhere to be seen.

Due to the wetness, the shirt didn't leave much to imagination regarding his body. Not just his face had rejuvenated, no, his entire body had. He was leaner and his muscles firmer now. Out of the V-neck of his sweaty shirt poked a few golden hairs, and before long, his main hair had turned into a Nordic blonde, as well.

Meanwhile, Monty was digging like crazy. He had to get those plants in the ground, or the foreman would... Wait, what was he thinking?

He stopped for a moment, to scratch his head. Thinking was not his strong point, and Monty knew that. But he had other qualities, that made up for that. When he grabbed the shovel again, to keep digging, he heard a ripping sound that made him stop again. The shoulder of his shirt had ripped. His boss was going to kill him! Although, it appeared somewhat strange to him that he was wearing such a colorful and impractical shirt. Perhaps there weren't any other shirts left?

He looked around and saw only one of the electricians still on the site. He knew the guy, he was friendly enough. He surely wouldn't mind if Monty went shirtless for a bit. With an effort not to damage the clothing even more, he peeled out of the garment. He was only half successful with that, and a few more rips sounded before he had finished taking it off.

Monty looked down at his muscular and hairy torso. The cold air was good, and he wasn't afraid to get dirty.

With every movement of the shovel, his arm muscles tightened, and his frame filled out more. A short beard sprouted on his chin, and his now full earthy brown hair shortened to a more practical cut. It wasn't like he had money for an expensive hairdresser, after all.

Finally, he had the holes ready and wiped his hands on his sturdy pair of work pants. Now, he only had to put the plants in. Despite his impressive physique, Manny was always very careful with the flowers, and he made sure that none of the roots got damaged or that he didn't break the stem.

He looked at his work. Good, that would look great, once the plants grew. Someday, he would have a garden of his own, and a house like that. And a beautiful wife and two, no, three children. But that was still a long way to go, with his poor pay.

Someone behind him cursed and Manny looked back to the electrician.

Chad was still sweating like crazy as he worked the wires. His mates had all gone to the clubs by now and he was stuck here and had to fix the mess he had created. That was only fair, but he wished the foreman wouldn't have noticed until Monday. He had to hurry up, though. He didn't want to spend his Friday night on the site, after all. Perhaps he would even get lucky and find a guy... No, what was he thinking? Working on these fruits' house had made him all confused. No, perhaps he would find a busty bombshell to take home tonight. Chad felt his cock growing hard at the thought, creating an obvious bulge in his work pants. Great, more distraction.

Chad tried to readjust himself, just in time as he sensed the big burly gardener approach. He knew the guy loosely but had forgotten his name already - if he even had known it at all.

"Hey, everything alright with them wires?" the low voice of the brute asked in a friendly tone.

"Yeah, I just need to finish up here... Should be done aaaaany minute now..."

Manny watched Chad connect the last wires. Poor guy. His t-shirt was soaked with sweat, and he looked like he was really hot and stressed out.

"Cool. It's no fun working late, and on a Friday. Hey, do you want to hit a bar after that? I could go for a cold one."

Chad looked over his shoulder at the bear of a man. Was that guy hitting on him? Na, his face only showed dumb innocence.

He shrugged. "Sure, why not, eh..."

"Name's Manny." Manny said.

"Great. Manny." Chad said and closed the now somewhat better looking fuse box before wiping away his sweat once more.

"I'm Chad."

Manny and Chad left the building site together this Friday afternoon. Neither of them knew that they were going to become best friends over this and many more beers. Manny turned out to be a great wingman for Chad, and Chad even ended up as Manny's best man during his wedding and godfather for his first child. Sometimes the closest friendships are forged in the Friday afternoon sun of a construction site.

[bountycancelled]

LOST CAUSE

bada x reader (part 1)

MASTERLIST | NEXT

warnings: none really, it's just kinda sad

content: petnames (only one is used in reference to reader, but a few are mentioned) alcohol mentions (reader drinks away her feels) sad gays and bad gays, unedited becusse I'm lazy, a whole lotta projecting myself onto reader

being bada's best friend would be the death of you, you were calling it right now.

she wasn't a bad friend by any means, quite the opposite actually. from the late night talks that would last until the early mornings before you both passed out, the tiny, sentimental gifts she would randomly get for you without expecting anything in return, to the way she would hold you, god, she was perfect. you loved everything about her.

but, that was the problem, wasn't it? you loved her. and a part of you wants to blame her for making it so easy, falling for her, but you know that would be unfair. not only because she wasn't leading you on or anything, but also because she couldn't do any wrong in your eyes.

everytime your heart fluttered at one of her actions, it would sink just as quickly. she's doing this as a friend, you would always remind yourself. but your not so friendly reminders didn't stop you from hoping. for something more, that one day, miracously, bada would realise that she was in lo–

"what's got you so worried?" you were pulled out of your daily dose of dramatic reality checking by none other than bada. her head was in your lap, she stared up at you with a look that you could only describe as... content. comfortable. and so, so beautiful.

"huh?" you answered, having not heard her clearly, too busy being in your head instead of in the real world, where unfortunately, you belonged.

she raised her arm and pressed on the space between your eyebrows, a small pout on her face. "you're frowning. what's wrong, pretty?"

the nicknames. the fucking. nicknames.

pretty, gorgeous, baby, love, honey. it was things like that made you believe, even if just for a moment, that she knew that you liked her, loved her, and was just toying with you for enjoyment.

you'd feel guilty everytime you had that thought. she wouldn't. not to you, not to anyone, not ever.

"it's nothing, really. I'm just in a mood today." you shrugged, hoping that she would, for your sake, take your half-hearted explanation and leave it there.

she nodded, clearly unconvinced, but moved one nonetheless. "do you still wanna go to the club tonight? we can cancel and spend the night together instead." she offered, lifting her head off of your lap in favour of placing it on your shoulder, waiting for your answer.

"no, we can still go, we'll just come back here together. we've blown off our friends enough times, I'm starting to feel bad." you joked, and once again, the atmosphere was light and airy. with that settled, you both stood up, trying to find something to wear for the nights activities.

you walked into her closet, sprinkled with tops and skirts from your own, almost laughing at the absurdity of the situation. for someone who claimed that being around bada was painful, your personal stamp on her home sure made it hard to believe.

"how's this?" you said for what felt like the 29th time to bada (it was only the third) as you spun around for her, showing off one of your options for the night.

she sat at the edge of the bed, ready to go about 20 minutes before you, as she usually was. her head was tilted back, staring at the ceiling as she waited patiently for you to finally choose something to wear.

you tried not to stare at her neck, which she made easier for you by finally looking at you, tilting her head to the side as she inspected your outfit.

"I was gonna say its looks as good as the other two because you look amazing in anything and everything, but... I like this one. a lot."

the way she looked at you when she said that, with her bottom lip between her teeth, stayed with you as you walked to the club together, hand in hand. did she really have no idea how much she affected you? you weren't sure if you hoped that she didn't, or did.

but you weren't going to think of that tonight. you were going to drink, and dance, and hang out with your friends, and not let bada affect you. if only for just one night.

okay, maybe you had had one too many drinks by now, but you weren't drunk just yet. it was still the normal you, just with a few tweaks. a little less shame here, a little more confidence here, nothing too major.

you were half in minah's lap and half in tatters, singing obnoxiously, almost as loud as the song blasting from the speakers. you weren't even thinking of bada... wait, where the hell was bada?

you squinted your eyes as they darted across the dance floor, hopelessly trying to locate her in the dim lighting of the club. but you didn't have to look for long, because she was headed back to your table, a smile painted on her face.

you stood up, suprisingly not stumbling as you walked up to her, wrapping your arms around her shoulders. "where were you?" you shouted over the music, wearing a curious expression.

she bit her lip excitedly before speaking into your ear, sending involuntary shivers down your spine. damn you and your natural charm, bada.

"I met a girl." you didn't mean for your face to drop in the way that it did, but from the looks of it, bada didn't even notice. if she did, then she didn't mention it.

"she actually wants to come over to my place..." bada trailed off, sending you a pleading look, a certain lust-driven glee shining in her eyes.

"oh." you said flatly before you could stop yourself, moving your arms away from her and crossing them over your chest.

she quickly wrapped her arms around your middle, squeezing while pleading her case in an effort to soften the blow. it doesn't help, not one bit.

"I know we were supposed to have a binging marathon, but please baby? just this once? I'll make it up to you real good, you know I always do." 'because I always let you.' you wanted to add, but you bit your tongue, you weren't feining for a fight with bada right about now.

you sigh, your arms hanging limply by your sides. "okay. I'll just crash at lushers'." you fight the urge to gag as she squeals in excitement, at the prospect of spending the night with someone who isn't you.

she gave you a curious look, most likely sensing your jealousy apprehension, her arms still around you, feeling more suffocating than comforting at that moment.

"...are you sure?" no. I'm not, don't go with her.

you nodded furiously, removing her arms from your frame, and turning her around, pushing her toward the dance floor where she had left her pursuit for the night. "go, she'll think you're blowing her off if you keep talking to me."

"are you actually, super, one hundred percent certain that I can go with her?" she pushed you further, and you knew that she knew that you weren't really all that okay with it.

but what was the point? you could easily sway her into sticking to the original plan, but she would've spent the whole night daydreaming about what could've been with the mysterious girl at the club. you didn't want to deal with that. you were tired of feeling like a second choice.

you wanted her to choose you, because she wanted to choose you. not because you asked her to.

'no, I'm not sure. I don't want you to go with her. I want you to choose me for once. choose me.' you screamed in your own mind, but all that could be seen on the outside was you smiling the best you could at bada, nodding once more before walking back to where the rest of your group sat, downing the drink in front of you.

you didn't know if it was even yours, but it didn't matter to you right now.

minah noticed your sudden change in mood, holding your hand in hers in a silent attempt to comfort you. you squeezed it as means of expressing gratitude, you didn't wanna talk about it.

but, you didn't need to. she knew, and if the downright pitiful looks the rest of the group were throwing your way were anything to go by, it seemed that everyone else knew too.

you wanted to leave, so you left. lusher had no problem going home early with you, she could tell that you weren't in a good headspace. you left with lushers arms around you, half to make sure that you didn't stumble, and half to try to make you feel a little better.

you left with a bitter taste in your mouth, and not from the shitty drinks you were downing.

you left without saying goodbye to bada, which you never did. she waved when she saw you by the door, that big smile still evident even in the dark lighting.

you didn't wave back.

a/n: this wasn't planned, and I wrote it in a day, but I hope you guys like it. also, doing a bada series and and a bada smau at the same time isn't my brightest idea, but fuck it, we ball.

[double-u-qed]

10k words of sheer jazzprowl fluff. enjoy! ao3 link here. [which i recommend, seeing as none of my formatting transferred over here and i'm a tiny bit lazy]

Jazz doesn’t think he’s ever been so nervous before; his fingers keep tracing over each other, rubbing patterns into the metal. He trails them along the plates, tugs on some of the exposed wiring — a habit his mentor scolded him for often, always redirecting his attention to something else in an effort to make him quit it. But none of his mentors are here right now, haven’t been for a long, long time, so his fingers stay picking and pulling.

He’s never been to Iacon before, despite it being the capital city-state — the head of operations, so to speak. Home of the Primacy and Senate. It’s a hodgepodge of culture, mechs from far and wide settling down, so you’d think a mech like Jazz would have been there before.

But nope — never been.

So why the hell was the Prime himself of all people requesting his presence?

It didn’t make any sense. Well, it did, but — Jazz was just your regular ol’ cultural investigator, nothing special. It was just a fancy, self-given title as well; a way of saying he went to many places and dabbled in the various cultures, researching them (word to be used lightly). He had to make shanix somehow, and the music by itself wasn’t cutting it; it only made sense then to make a career out of what he likes to do best. It paid enough to keep traveling, to keep experiencing a little bit of everything, and that was what mattered to Jazz most.

How Sentinel Prime of all mechs caught wind of him and his work, he hasn’t a clue. If anything, he would’ve assumed the Prime would hear about him from his skirting of the rules before anything related to his work. He hasn’t exactly crossed that line just yet, but he’s not ruling out the possibility, either. Point is, he had trouble believing it when the message found its way into his inbox.

But as much as he tried, he couldn’t find any sign of forgery or tampering with the letter. It definitely looked legit — enough that, well. Here he is: surrounded by a bunch of fancy city mechs not paying him a lick of attention, optics glued to their screens even as the train halts to a strut-breaking stop. All in all, it’s pretty typical, but Jazz can’t help the nervousness he feels all the same.

How was one meant to conduct themselves in front of the fragging Prime? Closest Jazz has ever gotten is a Senator or two, and even then, it was mostly in passing. He hasn’t the faintest clue as to proper Iaconian etiquette. A smooth, charismatic talker he may be, a mistake is a mistake and would still be all too easy to make.

Too bad he doesn’t have more time to agonize over it. The train eventually reaches its station, the doors opening and mechs beginning to shuffle in and out. It’s a hectic mess, really, all kinds of pushing and shoving happening simultaneously. Jazz is just thankful that he manages to make it out in one piece, squeezing between two doorwingers, a litany of apologies on his lips as he wiggles his luggage through the swarm.

After wandering around lost for longer than he’d like to admit, he does eventually find his hotel. It’s not too shabby, but definitely… gaudier than it has any right being. The berth has little hanging crystals attached to it, strips of silver lining the sides. Jazz can’t help wondering if it’s all a show for tourists; give them a little feel of what it’s like to be so close to the Big Building (name pending) where the Prime resides. The streets were lined with his image, after all.

Thankfully, Jazz didn’t bring too many things with him, making the unpacking process easy enough. Unfortunately for him, that also means he has nothing left to occupy himself with; nothing to keep his mind off the fact his presence is expected real soon — less than a joor, his HUD ever so helpfully supplies.

As limited as Jazz’s knowledge of Iacon is, he’s heard plenty of rumors about Sentinel Prime and the company he keeps close to. (All in hushed whispers, of course; it’d be considered heresy to so loudly denounce a mech chosen by Primus Himself).

Sentinel’s… vain. Lazy. The type to shirk his responsibilities onto someone else, most meetings being conducted by his Right Hand more often than not. From what he’s heard, Jazz feels sorry for the poor mech, even if he was constructed during Zeta’s time for the sole purpose of being an attendant. Can’t be easy being stuck to a mech that doesn’t seem to take anything too seriously.

Speaking of which… slag. The Prime’s personal attendant had plenty of rumors surrounding himself too, none of them too kind. He was apparently a real stickler for rules and regulation, no doubt a fault of his pre-programming. He was detail-oriented, a go-getter, the type where nothing escaped his notice. He operates in the limelight and shadows both, the true iron fist of the Primacy.

If the rumors are to be believed—and they often are to be in Jazz’s line of work—then he’ll more than likely be working closely with the Right Hand for… whatever it is they want Jazz doing.

He was seriously screwed, wasn’t he?

“Oookay, Jazz-Meister; you’ve got this. Nothin’ a little sweet-talking can’t get you out of. Hopefully. I’m sure it’s nothing that important. They’d have the dogs on your trail and at your door in seconds flat if it was like that. Probably.” Thinking on it, there was no telling whether or not they weren’t scoping out the area for him already. Unlikely, but Jazz has long since learned to trust his instincts at the first sign of trouble.

It’s just that — they haven’t detected anything. And it’d be rude, maybe even enough for a court-martial, to ignore the summons even more than he already has.

Whining some more to himself, spark set on a path of shaky, nervous revolutions — he sets off for the biggest building of them all.

It’s… no better than his hotel room, adorned in gold and the shiniest of metals, the archways crystalline. Reaches straight out to the sky, proud and — intimidating. Foreboding and imposing, and any other words to say that it was fragging distracting as all get out. Two larger-than-life statues of Sentinel himself sat in the courtyard, of which is fenced off and surrounded by guards no doubt armed to the nines.

Jazz swallows down the bitter taste in his mouth, hands fluttering at his sides as he steels his resolve. They haven’t done anything, so surely that’s a good sign, right?

“’Morning,” he greets them, giving a nod. “I have an appointment with the Prime? Or one of his attendants, I’m not too sure, the letter didn’t specify.”

The guards stationed directly in front of the gate don’t move, but their optics do slide over to each other at the same time. Turning back to Jazz as one, they simultaneously ask, “Designation?”

Unnerved, Jazz stumbles over his words. “Uh, Jazz. Jazz of Staniz.”

“Designation acknowledged. Permission granted. An escort will be with you shortly; proceed.”

Thoroughly creeped out now, Jazz just flashes them a smile and pretty much scurries away, glad to be gone from their penetrating gaze.

True to fashion, the escort practically pops up out of nowhere, suddenly at his side and taking him by the elbow, leading him further into the—palace? It was practically a palace, all regal staircases and spacious rooms to host plenty of mechs in power. The front room alone was bigger than any place Jazz had ever stayed in, that was for sure.

“Wait here,” the small, red bot dragging him around says once they enter a conference-esque room. “Sentinel Prime himself will be here in a moment. In the meantime, do help yourself to any of the refreshments provided.” With that, they give a small bow before leaving.

“You call these refreshments?” Jazz asks no one in particular as he takes a seat. The treat in his hand is a spiky little thing, brittle and dusted with something he doesn’t recognize. Whatever it is, it sparkles and emits a soft glow. “How does a treat manage to be so flashy?”

Chucking it back into the bowl, Jazz leans back a bit, eyes roaming over the place. “Better yet, is everything just like that here?”

Somehow the place didn’t feel very lived in. It was personalized all right — you couldn’t take more than a few steps before running into various things with Sentinel’s image memorialized — yet somehow empty and devoid of life. Maybe that was just how rich mechs lived, with their big, fancy places.

Either way, it sure did make Jazz feel sorely out of place, shifting around awkwardly in his seat. Primus, was it ever quiet here. There was too much junk to make the noise echo, but the sound of his fingers tapping out a little diddy against the table still sliced right through the silence. Not in the good way, either, his fingers curling back into his hand after a mere klik or two of making noise. That left bouncing his left up and down and humming to himself, but even that got old soon enough.

The boredom was about to kill him when the door finally opened again, the mech of the hour and another strolling on through. Strange — Jazz would’ve expected more personnel to be by Sentinel’s side.

Ducking his head a bit to avoid Sentinel’s gaze as the larger mech seats himself across from him, Jazz’s attention is captured by the other mech that came in. He’s on the shorter side — still taller than Jazz, though. His posture belies his caste, all elegant and proud. His paints consist of white and black, his face covered by a full battle mask, and his doorwings fanned out behind him.

Now, Jazz may not be able to see much of the mech’s face, but he can make out the way the mech visibly hesitates for a moment when they make eye contact, doorwings going unnaturally still as he looks at Jazz. And he’s — glaring. He’s glaring, not just staring. His optics are furrowed, his hands suddenly being clasped together behind him as he stands by the door, turning his head to the side sharply, practically severing the contact.

Ah. The rumored personal attendant.

His behavior wasn’t too odd, then; Jazz was well aware of how he looked. His paint hadn’t been redone in a few orns, chipped and dulled all over. Public transit had never really been Jazz’s thing, deeming it a waste of good shanix, making both his modes rather susceptible to pieces of small debris scratching the surface.

Strangely though, Sentinel seems bothered by his Second’s hesitation, raising an optic ridge in his direction. He even eyes the mech up and down before rolling his eyes with an exasperated huff of air when his attendant failed to say anything. Huh.

Turning back to Jazz, the Prime is quiet for a moment. A long moment, actually. Too long. Uncomfortably long. Jazz just hopes his face isn’t giving away his building restlessness.

Sentinel places an elbow on the table, hand to his face as he finally says, “I’ll make this quick — I’m a very busy mech, after all. I need your expertise for the gala I’m hosting tonight. We’re attempting to establish better relations with one of our distant colonies; it��s said you know a thing or two about their customs. I’m sure you get where this is going.”

That — wasn’t quite what Jazz envisioned. He blinks. “I- yes? I think so?”

“Great!” The Prime gives the table a bit of a slap—Jazz can’t help his flinch—splaying his hands out as if to say problem solved. “Glad that’s been taken care of, I hate having to give long explanations. Always admirable, a mech that’s quick on the uptake. Now — you’re to remain here for the foreseeable joors until this whole thing is done with. Direct any of your questions to Prowl over there.”

That takes the other mech—Prowl—just as aback as it does Jazz. Only difference is the amount of exasperation the other manages to exude while somehow keeping his tone reasonably respectful. “You won’t be staying, Sir?”

Sentinel snorts. “Primus, no. You’re the one who recommended this mech to help us; you debrief him. I have a whole day spent agonizing over which of which looks better despite them being the exact same. This is why I hate galas so much.”

Unlike the Prime, Prowl doesn’t seem as keen on acting so lax and improper around an outsider. His words are carefully—and rather pointedly—chosen. “I’d hate to waste your time any further, then. Do take care, Sir; I’ll handle things from here.”

The Prime just raises his hand in a rather dismissive way of parting, the mech continuing to grumble to himself as he exits the room.

If Jazz was a lesser mech, he’s sure his jaw would be on the floor. As it stands, he whips his head around to stare at Prowl, disbelieving in what just happened. It- it all happened so fast. Jazz said less than a sentence! Sure, he was told that Prowl would be handling things, but that — that was just inconsiderate!

Undeterred, acting as if such a thing was a regular occurrence, Prowl takes a seat in the now abandoned chair, unsubspacing a datapad. He glances up at Jazz after a moment of simply scrolling, and it’s — tense? No, that’s not quite right. It’s… it couldn’t be. Could it?

Just as quickly, the doorwinged mech looks away, attention resolutely on the screen of his datapad as he begins to fill in Jazz on the full set of details.

“As Sentinel informed you, tonight is a crucial event for the establishment of our ties to other ruling colonies in the area. Any information you can provide would be deeply appreciated, seeing as we have had little contact with those a part of this colony ourselves.”

The cultural investigator tries to listen, giving his input here and there where needed, but his mind keeps wandering. He’d almost believed for a moment that the look from before had been timid, almost shy, but as the more time passed, the more he was certain he must’ve been mistaken. The rumors, as well; Prowl wasn’t nearly as cold as they made him out to be. He was just awkward if anything.

Only…

Prowl takes him all around the building, never once losing his rigid stance, doorwings not even so much as twitching. The most damning thing of all is his outright refusal to look at Jazz head-on. He’ll get close, their optics almost locking, before settling his gaze on something just a little above Jazz’s eyes. It’s puzzling if Jazz has to be honest.

But you didn’t get to be a cultural investigator without accepting the fact some people act in ways you might not initially understand, so he just chalks it up to being how Prowl normally is. Or maybe it’s a custom from wherever he’s from. That would make sense, actually. Ah, wait — did that make Jazz rude for trying to get the other to look at him? It probably did, didn’t it.

Feeling thoroughly chastised even though it’s just himself he’s arguing with, Jazz puts the matter to rest. He’s here on business, after all.

That’s why he is most definitely not staring when the other suddenly pulls up his mask in the middle of talking, revealing icy-blue eyes and a thin, narrow face. It just — surprises Jazz is all, considering he seemed adamant about wearing it the entire time before.

It’d be rude to stare, so he turns away.

Catching his eye, Prowl lowers his gaze, looks up at the lip of the mask still hanging overhead, casting shadows on his face, then stops walking, prompting Jazz to stop as well. “Standard procedure,” he explains, gesturing to his face. “It’s a safety precaution. Forgive me for not taking it off sooner; I have a tendency to get wrapped up in my thoughts to the point of being negligent of my surroundings. I didn’t realize it was still there until my fans pinged a warning about overheating.”

“’S all good,” Jazz is quick to assure, tapping a finger on his visor. “Just didn’t know if it was something cultural or not, didn’t want to assume or cause offense.”

Prowl seems to consider that in that silent way of his Jazz was beginning to pick up on. It wasn’t obvious that he was updating his files, if not for the way his focus seemed to dim, returning with a couple of blinks. Then he’s all nods, and they continue on their way.

The Prime’s attendant is once again in the middle of explaining something when he suddenly goes quiet, words trailing off. A frown mars his face, minuscule as it is. It’s contemplative, a stylus tapping against the screen of his to-do list. He closes his eyes as Jazz twists his body around to step in front of him.

“Something wrong?” asks Jazz when the silence stretches on.

“Not wrong, per se… Just.” Prowl’s face screws up, the most emotion Jazz has seen on it so far. He taps two of his fingers against his lips. “Sentinel decided most events of the banquet would be left to you.” Blunt, precise. “The event planning itself will mostly be done by himself, but matters are to be overlooked by you before being approved. It’s a lot of work.”

Those icy eyes bore into him, his words seemingly ending there.

Jazz stares back into those unblinking eyes, noting the way Prowl’s grip on his datapad has tightened.

Feeling brave and a little risky, Jazz asks, “Sentinel not trust your word on such matters?”

A bit of pride makes his spark spin a little faster when Prowl actually looks relieved, doorwings lowering a bit. “No,” he says, voice still monotone but holding a little mirth. “He doesn’t. Says a mech constructed cold wouldn’t know a thing about foreign matters, least of all me.”

That gets Jazz’s attention. “How so?”

“Lack of experience,” Prowl says, shrugging. “I was made with the purpose of helping out the Primacy shortly after Sentinel was added to their ranks. I’ve never had the time to experience anywhere but Iacon, really.”

“Not even Praxus?”

“Petrex, actually,” Prowl corrects, bobbing his head a bit as if he was used to having to say it. “And no, I’m afraid. So as you might imagine, there is some truth to Sentinel’s words.”

“But you have something to say anyway, I’m guessin’. Well, let’s hear it,” Jazz says, happily relinquishing some of the control and order over to the other. Planning’s never been his thing, and honestly, this entire thing has left him dizzy. It’s just a little too surreal to be real, no matter how often he bumps his leg against a wall. “Not like I have a completely clear idea of what I’m doing.”

He thought that was encouraging, but if anything, Prowl looked slightly distressed and put off by his words. He glances around them, chewing on a lip.

“Sentinel won’t like it,” he weakly tries to argue. “He doesn’t take too well to some of my ideas, despite leaving most of the work to me. I’d hate for you to be blamed if it doesn’t go over well.”

“You don’t stay as acting attendant for so many vorns without knowing a thing or two.” Jazz grins a Cheshire grin, gently tugging one of those white hands free of its death grip. “C’mon, I won’t tell. I’m sure that big brain of yours has already concocted a whole list of ideas on what to do, so tell me. I trust ya. Pretty pleeeease?”

The attendant stares openly at their clasped hands, making Jazz falter a bit in his enthusiasm, dropping it a little awkwardly. It’s — well, it’s not like he could read the other’s field before this, but now he can’t even get a single hint of what’s going on with him. His face is so impassive as he gives a small nod.

But even as everything seems all fine and business again, Jazz’s hand remains feeling a little cold, his stomach clenched in apprehension.

The gala comes and goes, miraculously being pulled off in the haphazard bit of time they had to spare. It’s not the worst party Jazz has ever been to, either. The foreign guests are a delight, laughing at his jokes and sharing bits of their culture with him that he commits to memory. The band Sentinel hired even lets him play for a bit, even if though it’s a less fancy and richly prestine song than they’re probably used to hearing.

It’s a good time overall, every mech looking happy. Even Prowl.

The battle mask is on once again, obscuring most of his face. But he’s so relaxed as he chats with his company, doorwings moving, even laughing.

He looks so… at home. So peaceful, elegant. Not at all stiff and awkward, adverse to any and all attention.

That is, he’s perfectly at ease until Jazz comes by, wanting to thank the mech for all of his help. Then, he’s a mirror of before; doorwings pulled up high, unmoving, face blank, but eyes furrowed behind the tinted glass of his mask. Jazz would almost think he’s concentrating, if it weren’t for the way his plating is pulled in tighter, tense.

It makes Jazz slow down a bit, his smile slipping. He’s not used to being hated — because that’s what this was, wasn’t it? Him being hated. Prowl had no problems looking the other mechs in the optics, didn’t seem to care when one of the governors from the distant colony put a hand on his arm, tugging on in as they told a story. The only explanation then is that Jazz has done something to upset him. But he came over here for a reason, and he intends on seeing it through. It’d be rude of him not to.

“Thanks,” he says, getting closer. “Never did get to ask you why or how you chose me in particular for somethin’ as big as this, but — thanks. It was fun, if a little hectic. Not what I’m used to usually helping out with.” He chuckles a bit, hoping to ease the tension a bit.

The other’s words are much more clipped, precise and to the point. “I was only doing my duty. It pays to know who is skilled in what is required. You were a big help tonight, so it is I, who should be thanking you.”

Despite himself, Jazz can’t help grinning a giddy grin. He attempts to play it off, hiding it behind the rim of his drink, pretending to take a sip from it. He doubts he succeeds. “Skilled, huh. Didn’t think I was skilled enough for the Prime’s Second to know of me.”

It’s minute, barely there, but Jazz swears the mech manages to just — stop altogether, a little hiss of air being pulled in through teeth. No doubt, it only means something bad, Jazz’s posture slipping back into something only half-relaxed, all cheeriness gone.

“Yes, well,” Prowl’s once again not looking Jazz directly in the face, “as I said: it pays to know. As the one who oversees most of Sentinel’s duties, it is my job to keep track of any names that come up often in conversation.” Now he’s staring down at his own drink, scuffing his peds against the ground as his fingers fidgeted against each other. “Senator Shockwave speaks fondly of you,” he mumbles.

That surprises Jazz. “Really? We’ve only spoken a few times, though…” None of those times particularly stood out, either.

Prowl nods a little more eagerly than before. “Fleeting as it was, your interaction left an impression on him. He was quite impressed with your endeavors and accomplishments, awed with the amount of places you’ve been to.”

It looks like he wants to say more, subtly shifting his weight. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything more at all, merely dismissing himself politely with a bob of wings. It doesn’t escape Jazz’s notice that his doorwings only raise once he’s on the other side of the room, swept up in the crowd of mechs dancing.

And like that, Jazz sees no more of him for the rest of the night.

The next time Jazz met Prowl, it was long after Sentinel Prime’s reign. He’d almost forgotten about the mech entirely, but then, the war happened and things changed. Jazz changed. Mechs kept getting hurt, places kept getting bombed and raided. It hurt, seeing the people and planet he loved be torn apart. It was dying, their planet. Slowly poisoned and unable to sustain itself the way it used to, public transportation lines in ruins and whole cities demolished.

No longer could he safely travel from place to place, playing songs of old and new. There was simply too much death, too much destruction, no matter how much the newly-appointed Prime tried to avoid it.

He was a good spark, Optimus. Enough that Jazz felt sure in his sudden decision to enlist in the faction he had formed. He doubted there was much someone like him could do, but hey; it didn’t hurt to try. If he was truly so knowledgeable of their planet that even Sentinel Prime had paid some notice, he wanted to put those skills to use. People always did say he was a mech of the people, and maybe that was needed right now.

So here Jazz is, lined up and waiting for inspection. His application had already gotten him through the preliminary round, so now it was time for the real test to begin.

As he expected, Prowl himself was the one conducting the inspections, even though it was rather tedious, menial work. Not really something befitting of a mech perfectly constructed for a broad variety of political work. The sight of him and his datapad is enough to make Jazz’s lip quirk in a half-baked smile. Working with the mech even just once had taught him how important control and certainty were to him, down to the very last detail. Though in the case of Sentinel, that was probably more out of a necessity than anything else. Vorns of that kind of work probably left Prowl a little more than distrustful of their new Prime.

All the other mechs in line are nervous, some even mumbling rather profane things about the Second in Command, glancing at him from above cupped hands. Cowards are too afraid to say it any louder than a whisper though. What they didn’t seem to get, however, was just how sensitive a Praxian’s doorwings can be. Careless fraggers didn’t seem to notice the subtle twitches in Prowl’s wings, making Jazz’s smile turn into a smirk he had to hide behind his hand.

Staying in Praxus and other city-states predominately populated by door-winged mechs on more than one occasion had made him rather familiar and acquainted with the various tells of a mech’s doorwings. And boy were Prowl’s wings expressive if you knew what to look for. Jazz was pretty sure he was even cursing behind that stoic demeanor he seemed to be pre-programmed with, attention on his datapad as he cussed them out. Dignity and keeping up appearances were perhaps the only things keeping him from saying such things out loud.

When the Praxian gets closer to where Jazz is, the ex-cultural investigator sees the exact moment the other truly notices he’s there. Disappointingly, not much has changed. Only this time, Prowl doesn’t have a battle mask to properly guard the small changes in his expression.

His optics flickered to where Jazz was, his lips slackening a bit as he blinked. He tilts his head a bit — more when Jazz flashes him a million-watt smile with a coy little way. It’s hard to tell what, but Jazz sees him mouth something to himself before he—rather stiltedly—turns back to the mech he’s meant to be inspecting, blinking a couple times more. Jazz can’t help snickering.

It’s still pretty obvious he’s staring whenever he can, though, as much as he wants to act like he’s fulfilling his job perfectly. Not quite in an apprehensive way, it’s almost — curious? A little wide-eyed and innocent, even if the corners of his mouth are pulled in tight, riddled with stress, straining.

Maybe Jazz hadn’t been mistaken in thinking that night hadn’t been so bad between them, after all.

“Jazz,” Prowl says, bowing his head a little in greeting once he’s standing right in front of him. It’s the very definition of polite, if it weren’t for the datapad he’s ever so intentionally hidden behind, pretending to look busy.

Jazz can’t help the way his spark sinks a little at that. Try as he might, he can’t think of a single thing that would have the Praxian reacting like this in his presence. Sure, he probably wasn’t exactly Prowl’s typical cohort, nor first choice of company, and the mech didn’t seem very social by nature, but…

Whatever. One way or another, Jazz wasn’t going to-

“I see that you expressed an interest in covert operations. Special Ops. May I ask why?” Those icy optics pin him in place, glowing bright as Prowl’s eyes go a little wide, tiny rings of lenses rotating as he studies him.

“That’s not the type of question you’ve been asking the others,” Jazz notes, confused and a little shaken off course, something he isn’t used to. He’s always been known to blurt out rather careless things when nervous, which is exactly why he doesn’t do nervous, not in things like this. “Aren’t you supposed to like, ask about combat training? Background? How serious I am about this? Things like that?”

Oops. Was that insubordination? It sure sounded like it, no matter the fact Jazz wasn’t enlisted yet and this wasn’t his superior. Yet.

Jazz might even be fooling himself, but he swears Prowl’s death grip on his datapad tightens even further. The mech lowers his gaze, raising his datapad a little higher, hiding behind it. Perhaps subconsciously, he puts a bit of distance between them, as if literally trying to un-step over some unseen boundary. “Yes, that is normally the case. My apologies.”

That… that felt wrong. Prowl was in way too high of a position to be apologizing to him so — so submissively. It felt weird, not at all fitting in with the paradigm Jazz had shoved the other mech into. Plus, it’s not like he was offended or anything, he just wasn’t sure what to do with that outlier of a question.

In a rush, he struggles to get the other to stop subtly slipping away, to stop curling away from Jazz. “No, no, it’s- it’s fine… Just a lil’ confused, is all…”

It’s awkward. Primus, take him now, it’s so awkward. Why were things always chock-full of silences and the oddest of surprises when it came to this mech? Jazz never has trouble talking! Socializing is what he’s all about! He loves meeting new people, but this guy — somehow this guy takes everything off-course, which is a rather amazing feat for someone so structured.

Shifting on his peds, Jazz tries to spare the mech who has now begun glaring at some speck over his shoulder, looking… ashamed? Hell, was it ever hard to get a read on this guy. “I guess — I just thought somethin’ like that would be a good fit for me? Dunno if there was really a reason behind it. I know a lot about different frametypes, different people. Figured it’d be helpful in pulling off stealth missions to have a mech onboard that can give a few pointers like that.”

“An acceptable and admirable answer.” The way Prowl says it is careful, as if there were a million things he was trying not to suddenly blurt out. It almost sounds like the words were forcefully pulled out from between clenched teeth. It really didn’t suit him, nor the constructed image of him Jazz had once again formed from the many press conferences shared on the news. He always seemed so regal, so poised in those clipped, reciting lines like a mech made for the job.

From there, the rest of the inspection carries on pretty normal. Jazz even manages to impress the Praxian with his scores on the physical tests, even if he doesn’t say as much. It’s only the barest hint of a swooping motion in his doorwings that gives him away, and that probably only happens at all because Jazz is so far away — most wouldn’t have caught it from this distance.

Really, what does it take to get on this mech’s good side? The other mechs around seemed to be thinking something similar, elbowing Jazz and demanding to know what he’d done to get such a reaction. It’s all light-hearted, but Primus does it make Jazz feel a little miserable. They acted like this measly morsel of attention was the holy grail when, to Jazz, it was hardly anything at all. He’d seen what a relaxed Prowl was like, what he was capable of emoting.

Sitting on the sidelines as the inspections carry on, Jazz observes Prowl. None of the strange behavior is present when he interacts with the other enlisted Autobots, face light while his doorwings say all kinds of things. Some of it manages to get Jazz to smile. It’s a dry kind of humor and wit, the insults he says in everything but words. He’ll tilt his head slightly when someone asks a question he deems dumb; will close his eyes and stand up even straighter when disappointed in someone’s answer to his question.

A few times the Praxian glances Jazz’s way, unmoving as Jazz flashes him a smile just for the sake of being a little annoying. It’s there that Jazz decides he wants to understand this mech a little bit better, wants to make him shed that standoffish nature that seemed to have only gotten worse in the tides of war. He’s just so fascinating, not at all like any other Praxian Jazz has met before.

Inspecting his newly added badge in a mirror, he supposes he’ll have plenty of chances and many things to try.

More vorns go by, and Jazz’s progress is… well. It exists if you know how to look at it.

Prowl has clear, practically visible boundaries with the way he declines offers and separates himself in his office, and the last thing Jazz ever wants to do is cross those in his attempts to befriend the mech. So he starts slow, merely leaving cubes of energon on the other’s desk, nothing more. It’s a bit of a peace offering too, giving Prowl the chance to decline it and make it clear he has no intentions of becoming Jazz’s friend. If so, the saboteur will gladly back off. He might not be used to being hated, but he knows you can’t force these things.

Surprisingly, Prowl always takes him up on the offer, not quite smiling but tilting his head downward in gratitude, not really lifting it all the way back up until Jazz is gone.

His relations with the other Autobots weren’t terrible, but Prowl still didn’t seem particularly close to anyone. Solitude was what he preferred, though the line between voluntary solitude and pure negligence was a thin one. Mech tuned out the entire world when he became focused on something, snapping at anyone who dared pull him away. Not in an overtly aggressive way, mind you, but sometimes if someone pushed a little too far it got to that point. He was always like that when it came to solving any sort of puzzle or fully understanding something that caught his attention, and it didn’t matter if you were friend or foe.

It was rather odd; then again, maybe friendship was just defined differently in Prowl’s book as a whole. It was clear Ratchet, Optimus, and Red Alert all adored him in their own ways, and Prowl both respected and appreciated them in turn.

Ratchet would gently prod and nag at him, but treated him with kindness all the same, never raising his voice. He seemed to get that Prowl didn’t do well with loud noises, easily overwhelmed when there was too much stimuli to keep track of. It’s what made the medbay so hard for him, with its extra bright lights and thrumming machinery. Plenty of medics would try to get Prowl to come in for maintenance, but so far, only Ratchet had a record of succeeding.

Red Alert and him were cut from a similar cloth, meticulous and a little overbearing when it came to their work and protecting everyone. They understood each other without having to say anything, making each other’s jobs easier in a way that even Jazz struggled with.

As for Optimus… Optimus loved everyone, accepting their flaws and all. But he truly valued Prowl in a way that Sentinel didn’t never had, Prowl practically beaming in that subtle way of his whenever Optimus looked to him for input.

Why Jazz seemed to be an outlier remained unclear. And it continued to be murky, until the whole Earth thing.

Everyone got closer to each other the second they came back online and understood their situation, homesick and so small in numbers. They were all they had left of home. They were busier too, trying to maintain their fickle relationship with the humans in power at amicable status. Prowl in particular became swamped with work, prompting Jazz to increase his efforts to get the mech to just relax.

Thus lay the issue — mech didn’t seem to know the meaning of the word, continually rigid, words dismissive and solely professional when it came to Jazz.

“Is it just a Praxian thing? Or does the guy really hate me that much?” Jazz asks, voice pitching up into a whine as he drapes himself over Smokescreen’s desk, giving a big, feline-like stretch. “He hates meeeee… Wants me deeeeeaaaad.”

Looking up from his online game (which was a total violation of on-duty protocol), Smokescreen gives him a confused look of pinched face plates. “Who? Prowl?”

“Yesssss.” Jazz sinks further into the desk, becoming one with it. His words come out muffled, face pressed into the surface. “Talk about mixed signals. One moment I think he might like me decently enough, the next I’m certain he wants me dead where I stand. Is it me? Am I the issue?”

Smokey’s silent — too quiet. It makes Jazz roll over a bit, raising an optic ridge (not that Smokescreen can see it). That was a perfect opening for his friend to say, ‘always, Jazz. You’re the biggest nuisance I know.’ Smokescreen wasn’t one to pass on such openings, either, hence the confusion.

Smokescreen looks… full of mirth? His gaze is up to the ceiling, a hand covering his mouth, shoulders shaking a bit.

“Have you, I don’t know, tried asking him directly?”

Okay, that definitely sounded like stifled laughter in the other’s voice. Like the tone of a mech that knows more than he’s letting on.

Still, Jazz is feeling miserable, so he’ll gladly bite if it means getting the chance to vent a bit. “No,” he says glumly, kicking a ped against the desk for the added effect. “I thought about it, but it didn’t seem right. We’re Prime’s Third and Second, y’know? It’d be awkward, laying it all out. Can’t risk damaging morale if it ends up ugly. And he really does dislike me.”

No, Jazz wasn’t imagining it; Smokescreen snorted, pressing the hand a little tighter against his mouth.

“You’re… really not used to that, are you?”

And, well. That was a problem Jazz was trying not to address. Having it said so bluntly makes him pout a bit. “Maybe not before, but now it’s a little more common.”

Smokescreen sobers up a bit, field twinged with sympathy. “Oookay, that’s an issue you and I are gonna have to sort through at a later time. But what I want to know is, why do you care? What makes Prowl such an outlier you feel the need to sit here and whine to me about it instead of taking action?”

“I don’t know!” Jazz exclaims, plopping himself back down, raising his arms up to Primus Himself. “Maybe it’s the way he doesn’t try to hide it?”

“Hide what?”

Jazz scowls. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

“Yeup,” Smokescreen says, leaning back and grinning. “It’s annoying, isn’t it? Me making you admit that you’ve got a problem you don’t know how to fix.”

“I hate you.”

“Then get out of my office.”

“No,” Jazz says, all the world’s petulance in his tone as he settles back down on Smokescreen’s desk. “Your desk is a lot comfier than mine. And you’ve got games. Lots of them.”

“Am I at least an added bonus?”

“Not when you’re yapping and pullin’ my leg so much, no. Not even a little.”

“You wound me, Jazz,” Smokescreen dryly retorts, turning his gaze back to his handheld. When there’s the telltale death jingle, he merely sighs, putting it aside as he studies Jazz a bit. It makes the saboteur squirm, that level of scrutiny. More so when Smokescreen’s got that psychiatrist look to his eyes.

Giving up the charade, Smokescreen smirks, leaning in close enough to poke Jazz in the nose. “Oh, you cannot be serious. Who knew you of all people could be so dense.”

Jazz frowns. “What do you mean?”

But the junior tactician wasn’t listening, muttering under his breath, “Hate you?” He shook his head a bit, chuckling. “Jazz — the mech practically trips over his own peds whenever you enter the room. He’s a real bumbling idiot when someone so much as says your name, suddenly all eyes and ears like some kind of organic pet being brought food.”

The saboteur sits up straight, not caring at all that he manages to knock a pad clean off the desk. He ignores Smokescreen’s indignant little ‘hey!’ when it clatters to the floor. “No, that- that can’t be right. Prowl doesn’t—”

“Do romance?” His friend finishes, raising an optic ridge. His grin was still there, but it seemed slightly forced now. It’s that look he gets sometimes whenever he’s stepping on rough terrain, knowing a little too much about the bots on base. “Listen, Jazz — I know that you’ve technically known Prowl longer than I have, but you don’t work directly under the mech. And apparently, you’re fragging oblivious to what’s been obvious to us all.” When that only gets him a blank stare, he shakes out his hands for emphasis. “The wings, Jazz, the wings!”

“W-“

Jazz doesn’t get to finish, the door suddenly opening, stealing both of their attention. And low and behold, there was Prowl, nose stuck in reports as he swiftly made his way through, none the wiser.

“Smokescreen, have you looked over the governor of Oregon’s request yet? I-“

He pauses once he notices said person is in the middle of something. It doesn’t escape Jazz’s notice the way his gaze flicks to him, the way he’s seated, before going back to Smokescreen. It could be an illusion, but Jazz swears the mech takes a small shuffle backward, trying to shield himself partially with the report in his hand. His faceplates looked slightly darker too, optics giving a small flicker, in, out.

“Is… this a bad time?” He’s addressing Smokescreen when he asks, making a point of avoiding looking at Jazz. But his wings — those fucking wings!

Jazz’s jaw could hit the floor. It’s — it’s barely there, barely anything at all, but when you’re actively looking it for, it’s rather obvious; Prowl’s doorwings droop a bit as he says the words, his left foot pulled back as if to pivot on out. His helm is lowered and — yep; he’s sneaking glances at Jazz out of the corner of his eye, nervously tapping his fingers against the side of his datapad.

Oh, Primus — it really was rather obvious, wasn’t it? Like, really, really obvious. The mech was shy. Ridiculously shy. Prowl! That had to be wrong, right? Prowl didn’t- oh. Oh. He didn’t do romance because Jazz was there and not romancing with him. Prowl was rather old-fashioned in everything, so why not this as well?

Snickering quietly, Smokescreen gives him a hard clap on the back that makes him stumble and almost fall off the edge of his desk. He ignores the glare Jazz sends his way, his tongue sticking out. Turning to Prowl, he’s all smiles and politeness, cheeky fragger.

“Nope, not at all, no worries. Jazz and I were just discussing some business, nothing important. And as for your earlier question — yep! Looked it over and ran the numbers myself. Should be all good to go.”

“That’s…” Prowl purses his lips a bit, face pinched and crinkled in thought. It looked… pained. Like he didn’t really want to say the words coming out of his mouth. “That’s good. Thank you.”

“I- uh.” Jazz points towards the door, because it’s clear Smokescreen has no intention of helping him out. “Go.”

That same, little droop. “If it’s because of me-“

“Nah,” Jazz says, cutting him off. And it isn’t. Not completely. Just — not for the reasons Prowl might be thinking. “Like Smokey said: it wasn’t that important. Just a little banter. Your report, on the other hand…”

The tactician looks down at said report, almost as if he had forgotten why he came into the room at all. Again, his face screws up into something rather odd. Indecisive. “It-“

-can wait. But Prowler’s always been a logical, by-the-books kind of mech, never selfish. The words die there, his lips pursed as he stops himself, blinking harshly as he lowers his gaze.

It almost gets Jazz to stay. Almost. His head’s a little too full of discoveries for that, needing some space to simply breathe. Primus. How long had everyone on base known? And why didn’t they tell Jazz? It’s not like he was some serial dater or anything! He wouldn’t react badly!

But… how does he feel about Prowl? He doesn’t know. He’s never had to think past his own wounded ego before, so fixated on the fact the Praxian seemed to only treat him differently.

Maybe. Maybe that was part of the problem. If Prowl was really that shy, no wonder nobody wanted to spoil things for him.

Jazz pauses.

The mech had been flirting with him from the beginning. All those times he would suddenly blurt out an unrelated question, sheepishly apologizing when questioned about it. He was trying to get to know Jazz better.

That. That changed some things — a lot of things. It answered some things too, but that seemed rather trivial right now.

Prowl — Prowl had a crush on him. Him.

A hand comes up to rest against Jazz’s mouth, his head turned and making eye contact with his own reflection. He didn’t remember making it make to his hab, nor entering his washracks.

He was even more startled to find himself smiling.

Valentine’s was. A holiday. A great holiday, even. Jazz was always stoked for it, showing his appreciation for everyone on base in the little things, such as giving them little pieces reminiscent of their home back on Cybertron. From treats to playing music — he had it all. It reminded him what he had loved about being a cultural investigator so much, his spark full and warm whenever people thanked him.

This year… It wasn’t like Jazz was any less excited, far from it. The problem was…

“Woah, either you’re really deep in thought, or you want to kill Blaster right now. Which is it?”

“Thinking, so go away before I catch your disease.”

Smokescreen, damn him, only presses in closer, making an utter mockery of Jazz’s threat. “Hmmm, I don’t doubt that—the thinking bit, just to be clear—but it really does look like you want to tear Blaster apart right now. Last I checked, he was your second best friend—with me being the first, of course—so now I need to know why. Though,” he chuckles, “I might have a guess.”

Jazz sighs, focus thoroughly ruined now. “I’m not jealous.”

“Sure you’re not. Blaster just conveniently happens to be chatting away with your not-so-secret admirer that you may or may not have similar feelings for, all whilst you’re glaring at him. I’m believing you so hard right now.”

“Knock it off,” Jazz says, giving him a shove. “It’s genuinely not like that. I think-“ He hesitates, knowing the words will be very real once they leave the sanctity of his own head. “I think Prowl’s planning to actually confess soon.”

“Oh.” Smokescreen’s blink is audible as he turns back to study Blaster and Prowl from the other side of the room. “What makes you think that?”

“He’s been acting more skittish than usual, almost acting guilty anytime I walk in on the two of them talking. Mighty embarrassed too.”

“Okay,” Smokescreen says, slowly and giving an even slower nod. “I’ll pretend to understand the thought process here.”

Exasperated, Jazz huffs again. “Prowl doesn’t get embarrassed unless it’s something to do with — y’know. This.” He waggles a finger between himself and where Prowl stands. “Which, considering Blaster’s title of second place bestie—soon to be first, if you don’t stop poking me—makes me think he’s plotting something. Something big.”

“Ah.”

It’s quiet then, both of them just staring as Prowl eventually leaves the rec. room, wings a little higher than normal. In unison, their heads turn to follow him out, mouths pressed into lines.

Watching Blaster soon leave as well, Smokescreen drums a finger against Jazz’s arm, humming. “You gonna do anything about it? You want to do anything about it?”

“That’d be mean though, right? He’s obviously trying so hard…”

Suddenly serious, Smokescreen sits bolt upright, grasping Jazz’s arm a little too firmly. Urgently. “Jazz. Jazz, Jazzy, Jazz-meister. You don’t have to reciprocate or do anything if you don’t want to. I know I teased you a lot-“

“What? No.” Jazz wriggles out of his friend’s hold, raising an optic ridge. “I’m not- ah, slag. That’s not what I meant, Smokes. I just meant I don’t wanna rush him by letting him I’ve caught on or anything. It’d spoil his fun, right?”

Smokescreen studies his face some more, likely trying to parse through his words and link them back to his body language. When he’s satisfied, he smiles, leaning out of Jazz’s space once more. He taps all fingers against both knees obnoxiously. “Well, you might be right about that. He might curl in on himself and die if he feels like he’s made a fool of himself.”

And then, he’s wearing that professional, clinical look. He looks over to Jazz out of the corner of his peripheral view. As much as he is Jazz’s friend, he’s also the glue holding this base together, and—in his own way—Prowl’s friend as well. “I know it’s been a long, long time, but he isn’t used to — sincerity, I guess. He’s a little slow when it comes to processing emotions and putting them in the right little boxes he’s made up. Sentinel… had a lot of fragged up ideals, you know. Didn’t approve of being so affectionate with others and other junk.”

The tapping continues.

“Now, imagine living a life of seclusion, hidden away and made to perform only one task and having no other opportunities. The only person that pays you attention is someone who treats you like slag, though not as harshly as you know other people are capable of being. It makes you lacking in social skills, harsh and cold because you were programmed to be as such and nobody has given you anything more than diplomatic pleasantries. Suddenly, that’s gone and you’re surrounded by new, unpredictable people. They care about and appreciate you, but you were convinced such things weren’t yours to have. It goes on for years and years, and while it gets a little easier to believe, you’re still stuck being standoffish and a little alienated. How would you react if someone told you outright ‘I like you’ before you get to do it yourself?”

Jazz is silent for a long, long time. He thinks about it — really, truly thinks about it, hands clasped together, elbows pressing down into the armor of his knees.

Eventually, “I wouldn’t believe it. I’d think it’s some kind of joke to get a reaction out of me.” And Prowl is a very, very logical mech in all areas, except for feelings. There, he’s illogical as can be, as emotional as the best of them.

The Praxian clasps his shoulder. “Good.” Approval dyes his words in bright hues, a small smile on his face as he stands up with a groan, twisting. “Definitely sat there too long,” he grumbles under his breath, wincing as he rubs at his back.

It makes Jazz laugh, which might’ve been what Smokey was really aiming for all along.

He’s turning to leave when Jazz makes a grab for his hand.

“Thanks,” he says, meaning it to a degree words can’t convey. “And don’t worry.”

“Who said anything about being worried?” Smokescreen retorts, so gooey and fond.

Jazz has been avoiding the rec. room tonight, every revolution of his spark loud in his head. He can’t remember ever being this nervous before, practically giving himself a spark attack with the way he’s both giddy and filled to the brim with anxiety.

He can hear the sounds of the party going on even in his room, loud and positively thunderous, making the ground shake a little, depending on where you are. It’s exactly the scene of life he’s always loved, feeling at one with the beat and energy. It makes him remember days of a little town of nowhere, one small mech clinging to a pillar hidden in shadows as they watched a live performance. They were never meant to be there, having snuck in.

Every bit of it was worth it though, the music resonating and positively singing in his spark. It was heavenly bliss, enough for him to get lost in it, forgetting his place.

He expected the musicians to be upset at having discovered a little stowaway taking up their time. Instead, they had been delighted with how enthusiastic he had been about their music, jumping up and down.

It was the entire group that had given him a new designation then and there, taking him along and raising Jazz as their own.

The rec. room practically beckons out to him, but — he’s unable to stay still, so sickeningly worried. What if he’s wrong? What if he’s right?

Prowl was special to him — that much became so blindingly clear the moment he discovered the Praxian’s crush on him. It only made sense for him to be bothered when he thought the mech seemingly hated him — he wanted his attention! He just. Hadn’t realized that at the time. But now it’s so painfully there, squeezing his chest and pressing down until it hurts.

Lovesick — that’s what Smokescreen had called it. Kinda embarrassing, considering Jazz’s age. He’s much too old to be acting like a youngling having their first crush, writing away in this datapad and swinging their peds.

But here he is, virtually doing that very thing.

In, out. Round and round the air goes, flustered hands constantly in motion, checking all over himself for any unseen imperfection.

He wants this to be perfect. He wants-

Prowl. Wants to hold him and kiss him — eventually. He doubts the Praxian’s the type to move so fast, but hey, he’s surprised Jazz before.

All Jazz has to do is go out there and see. He’ll never know if he stays in here all night. Would Prowl be crushed if he did? He would, wouldn’t he. All assuming Jazz’s suspicions are right, of course, and Prowl really is planning something tonight. Primus. Jazz could be so very, very wrong. Prowl didn’t go to parties, what has him so convinced tonight will be any different?

But it’s also Jazz’s party and, well. He’s sorta obligated to show up no matter what.

Right.

Steeling himself, Jazz makes the oh so very scary decision of finally leaving his room, gradually approaching the ruckus of music, streamers, and a little bit of high-grade. Just a little.

The whole room is dyed red, many mechs dancing and laughing, loud, loud, loud. Too loud and totally not Prowl’s scene, Jazz really should just — he’s already said hello to like, five different people, surely — half of them were drunk off their afts already, they wouldn’t even notice-

Where is Prowl??

Jazz doesn’t even notice he lifted himself up to the tips of his peds until he’s lowering himself to the floor in disappointment when he’s unable to spot the mech he’s been both hoping and dreading seeing.

A shame, really, because Jazz really thinks he’s outdone himself this year with the amount of heart decorations and streamers. It’s practically a whole store’s worth of things.

Yeah. That’s the only reason he feels sad right now. The only reason at all.

He tries, he really does. He smiles, he waves, he even dances a bit. Does the things expected of him, acting like nothing’s wrong, nothing at all.

It doesn’t last, not completely. He doesn’t think anyone notices or questions his sudden departure, halfway out the door without anyone stopping him. But he does — stop, that is.

Down the hall, he hears it: a song he hasn’t heard in a long, long time.

Following the distant sound of music, Jazz finds himself in a more secluded section of the Ark, away from prying eyes. It’s not a very spacious room, but nor is it crowded like the rec. room. It’s quiet, save for the red boombox perched up on a small ledge.

“Blaster…? What’s going on?”

Blaster, predictably, doesn’t answer.

“I asked him to, considering he’s the only one with records of this song.”

Jazz whirls around and — there — there’s Prowl. Smiling that smile that he’s so fickle about sharing, saying it makes him look untrustworthy. Which was really just a fancy way of saying he didn’t like it, which always made Jazz sad because — it’s cute. Ridiculously so, the way it’s lopsided and shows a little teeth.

“Hey,” Jazz says.

“Hey,” Prowl echoes.

“What’s,” Jazz gestures to the small bit of heart streamers he’s only now noticed, “all of this?”

“What does it look like?” Prowl says, flashing more teeth as he playfully pokes Jazz’s arm. “Surely you of all mechs recognize a party?”

“I- I do, but-“

Oh, Primus. He really hopes he still looks put together right now.

“It’s my song,” he says, voice nothing more than a choked up whisper packed full of love and shock. “It’s the song my mentors played and re-named after me. I didn’t- I’ve never played this song for anyone before. How did you…?”

“Rewind,” Prowl answers, holding out one of his hands. And Jazz — he takes it. It doesn’t even occur to him why until they’re dancing. Not a formal dance or anything like that — it’s Polyhexian to its core. “He’s got a recording of practically everything, you know. Even of your mentors’ older performances.”

“And the — and the dancing?” Jazz asks, grinning like mad as Prowl leads him through the motions of a song and dance he knows by spark. He thinks he should be more shocked by this entire affair, maybe stuttering and disbelieving. But he knew Prowl a little better than that — knew his subtle cues and spark better than most.

Everything about this was so very Prowl; down to the way it’s a moment between them, and them alone. Minus Blaster, but ah well. Blaster was always good at keeping a secret.

“Blaster. I — apologize if it isn’t any good. I’ve never done anything more than the formal dances expected at political events.” And the thing was, it — well, it was awkward, the movements stilted and a little clumsy. Less than Jazz would have expected from Prowl, convincing him that it’s more about the dance itself than the action as a whole.

Funny, how Jazz wouldn’t have it any other way.

“It’s perfect. Just — perfect. You’re perfect.”

That makes Prowl — stop. Stop like Jazz had always interpreted as being a sign of discomfort.

His eyes go wide, mouth forming a little ‘o’. He ducks his head, trying to hide it in the crook of his neck.

“Aw, c’mon, none of that,” Jazz teases, putting his hands on either side of the Praxian’s face, turning him back forward. “I wanna look at’cha. I don’t get to do it this close, this often. I like looking at such a handsome face.”

“I’m assuming you knew, then?” Embarrassment twinges in Prowl’s field, twined with mortification and a bit of loathing. All making Jazz’s smile turn a little sympathetic, but above all else: full of love, love, love. Adoration for this shy weirdo of a mech he’s come to know and appreciation.

“Took me a bit,” he admits. “But once I caught on — oh boo, all subtly was off the table. You’re so transparent, but that’s something I love about ya.”

Prowl’s eyes are zeroed in on Jazz’s hands, sliding his own up until he’s clasping them. He rubs small, little circles into the palms, voice a little husky and shaky as he says, “Can I take this as a yes, then?”

“Yeah, Prowler,” Jazz whispers, voice equally shaky now, leaning his helm to rest against the tactician’s. “You can.”

[prettiestlovergirl]

hiii!! i love how u write theo and i was wondering if u could do another oral fixation!reader x cold!theo nott (it doesn’t have to be smut ofc, pls do whatever makes u comfortable, even if that means you don’t write this at all!!)

have a great night!

🎀 anon (if that’s not already taken ofc!)

oh, my love, i am sososo happy you asked me for this! idk why i have so much fun with cold! theo but i DO and the fact that you also love him makes me giddy hehe.

this is basically like a continuation of the last one! just a different nickname. (🎀 anon is all yours, babe!) i'm too lazy to add it to everything, bambola means doll! hope this lived up to your expectations. enjoy, my lovely! 𓆩♡𓆪

tw: MDNI; fem!reader; oral fixation! reader; princess! reader; jealousy; light hairpulling; fingering; unprotected sex (wrap it b4 you tap it); sarcastic banter; ends with some fluff; italian! theodore nott

currently, slytherin house was throwing a massive party in the common room. you guys had won in your game against ravenclaw, so of course you were all celebrating with loud music and an abundance of alcohol.

theo was looking for you. the two of you hadn't gotten a moment alone since the library incident he couldn't stop replaying on a loop in his mind.

wanting you was a bad idea. you were from two different worlds, you were polar opposites, but fuck did he need to have you again more than air.

even in a room full of people, his eyes always found you first. unfortunately (for the other guy) you were in the middle of a dance with some guy from the year above you two.

your face was flushed from dancing, your eyes sparkling with joy and laughter as the guy spun you around. your hair was in a ponytail, and he had the sudden urge to wrap it around his fist and tug you to him.

all it would take is one little tug and you would be all his for the taking, the douchebag with his hands on you didn't stand a fucking chance against him.

theo remained cool and composed, but his eyes? his eyes gave everything away. they showed the jealousy sparking deep within him, one misplaced hand away from starting a fire.

you must have been able to feel the heat of his stare on your skin, because you turned your head around and were instantly met with theo's dark gaze.

your breath hitched and the previous smile on your face was wiped as theo approached, instantly wrapping his arms around you. he made a point to place his hand just above douchebags.

"bambola, you didn't tell me you made a new friend." theo mused, his cool and collected smile masking the jealousy, rage, and sudden desire to snap and beat the shit out of this guy for even looking at you, let alone touching you.

"hey, man, who the fuck are you?" douchebag scoffed, his arms still on you as bodies continued to sway and party around you. "someone who's going to kick your pathetic ass if you don't get out of here in the next five seconds."

douchebag looked like he wanted to argue, but the murderous glint in theo's eyes and the fact that he started lifting his fingers in a countdown finally scared him away.

"what the hell was that?!" you huffed, stepping away from his grasp and placing your hands on your hips. "i really like ethan!" you hissed, noticing the muscle tick in his jaw as you said his name.

"you can do better, bambola. he scared too easy, he's not worth your time." theo said coolly, slight smirk on his face as you rolled your eyes. "oh, because you're better? please-"

"you really think you would have enjoyed yourself with him, bella? you think he would have made your eyes roll the way i did? think his fingers would compare to mine? i can still hear your pretty little whimpers, darling."

a shiver ripped through your body at his words, lips parting in surprise at hearing the normally so calm and proper theodore nott speak such filthy words with ease.

"you've got five minutes to meet me by the stairs, bambola... or i've throw you over my shoulder and drag you up myself." he purred in your ear, his voice low and dark and raspy with desire.

of course, you followed theo out almost immediately. you would have been a fool not to follow him, especially with the way you couldn't help but replay the scene of you two in library every time you closed your eyes.

anticipation fluttered beneath your skin as you and theo walked up the stairs to the boy's dormitory. there was an aching pressure between your thighs as you walked, his hand on the small of your back burning so hot he was practically branding you.

you couldn't take your eyes off him the moment you stepped into the room. you hadn't uttered a word the whole way up, but you didn't have to: you both knew exactly what was going to happen tonight.

theo leaned back against the canopy of his bed, arms crossed as his eyes burned into you. "come here." he finally commanded; voice soft as he rolled the sleeves of his shirt up his forearms.

you did as told, walking step by step until your bodies nearly collided. "fuck, bambola. you don't know what you do to me." he murmured before finally crashing his lips down onto yours in a rough, deliberate kiss.

his hand fisted your hair, holding you tightly as his teeth tugged at your bottom lip. he shifted a bit, sinking down onto his mattress and helping you straddle him with ease.

he pulled away after a moment, watching the way your chest heaved as you attempted to catch your breath before he left a trail of hot, fiery kisses down the side of your neck.

you could feel his cock digging into your skin through his boxers, drawing a soft whine out of you as you started to gently grind down against him.

he groaned against your neck, his hand sliding up your inner thigh until it reached your soaked panties. he pressed his palm firmly against your pussy, making you moan out in surprise and need.

"fuck, you're so wet." he groaned, dipping his hand into your panties and pushing two fingers inside your puffy walls. your eyes squeezed shut as you moaned, forehead leaning against his as you relished in the agonizingly delicious stretch.

"theo..." you gasped, mouth falling open as he buried his fingers to the hilt and immediately pressed his thumb against your swollen clit. "fuck, your roommates are gonna come up and see us." you whimpered, sweating beading on your forehead.

"no, they won't, bella." theo hummed, his voice maddeningly calm compared to your breathy whimpers. he brought his free hand up to your lips, pushing his thumb into your open mouth, effectively keeping you from asking more questions.

you rolled your hips down against him, desperate for more as he continued to slowly drag his thumb over your clit while his fingers rubbed against your walls. "need you to fuck me, please." you begged, coating his thumb in your saliva.

"ask me again." he demanded, voice still calm and collected as your tongue swirled around his thumb. "fuck me, theo. i need you to fuck me." you pleaded, opening your eyes to look right at him as he pulled his fingers out of you.

he flipped your positions, pushing you back against the mattress. his fingers made quick work of your clothes, stripping you completely bare for him. he ran his tongue over his lower lip, mouth going dry as he admired just how fucking gorgeous you were.

his gaze was almost predatory as he admired you before leaning down, kissing his way to your chest and taking a nipple into his mouth. he licked and tugged and teased while you squirmed and whimpered underneath him.

one hand gripped your hip tightly, it was definitely going to leave a fresh bruise on your skin but you didn't care. his other hand went down to quickly rid himself of his pants and boxers before lining himself up with you.

"look at me, bambola." he said roughly, waiting until your eyes were back on his. you nearly gasped when you saw him, the theodore nott in front of you was someone you could hardly recognize.

his usually perfect hair was tussled, his sweat making it stick to his forehead, and his eyes were pools of black and desire. "please." you begged, your voice hoarse with desire.

he kept direct eye contact with you as he finally pushed inside of you, inch by torturous fucking inch. it was sweaty and intimate and you'd never wanted this moment to end.

as he bottomed out, your mouth finally opened in a tortured moan. he lifted two fingers back into your mouth as he started to move slowly. you happily swirled your tongue around his fingers, thankful for the feeling as he started to pull back out.

he pulled out all the way until it was just the tip of his cock still inside before thrusting back inside of you. he thrusted deeper, faster, harder, and you wrapped your legs up around his waist to pull him closer.

after that, you could no longer form any thought that wasn't about how good his cock felt pounding into your desperate, soaked pussy. your tongue swirled around his fingers as you moaned and bucked your hips up to meet his thrusts.

tears streamed down your cheeks as he fucked into you, lips pressing kisses and bites all over your chest while your nails dug into his back. "look at you, bambola. already weeping from how good my cock is fucking your sweet little pussy."

your eyes rolled into the back of your head, the filthy words coming from him practically tipping you over the edge. "fuck, fuck, theo, 'm gonna cum, fuck!" you cried, toes curling as your orgasm crashed into you like a wave.

his controlled, deliberate thrusts quickly grew erratic. he let out a hiss as your nails scraped his skin, his teeth sinking into your shoulder as he fucked into you. he pulled out a few moments later, coating your stomach in his cum.

you laid there while he got a rag to quickly clean you up, letting you stay collapsed and boneless against his sheets. theo being theo, he had to at least put your things in a pile before eventually laying beside you.

your eyes were closed, but you could feel his eyes staring at you intently. you finally opened one eye, staring at him as you yawned. "what?" you asked, biting your kiss-swollen lip.

"nothing, nothing it's just... i think this might be the longest i've ever heard you go without talking." he teased, a smirk on his face as his shoulders shook with laughter.

you wanted to be mad, you really did, but it was so impossibly hard to be mad when you heard him laugh. he was always so composed, so stoic. any time you could crack through his persona was a success in your eyes.

"mean!" you laughed, reaching up to smack his chest. he grabbed your arm before you could hit him and he tugged you in close. he pressed a soft, gentle kiss on the chunk of skin he'd bitten earlier before covering you with a sheet.

"you're mine, bambola, and now that i have you? i'm not letting you go any time soon."

ᵈⁱᵛⁱᵈᵉʳ ᵐᵃᵈᵉ ᵇʸ @ᵐᵘʳᵘᶠᶠⁱⁿ

[tonguetiedraven]

confession: i feel guilty liking your yukio analysis because i am 100% a yukio hater but still agree with nearly every point and that feels almost contradictory.

but anyways, please keep writing cuz you’re stuffs are probably the best in the fandom :)

The series anon is talking about is here, here, and here ദ്ദി ( ᵔ ᗜ ᵔ )

So here's the thing, you're free to dislike Yukio. He can just really rub you the wrong way and that's fine. You do not have to like a character to acknowledge they're well written, and sometimes being well written is exactly what's so off putting about them. They're too real or too close to someone or something you dislike.

The reason I'm doing this series is because I've noticed a concerning lack of two things with Yukio.

Basic understanding of the plot that is happening in the story. Some of this is on the anime adaptations because woof, the first two seasons made some major goofs that have stuck with us for better or worse, but mostly worse. It did something horrid to every character, and we are living in the ripple (but more like tsunami) of those missteps. The anime painted Yukio a very specific way and unfortunately a lot of people do not realize it was a biased and typically incorrect way. Those that have gone on to read the manga tend to skim or skip those early chapters as well, so they miss a lot of the things that were different and a lot of the smaller moments that were very important for character development.

A willingness to realize that Yukio is more often than not justified in his actions, even if they negatively impact Rin. Yukio is always expected to behave responsibly and always blamed for everything despite being in the younger half of the exwire group and despite being a fifteen year old teacher, full time student, exorcist, tutor, and on some kind of secret assignment from Mephisto and Shirou for half this manga. He has more responsibility than anyone else ans is expected to never misstep. Rin misunderstands him and belittles him almost constantly and yet even when Rin realizes he has made a mistake about Yukio and his own assumptions, readers do not realize they too have made a mistake. Yukio is far smarter than Rin, so unless we're paying close attention, it can be easy to misread his actions because the reasoning behind them flew over Rin's head.

I truly love this manga and the depths it has. How complicated the story is and how nuanced the characters are. How right and wrong get complicated and how connection and isolation play out. I love that these broken characters are messy and make mistakes and try their best and it's hard to say what was right and wrong in that moment. I love how much it feels like there have been generational curses, but that they can be broken and that the sins of the fathers don't have to carry on past the current generation. That we don't have to do this alone and that we can reach out.

I love how often Rin is wrong or misguided or purposefully not looking and doing something that would help him out because he's either avoiding a confrontation or simply too lazy or was quite frankly a bit stupid. I love that he's quick to throw himself in the way of danger and how that ultimately leads him to struggling to listen and that even in hell, he'll still pull himself back together for those that need him.

I love how Shiemi has so much social anxiety but is so earnest and brave and fights through that to be the person everyone knows they can trust and that she'll square up to any impossible odds to help.

I love that Konekomaru is so scared and has lost so damn much to Satan (not just his parents, his entire temple which would mean a fair amount of extended family and friends that were his birth right to have and known) but will strive to be brave for his friends and is so smart.

I love that Renzou is always a mystery except in the way he is there for his best friends when they really need him. That he always has more cards than he's revealing and the only thing you can trust in is that he'll show up in a way you did not anticipate.

I love that Izumo is such a bitch for so much of this manga, and it's with such a damn good reason. That she will push you away and out until you're in, and then she'll be the biggest ride or die friend you've ever had.

I love that Ryuuji is this big and gruff softie who cries more than most people in the manga and who has such a damn big bleeding heart that his response to having a gun pulled on him is being terrified that his friend is in a really bad place and needs help. (And that he might not have noticed and might have failed, and has to make that right.)

And yes, I love that Yukio is complicated and messy and so damn smart it's hard to keep up with. I love that he's such a contrast to Rin and that the snow boy has built himself such an icy wall around his heart because he was so soft and fragile for so much of his life and will not let himself go back there. How he knows Rin will save him and doesn't think he deserves to be saved and is so scared to let himself be weak.

I truly don't mind if people dislike Yukio. He's a character that contradicts Rin a lot and it's easy to dislike that when you really related to Rin. I really only ask that people dislike Yukio accurately. Blue Exorcist is an incredible story and Yukio Okumura is really well written, and they both deserve that closer look and that time be taken to really understand what it's telling and showing us. So much of the Yukio Hater rhetoric undermines that entirely by taking things out of their context, exaggerating, or misremembering things entirely. It harms Rin as well, and so many of the other characters.

So don't feel guilty if you find yourself enjoying my analysis, it's reasonable that you would if you enjoy Blue Exorcist. Most of what I'm doing is rehashing the story out for you. I'm just taking it slower and point out what is happening specifically with Yukio and some of the background stuff it's easy not to notice. I know this story very well (I have spent far too much time reading and rereading and theorizing) and have picked up on a lot of details that help expand on everything going on because Kato gave us so much detail and some of it you don't notice or pick up on until later. (A lot of Shirou and Yukio stuff makes more sense on a reread because we've gotten a lot more of their backstories now.)

Don't feel guilty if you still want to dislike Yukio, though I would ask that you do a bit of self reflection if your guilt is specifically over disliking Yukio. Why is there guilt there? If it's something with feeling that you'll find your dislike is unjustified, you don't have to justify disliking a character, but it might point out that you were disliking a more fandomized version of Yukio than the real one. It's something that happens to a lot of us.

[tyinghershoe]

hey hey :) i love ur writing sm!! i was just wondering if u could do a small blurb or fluff fic of what its like to wake up with izuku, like i can just imagine his bed head and how cute and soft it would be

ੈ✩‧₊˚ Wishful Dreaming

Waking up next to Izuku was as soft as his morning kisses.

Pairing: Izuku Midoriya x reader

Genre: Fluff

check out my masterlist!

Izukus' blessing from the higher spirits came tangled in between blue-colored sheets. Everything he ever wanted was in the shape of a twin-sized mattress, and everything he ever needed slept on top of it. It was far too early in the morning, but still, the arms that intertwined with his own awakened him with nothing but patience and love. 

He knew that heaven existed between these four walls - that the only thing separating the boy from reality and divinity was the angel sleeping next to him. So he smiled as he kissed you good morning, something that is necessary when lying next to a beauty such as yourself. 

“Wake up.” He whispers as the softness he feels in his heart spilled in between every syllable. “We need to wake up.” 

Unfortunately for him, it was a Saturday, which meant that you’d do everything you can to stay under these covers for just a few more minutes. What’s the point of waking up and getting out of bed? You’d rather stay right here, wrapped up in him as he kissed you every 5 and a half minutes.

With a sigh, he slowly twists and turns so that he could see you at a better angle. If you’re going to be spending the rest of the morning in this nest, he should at least see you perfectly, this wasn’t hard to do though - you were perfect in every angle. 

After lounging around a moment - 11 minutes to be exact, or 2 kisses if you use that measurement -  you opened your eyes. Now it was you who felt lucky. 

A lazy little smile was the first thing you saw, then it was his eyes, then his dark green hair which was always a mystery to you. Green, untamed, and everywhere - That’s how he’d describe his bedhead. His curls stuck out in every which way, some darker than others as the sun made fun of his frizzy state. However, this was merely an illusion, your lover's hair was as soft as his touch (he thanks your strawberry-scented conditioner for that.) 

“Hi. Good morning y/n.” He blurbed lazily, words splattering into each other as his heart clenched at the sight in front of him. Dearest, he thought, You looked so beautiful. 

You replied with a simple hum, deciding that this moment would be better in your silence, his voice had the effect of putting you back to sleep anyways. He chuckled as he saw your eyelids slowly close and then jerk back open, it was clear that you were fighting the urge to get pulled back into your dreamlike state. He wouldn’t mind really, but he was feeling exceptionally selfish today, and he wanted to talk to his lover. 

“‘Zuku..” You began, “Please just 16 and a half more minutes.” - which means 3 more kisses, but he didn’t know about his unconscious habit that was kissing you in rhythm. 

Izuku sat still for a few seconds and then slowly pulled himself closer to you, thanking his twin-sized mattress for once again being the perfect size. “Only because you asked so nicely.” He sighed, and then he kissed your temple, starting the timer.

-

a/n. Hello, it's been a long time since I last visited this blog (half a year!). In all honesty, I didn't know time could move so fast, but I guess this blog is a reminder of that. Sorry everyone, things just caught up to me - but I'm writing again, so I hope to post frequently on this blog.

follow me on ao3! @tyinghershoe

[betterbemeta]

don't let the bad news (evil executive orders, play by play of obvious corrupt schemes, etc.) tire you out but here's the thing.

this is not the time to 'wait,' or 'hunker down' or 'take a break.'

I know that fact plays havoc with people who have anxiety, or have ADHD or experience mania, etc. It can be difficult for many people to handle 'urgency' without it feeling like

they are being screamed at maximum volume to have already done 'everything'

but also to do it right now

and also they're already a failure

and also they can fail worse or harder, etc. etc.

I understand these feelings. But we must navigate urgency now and fragility is unfortunately not an option. Increasingly 'breaking' doesn't mean another adult fixes it for you, it means 'swept into the trash.' I understand that many people need support to confront this reality, but accessing that support also takes work, unlike an algorithm it will never 'find you.' Not falling through the cracks is not always voluntary but we want to maximize the cases where it is.

And we can talk about how the removal of safety nets is a strategy to ensure as many people smash against the ground as possible. But not on this post.

The thing is, there is no material difference between the behavior that a violent ruling party wants us to do (stay put due to obedience) and the action that the 'freeze' reaction to danger wants us to do (stay put to conserve energy/endure pain).

Even if we frame it as 'needing a rest' or 'self-care,' every significant delay to critical tasks is still a delay that could have an impact on us. Moving forward is self care right now, and will be community care if we do it in groups.

It is the strategy of oppression to make moving at all feel so overwhelming that you believe you only have the strength to hide away as they do whatever they want.

Many people will relinquish their autonomy this way, sometimes even actively.

the creepy tradwife lifestyle is bait for overwhelmed women, that a Husband will take half of the artificially overwhelming responsibility of independence away from you, in exchange for being a robot that automates HIS independence. Which he believes he needs, if he can't afford to pay a servant!

The military benefits when poverty is un-survivable with dead ends, to-dos, shit jobs, waiting lists, especially for people who have been screwed over education, that giving yourself to a cult seems like a good deal. They house, feed, clothe you, they give you directions in a world that abandoned you! You can trade up 'get a job lazy poor' to 'god bless you for your service!' (don't ask veterans if they can eat that.)

But being overwhelmed can still cause you to give up autonomy passively. Especially if you are alone or feel alone.

You don't need to do everything all at once but make serious (incremental, sane, well-paced) goals to do things you may want to accomplish like

get your bank account or financial stuff sorted out,

apply for a passport,

change your name/get married/similar processes,

get on unemployment (may also require proof of weekly job applications depending on where you live),

go to the doctor,

renew your lease or move house,

whatever you need to do. This isn't an exhaustive list.

Pencil in your Saturdays and don't bail, is what I mean.

Make buddies and teams.

Start a group chat.

Whatever works.

As long as it does and you can hold proof of it. Not a 'I sent an email' or 'i left a message,' you MUST follow up. I'm sorry.

I'm so sorry ok. I know. You're ALREADY doing so many things, I know! Me too. I know it sounds like your parents or like "pull up your pants and clean your room!" or like someone's disappointed in you. But nobody is, or they shouldn't be. And this isn't about bootstraps: nobody will participate collectively if you don't. If you wait for there to be a puller upper group, there won't be one. you have to decide to do that thing tomorrow. Even if you're tired and did so many other things today. You have to tell your friends. I KNOW. I know.

these plans and actions will give you a 'tomorrow' and that is critical right now. It is the whole goal of those who oppose you to deny you that. To make them work for it, we have to also work for ourselves.

[princessamericachavez]

911 7x05 CODA

"I guess it's a good thing you didn't insist on a plus one, Buckaroo." "Well... actually..."

Hen pauses the game the fourth time Buck's phone chimes.

"Are you going to answer that?" She asks, giving him a pointed look.

"No." Buck leans back against the couch's back with a huff. "It's Maddie again, asking what I think about the flower arrangements, or the centerpieces, or something."

"I thought you were banned from wedding planning."

"I am! Or- or I was, I guess, but now that she actually has to make the final choices she keeps asking me these things. And I would have an answer for her if she let me just arrange the clipboard I suggested."

"Oh, no, no, no. No clipboards for you."

Buck rolls his eyes. His phone chimes again and he stuffs it under a pillow.

"Just give her your opinion."

"See, I tried that, but then she goes and chooses the other one anyway."

"Then tell her the other one."

"And what if she does choose that one and then it's a mess? I think I'll pass. If I do anything that screws up this wedding Maddie and Chimney will never forgive me."

"I think you're being a little overdramatic, Buck. It's just a wedding."

"It's not! It's Maddie's wedding. It has to be perfect."

Hen seems to consider that for a moment, taking a sip of her tea.

"Yeah, I want it to be perfect too. For her and Chim. I mean, they deserve it. Even Karen's freaked out, she's been trying a million different dresses for the ceremony. I swear, she looks gorgeous in all of them, but she's never satisfied."

"Yeah, Eddie said something similar about Marisol. Apparently, she's nervous about meeting everyone else. I mean- again. Officially."

"A wedding date is a big deal. Makes everything very official."

"It- it does?" Buck blinks.

Hen smiles at him, in that way that's equal parts you're an idiot and you're unfortunately cute, sometimes.

"I guess it's a good thing you didn't insist on a plus one, Buckaroo."

"Well... actually..."

"Wait, you're bringing someone to the wedding?" Hen puts her cup down. "I didn't know you were dating anyone."

"It's, uh, kinda new."

"And you're bringing her to your sister's wedding?"

"I mean, it's not like it's someone new totally out of the blue, okay? I'm not bringing, like, some stranger I picked up on a dating app or anything."

"Who are we talking about?"

Hen's brow furrows with what could well be confusion or curiosity. And that's when Buck knows he can't talk his way out of the next part of this conversation. It's not a new idea. He's not that much of an idiot. He knew the rest of his teammates would have to learn about Tommy eventually, when they showed up to the wedding together, but having an actual conversation about it was not in his plans for a lazy Wednesday afternoon. Deep down, he wishes the alarm would magically go off right now and send them into some sort of emergency to get him out of it, but the silence in the fire house is deafening. So he has no choice.

"Well, I'm- I'm bringing Tommy as my plus one."

And then, just then, Hen's mouth twist with something like distaste or disappointment that makes Buck's entire stomach fall to his knees.

"Tommy?" She says, arching an eyebrow. "Buck, you do know that a plus one in a wedding is meant to be for partners, right? Not just to bring extra friends to the party."

"Wha- yeah, I know that."

"But you're still bringing Tommy."

Buck nods, then realizes that the fact isn't quite registering for her. So he takes a deep breath. Why is he nervous? It was different with Eddie. That was... well, he doesn't even know what he was so scared about when it came to that one. But this is Hen. If anyone will understand, if anyone will be supportive, it will be her. Still, he feels like his heart is about to jump out of his chest before he gathers the courage to say:

"I'm- I'm bringing Tommy... as my date. I- I mean, not a first date, of course. That- that would not be great. We've actually been going out for, well, a couple weeks. But, yeah, I really like him, so... I asked him, and he said yes. A- And Maddie wanted to meet him. And Eddie knows, but I don't know if Chim does, though Maddie has probably told him already. But I guess it would be weird if she didn't, right?"

"Wait, wait, wait-" Hen holds a hand up, finally, thankfully, putting an end to his rambling. "So. You are dating Tommy? Tommy Kinard?"

"Yes," he says and manages to sound a little more steady this time.

Hen's eyes stare into the distance. Buck can picture her entire image of him, of Tommy, of the two of them, rearranging in her head. He gives her a moment, and stays quiet, even though he feels he's going to burst into flames at any second. Finally, Hen turns to look at him again. Her eyes soften and she smiles in that very especial way that makes him feel seen and loved, the same that made him feel welcome in the 118 for the first time.

"Thank you for telling me, Buck. I know how scare it can be the first few times."

He ducks his head to hide the overwhelming emotion catching him by the throat.

"So... how long have you known?"

"That I- I maybe... well, probably... more thank likely like guys? I- I don't know. I guess always? But I also thought it was something normal, you know? That every guy felt that we. I never... until Tommy, I guess, I never really realized..."

Liar. A voice whispers inside him. Because he's been going a lot of thinking the past few days and realized there'd been times. Nights out with friends, dancing in the floor, or quiet evenings sharing beers, or afternoons at the beach, or late nights at the gym... there was his best friend in highschool, and the one guy he met in college who was maybe hitting on him and he was into it (before he dropped out and lost contact), there were moments in his travels that felt charged with possibility and the intrusive idea what if I just leaned in? and maybe other things he's not ready or willing to name, more recently, memories he daren't even touch on yet.

"I- I don't even really know what I am," he admits, squinting like the admission pains him. It does. "I just- I like Tommy. I liked kissing him."

"You've kissed?"

"Y-yeah, Hen, I did tell you we're going out."

"Right," she laughs. "Sorry, it's just... hard to wrap my head around the idea of the same womanizer kid I met a few years ago... but if this is you, even then, I suppose that kid was already... you."

"I don't know what that is, though. I mean, I like women, you know I like them. I just also..."

"Might be bisexual?"

"Bisexual? Uh, I guess. I- I don't know. I've never had to think about it before now."

"Hey, it's okay, Buck. You don't have to put a name to it yet. Whatever it is, you don't need to label it. Though... you might find it useful. I know how much you like to label stuff."

He chuckles at that, though a clipboard isn't going to save him now. Hen must feel his despair, because she reaches out to put a hand on top of his.

"Whatever it is, Buck, you don't need to know right now, okay? You just... let yourself feel it, and trust your instincts."

"My instincts kinda suck sometimes, though."

Hen laughs. "But your heart is always in the right place. I know it, Buckaroo. And this... this isn't something you can solve in a blink of an eye. It takes... exploration to know yourself, especially when you don't fit in the neat little box society expected for you."

"Right... I guess... I've been trying to find the answers, but I don't want to miss the journey while doing so."

"Buck, look at me," Hen says, softly, and waits for their eyes to meet. "I'm so proud of you."

Holding her gaze is hard when his eyes start to water.

"Thanks, Hen. I- I guess... I hadn't told you yet, because it felt very important. And I didn't- I'm not sure about anything yet, and I didn't want it to feel like I was lying to you, like I was pretending to be someone I'm not... or like I- I was taking up space that doesn't belong to me, you know?"

"Buck, if you think you might belong here, that you might be part of the community... then you absolutely have a place here, okay? Even if you don't know what to call it yet, even if you never do... and no one can tell you otherwise."

A new weight is lifted from Buck's shoulders. There's been a lot of that going around lately. Buck feels lighter than ever these days. Hen pulls him into a hug and he lets himself bask in her warmth, in the safety she provides. Someday, he thinks, maybe he'll be as steady and strong as her, so assured of who he is and what he can be. For now, he's just so thankful to have her.

"Now," he says, pretending not to catch the stray tear she cleans off her cheek as they pull back, "can we go back to me beating you in Mario Kart?"

"Oh, not a chance, Buckley. You are going down!" She chuckles, restarting the game before he can even grab his control.

"Hey, hey, hey, that's cheating!" He yells, pushing her with his shoulder as he tries to recover his first place.

[prsk-krow]

oh, mb!! may i have [r]omantic yandere!mizuki hcs?? sorry for the trouble </3

My first headcanons post in months, and it's only right to do this, haha. I'm sorry this took so long, but I did enjoy these! Although they might not be what you expect...

{YANDERE!Mizuki general headcanons!} [R]

꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷♡꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦

>—-×-—*~.୨୧.~*—-×-—<

WARNING: YANDERE CONTENT BELOW!

Oof, now this is extremely tough, for both Mizuki. Their entire secret revolves around keeping a secret that they fear would ruin their friendships, so them suddenly gaining feelings for someone? Yeah...

At first Mizuki tries to deny their own feelings. You are just their friend, nothing else! They shouldn't try to push it or make something deeper with you! Everything should be fine so long as you two remain friends, right?

Unluckily, love isn't so easy to just shrug off, and once they realize just how bad they have fallen for you, they start to get nervous about their feelings all over again, much like when they had the choice to join Niigo.

They hide their struggles from you, like always, but slowly, they start to drift away. They can't afford to become so attached, to show just how vulnerable they truly are, to rely on you with their darkest, deepest secrets. Unfortunately for them, it's not that easy.

"... Huh? Ah, sorry, I was just soooo caught up in my editing yesterday that I missed our shopping trip! Sorry, but can we put it on hold until this next song is released?... Huh?? What do you mean this isn't like me, just trust me, come on! I'm not THAT lazy..."

As time passes, it's not only harder to lie to you, but to themselves as well. Each day they spend away from you they think of you more, and more. Not only more, but they thoughts start to grow intense.

When they previously just thought about being happy with you, and being the best friend for you, now they wanted to watch over you so that you were always well, and safe.

So, still riddled with guilt and now even more so, they start to stalk you. First, it's just online, making sure you make the right friends, then it's more social, as they apologize for their behavior and resume hanging out with you, and slowly they start peering more and more into your personal life.

However, it wasn't of a desire to market you all theirs, they couldn't bear to take you away from what makes you happy, which they understood was socializing and being free, much like them. However, they wouldn't allow anyone to ruin your happiness.

Mizuki couldn't lie to themselves, they were completely and absolutely in love with you now, but someone like them, riddled with insecurities, lies, and identity issues, wouldn't be enough to make you happy, much less as a lover.

However, that doesn't mean they would remain just a friend... In fact, while they looked at you and felt such conflicting emotions in their heart, whenever they looked at others behind their backs, they didn't even notice their suspicions, paranoia, and wariness rising.

"Hey, you remember that girl that asked for help to study two days ago? How do I know about her- that doesn't matter! What's important, is that she's hanging out way too much with the popular girls! Yeah, you know what that means, be careful!"

If they could only be friends, that means they'll be the best friend they can be: Protecting you from people with bad intentions, helping you make your decisions, making your life brighter each day they possibly could. It doesn't matter whether their need for love hurts even worse every time they're called a friend...

It's not long before every single one of your days is influenced by them, be it getting new friends and letting go of others, changing your daily routines, and spending almost every single hour of the day in constant contact with them.

However, it doesn't matter how many times you chat with them now, as opposed to their earlier behavior, you can't help but feel like something's off... Their movements are more intense, their voice as well, yet they only want to talk about you, and shrug off any other friends they mention quickly...

This isn't easy for Mizuki, they love you so much, so much it hurts to be far from you. But they can't love you like you deserve, they shouldn't be the only one. They'll just keep an eye over you, lead you down the right path, keep you safe.

[killuintense]

hello, first I would like to say that I love your account and the way you write and that I am addicted to themkkkk...well I wanted to place an order where fem!reader has cramps/menstruation and is too embarrassed to tell leon, but unfortunately your period ends up leaking and leon see (I know it's kind of weird but this happened to me yesterday... and I'm embarrassed even now)

❝ it's about you ❞

Leon S. Kennedy

genre: fluff, comfort, drabbel | word count: 1k

summary: "where you are on your period and Leon makes sure to contain you to make you feel good "

A/N: hey sweetheart, I hope you like it, it's a very cute theme and I liked thinking about how leon would be in such a situation. And remember that our period is completely normal and managing ourselves is part of that ♡ ily

CW: just a comfortable and beautiful moment with Leon, mention of blood, beautiful words and cute nicknames.

The sunlight came through the window hitting against your face, the curtains barely managed to dissipate the overwhelming but necessary heat for that somewhat warm morning. The sheets lazily brushed your body and when you wanted to get up, you saw Leon's body next to you, enclosing you in his arms as if you were a teddy bear. You laughed and stroked his hair, those golden tresses that seemed to shine even brighter with the sun streaming in and hitting against his strands. His cheek bumped against the pillow and you saw a soft, imperceptible pout that if it weren't for the fact that you knew his every expression, you wouldn't have noticed. You gawked for a couple of minutes until you felt a twinge in your lower belly, stealing a groan. You thought maybe you needed to go to the bathroom, plus you needed some water on your face to wake you up.

You tried to pull away from Leon's embrace laughing softly, he looked like a giant teddy bear hugging you, as if you were going to escape during the night. You knew that he was often a light sleeper, especially before and after some of his missions, that's why you used to stay in bed with him whenever he didn't go out on missions. However, you couldn't stand the pain in your belly, and you feared the worst.

As you calculated, your period had finally arrived and you realized it once you pulled down your little pajama shorts, seeing a quite considerable blood stain. You wanted to cry, the pains were a dreadful thing, but to have stained your favorite pajamas was worse. Still, though, you were certainly grateful for another month of peace and quiet where you didn't worry about having some surprise Leon growing in you.

"Honey..." Leon's sleepy, husky voice snapped you out of your thoughts, you quickly cleaned yourself up as best you could and searched the bathroom drawers for some clean underwear, aside from intimate towels. You found nothing. "Is everything okay, your side of the bed is stained with blood" he said gently knocking on the door. Soon you felt your legs faint even with the stabbing pain in your stomach going down to your core. It was too many sensations and you just wanted to cry from shame and regret.

"Leon..." you mumbled glued to the door, like a scared little girl "In my drawer there's.... there are underwear and suppositories, would you reach me, please?" your voice trembled and you only hoped he wouldn't ask questions, that he would take the situation for granted and pretend nothing happened. Even though you knew it would be impossible on Leon's part, because he always worried madly about you.

"Sure, angel" he yawned softly and walked away, his steps lazy and you were cursing at the slowness in his movements. He knocked on the door again and fleetingly you opened taking what you had asked him for mumbling a faint 'thank you' before locking yourself in the bathroom as if it was your secret lair and you could clean yourself up. You knew it was a natural thing to do, but you hated to make an omen of it, to upset Leon and for you to look so vulnerable. You had never talked much about it other than when you explained that your mood swings were due to 'that time of the month' or when you made it clear that 'that's why' you couldn't have sex.

You tried not to think about it so much as you changed, feeling clean, and a little more confident in those black pants you had asked Leon to pass you. You finally came out of the bathroom after a few long minutes, as you watched Leon put on a pair of sweatpants in deep concentration, as if nothing that had happened was a problem for him. For you it was, and it was worse when you saw the stain on the sheets, your eyes filling with tears automatically without being able to calm down or avoid it.

"What do you want for breakfast....?" he didn't finish speaking when he turned around to look at you and notice the tears running down your beautiful face mercilessly. You grabbed the sheets and pulled them off angrily; you didn't even understand why you were crying so dramatically, between the pain in your abdomen, that awkward moment and the sensitivity of those times, you felt like you were going to explode. "Hey, hey... we'll clean it up later, sweetheart" he said as he stopped you, taking your face in his hands and stroking your tears gently. "Why are you suddenly like this, is it because of this?" he raised an eyebrow and soon you nodded, the urge to want to rip off the sheets and burn them changed to wanting him to protect you in his arms, so he could cry. There was no reason to cry, but you just wanted to.

"I'm sorry..." a sob escaped your lips and you hugged him, hiding your face in his neck as your voice sounded slightly choked "It's just that I'm sure it was uncomfortable for you... I don't know, I'm too embarrassed..." you explained as his hand ran through your soft hair already combed, making a soft cooing sound before sitting on the bed and then you on top of him.

"It's natural, baby, and you know that better than anyone else" he made you understand, looking into your teary red eyes fixedly "I'd be an idiot to look weird at my girlfriend for having her period, seriously, none of this is about how I feel, but about how you feel, yes?" your worries were leaving with his words, and soon he kissed you softly to hug you again.

"You're the best" you whispered and calmed down, feeling like a little girl on top of him as he simply existed, not saying anything, not desperately trying to make you understand anything, not rushing to get up or clean the sheets. Simply accompanying you in every little moment that was difficult for you; that was what he always did, he stood firmly by your side, offering you his arms to hold you with his love.

"It's my turn to make breakfast, right?" he joked, and you laughed nodding, whispering a small 'I love you' on his lips.

Because after all that was all you did...love him so much it was too much for your heart.

[thotsforvillainrights]

I just gotta say I absolutely love what you did with the blog change, the new banner thingies you do for each character looks really nice!! :D

And might I request just some general smut headcanons for my man's Goto, chrono and chisaki?

(Thank you! Now if only I could stay consistent with updating the masterlist or writing in general. THEN it would be 100% the best haha! Until then, I can only dream. Ramblings aside, I feel like I've done something for Chisaki and Chrono at least once in the past before but I'm too lazy to search the masterlist. So just in case, let's do it again!)

~Muscular/Chisaki/Hari Smut Headcanons~

headcanon|scenario|imagine|match-up|drabble

-This has probably been mentioned in the past but should be brought up again...you have to have a certain type of thick skin to put up with this man. This is regarding the relationship in general. At least as far as LOV asshole status goes, you might have a better chance trying to reason with Shigaraki or Dabi. With Muscular, you absolutely cannot take things to heart. He's gruff...he's a gruff man and that's the best way to describe it with him. Now leading into the smut:

-Being hardheaded and stubborn means he has a certain way he wants to go about things. That means if you ever had any hopes of topping him then you're just shit out of luck. 99.9% of the time during sex he's calling the shots. That other small percentage was the one singular time he let you take over on your anniversary. Even THEN he still ended up leading near the end of things. He just can't help being in control most of the time/all the time. Hopefully that doesn't get to you too much because otherwise it may lead to an unwinnable argument.

-He's a little rougher with the things he does. That bein said, he's not a monster! You don't have to worry about him doing anything despicable like taking things too far when you're not for it, or hurting you during it (on purpose at least). He obviously cares enough to be in a relationship with you so no worries there. Also, he's fine implementing some form of a safeword if you feel you really need it. He's grimey but again, he's not a monster.

-Bravo for getting him to be in a relationship with you in the first place. Bravo for even getting him to notice you long enough to hold a conversation without looking at you in disgust. He's surprised by his own actions and so are you (no more so than Pops. The old man is the most shocked by everything). Anyhow, he cares for you but can tend to be selfish with things. Give him a break as he's still learning how to love and how to go about things in a relationship both sexual and nonsexual.

-Beforehand he's going to obviously request you get cleaned up. Don't try to get him with the "but Kai, we're both just going to get dirty again" speech because it's not going to work unfortunately. It's like a chore but you'll come to find that the headache is worth the reward. Once between the sheets you realize he's learned so much since the last few times. He's sickened by the thought (and embarrassed too) but he's spent some time researching just for you. He applies what he's learned and then proceeds to perfect it bit by bit. He won't let anything he does to you be taken terribly whatsoever. He wants to be able to KNOW he's done a good job pleasing you.

-His pace can tend to be a bit slower sometimes, along the line of making love rather than straight up fucking. However, his tune changes easily based on how the night is going and how badly he wants to finish. Speaking of finishing, don't ask him to finish anywhere but in you or in a condom. Splashing bodily fluids all over the place creates unnecessary mess so unfortunately (if you're into facials) you won't be getting one unless you wear into him for a long while until he breaks. Oh, and expect the cleanup to come afterwards too. A mandatory shower before aftercare cuddles is the main thing to expect. As mentioned beforehand, the headache is worth the reward.

-Talk about fun sex, this is the man to fulfill that. It's rare he can be anything but teasing both in and out of the bedroom. Dating him is like dating a best friend. He's pretty much the best partner of the 3. He's attentive and listens to your needs. Don't get me wrong, he's still a little bit of an ass but a teasing one at that. It may get to be annoying how many times he tires to get into your pants once the two of you start dating but if you let him know the jokes annoy you then he'll try to cool off on them for you. He understands not to push his limits too much when it comes to you.

-A lot of times he'll try to draw a little laughter out of you during sex. That way once you're laughing he can swiftly turn it into moans for him. It's like a challenge for this man almost. The sex blindsides you too. One minute you'll be outside in the backyard chatting and laughing on the picnic blanket and then the next thing you know you're giving him a handy in the shed. Other times you're chilling on the couch playing games or watching a movie before you find yourself on the carpet while he puts his tongue to work. Sometimes you might find yourself walking into it thinking you'll just have a quick shower together before suddenly your back is against the wall while he's plowing into you beneath the warm water flowing from the showerhead. Roll the dice on it.

-Despite this, he's really a great person to date outside of sex. If for whatever reason you were seeking a friends with benefits type of relationship, I can see him falling in love rather quickly. Maybe it happens more quickly than you think.