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keferon · 7 months ago

Note

Sorry in advance for the word vomit but. I love the whole Jazz-and-Prowl figuring out the language barrier but also consider:

They don't.

Prowl's been captured by Quintessons and is currently thinking of ways to completely scrape his processor so they can't get any useful data, only to get rescued by a random mech. They fight their way out (the mech is extremely proficient in combat). At first he thinks it's a drone- it looks at him when he asks questions but doesn't answer (responds to noise, not language), it is sparkless (not alive) and it makes random but entirely incoherent noises and doesn't even ping (not able to communicate). Prowl has no idea what's going on but he's too injured to make it back to base alone and it's helping him? So. He chalks it up to some waylaid stealth military asset and tries to think of ways to both get it back to base whilst also making sure it's not some sort of Quintesson Trojan-horse [10%].

Meanwhile, Jazz was sent to blow up a Quintesson command camp by his organisation but instead he got thrown through a weird portal, and found a pilot all tied down and probably being tortured so naturally he busted him out but uh. He has no idea what the other is saying. He's talking in total tonal gibberish. Not that he's judging, he's heard some stuff about how far other piloting programs are willing to go to advance neural technology. And his face! He has one! A handsome one. Must be some advanced shit because he's got micro expressions and he's using them to frown as him. Anyways, Jazz's got bigger fish to fry. The sky's a different colour, there are two suns and atmo is reading terribly low levels of O2. Maybe he and this pilot got thrown into an alien planet? Cool- well, actually pretty bad but hey they're in this together.

Prowl knows by models that they're bound to run into another Quintesson patrol eventually, and based on the drones alertness to its surroundings, his previous observations to its capacity to fight, and how it doesn't stray to far from him, if patrol numbers are favourable [1-8 range] they can survive [70, .5]% the route back to base. But the drone is reckless and abandons him to the melee (how can a drone be reckless?) and Prowl gets injured worse. Energon drips from wounds, and the angle makes it challenging for him to patch it. But the drone creeps closer, folds to its (knees? Its joints are in an odd but effective configuration) and gently (gently?) begins to mimic (clumsily) Prowl's motions of patching his wounds. Here is where Prowl falters, because drones are not so careful. Drones do not do not look up multiple times at his faceplates, and become more delicate when they see you in pain. Drones don't hold out a servo and help you to your pedes when your done. Which begs the question, if he's not a drone, so what has been done to this mech?

Jazz on the other hand is freaking the fuck out. Naturally. Because uh, he started slicing Quints, expecting Frowny to do the same because his mech was still clearly operational, only for the idiot to completely disregarded normal combat standards which can be summarised as 'fight hard or die' and instead get chewed on by some big ass teeth.

Only to see the glowing purple dripping from his torn sides, only to see that he's bleeding.

Machines don't bleed.

So Jazz figures out Frowny is an alien first. He starts pointing at himself and saying his name, insistently, until Frowny repeats it. He points at Frowny, and records and replays whatever sound bite Frowny makes until Frowny's also nodding in confirmation. He still calls him Frowny, because even though he has his name? Probably? He has no idea what it means and can't actually pronounce it (no idea how to get a mouth to move that way) but hey! Progress! He does this again and again with small things (rock, hand, cyber?animals, music (Frowny's confused at that one it's pretty adorable) ect.

Prowl has no idea what to make of this strange mech. Is he a failed experiment? A runaway from Cybertron following the Functionalists rise or power? Thennn Prowl finds out one fateful night that the mech is actually an alien organic (in a fit of misunderstandings, and squeezes him pretty hard for it ouch and feels SO guilty about it later) and suddenly the language/culture barrier makes way more sense.

Prowl's injuries degrade (a line splits). He has no way to communicate this except for the energon dripping out of his chassis. The organic is clearly worried (how did he think he was ever sparkless), and Prowl can't reach the injury himself. So he guides the mech's servos past armour and wiring, down to protoform (near his sparkchamber) to the split line. Gestures and hopes the mech can figure out what to do from his miming[#^%]. That'll he'll be careful, and won't hurt him [5%, 87%, #*%, *########%].

Frowny is later picking shrapnel stuck in his forearm that's too small for him to remove, so Jazz gets out of his mech to help with his small human hands. Jazz has no way to communicate to Frowny that if he moves, he'll sheer Jazz's limbs clean off, but he goes in anyway, because Frowny's hurt, and speckled in blood. Because he's clearly struggling and hurt and tired. Because Jazz has to trust that he won't.

Frowny's injures eventually make him collapse, and Jazz carries him the rest of the way. Jazz has no idea how they'll be received (especially considering how Frowny reacted when he found out Jazz was organic). Jazz knows he might be dissected. Knows he might be pulled apart (again) but.

He remembers all the little moments they had on their journey (Frowny shielding him from falling rubble when Jazz was out of his mech once, them getting to gesticulating arguments, Frowny's reaction to his music, how he fell asleep on Jazz once and it was fricken adorable).

It doesn't matter that Jazz can't say (barely understands) his actual name. That Frowny probably doesn't understand his. It doesn't matter that they talk in halting miming, in broken sound clips and touches and half-glares.

He's already gone out on all his limbs, might as well put his head on the chopping block. And if it causes him to lose the damn thing, well.

He's a pilot. Dying horribly is practically his job description.

OOOUUUUGGGGGHHHHHHHHH DYING HORRIBLY IS PRACTICALLY HIS JOB DESCRIPTION,,,,,,,,,,,

#so cute #SO FUCKING CUTE #someone sedate me #mecha pilot jazz au

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livvymd · 30 days ago

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⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚polaroid proof. mdni.˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

It was just after 7 PM when you quietly let yourself back into the flat.

You weren’t supposed to be home yet — your flight wasn’t due in until tomorrow morning — but you’d managed to catch an earlier one, practically buzzing with anticipation the entire journey. Two weeks on a girls’ trip was fun in theory, but after about five days of beach drinks and tanned flirtations from men you didn’t care about, the only thing you wanted was him.

Chris.

You’d handed him the envelope at Departures like it was nothing. No explanation, no warning — just a kiss to his cheek and a whispered, “Don’t open it until I’m gone.”

Chris had laughed, cocky and clueless, tucking it into his hoodie pocket while you wheeled your suitcase toward security.

But the second your back was turned, he’d opened it, of course.

And the second he saw the first polaroid — you kneeling on the bed in just his hoodie, nipples peeking from the hem, eyes half-lidded with your fingers in your panties — his blood roared.

His cock had gone from zero to fully, painfully hard in a heartbeat, straining against the fabric of his joggers while families walked past and a security announcement droned overhead.

By the time he reached the bottom of the stack — the one where you had his name written in red lipstick across your inner thigh, fingers spreading yourself open to show it off — he was already sweating. Breathing uneven. Palming himself through his joggers in the airport car park like a fucking deviant.

You’d ruined him.

And you knew it.

Because when he looked up, you were halfway through security already — giving him one last wink over your shoulder before disappearing behind the line.

He’d groaned aloud, dragging a hand over his face as the ache in his jeans pulsed harder.

You almost felt bad for leaving him like that — flushed and throbbing and achingly hard, with nothing but a stack of dirty polaroids and the echo of your smile to carry him through the next two weeks.

Almost.

but inside the polaroids? Ten of them. Glossy, handheld sins.

oen of you in his hoodie with nothing underneath. One of you in your red bikini, bottom tied so low your hipbones curved like an invitation. And one in particular — the last one — had his name written on your inner thigh in red lipstick, your fingers pulling the panties to the side so the letters peeked out between your folds.

You hadn’t sent him any follow-up texts about them. You wanted to let them speak for themselves.

Apparently, they had.

Because as you quietly pushed open the door to the flat, you didn’t hear the TV. No music. No kitchen sounds. Just a low, rhythmic creak. Slow. Tense. Almost.. wet?

Your brows lifted, heart leaping as you slid your shoes off and moved further down the hallway. The door to the bedroom was mostly shut, just a sliver left open — enough for light to spill out across the carpet. Enough to hear the soft, breathy groan of your boyfriend murmuring your name.

And when you looked through that sliver?

You nearly dropped your bag.

Chris was on the bed, back propped against the headboard, bare chest heaving, face flushed and eyes hooded with heat. His legs were spread wide — completely bare — with his boxers shoved down past his knees, exposing every inch of him.

In his right hand, he held your final polaroid.

And in the other?

His cock.

Thick and flushed, precum glistening at the tip, his fist pumping slow and tight from base to head. Every few strokes, he’d pause at the top, twisting his wrist and exhaling shakily before jerking harder — a desperate rhythm, like he’d been edging himself, drawing it out. You watched his thumb smear the moisture over the head as he moaned softly.

“Fuck…” he muttered under his breath, gaze locked on the photo. “God, baby… your mout.. wanna feel that tongue — ”

You clenched your thighs, a pulse of heat rushing straight to your core. The way he looked at your photo — reverent, almost pained — made you ache. He missed you. He needed you. And he was so beautifully messy like this, working himself to the thought of you with such focused hunger it nearly made you whimper.

You stayed quiet. Watching.

Chris tilted his head back against the headboard, lips parted as his strokes grew faster — messier now. His abs flexed, the sharp lines of his stomach glistening faintly in the lamplight. You could see the tension in his thighs, the way his hips bucked slightly up into his hand.

“Fucking hell,” he breathed, still staring at your photo. “If you were here right now... I’d spread your legs so wide, baby. I’d have your cunt dripping down my chin.”

He groaned — a real, broken sound — and dragged the photo along his chest as his hand tightened. His knuckles were white. His hips started to move with each pump now, his cock throbbing visibly in his grip.

“I’d fuck you so slow,” he panted, eyes fluttering shut. “Make you cry for it. Wanna feel you squeezing around me, whining like you do when I tease that little spot — ”

You bit your lip, nails digging into the doorframe.

Then — without thinking — a tiny gasp escaped your throat.

Chris’s eyes snapped open. His hand froze. The Polaroid fluttered to the sheets.

And his gaze found you in the doorway.

“Shit!” he blurted, jerking upright, grabbing the sheet like it could hide the obvious. “Babe — ?! What — what the fuck — you’re home?!”

You stepped into the room slowly, pulse racing, smile curling.

“Surprise.”

His cheeks burned crimson. He looked completely undone — flushed and hard and exposed, cock still slick and pulsing between his thighs, and your Polaroid lying next to it like a fallen weapon.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “I didn’t — fuck, I thought I had another night — ”

“You did,” you murmured, eyes dragging down his body. “I caught an earlier flight. Wanted to surprise you.”

He groaned, hand flying to his face. “Well, congrats. I’m fucking traumatized.”

You laughed softly and moved to the bed, kneeling between his legs, fingers dragging up his thighs.

“Traumatized?” you echoed, tilting your head. “You looked pretty into it.”

Chris looked up at you like he didn’t know whether to be mortified or turned on.

You leaned closer, lips brushing his ear. “Keep going.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Pick up where you left off,” you whispered. “I want to see how much you missed me.”

His jaw dropped slightly. Then his eyes darkened.

Slowly, Chris leaned back again. His hand curled back around himself — slow, tentative — watching you the entire time. His strokes resumed, a little more measured now, like he was trying to impress you.

“You want me to finish?” he asked, voice rough. “You want to watch me cum for you?”

You nodded. “Mhm.”

“Fuck.” His head fell back against the headboard. “This is so fucking hot.”

He started working himself faster now, hand slick and sure. His breathing grew heavier, rougher, each groan more desperate than the last.

“Did you think about me while you were gone?” he rasped. “Think about me touching you like this? Think about my mouth on your pussy while you’re lying in some hotel bed, legs open for no one but me — ”

You actually moaned at the thought.

And Chris shuddered.

“Baby — ” his voice broke. “I’m gonna fucking cum — ”

His hips lifted, back arched, and with a strangled gasp he came — thick ropes spilling across his stomach, his hand still stroking as he rode it out, a ruined, wrecked mess of sweat and relief.

You were on him in seconds.

Mouth on his, hands in his hair, your body sliding into his lap with heat burning between your thighs.

And the best part?

He was, somehow, already getting hard again.

#chrismd #chrismd fanfic #fanfic #fluff #smut #angst #arthur frederick #uk youtubers #george clarke #arthur hill #headcannons #ukyt #arthurtv #italianbach

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kkolg · 2 years ago

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You read the title, ROLL THE ANIMAL PLANET MUSIC-

Ahem, when a disassembly drone decides that they want to obtain a partner, they must prepare for the most spectacular show you have ever seen- with steps of course…

Step 1: Creating a display

Every great performance must have a stage to use, after all, what good is an amazing show without the looks to go with it? The disassembly will first fly around to find a wide open area to create their stage or “display”. The display that disassemblys make are usually large circles that are made out of old workers, oil, and many reflective materials. The disassemblys usually take workers that are the most chopped up and are still slightly filled with oil, they also take any excess oil they find to make the outline of the circle-like formation. The reason they do this is to prove to other drones that they are such effective hunters, they can allow quite a bit of oil to go to waste. The more oil; the better the hunter, which in turn leads to the higher likelihood of finding a partner.

Oh, well look at that- it seems a poor, little, drone has stumbled into this lovely display. It is time to impress.

Step 2: Impress

First impressions are always very important when it comes to anything, especially when trying to obtain a partner. Disassemblys will often first bring out their wings as high up as they can and begin to rattle the wing blades. They will try their best to look as presentable as possible by standing up tall, puffing their chest, hands behind their backs, etc…

If the drone has surprisingly stayed through to pre-show, then it’s on to the real performance.

Step 3: The Dance

Every disassembly’s dance is unique in its own way, but they do usually have certain things in common such as: hopping, twirling, shuffling, etc… The way each disassembly uses these techniques is what makes them different. You also will see constant eye contact and rattling of the wing blades during the show. As the performance goes on the disassembly will begin to get closer to the drone, who would usually be standing in the middle of the display, surrounding them in a spiral-like motion.

Unfortunately, the aforementioned shiny things don’t just attract potential mates, but also competition. Now there are many reasons why another disassembly may want to invade on such a ceremonial performance: the oil lying around, scraps, territory, or the other drone (wether it be for food or partnership) The performer however, will hardly go down without a fight. Surprisingly, disassemblys can be very civil creatures. When impeding on such an important performance like this, even disassemblys know that they shouldn’t cause blood oil-shed whenever there’s a poor, unsuspecting drone around (unless they’re not the one being swooned). Disassemblys will instead fight for dominance using their appearances and techniques alone. They’ll show off their claws and shake their wings and tail as a warning, then they usually begin to get int each other’s faces and start hissing and butting chests. They do this to try and push the other out of the circle. Why?

Because once a disassembly has been pushed out-

-it is a sign of weakness, and is taken as a loss.

Now that that has been handled, it is time for the final phase of the dance. Once a disassembly has gotten close enough to the other drone, they will begin to do light headbutts to the others chest. If the drone continues to stay, that in turn means they are completely comfortable with the other.

And now the ceremony is finally completed.

BASED ON @thecosmiccrow’s LOVELY HEADCANNON IT IS FOREVER ENGRAVED INTO MY BRAIN

#God fucking dammit I hate tumblr #Had to redo this whole post Jesus Christ #welp anyways #murder drones #md #murder drones uzi #uzi doorman #uzi md #serial designation n #n md #n murder drones #nuzi #n x uzi #biscuit bites #kk’s art #art #sketch

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roseofhybrids · 1 year ago

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I have a good feeling about this one, it's coming along very nicely

he's fine, I swear

#digital art #fanart #murder drones #md n #murder drones fanart #wip #work in progress #tw blood #mild blood #well oil but you know #tw mild gore #just in case #drawing based on music

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sermalatenightsnack · 2 months ago

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You vs. Hawks: Who’s Japan’s Sweetheart, Really?

Episode 1

SUMMARY: What if there was another pro hero on the rise—just as fast, flirty, and fan-favorite as Hawks? You didn’t ask for the spotlight war, but now you’re in it. From a chance meeting behind a restaurant dumpster to joint missions and viral interviews, the world can’t stop watching Japan’s “favorite rivalry.” Too bad you’re starting to enjoy the game. TAGLINE: Fem!reader. Mentions of sexiual tension. Slow burn. Two rising stars. One too many cameras. And absolutely no rivalry feelings whatsoever.

Based on this blurb

A small drabble before you met him here

Unfinished series!

A/N first time writing a series. And editing on tumbler is a pain.

An overly televised disaster waiting to happen.

You never meant to become a household name. Not really. Not in the way that came with hashtags, interviews, or limited-edition soda cans with your face on them.

But somewhere between that rescue in Shibuya and the time you called Hawks “Featherboy” live on national television, you became the headline.

And unfortunately for you, so did he.

The Pro Hero scene was never quiet, but ever since you showed up, it’s been chaos. Not villain-related chaos---PR chaos. Tabloids live for it. Paparazzi stalk rooftops just to catch one of your now-famous aerial tag matches. The internet has been divided into two camps:

#Team(Hero Name) — “They’re hot, unbothered, and can do a perfect barrel roll in three-inch platform boots.”

#TeamHawks — “He’s iconic, strategic, and literally saved Japan. Let’s not forget the wings, people.”

#(Hero Name)hawksTruthers — “Just kiss already.”

Your agency says you’re good for each other’s image. You call it “brand beef.” Hawks calls it “free entertainment.”

And today, like clockwork, you land next to him on top of a burning building with a sigh.

“Don’t tell me you were waiting for me,” you say, brushing soot off your sleeve.

He grins. “Wouldn’t dream of stealing your spotlight.”

“You couldn’t if you tried.”

“Oh? Then what do you call this?” He gestures to the hovering drones, all centered on the two of you like it’s a red carpet and not, you know, a potential hostage situation.

You smirk. “I call it Tuesday.”

[SMASH CUT TO: A neon-lit studio set with a spinning title card]

“WHO’S WINNING THE (HERO NAME) VS HAWKS RIVALRY?”

~~~An Exclusive HeroWatch! Segment (Now in 4K UltraDrama)

[Cue dramatic music: overproduced strings and fake wind FX]

[Clips play rapid-fire: you diving off a skyscraper mid-rescue, Hawks laughing on a late-night show, the two of you shoulder-bumping post-mission like it was nothing.]

[Cut to: a host with aggressively styled hair and too much eyeliner.]

HOST (grinning at the camera):

“Two top pros. One public stage. Endless sexual tension---I mean rivalry. We asked you, the people, whose side you're on!”

[Insert “Street Interviews” section. Microphone, shaky camera, chaos.]

INTERVIEWEE 1 (teen with glitter stickers on their cheeks):

“(Hero Name)’s literally my role model. They once did a double corkscrew flip just to grab a kitten off a ledge. Hawks could never.”

INTERVIEWEE 2 (older man in a hawks hoodie):

“Hawks is practical. Sharp. Efficient. (Hero Name)’s cool, sure, but they do too much sometimes. Gotta reel it in.”

INTERVIEWEE 3 (couple sharing one hawks/skyline-themed umbrella):

“We love them both, but let’s be real---those two are flirting. Right? Like, it’s not just us, right???”

[Cut back to studio. Dramatic spin on the host’s chair.]

HOST (leaning forward like this is serious journalism):

“HeroWatch polls show a 50/50 split---nationwide. The tension’s high. The fans are louder than ever. And with another joint mission scheduled next week...”

[Cue ominous thunder sound effect]

HOST (grinning wide):

“...someone’s feathers are gonna get ruffled.”

[Roll credits. Blurry freeze-frame of you and Hawks dodging debris, mid-sassy banter.]

...

You were in your apartment. Dim lighting. A half-empty takeout box that sat on your lap as the TV plays a little too loud in the background.

You didn’t mean to watch it.

In fact, you were planning to ignore it entirely. Just like you ignored the trending hashtags, the fan art, the shipping threads, the conspiracy theories about your “lingering stares,” and the video essay titled “Why Hawks and (Hero Name) Are the Next Great Rivalry/Enemies-to-Lovers Arc” that had over 2 million views.

But the second your name dropped in the ad break--“Next up: Why Japan can’t choose between (Hero Name) and Hawks!”--you froze mid-bite and instinctively hit the volume.

And now you're here. Slumped on your couch, squinting at your TV in exhausted disbelief as glittery-eyed teenagers argue over your combat flips and some dude in a Hawks hoodie says you're "too much."

What the hell is this.

You cover your face with one hand, fingers dragging down over your mouth, and exhale a slow, bone-deep sigh.

How did it get this far?

Seriously. How.

Your mind flickers back---past the screaming headlines, the fanbase wars, the constant speculation---to the moment this entire circus began. Not in a battlefield. Not in a press conference. But behind a dumpy soba restaurant with a broken neon sign.

You remember it too clearly.

One year ago. Night. Rain. You’re walking home after patrol, minding your business.

It was supposed to be a quiet detour. Just you, your umbrella, and the sound of wet gravel under your boots.

And then you heard it. Rustling. Cursing. Muffled grunts.

You paused, narrowed your eyes down the alleyway beside the soba shop. A pair of wings---red, twitching midair. “Whoever” they belonged to was halfway into a garbage bin, legs kicking wildly like an overturned turtle.

You tilted your head.

“…Hey,” you called, cautious. “You alright?”

No answer.

“Do you need help?” you tried again. “Or are you... trading drugs in there?”

The person froze.

Then---WHUMP.

A head popped out. Feathered blond hair, ruffled and speckled with rice grains. Wide amber eyes blinking at you. A noodle stuck to his cheek.

You blinked back.

“…You’re not homeless, are you?” you asked.

He grinned, upside-down. “Nah. Just forgot my phone.”

You stared at him. Then at the bin. Then at him again.

“Your phone,” you repeated slowly. “In the trash.”

“Yep. Dropped it in while tossing leftovers. Pretty dumb, huh?”

That was the first time you saw him in person. Pro Hero #2. Elbow-deep in soup-stained napkins and laughing like this wasn’t the most ridiculous introduction imaginable.

You couldn’t stop thinking about it for days.

But in the moment you’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little thrown.

Not because it was Hawks---though yeah, Hawks. Pro Hero #2. The walking, talking soundbite machine with feathers and fame on his side.

No, what got you was how you met him.

Not at a press event. Not during some high-octane hero team-up. No slow-mo action sequence, no cameras, no scripted “Hey, aren’t you---?” moment.

Just you. And him. And a dumpster.

And the second that spiky mop of blonde hair popped out of the trash, you had a choice to make.

Drop the act---or double down.

You picked the latter, obviously.

Because your public image? The easy smiles, unbothered, cool-in-every-storm type? That had taken work. You had fans who’d never seen you sweat, who praised your every witty comeback and gravity-defying save. You couldn’t just stutter in front of the nation’s golden boy because he happened to be rummaging for his phone behind a soba shop.

So you leaned a hip against the wall, arms crossed, gave him a half-lidded stare like he wasn’t half-covered in pickled ginger.

“…You usually go dumpster diving on your nights off?” you asked, tone smooth like you'd planned the question three days in advance.

He looked up at you, eyes glinting, mouth curved. “Only on Mondays. Tuesdays are for alley yoga.”

You snorted. Couldn’t help it.

“So you are Hawks.”

He hopped out like it was nothing, brushed some seaweed off his jacket, and gave you that exact smirk you'd seen a hundred times in interviews. “Guilty. And you’re (Hero Name), right? The fans think we’d look good together.”

That---that---he just went straight to the point... Huh.

You barely managed a shrug. “Haven’t even bought me dinner.”

His eyes crinkled, amused. “Soba counts, if you don’t mind it reheated.”

You played it off with a scoff and a casual look away, pretending like you're not just now realising how much he wasn't just just like you...He was just like you---too much like you. The jokes was like meeting a mirror you weren’t sure you wanted to look into.

But that was the game, right? Keep the mask on. Keep it smooth. Never let them see you break.

Even when they catch you off guard behind a restaurant and toss your whole online persona into the trash with a wink and a noodle on their face.

You stayed leaning on the wall, playing around with what words to say next in your head‚ though your mind was already backtracking to what he just said---“The fans think we’d look good together.” Did he just open with that? No hello? No preamble?

You glanced him up and down, from the noodle on his shoulder to the way his wings rustled behind him like they had their own amused rhythm.

“Didn’t think you were the type to check your QRTs,” you said, arching a brow.

“I’m not,” he replied, flashing a grin that was just a little too satisfied. “But my agency is. They keep a whole folder. HeroWatch calls it ‘The Flirt Wars.’ You’ve got good numbers.”

You exhaled sharply, somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “You’re kidding.”

“Dead serious. You’ve got better reaction stats than I do. Stronger pull with the 18–24 crowd.”

He said it like he was proud of you. Like this was some kind of twisted influencer competition and you’d just unlocked a new tier.

You tilted your head. “So what, you track me down behind a soba place to... what? Compare analytics?”

He shrugged. “I was hungry. You were here. Felt like fate.”

“Right,” you muttered. “Fate with a side of trash juice.”

Hawks snorted and finally started fixing himself up, flicking rice grains off his gloves and straightening the straps of his jacket like he hadn’t just been neck-deep in restaurant garbage. “You’re shorter than I thought.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He gestured lazily with one wing. “You come off taller online. More... towering menace with killer cheekbones. Reality’s got softer edges.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That your way of flirting, or just a weird insult?”

“Why not both?”

And there he flashed a grin---that grin. The kind that made it feel like you were the one being toyed with, like you were a punchline he already knew the end to.

But two could play that game.

You pushed off the wall and took a slow step forward, letting your eyes trail over him with deliberate cool. “You’re louder in person,” you said. “Thought you’d be more mysterious. Y’know, brooding. Aloof. Not... elbow-deep in someone’s leftover lunch.”

He laughed---really laughed this time, head tipping back. “Guess we both break expectations, huh?”

You paused, lips twitching despite yourself.

“…Yeah,” you murmured. “Guess we do.”

For a second, neither of you said anything. The hum of a nearby streetlamp buzzed overhead. A cat knocked over a can in the distance. Hawks was still watching you, eyes sharp behind that easy smile, wings settling in a little closer like he wasn’t planning on leaving anytime soon.

You crossed your arms again, fighting back the urge to actually consider this interaction as anything meaningful.

“So,” you said slowly, “you stalking me now, or is this just a trashy coincidence?”

He smirked. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Dang.

Ahem.

You rolled your eyes---just enough to let him see it, but not enough to give him full satisfaction.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” you muttered, brushing past him, casual, as if this whole encounter hadn’t gotten under your skin.

You half-expected him to let you walk off with the last word. But no.

Of course not.

“Hey,” he called behind you.

You stopped, only slightly.

“What.”

There was a pause---just long enough for the silence to bite a little.

Then:

“You’ve got a leaf in your hair. And uh… soy sauce on your elbow.”

You turned fully, ready to argue---deny it, ignore it, anything---but the he just looked at you like he’d already memorized your microexpressions and was ready to catalog every single one‚ made you rethink.

Your eyes slid his way, neutral.

“Alright. Thanks.”

Flat-toned acknowledgment.

You didn’t reach for your hair. Didn’t check your elbow. Just stood there, steady.

His eyes narrowed slightly---curious, amused---but you caught it. That tiny twitch in his mouth, like he hadn’t expected that response.

“I get people pointing things out all the time,” you added, flicking a hand lazily. “Stains, threads, food on my face---y’know, the classics. So now I just say thanks.”

You glanced at him, letting it land.

“And don’t fix it?”

“Nope.”

That got him. A low chuckle rumbled out of his chest, and he nodded slowly like he’d just found another reason to be entertained by you.

“Well, (Hero Name), this was fun.”

And then---with the gall of someone who knew exactly what they were doing---he gave you a two-finger salute‚ turned on his heel with the kind of careless grace that only came from annoying amounts of self-confidence. Wings stretching, streetlight catching on the edges, and he was gone---vanishing around the corner like you’d imagined him.

Disappeared like this had been just another Tuesday night errand.

Like he hadn’t just tossed your night into a blender and strutted off with the lid.

You stood there a moment longer.

Still not brushing the leaf out of your hair.

What the hell just happened?

At first, you hadn’t even planned on it being a rivalry.

You’d just wanted to one-up him.

Maybe the next time you ran into Hawks, you’d be the cool one. Unflinching. Dismissive. You’d say something smart---subtle but scathing---and he’d finally be the one left blinking, stuck with a leaf in his hair.

But then he started showing up.

Everywhere.

You brushed it off the first time. The second, you gave it a little side-eye. But by the fourth unexpected run-in---at a charity event, a late patrol, a live-streamed PSA---it was getting suspicious.

And before you knew it, Hawks had become something of an occupational hazard.

There he was: in the corner of your interviews, hovering at joint patrols, clipped into your comms like it was the most natural thing in the world. You didn’t invite him---PR did, apparently. “Shared air time” and “opposing charm points” and other buzzwords that meant ratings.

You didn’t mind the spotlight. You’d just rather not share it with someone who had the audacity to leave you standing with a leaf in your hair and soy sauce on your elbow.

So when he swooped into formation beside you mid-air and mid-mission---smug, composed, like he belonged---you didn’t flinch.

You turned just enough to meet his gaze, flashing him the same easygoing grin you wore on livestreams and magazine covers.

“Well,” you said, voice smooth, “look who’s following my lead.”

He gave you that two-beat laugh, head tilting like he was delighted you were playing back.

“Figured you’d want backup,” he said, as if you hadn’t handled six solo ops this month without blinking.

“Oh, how thoughtful.” You glanced down toward the van below, then back at him. “You bring backup for everyone, or am I just lucky?”

“You,” Hawks said, effortlessly, “are many things. But no one’s ever called you lucky.”

“Not to my face,” you shot back.

His grin widened. A challenge. You let the wind ruffle through your hair as you banked slightly ahead of him---just a bit---like you were carving out the lead.

“Keep up, Feathers. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

He chuckled behind you. “And here I thought I was the cocky one.”

You smirked, not bothering to look back.

But unfortunately (not)‚ that wasn't the end of it.

Back to present:

You're on your couch. TV now playing a slowed-down clip of you and Hawks laughing mid-mission with sparkles added in post.

You sink deeper into the cushions, biting the inside of your cheek. You knew the media would twist things, but this? This was peak nonsense. (But kinda funny too)

You and Hawks weren’t even rivals at first. You were just trying to mind your own business while he kept showing up at your patrol zones like some cryptid in aviators. Then the missions started. Then the banter. Then the banter during missions. Then the one time you both tried to stop a jewel thief and ended up accidentally crashing a wedding.

You didn’t ask for a public rivalry. You were just trying to do your job.

But now? Now it’s you vs. him in the public eye. Fans drawing you like lovers. Kids calling you the “Birdbrain Duo.” HeroWatch running full-length segments debating your aerial dynamics and emotional chemistry.

You grab the remote, mute the TV, and stare at your own frozen image on screen---smirking at Hawks in the middle of a burning hallway, like you're having the time of your life.

And, okay... maybe you kind of were.

But that’s not the point.

“…This is getting out of hand,” you mutter into the silence.

And somewhere---inevitably---your phone buzzes.

It’s from Hawks.

[Hawks:] U watching HeroWatch? They gave you my jawline. Kinda rude tbh.

You stare at his message.

Your lips tug upward, slow.

You move to type with one hand, casual.

[You:] Must’ve been the lighting. Or maybe they just think I wear it better.

The typing bubble pops up almost immediately. Predictable.

[Hawks:] Oof. A hit to the jawline and the ego? Cold.

You let the silence hang for a beat too long before replying. Let him stew. Then:

[You:] I thought you liked cold. Isn’t that why you keep flying next to me lately?

Pause. Beat.

[Hawks:] …Touché.

[You:] Don’t get soft on me now, angel.

You swear you can feel him stopping in the air wherever he is.

[Hawks:] Angel??

You pop another bite of your cold takeout.

[You:] Too much? Thought we were both fanservice now.

Silence.

Still nothing.

You smirk wider, toss your phone on the table, and lean back into the couch. You don’t need the last word. You already won this round.

And besides---he’ll come flying back for more. They always do.

Especially the pretty ones with too many feathers and too much airtime.

Your phone hasn't buzzed again. Not yet.

You glance at it---just once---out of the corner of your eye like it might buzz the moment you look away. But it doesn’t. Just your own reflection in the black screen, faint and smirking a little too wide.

God, this is fun.

You stretch, slow and satisfied, kicking your legs up over the arm of the couch and letting your takeout box tip just slightly. The scent of lukewarm curry clings to the room, the volume from the muted TV flickering across your face in flashes of fan-edited chaos. The screen is still frozen on that frame---your face tilted toward Hawks mid-mission, expression amused, his own caught in that half-laugh, half-glare thing he does when he knows he’s been baited.

They captured it so well, you almost want to applaud.

Almost.

Instead, you scroll. The ship tags are exploding. Your name paired with his in increasingly unhinged combinations, fan cams stitched together like a love story. There's even a slowed-down audio clip of your last mission---your voice layered over his, syncopated like a duet.

You shake your head. It’s not that you don’t get it. You just never asked for it.

No, he started this.

Well---okay. That’s not fair. Technically, he was just being his usual breezy, too-charming self, and you… may have fed into it. Just a little. Just to see what he’d do.

And now?

Now he's texting you like this is a game you both agreed to. Like there are rules.

You roll your neck back against the couch cushion and stare at the ceiling.

It wasn’t personal before. Just a weird coincidence. A few overlapping patrols. A trash bin. Some chemistry, maybe. But now? Now he’s on your turf. Casually leaning into your airspace. Cracking jokes like the two of you are synced-up sidekicks.

You narrow your eyes at nothing in particular.

He’s in your missions, your mentions, your hashtags. Your spotlight. And what’s worse? You don’t hate it.

Though you kinda wanna mess with the script. Have him flustered mid-flight. Or have him making the headlines about your “undeniable chemistry.” have every viewer pausing the playback wondering how Hawks got played so smoothly by someone who never even raised their voice.

Yeah, you'll totally do that.

Your phone buzzes again.

[Hawks:] U free tomorrow? Got a joint mission briefing. Thought we could “sync our energies” or whatever PR likes to say.

You pick up the phone, type:

[You:] Only if you’re ready to get out-charmed.

Send.

You’re still staring at your phone.

The screen lights up again, and you catch it just in time---the typing bubble flickers to life, disappears, then reappears like it’s debating with itself. You squint, thumb already twitching toward the screen.

Then the message lands.

[Hawks:] btw, after the mission---u wanna grab food or something? Like, real food. No more trash dives. I'm evolving.

You stare.

Your brain---bless its tired, overworked circuits---lags for a second.

Huh?

You read it again. And again. And… yeah, it’s still there.

Dinner. He asked you to dinner.

HAWKS asked you to dinner.

You blink slowly, then narrow your eyes like the message might morph into something else if you glare hard enough.

This has to be a trap.

You never---never---thought he’d be the one to ask first. Not because you thought he wasn’t bold enough (he’s too bold, actually), but because he’s too proud. Too annoyingly smug. Always toeing the line of flirtation like it’s a performance, always acting like he’s got it handled. That man practically oozes control over every situation.

So why… this?

Why now?

Your brain launches into damage assessment mode.

Is this a PR stunt? Did his managers tell him to do this for engagement? Is this for some HeroWatch segment called “Rivals Try Pasta”?

You imagine sitting across from him under suspiciously perfect lighting, camera flashes going off, and some blogger captioning it ‘Rivals. Lovers? We Investigate.’

You grimace. What if there will be paparazzi?

Or maybe he’s just being nice. Or... professional. This could be a hero thing, right? Just two coworkers grabbing a bite. Totally neutral. Totally platonic. Totally not--

No, who are you kidding. You saw the way he typed that.

“I’m evolving”?

Is this supposed to be flirtatious? Ironic? Genuine?

You sit there in dead silence, phone glowing in your hand, jaw faintly slack.

You never imagined in a million years that he’d be the first to flinch.

And that’s what this feels like. A flinch. A crack in the game. A move not designed to win, but to be seen.

Your thumb hovers over your keyboard.

Alright, Birdbrain. What’s your angle?

Because if this really isn’t a trap…

Well. Then you might actually be in trouble.

You let your thumb hover for another beat before finally typing back:

[You:] suspiciously specific evolution

are your PR managers involved in this? Will there be cameras? a “Top Ten Heroes Try Soup” livestream?

You pause, then add:

[You:] …but if it’s actually just food

and not some weird press stunt,

I’ll bite.

A second later:

[You:] but if there are cameras I’m ordering the messiest dish on the menu. And i’m not wiping my mouth.

Then you hit send.

You stare at the message.

Your phone buzzes again.

[Hawks:] lmao

nah, no cameras

unless you’re bringing them

which honestly would be kinda flattering

Another buzz.

[Hawks:] swear it’s just food

no PR managers, no press, no schemes

just me

evolving

in your general direction

You blink at that last part, reading it twice.

Then he sends:

[Hawks:] bring your messiest dish game tho

I’ll match you bite for bite

consider it... team-building

And finally:

[Hawks:] mission first

dinner after

don’t be late. i might take it personally.

You stare at the string of messages, thumb hovering but unmoving.

No press. No PR. Just him. Just food.

Just Hawks, allegedly evolving in your general direction---whatever the hell that means. You’re not sure if you want to snort or roll your eyes… or smile.

You reread the last message:

don’t be late. i might take it personally.

Tch.

He’s got jokes now. Team-building? He’s really trying to make this sound like a professional bonding exercise when he knows it’s not. Or maybe that’s the trap. Maybe it is professional to him, and you’re the one overthinking it.

Or maybe---maybe he’s serious. No schemes. No handlers in the shadows. Just him showing up… and hoping you will too.

But… do you trust him?

You glance at your closet without meaning to. Then back at your phone. Then the closet again.

If he's telling the truth, great. If he's not? Well.

You’re not showing up underdressed.

You’ve played the background long enough. So if this turns out to be a PR stunt?

You’ll make sure the cameras get your good side.

#mha #y/n #bnha #hawks #mha hawks #hawks x you #hawks x reader #slow burn #my hero academia #mha keigo takami #keigo takami #pro hero #@d4rlinxs

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nhmkhnh · 2 months ago

Note

Omg...... about your most recent reblog comment.

Could you maybe write about them being CEO's of a big company and telling intern!reader that she's pretty while at a work event.

#SERIES—05 ──── CHAPTER—01

devotion.

pairings: shareholders[caitlyn ;; vi] x fem!reader

preface: oh... in the presence of her.

author's note: omg girly WHY DIDN'T I THINK ABT IT SOONER?? well but just a lil one shot is too short. so what? A SERIES!!

wrn: lowercase, obsessive behavior (?)

masterlist / janitor ai / c.ai / carrd

ʚɞ next chapter.

it was supposed to be a routine shareholders meeting.

vi was bored out of her skull.

the boardroom was too white, too clean, too polished—every word exchanged reeked of money and power, sterile and predictable. she’d leaned back in her chair, one arm slung lazily over the backrest, zoning out while some exec droned about quarterly projections.

until she walked in.

you.

a soft click of heels, a folder hugged tightly to your chest, and the kind of nervous breath that made her blink—because it didn’t match this place. you didn’t match this place. not the silk-tongued liars and chrome-plated snakes in suits. no, you were…

soft. bright. real.

your voice when you introduced yourself was clear but shy, carefully measured like you didn't think you belonged here—but you did. you belonged in sunlight. in warm kitchens and summer mornings. not under sterile fluorescents in front of people who’d tear you apart for fun.

vi sat up straight.

by the time you clicked to your first slide, she had her hand curled tightly on her thigh. she was supposed to be reviewing your proposal—but her brain couldn’t absorb a single number. all she saw was your eyes when they lifted from the screen. all she heard was your voice when it trembled, then steadied.

you were brave.

god. you were brave and kind and soft and standing right in front of her like the universe had decided to throw her completely off-axis.

vi didn’t even realize she was staring until caitlyn leaned toward her with a questioning brow.

she didn’t move.

didn’t even blink.

caitlyn had not expected anything remarkable.

the board was a closed circle of precision and performance. she’d seen it all—heard it all. today was just another round of formalities. she planned to offer quiet insight, sip her espresso, and leave without incident.

and then she arrived.

you walked in like an apology, as though you knew this world had no room for softness and still chose to step in anyway.

caitlyn's breath caught.

it was your posture. the nervous way you bowed slightly at the waist before you spoke. the fact that you didn’t use a single unnecessary word. the way your hands shook just slightly when you changed slides.

her fingers curled slowly around the base of her cup.

she watched the senior board members shift, uncomfortable at your gentle tone, your nervous smile. they didn’t know what to make of it. caitlyn did. it hit her somewhere deep and sudden—an ache. a desire to shield.

and then, your eyes met hers.

it wasn’t long. just a glance—brief and accidental. but caitlyn felt her chest squeeze so tight it almost made her exhale.

there were no alarms. no dramatic music.

just stillness.

and reverence.

vi didn’t know what she was doing near the back exit an hour later.

some interns were still filtering out. executives were already being ushered into black cars. she wasn’t supposed to still be here.

and yet—

she saw you crouched down by a stairwell, murmuring gently to something. she paused, squinted—

a kitten.

you were feeding it crumbs from your own lunch. making tiny, affectionate sounds. you even took off your jacket to wrap it when it mewed too loud.

something in vi’s chest cracked.

she turned away quickly. hand in her pocket. breathing sharp.

it wasn’t just crush.

it was a holy ache. the kind that made her want to repent for every mistake she’d ever made just to be good enough to talk to you.

caitlyn spotted you downtown two days later.

it was random. she was stepping out of a car when she saw a cluster of people, and then—a child, crying. lost.

and you, kneeling beside him, asking his name. calm. gentle. he clutched your hand like it was the only safe thing in the world. you lifted him into your arms when he couldn’t speak through his tears.

caitlyn didn’t move for a moment.

didn’t even realize her driver had spoken.

she was watching you walk toward a security booth with the boy in your arms, murmuring something kind. your voice was steady, even as you looked flustered. as if you didn’t think anyone saw.

but caitlyn did.

and she felt… undone.

like there was nothing in this world more important than you getting home safe tonight. than someone thanking you properly. than—

god.

she wanted to kneel.

vi told herself she was just getting fresh air.

it wasn’t stalking. not if she just happened to walk by your building during break hours. not if she just happened to have time on her hands.

then she saw you.

holding an old man’s elbow, guiding him slowly across the street.

his legs wobbled.

you matched his pace like it was the most natural thing in the world.

and vi had to grip a lamp post because her knees almost buckled.

she didn’t deserve to look at you. not like this.

she wanted to run, to say something dumb like “you’re a good person,” like “you’re too good for this world,” like—

mine.

the word crawled into her mouth and sat there like it belonged.

caitlyn dropped in unannounced.

just to check on some interns, she told herself. routine pr visit.

and there you were, bent over, helping a young intern gather up scattered papers in the hallway.

caitlyn’s steps faltered.

you weren’t scolding. you were smiling, whispering encouragement. as if this wasn’t the fifteenth disaster in your day. as if kindness was a default you refused to betray.

caitlyn turned quickly, fled to the nearest empty office, and sat down.

her pulse was racing.

her fingers trembled as she removed her gloves. she stared at her reflection in the window and whispered, “i’m in trouble.”

vi and caitlyn stood side by side again in the boardroom.

neither said a word.

both had seen too much. felt too much.

you were speaking again—smiling this time, more confident. and both of them watched you with a tension that curled in their guts and pulsed at their wrists.

not obsession.

devotion.

and neither knew what to do with it.

not yet.

but both of them would burn kingdoms to keep that light in your eyes.

#vi x reader #caitlyn x reader #caitvi x reader #arcane

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 months ago

Text

Hot and Ready

Based on this ask.

Warnings: some body issues, sexual innuendo.

househusband!Bucky x plus!wife reader

You rub your eyes and lean on your elbows, pressing until your vision is fuzzy. What a long day. You're exhausted.

You sit back and stretch your neck, looking at the clutter on your desk. Post-its stuck all over, pens scattered, and the contents of your half-finished lunch amid the mess. You tidy it all up as the clock winds down. You yawn as you put the uneaten parfait back in the insulated bag. As you do, you notice the paper peeking out of the side pocket.

You slip out the heart-shaped scrap. Aw. 'Enjoy, doll.' Bucky is sweet, when he wants to be. Other times, his gaze could turn you to stone.

You put the piece of paper under your monitor as a reminder when you need it. You manage to get enough order that the cleaner won't have a fit. You sign off as the hour hits and you get up with a groan. Your legs are cramped, your shoulders tight from hunching. Your husband will have something to say about that too. Posture, babe.

You toss your bag in front of the passenger seat and flip on the radio. You mindlessly roll around the parking lot and out onto the street. Autopilot kicks in as you navigate the same route as every day.

You get out in front of the house. You smell barbecue. It makes your stomach growl. You carry on inside and stop to slip free of your wedges.

"Buck!" You holler. No answer. You hear the buzz of muffled music.

You leave your lunch bag on the counter as you pass. You follow the music and the scent of sausages to the back deck. You slide open the screen and step through.

Bucky's shirtless, an apron tied around his front, barely containing his thick muscle, with only a pair of pale blue shorts on. You know he planned on you finding him like this.

"Smells delicious," you say over the crackles of classic rock.

"You look delicious," he winks at you.

You tilt your head coyly and near him. "I'm starving."

You watch him turn the links and your mouth fills with desperation. You hum.

"Really? Didn't you have your lunch?" He puts his free arm around you.

"Sure did. Got your little note," you poke him through the apron. "Is there anything I need to worry about?"

"Huh? Can't I be romantic?" He bows to kiss the top of your head.

"Of course you can... you usually have some alternative intention," you accuse.

"Oh, I always have those," his arm slips down and he squeezes your ass.

You giggle but pull away. You fan yourself as you lean on the railing instead. The heat of the grill combines with that of his stare. You're way too obvious.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing, I just..." you look down guilty and lift the bottom of your blouse, showing your undone fly. "Wardrobe malfunction."

"Broke?" He wonders as he reaches for his beer.

"Not the pants," you scoff. "Just don't fit."

"Turn around," he squints. You hesitate but do it. "Mm, look like they fit to me."

"Buck," you face him with a cluck.

"We'll get new ones."

"In a bigger size?" You challenge.

"What's the difference?" He shrugs.

He's right. It doesn't really matter. Still, you like these ones and you know the exact cut isn't sold anymore.

"Maybe a few less snacks," you say.

"I don't like waste," he insists.

"I know so you can back few, huh?"

"You gotta eat, babe. You work hard."

"Bucky," you drone and come closer. "I do."

"Sure. And what am I gonna find in your bag? Half a sandwich, the yogurt, oh and the trail mix too."

"I ate the apple," you argue.

He gives you a look. That look. The one that makes you wobbly like jelly.

"Alright, then, you had the apple. Which means you're starving so you're gonna sit and eat dinner."

"I'll grab the plates."

"Sit," he points with the tongs to the table. "Let me take care of you... for once."

You slump, "I do--"

"No, you're stubborn," he snaps the tongs at your nose. "Oh, and when you're done these sausages... I got another for you."

#bucky barnes #house husband #bucky barnes x reader #drabble #mcu #marvel #captain america #winter soldier #avengers

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vexwerewolf · 10 months ago

Note

If I could ask you for some advice, what do you think helps the flavour text of a mech or piece of equipment sell a player on the fantasy of using it?

I'm finding it frustratingly difficult to do so with my own homebrew content: I can come up with lore and backstory easily enough, but re-reading it feels dry, and I can't help but contrast it with how the descrptions in official content and other supplements is more evocative, at least for mechs.

Let's observe some corebook Lancer flavour text and examine the various varieties it comes in.

Purely Functional

While it's usually not the most fun type of flavour text, this just tells us what the weapon is, and - if it has any particular tags or on-hit effects - why it's like that. The Hand Cannon is a good example: here's what it is (modified pistol), here's why it does more damage, and here's why it has Loading.

The main advantage of Purely Functional flavour text is that it provides space for other types of flavour text to breathe. Flavour text is a great place for jokes, but it's not good for every piece of flavour text to be a joke - the pauses between notes in music are just as important as the notes.

Obfuscating Vendorspeak

The Bristlecrown Flechette Launcher this is a great example of dark humour that Lancer uses quite often: marketing fast-talk to cover up something really unpleasant. The joke here is based on us understanding precisely what the equipment does mechanically, and then seeing how the manufacturer tries to sell it. There's a bunch of dense technobabble here meant to obfuscate the fact that this weapon fires knives in every direction specifically designed to kill infantry.

Deadpan Weirdness

The joke here relies on describing something extremely weird like it's the most natural thing in the world. Wait, you're telling me that in a world where I can just print new parts if the old ones break, they put DRM on my fucking knife and I have to apologise to the fucking knife maker to get a new one? What the fuck, dude? Why are you acting like this makes any sense?!

My sword uploads fucking what to the Space Internet?!

Third-Act Twist

This type of flavour text disguises itself as something else - most often Purely Functional - and then hits you with Third Act Twist. It makes you go "wait, what?!" It's very classic setup-punchline stuff. You're telling me my mech can rot?!

As a side note, Lancer loves to use this for its NHPs.

WHY DID YOU PUT THAT IN SCARE QUOTES, LUCIFER

Worldbuilding

This is similar to the Purely Functional, but instead of just describing technical specifications of the weapons, it puts the weapon in the broader context of the setting's history. Okay, so we know what this weapon is and what it does - why was it built? What was the original use case, and why? Most importantly, what can the existence of this weapon tell us about the world that build it?

Whimsical Aside

This is the insertion of a light-hearted, humanising little insertion regarding how this piece of equipment gets used in the field. This serves to remind us that soldiers aren't cold, unfeeling killing machines: they can be as emotional, irreverent and silly as the rest of us, and they do things like name their mobile bombs...

... or call resupply drones "mech snacks."

The Ominous Out-Of-Context Quote That Explains Nothing And Only Raises More Questions

As I've said in multiple textmash memes, this is basically Tom and Miguel's shorthand for "this technology is Intensely Fucked Up in a way that it is more fun and scary not to explain." This is essentially Lancer's version of SCP's [REDACTED].

You might think this is the domain of HORUS, and you'd be right, but every single manufacturer indulges in these - although IPS-N had to wait until NRFaW to get theirs:

What the fuck do you mean by that, Lancer?

#lancer #lancer rpg #lancerrpg #lancer-rpg #vex asks

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garbinge · 11 months ago

Text

HARMONY AFTER THE STORM

Tyler Owens x F!Reader // Word Count: 2.7k Summary: After a long day, you wind down back at the motel and share a sweet moment at the parking lot bonfire with Tyler Owens. Warnings: All my fics are 18+ regardless of content. Fluff. Established relationship. Light angst (based on details of the heaviness of storm chasing). No use of y/n. A/N: Trying out somethin a liiiil new layout wise for my fics! Tyler Owens brain rot is in full effect and this fluffy little number makes my heart warm.

Your phone speaker hummed as music vibrated against the bathroom sink while you washed the day off in the shower. The motel’s water pressure wasn’t the best, but you weren’t complaining, you were happy there was hot water and soap left. You were always the last of the crew to shower, while that ran the risk of running out of hot water, it also awarded you the most peaceful shower. Everyone was gone, outside gathered around bonfires, maybe fixing up equipment. Point was, it left you alone to decompress with your music and sometimes you’d sneak a shower beer in as well, you were a southern girl after all.

After a day of chasing storms, getting dirt practically embedded into your skin, the chaos of all the voices, the engines, the winds, this was your peace, your grounding. The soft music buzzing as you swayed back and forth as the water fell down your body. Washing down the drain along with the dirty water was all your anxiety from the day. While you loved chasing tornadoes, you also fully were aware of the effect it had on your psyche. You weren’t as easy as the others in the crew. Boone loved the thrill, he was crazy in the best way possible. Lilly was a free-spirit, she would go wherever the winds blew her and thrive effortlessly. Dani and Dexter, they were too smart for their own good, every equation, every problem, they’d smile through finding the solution. And Tyler, well, he was a good combination of it all while also just plainly and simply loving it. The clouds, the storms, he found beauty in them. For him it was passion. For you, you did enjoy it, the thrill of it all, the problem solving, the fact that it kept you on your toes moving. And you couldn’t lie, the storms were fucking beautiful when you really looked at them. But for you the reasoning was more difficult. You wanted to help. But that came with a heavy burden, but for you helping outweighed all those bad moments. That’s how it was for everyone in the crew, you just felt like the mental images of wreckage stayed with you a little longer than everyone else. Which is why these showers were your favorite, it helped you process it all.

“Hey baby, it’s just me!” Tyler called out as he entered the motel room. “Just lookin’ for Lilly’s drone repair case!” His eyes were looking around the room, there were tons of bags and things scattered across the floor, the beds, and anything resembling a table. His announcement out to you was just so he didn’t startle you with his presence, but he knew very well how important that end of the day shower was to you which is why he wasn’t paying much attention to the open door of the bathroom.

Between the music on your phone and the shower you didn’t hear him come in. Just continued your swaying, letting the water bounce off your face. As the song changed, you began to mumble along, your voice echoing against the bathroom acoustics despite you only lowly singing with the speaker.

As Tyler bent down to grab the case, his eyebrows furrowed, the left side of his lips twitched up in a smile, his mouth open as he let out a whispered chuckle. There was a lot crossing his mind at the moment. It was obvious you hadn’t heard him come in, not because you were singing but because you were singing and hadn’t acknowledged him. As he heard you mumbling the country music from damn near a decade ago he couldn’t help but grin. It was music you’d both listen to when you first started dating. The song was one he hadn’t heard in ages but when it filled his ears now, and your voice joined along with it, he couldn’t wipe the grin from his face. His head turned towards the bathroom door that was wide open as he stood up straight, the drone case now in his hand resting at his side. The frosted shower curtain tried its best to censor out what was behind it, but your blurred silhouette could still be seen as you moved your hips back and forth to the beat. That grin on Tyler's grin didn’t fade, if anything it grew bigger. Dropping the case on the bed before walking over to the bathroom, he leaned his shoulder on the open door frame as his arms crossed, and his right foot crossed over the left. Seeing you like this made his heart happy, he was no stranger to the weight your storm chasing days had on you. His mind couldn’t help but jump back to those first few years of your relationship, ones that were littered with memories of late night drives, line dancing and stepping on eachother’s feet, camping out in the bed of his truck in the middle of the Arkansas farmland plains. It was crazy that all this time had passed and you hadn’t done any of the things that made you fall in love with each other for what now he realized felt like a really long time. Your lives were consumed with this and while he knew you didn’t mind, it didn’t stop his own from wandering. His head fell down with one more smile, opting to not say anything to you and ruin your post-chase ritual. Pushing off the door frame, he grabbed the case and left the motel room to rejoin the group outside.

Your hair was still damp from the shower, but you had fresh clothes on and felt like a new person. Quickly you tossed your shoes on, grabbed your phone from the bathroom sink and made your way down the stairs to join the crew. At this point, they had all gathered around the bonfire, leaving the rest of the repairs and work for tomorrow. Guitars of some of the chasers from other groups were playing as the groups gathered with their beers and mingled. It was one of your favorite things about being on the road like this, just random people joining together all in the common interest of storms. But these moments weren't always about twisters, they were about comradery, they were about friendship, laughs. It was memories in the making.

As you reached into the cooler, you pulled out two cans of beer. The condensation and melted ice falling off them in drops as you made your way closer to the bonfire circle. While there weren't many empty seats left around the fire, you knew you always had one reserved for you. You spotted Tyler before you even trekked down the stairs of the motel, his laugh was loud and could be heard from miles away. Your eyes had found him in the crowd almost immediately so once you were on the ground level, all you needed to do was make your way over to him.

“Hey.” It came out as a whisper in his ear while leaning over the back of the chair he was reclined slightly back on. Your hands fell down against his chest, the cold beers you got for both of you were resting against him now. He stopped talking and looked up at you, his hand instinctively reaching up your arms and guiding you to sit down in his lap which you did without hesitation.

“Hey country girl.” His left hand caught your back as you moved down onto his legs, his other hand resting over your legs that dangled off the side of him as well as the chair.

As your face scrunched up in a humorous and unclear look, you adjusted yourself in his lap, Tyler providing you support as you did so.

“Country girl?” You questioned him, still confused as to what he meant. You were a lot of things, nickname wise, to him. He’d come up with something for everything over the years but this was one you hadn’t heard.

He didn’t answer you, just smiled and placed a quick kiss on your arm before taking one of the beers from your hands to crack open before continuing his conversation from before you arrived.

And if that wasn’t enough, Lilly’s voice was taking you away from even thinking about what Tyler had said. “We fixed the drone!”

Tyler's head was resting on the side of your arm, chatting with the person to his left, although to you it was behind. Your time was being occupied by leaning forward a bit to talk with Lilly who was in the seat to Tyler’s right. She was catching up on the details with Cairo, the drone that had been just as much a part of your crew as each human member. You were so invested in the conversation that you almost missed the familiar strumming in the faint distance. It took you a few seconds but your head turned and took in the guitar players nodding and tapping their feet to the song you were just singing to while you showered.

Your lips began to curve up, you felt Tyler’s hand move up your back, rubbing it over your shirt. As you looked down at him, your smile still only slightly curved and your eyes knowingly doing all the talking for you, his own grin widened and he looked down away from your gaze with a laugh.

“Tyler Owens, were you spying on me?” You whispered it, only wanting this to be a moment between the two of you.

“It’s possible.” He cheesed even harder as he looked back up into your gaze again.

With a shake of your head, you looked away so you could roll your eyes before nestling in closer to him. Your side was falling against his chest, but your head found its comfortable position rested on his shoulder as you sunk down a bit more. “You told them to play this?”

“I did.” He said it so matter of fact while looking over at the guitar players, his hands coming around you tighter as he held you as close to him as possible. “I came in to grab somethin’ for Lilly. Called out to you and everythin’.” His shoulders moved your face up and down as he shrugged. “Just as I was about to leave I heard this song start, and some pretty little voice joinin’ along with it.” You felt yourself get a little warm as he said it, a mix of fluster and a little embarrassment. “Got me thinkin’ about when we first started hangin’ out.”

“S’why I listen to it. It reminds me of you.” You knew Tyler felt a little warm in the cheeks too.

Both of you closed your eyes and just let the music consume you. His head relaxing slightly on yours as you both slightly moved to the beat. You felt his lips against your temple a couple times as the song went on. Each one saying how much you meant to him.

As the song began to wind down, Tyler hummed. “We should do some of the old stuff we used to do again.”

You let out a slight snort, one that made Tyler laugh as well as he waited for some explanation. “Tornado wranglers by day and country line dancers by night?”

“Was talkin’ more about the truck bed camping and late night drives.” While both of you had done the line dancing thing, it by far wasn’t your favorite event. Thinking about it, you both might have gotten more injured there than you did chasing tornadoes.

“We could do that.” Agreeing, you still kept your eyes closed shut, enjoying the last bits of the song, reimagining the old memories you shared while now thinking of how you could make them new. “Would be a nice change of pace.”

“I could join you next time in the shower, too. If you’re just looking for a change of pace.” His eyebrows raised as he opened his one eye to peek over at you for your reaction.

“Could work.” A smirk played at your lips in response. It was then that you realized the song was starting over and you opened your eyes to look at Tyler as your brows grew closer together. “How many times did you ask them to play it?” You were sitting up now, trying to figure out what Tyler was up to.

His arms were still wrapped around your body despite you moving up. “Told ‘em to play until you danced with me.”

With a similar eye roll as before, you stood up now, your hands filling the space where his just were on your hips in a slight show of attitude. Those damn blue green eyes were looking up at you with the most tender and sweet look attached to them. One that you couldn’t bear to let down so you extended your hand out for him to take it. “Let’s go, Owens.”

His hand gripped around yours in seconds and when he stood up, he raised his arm with yours to twirl you around until you spun against his chest. Your free hand raising up to brace for impact on his pecks. “We gotta work on your balance if we’re gonna be going line dancing.” He teased you before starting to walk with you practically connected to his chest to a more open area of the lot. After a couple steps, he was turning his body away from you to lead you through the crowd, his hand still connected with yours as you trailed behind him. Once the more open area was in your midst, he turned towards you and you wrapped your arm over his own so your hand was resting on his shoulder but you were leaning more into him than a more traditional slow dance hand placement. Your other hand still hadn’t let go of his own even as the swaying began, but you did feel his other arm caress your lower back to the beat, not only in a romantic way but one that kept you both moving on rhythm. This wasn’t where you expected your night going, but you were damn enjoying it, that was for sure.

“I know this is hard on you.” His words weren’t the ones you were expecting, so as your fingers moved from his shoulders to get tangled in his blonde hair, you frowned despite knowing exactly what he was saying and looked down to make a joke out of it.

“Pretty sure I haven’t stepped on your foot once yet.”

“No,” he laughed before getting serious again, “I just meant, I know the chase, it can wear you down.”

You nodded in agreement but shrugged up at him, your fingers moving from his hair to lightly trace his cheek. “Stuff like this makes it easier.”

He dipped his head in acknowledgment of your words before letting the music take over for a bit, but you weren’t going to leave it there. You wanted him to really understand that you meant what you said.

“You know you still keep me on my toes, Owens.” You spoke to him, still shocked by how the night had progressed.

“Good, because I don’t need you stepping on mine.” He looked down when you accidentally misstepped causing both of you to come closer together in laughs. He drew you closer, the embrace was one that spoke so much with such a small gesture. It was reassurance, the feeling of never wanting to let you go or let go of the memories you two shared over the years either.

And that’s when you rested your head on him, now with your bodies completely against each other, your arms wrapped around his neck, realizing this moment would be added to that list. To seal its impression you lifted your head to look up at Tyler, your eyes moving from his to his lips and then brought your interlocked fingers to the nape of his neck to bring his face closer to yours. The soft, intimate kiss was your souvenir from this moment, your way of embedding this memory right along with your other cherished ones.

Dividers by @realitycanbewhateveridesire ♥️ 🌪️ Twisters Taglist: @drabbles-mc @justreblogginfics @kmc1989 @cinderellasmissingshoes (let me know if you'd like to be added!)

#twisters #Twisters 2024 #Twisters Fanfiction #Tyler Owens #Tyler Owens Fanfiction #Tyler Owens x Reader #Tyler Owens x You #Tyler Owens Fluff #Twisters Fluff #my writing #garbinge

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