#cable management is my passion

[bimboamyrose]

my sick gamer setup 😎

[ghost-proofbaby]

twenty four hours (modern!eddie munson x fem!reader)

HOUR FIVE

in which eddie munson and you absolutely hate each other's guts. what happens when your friends make a bet that you can't spend more than twenty four hours consecutively together?

→ tropes: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, slow burn

→ warnings: strong language, eventual smut, upside down does not exist, harassment/cat calling, minors dni

→ pairings: modern!college!eddie x college!fem!reader

→ wc: 6.1k+

→ a/n: shout out to @abibliophobiaa for helping me figure this chapter out lol.

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5:00 ───ㅇ─────────────── 24:00

HOUR FIVE - 8:00 PM

Civility. What a fragile construct. 

You and Eddie are hyper aware of its presence as the minutes pass. It’s a glass wall between the two of you, offering false security and fragile mediation. When he brings up dinner, and there’s no sign of agreement any time soon as he wants the opposite of every suggestion you make, you catch your reflection in it, reminding yourself to carefully think over your words. Every insult manages to catch in your throat, to simmer until softened to something appropriate. And you know he’s doing exactly the same thing as his pauses begin to drag out between replies, as you lose count of the number of times he’s opened his mouth only to immediately snap it shut. 

It works, though. Even with the weight of the agreement in the room, the wall takes the pressure in stride. There’s not a single crack emerging. 

Eddie still sits on the couch with you, this time the TV is turned on to some cable show rerun that has turned into background noise for the two of you. 

He never moved back to the opposite end of the couch. One wrong move, and your thigh could easily press into his, sink into the warmth that radiates from him. It’s all you can think about as he is trying to convince you that the Lord of the Rings books are worth reading, especially if you enjoy the movies. 

If it were any other day, you wouldn’t have noticed when he cuts off suddenly. You would have stopped listening long ago. Which is a shame, not that you’d admit it, because he actually had interesting points to make. 

“What?” you scrunch your nose as his stare hardens across the room, at something by the TV. Suddenly, the almost-glare blooms into delight, and you can’t breathe. 

“We’ve managed to be civil for a whole forty-five minutes.”

You finally follow his gaze and realize he had been looking at the small cable box, blinking blue numbers on the front screen reading the time. 

“Oh,” you say softly, fighting a grin to match his current one, “Yeah, we have been. That’s gotta be a new record.” 

It hadn’t been easy, but it had been doable. Maybe the hours could continue to be less doable. 

“You know, I thought you would have told me to shut up about my nerd shit by now,” he muses, bringing a hand up to carefully rub at his stubbled chin, legs spreading a bit further as he remains reclined into the cushions beside you. 

His knee brushes yours. You still haven’t found your breath that had escaped you from watching his eyes light up in realization. 

“I came pretty close,�� you tease and nearly lean in, nearly pressing your knee harder into his. 

It was becoming too easy to act this way with him. You try to think of a time you’d ever given this such room to breathe. But you draw nothing but blanks, save for the first night you’d met Eddie. A night that had been blossoming with buds of hopefulness and blind optimism that had been cursed to die on the vine. 

Although, maybe not all of them had died. There might have been a few dwindlers, and they might have found themselves finally watered after such a harsh winter between the two of you in the revelation of fragile civility these last forty-five minutes. 

“Was it when I went on my ten minute rant about how cool it would have been to bring up werewolves in the movies? Or was it my passion for Samwise being a singer?” your head falls back in gentle laughter, closing your eyes for a second. He goes as far as to nudge your shoulder with his own, “Come on, I’m serious! I do hear myself sometimes, you know. I know when I’m being Lord of the Dorks over here.” 

Your shoulder burns where he had bumped it. Not from pain. 

Your eyes are still closed as you shake your head, “No, no. I think I actually agree with the werewolves, but I’m still on the fence about turning the movies into musicals.” 

When you finally do open your eyes, head rolling to face him and press your cheek atop your burning shoulder, you find him staring at you. Which would have been fine, no big deal, if he was still grinning vibrantly. 

He’s looking at you with an unfamiliar emotion, an emotion you’d not only never seen him look at you with, but any of your shared friends. It’s almost as if he’s no longer in the room with you.

You’re immediately worried you’ve offended him, “Oh, shit. Are you into musicals? I’m sorry, I tried to get into them, but I just-”

“I am,” the emotion drains from his eyes as he snaps back to reality, “I… But I mean, I get it. Not everyone is into musicals, I was just a theater kid.” 

“A theater kid?” your worry is long gone as you sit up, looking at him excitedly, “No way. I would have never guessed that you, Eddie Munson, the most dramatic person I know, were a theater kid.” 

He looks down bashfully, and his curls form a curtain around his face. His dimples are effectively hidden as he shyly smiles, and you’re kind of glad for it. “Shut up. Buckley’s more dramatic than I am. Have you ever heard her go off on one of her rabies rambles?” 

“Of course. She was also a theater kid.” 

“Oh, trust me - I know. We’ve bonded.” 

The conversation dwindles, but the ghost of the dimples don’t. He tucks some of the stray strands of the curtain behind his ear, and you start to regret ever noticing the damn things. 

“We never decided on dinner, you know,” you blurt out and change the topic, because you desperately need something to distract you right now. You’re starting to believe you might prefer arguing with him to whatever storm was building beneath the surface of civility.

“Oh, shit,” he gasps, turning to look at the clock again, “You’re right.” 

Never thought I’d hear you saying that to me of all people, you bite back from saying. 

“Most places are closing soon,” he murmurs, more to himself than you, surely thinking back on the way you couldn’t come to an agreement earlier. If you dived back into that, you’d probably spend the rest of the night bickering. But then he lights up again, just as he had when he’d realized your record-breaking streak of civility, “Say, you like bar food?” 

—

“Eddie, I really can’t afford overpriced bar food!” 

“And I already said I’d pay for you.”

“What about our photo proof? We were supposed to send it ten minutes ago.” 

“You texted them mentioning we’ll be a little late with it, right?” 

“Yeah, but-” 

“Then it’s fine.” 

The entire ten minute walk from Eddie’s apartment to what he claims is his favorite bar in town had been filled with the endless bickering, still managing to be lighthearted enough to not cause any cracks in the civility. 

He’d chastised you about making excuses, and you hated him, because he was right. Every issue you’d brought up about going to the bar with him had been easily solved with one of his solutions. You were grasping for straws at this point.

Because you were nervous. Nervous that civility wouldn’t hold up in public, nervous that if alcohol was added to the equation that tongues would get too loose. 

But none of it mattered. When Eddie initially suggested going to the bar, he’d caught your smile at the idea and realized you two had finally found common ground. He was now a man on a mission. 

“I really don’t want you paying for me,” you huff as he holds the door to the bar open for you, motioning for you to enter before him. 

“It’s really not that expensive, you can pay me back later if you really want,” he waves off, “Buy me a drink or something while we’re here, even.” 

You’d always witnessed Eddie being generous with your friends, always known that he was altruistic as he’d offer to pay for people. Half the time, he never made them pay him back. All he cared about when with friends was everyone having fun. And you’d never been on the receiving end of that — not until tonight. 

He bumps into you when you stop just a few steps into the bar’s entry, glancing around the small room. It wasn’t much, two pool tables set up on the far end of the building, a full bar taking up most of the space inside. You could see some sort of jukebox sitting unplugged in the corner and several booths were occupied with patrons already. 

It was cozy. It wasn’t going out of its way to impress anyone, and it’s probably why you’d never come inside before. From the outside, you hardly were able to decipher it was a bar, especially in the darkness of the night. 

“Sorry,” you turn to apologize, his hands feather light on your biceps to make sure you didn’t stumble from the force of his impact.

He waves it off just as he had waved off your concerns of him picking up the bill for the night, focusing instead on your reaction, “You like it?”

“It’s… nice,” you offer with a shrug as he guides you to the bar. There definitely weren’t any open tables; it was a Saturday night, and even if the place was capable of giving off quaint vibes, there was an abundance of college students who had the same idea as you and him had. 

None of them were locked into the same agreement as you two, though. You were sure of it.

The bartender greets Eddie by name, beaming as he promises he’ll come over with his usual soon. 

“Wow,” you laugh, lifting yourself onto a stool beside him, “You weren’t kidding about it being your usual hangout.”

“I swear I’m not an alcoholic or anything,” he rushes out, “I just… I dunno. Like you said, it’s nice here.” 

You couldn’t believe it. If you dared to look into his words further, you’d swear that Eddie was trying to avoid tarnishing your view of him. He’d never cared about that before.

“I wouldn’t judge you,” you say once the two of you have settled into your seats. Stools were never going to be more comfortable than a booth, but it would do for the next hour. “If you were an alcoholic. I mean, we’re college students. Kind of part of the whole gig,” He looks at you and quirks an eyebrow as he grabs one of the menus from the sticky wood surface in front of you two, “Every college student can be promised three things: unimaginable debt for a stupid piece of paper, the ability to run off of far less sleep than anyone ever should, and a terrible reliance on alcohol.” 

He rolls his eyes and mumbles, “You’re funny.” 

The surviving buds on the vine nearly prepare to bloom, just about ready to untuck themselves from your chest and press against the glass wall of civility. 

“Say it again.”

“What?”

“That I’m funny,” your biting grin is infectious, “Tell me again and stroke my ego, big boy.” 

He flushes pink on the apples of his cheeks, bright and furious even under the dim lighting of the bar, “Oh, fuck off. I’m never complimenting you again.” 

Your newest enemies, those fucking dimples, and the way the blush spreads as he glances down at the menu suddenly become too much. The combination has the ability to choke you, to possibly make your heart stop, if it isn’t for the bartender finally interrupting the moment. 

“Hey there, Eds,” the man not much older than the two of you greets, looking at you with unbridled curiosity, “And… lady friend of Eds.” 

You don’t know why, but you tell the stranger your name. Sweet and low, soft spoken compared to the way you had just been blatantly teasing the boy at your side. 

“Pretty name for a pretty girl,” he chimes with the type of charisma you’re familiar with when it comes to the food industry. You didn’t make tips if you weren’t kind, if you weren’t borderline flirting with nearly every customer by overflowing with friendliness and compliments, “So, I’ve got your regular here,” he places a glass in front of Eddie, something dark with a few sparse bubbles, “What can I get for you, though?” he turns to you. 

You glance over at the menu Eddie holds, and he shifts it so you can see it better. But as your eyes glance over the drink options, nothing grabs your attention. 

“Full bar, right?” you feel a bit foolish as the man waves behind at the large wall filled with bottles of a variety of alcohol. Duh. “You know how to make an amaretto sour?” 

The man grins widely, nodding enthusiastically before turning to Eddie, “She’s got good taste. I’ll be right back with it for you, hun.” 

The moment the bartender leaves, Eddie is leaning in closer to you, mimicking you in a falsetto, “Full bar, right?”

His cologne is nice. Something spicy, almost musky. Fitting for him.

You don’t hesitate to shove his shoulder, “Shut up. We’re supposed to be civil, remember?” 

“Ah, I see,” his eyes mischievously glint, enjoying this bout of satirizing far too much, “You can tease me, but I can’t tease you. That sound about right?” 

“Exactly,” you sigh jokingly, unable to look at him, already knowing the smile he’s wearing, “Sorry you didn’t get the first memo.” 

He finally, finally, stops leaning in towards you, and carries the scent of his cologne with him. You decide to lock away that detail of him into the same eternal prison of your brain with the dimples. Another thing about him you need to forget after the twenty fours end. 

“My bad, sweetheart. At least I’m up to date now.” 

You ignore the vine as it tightens at the casual use of the nickname again. There’s no need to dive deeper into that reaction. 

“What’s his name?” you finally look at him, eyes catching on the slope of his nose and sharp jaw in the smoky atmosphere. 

“Who? The bartender?” you nod, and he takes a sip of his drink, “Frank. He’s really nice, looks a lot younger than he is, lucky bastard.” 

“What, you don’t think you’ll age so gracefully?” you’re back to teasing Eddie, because God, is it easy. It’s a perfect medium between the two of you. Still biting, still a little mean, but not harmful. It’s innocent and refreshing, breathing a new wave of novelty into your relationship, wherever it may currently stand.

“Who’s not aging gracefully?” The bartender, Frank, questions as he places your amaretto sour in front of you. You mutter your thanks, “Because if you’re talking about Eds here, you’re right. Think this guy has aged ten years in the six months I’ve known him.” 

Six months? You don’t know why you’re so shocked, but part of you had just figured he’d been coming to this bar for as long as he’d lived in his apartment. Which, to be fair, you didn’t know how long he’d occupied that space, either. It had to have been at least a year. There’s been no mention of him moving the entire time you’ve known him. 

“I have not,” Eddie defends himself, hand gripping his drink. 

“Have too,” Frank ends the argument there, not giving Eddie a chance for rebuttal before he lets his gaze go back and forth between the two of you, “So, any food tonight, or just drinks?” 

“Could we actually get an order of garlic parmesan fries?” Eddie is surprisingly polite, and looks at you after he’s placed the order, “If that’s okay with you?” 

You blink, taken back by his consideration, “Um, yeah. That sounds good.” 

Frank nods, “Fries. Got it. Anything else?” 

Eddie is still looking at you, subtly moving the menu closer to you, as if urging you to help yourself. You pick up the laminated paper, and your knuckles brush against his before you’re glancing over your options.

You curse yourself as your hands shake. You’re not nervous – why are they shaking? 

“Are your mozzarella sticks any good?” you finally ask, peering up at Frank.

“They’re excellent. Also, not to brag, but our marinara is the best in town. I swear it.” 

You look to Eddie, as if seeking out permission, and he nods ever so slightly, “I’ll take your word for it. One order of those, please.” 

“Of course. One order of fries and one order of mozzarella sticks coming right up.” 

With that, Frank leaves you and Eddie on your own again, somehow feeling secluded and alone even on the edges of the bustling room. It’s as if there’s a bubble around the two of you, unbreachable by the strangers that surround you. 

Your phone buzzing in your pocket catches your attention, just as it had done numerous times thus far this night, and you pull it out to see two new notifications from Steve.

STEVE-O: photo. 

STEVE-O: now.

You don’t realize Eddie was reading the messages over your shoulder until he suddenly chuckles, “Jesus, when did Harrington become so demanding?” 

“He’s always been this way,” you mutter as you quickly open your phone, the camera app already being opened from your previously provided evidence, “Consider yourself lucky to not be in the groupchat. His attitude grows tenfold through texts.” 

“Clearly.” 

You turn the phone awkwardly in one hand, choosing to go for a wider shot that captures the bar setting behind you and Eddie. He grabs his glass, holding up his drink as if he’s cheersing the camera. 

You’re about to take the photo, when Eddie suddenly sighs, “Oh, come on. Don’t leave me hanging.” 

His free hand nudges your own drink into your hand, and you take it without complaint. 

You both hold up your glasses, forcing mimicry of annoyed expressions directed at the camera and not each other. 

The moment the click of the photo being taken is lost into the atmosphere of the bar, chatter of nearby strangers and clinking of beer bottles together, Eddie’s attention is fully on you.

“To civility,” he says, moving his glass in a grandiose gesture towards yours. 

You take a second before you register it. You’re too busy mapping out his face beyond the dimples, beyond the wild curls that catch the bar lighting just right, all the way up to the hiding freckle beneath his right eye and the cotton candy shade of pink of his pursed lips. It’s as if you’re pressing your cheeks into the wall of civility between you and letting the glass fog over with your breath. As if you’re just now seeing Eddie for the first time, no cloak of hatred or distortion of annoyance to keep you from his memorizing features. 

You shake your head, try to physically rid your head of the uncharted thoughts before you clink your glass to his, “To civility.” 

—

Maybe civility isn’t such a fragile concept. Maybe, just maybe, it’s a reasonable foundation for yours and Eddie’s night. 

Over garlic parmesan fries and mozzarella sticks, and several refills of your amaretto sour and his Jack & Coke (you’d found that out when you’d ask to try his drink, and had grimaced at the harsh whiskey), you two practice the act of it almost flawlessly. 

Eddie tells you a bit more about the first time he’d wandered across this bar, how he’d been kicked out of a different one earlier that night and simply wasn’t ready to go home yet. Somehow, after the story, once he’s shed his leather jacket to drape over the back of his seat and you find yourself angling your body towards him more fully, the attention focuses more on you meeting the group. 

You both have to lean in closer to each other, what at the beginning of the night should have been too close for comfort, as the bar grows busier. You tell him about freshman year of college, that wretched 8 AM math class that’s only redeeming quality was bringing you and Steve together. He was better at math than you, or at least taking notes on the subject. Somehow, the two of you had ended up in an agreement of being ‘study buddies’, as Steve had nicknamed it. Two years later, after several more deliberately shared classes, Steve had finally decided to introduce the girl he’d been ditching their Thursday movie nights for to the gang. It had started with Robin – she’d been in a Psychology class with you and Steve – and all the pieces fell together from there. 

“I still can’t believe you and Harrington never… you know….” Eddie trails off and downs the last of his third Jack & Coke. When Frank motions from across the bar if he’d like a refill, Eddie shakes his head and covers the top of his glass with his wide palm. 

His rings glinted in the low lights, and your stomach did flips. You blame it on the fourth amaretto sour you were nursing. 

“Oh, trust me,” the alcohol has your lips moving more loosely, giggling between your words, “We definitely thought about it. Even got wine drunk one night our sophomore year and tried it.” 

“What?” Eddie exclaims, leaning so far into your space now that his curls brush your bare shoulders, “No way. No fucking way.” 

“Yes way!” your face grows pink, more from laughter than embarrassment, “It was awful! I mean, in our defense we were both drunk, but still. I just…” you sigh out, and lean back in your stool without even noticing that Eddie has his arm draped over the back of it, “We both realized we were way better off friends. I’m a better wing-woman for him now than some fling.” 

“Don’t let Robin hear you,” Eddie chuckles, popping a fry in his mouth before he relaxes back as well. His arm is still on the back of your chair. “You know, he did talk you up a lot before he introduced you to everyone.” 

“Yeah?” you raise an eyebrow. 

Eddie’s brows furrow as he nods viciously, “Oh, God, yeah. Had us all thinking he was just in denial about having a thing for you.” 

“Well, that’s embarrassing.”

“Nah. Only good things. Besides, once Robin met you? It was game over,” if you had been watching Eddie more carefully, you would have seen that unrecognizable emotion crossing his face once more, glazing over his eyes rather than the alcohol he’d consumed, “They really do love you, y’know?” 

You don’t know. Which is a shame. Because on your good days, you’d usually tell yourself that they do enjoy your company, that you do fit into the group. But doubt had an easy job of having its way with you when Eddie existed, when Eddie seemingly loathes you. 

Your silence answers his rhetorical-turned-serious question, and he’s suddenly leaning forward to catch your gaze, “You do know that… right?” 

Your shrug makes his arm fall off of your chair, not intentionally so. It had simply gotten closer to your shoulders with the time passing, and the movement makes it fall limply to his side. 

“Sweetheart, you’ve gotta be kidding me,” Eddie groans in what you’re realizing is his usual, playful demeanor, “The entire group loves you so much, it’s irritating. Never shut up about you, inviting you to plans, all that shit.”

“You don’t,” your voice is a whisper. 

It’s the first time that either of you had so much as knocked on the glass wall of civility. A gentle tap of your knuckles against an easily forgotten barrier, but a knock nonetheless. 

“What?” Eddie squints, and he’s leaning in closer, and you suddenly feel suffocated again. His cologne is in your nose, his faded dimples are in your vision. You could count his eyelashes if you spared him a quick glance. 

But you don’t. You can’t bear to look at him, because the entire moment is becoming far too vulnerable. 

You clear your throat, “The entire group, except you, loves me. Which, I mean, I get. Not everyone is going to like me, and I’ve sort of been a bitch to you-” 

“You haven’t-” 

“-and honestly, I’ve really played into the fact that I annoy you so much this entire time. You hate me, I hate you-”

“I don’t-”

“-it’s fine.” 

Despite Eddie’s attempted interruptions, you manage to finish your speech, chest heaving by the end of it. He’s stunned, mouth opening and closing multiple times before he finally seemingly collects his thoughts. 

“Look, I know I’ve been an asshole, but I don’t really-” he starts, but you’re quick to cut him off. Unlike when he’d interjected and you’d ignored him, he lets you speak. 

“Eddie, you said you’d celebrate my death,” you smile sheepishly at him, and you can feel that glass barrier shaking. Bringing up something awful, something terribly mean from mere hours ago isn’t a gentle knock on glass. It’s a slapping of a palm, a dare for cracks to start appearing. 

His entire expression falls, “I… That was stupid of me to say.” 

“It was,” you agree, because you’re not sure what else you could say, “It was, but I get it. The feeling’s mutual and all, right?” 

Eddie is quiet. You almost miss his voice, even with all the other tones of strangers bouncing around you. 

“Can I ask why you hate me, though?” you try to keep your tone as light as possible, to not let this moment get any worse. You try to keep your fists from pounding on the glass of civility, “We’ve never really talked about it before. I know you have your reasons – I’ve got mine.” 

His jaw clenches. You can physically see his thought process. He’s probably got a million reasons, and right now, he’s just thumbing through them, trying to find the one that won’t break your agreement of being kinder to each other. 

“You…” he starts, and the wheels are still turning in his head, eyes looking everywhere but you now, “I don’t know, you just seemed… s-selfish.” 

You almost don’t see it – the first crack in the glass, the first sign of civility crumbling. 

“Selfish?” you echo back, crestfallen, nearly wounded. You attempt to hide it, to not show him that his words affect you, because you’d asked for this. You’d asked the damn question, fueled by liquid confidence, and he was giving it to you. 

“Yeah, just… Full of yourself?” his voice jumps up an octave at the end of his sentence, as if he’s unsure, as if he’s asking you if that’s the right answer. The crack spreads, and begins to distort your vision of him, “I knew you had been sort of popular in high school, and you carried yourself like those popular kids I knew. And… and…” 

His eyes finally stop fleeting from yours. He meets your gaze, and you know you weren’t equipped with strong enough armor to hide the wounds he was inflicting. He could see the bruises as his hits landed, accidental or not. 

“I just thought you were everything I’d always hated. So I hated you.” 

The crack splinters, and hairline fractures split the image of Eddie into unrecognizable pieces. The boy you’d grown accustomed to thus far tonight, the boy you’d grown comfortable with, is gone in your eyes. 

“So,” your voice is tight, and you know you won’t be able to keep up with eye contact, not when it all starts to sting so ardently, “You judged a book by its cover, and decided I’m a royal, spoiled bitch. Isn’t that exactly what everyone in high school did to you?” 

“How did you-”

“Steve told me. He told me about your reputation, about being a freak, everything.” 

The splintering has spread to his side of the glass, clearly, as you say the word freak. 

“Is that why you hate me?” his tone hardens, gaze no longer sympathetic. Not that you see the change. “You decided I’m a freak, too?”

“I never said that-”

“No? Sorry, I thought we were just putting words into each other’s mouths.” 

The bar is busy, and you wonder if the bystanders can hear the wall of civility finally shattering. You have no idea if any of the shards hit Eddie, but you can feel them dig into your chest, your arms, your stomach. Shards that remind you of what could have been.

Shards that remind you of what was lost because Eddie Munson had decided he hated you long before he met you. 

“You’re the one who hated me before you even met me,” you scoff cruelly. 

“I never fucking said that-”

“You did, though,” you counter, crossing your arms over your chest protectively, “You said so yourself. Steve mentioned I was sort of popular in high school, and you just- you just decided to shove me into a box of what I would be. Some girl you didn’t even know.”

“Well, pardon me,” he snaps, “I didn’t exactly have the best experience with the popular kids, but you should know that since Stevie told you everything, right? Hell, he probably mentioned it over pillowtalk for your one night together, right?” 

You were an idiot. You had let yourself forget that Eddie is not normally kind, that Eddie is not normally so trustworthy as he’s been the last hour. You’d let your guard down, and now, the ramifications were staring you down right between the eyes. 

“Fuck you,” you angrily spit, moving to stand up, “I told you that in fucking confidence, because I thought… I thought…” 

“You thought..?” he presses as you turn to face him, shorter than him now that you weren’t both sitting in the stools, “What? That we were friends?” 

Yes. Because for a moment, I thought we were becoming friends, like a fucking idiot. 

His chest is heaving now. Just as yours had during your rant to him, your attempt to soothe over the fact that he hated you. You regret it. You regret ever agreeing on civility. 

“My mistake,” you choke out, “It won’t happen again.” 

You’ve caught him off guard. Maybe he had been prepared for you to deny it, maybe he had thought you’d laugh in his face at the idea of you considering him a friend.

But you hadn’t. You’d just confirmed to him that you did have that moment of weakness. You’d admitted that yes, for a vulnerable moment, you’d considered him a friend. A confidant over sweetened alcohol, cheap bar food, and trust. 

He’d had your trust, and he’d now lost it. 

You don’t wait around to see how he takes the revelation. You’re already storming out the front door of the bar, grateful you can still remember which direction his apartment is in. You don’t care if he’s following you – part of you hopes he isn’t. 

Until part of you is. Because as you step out into the night, a few shadows against the brickwall are brought to life by your appearance. 

“Hey there,” one of the men call out, “What’s a girl like you doing all alone?” 

You don’t process that the man is talking to you at first, head down and anger flaming. 

“Hey, you!” There’s a sudden hand on your shoulder, making you jolt your head up, “Yeah, you. What’s a pretty girl like you doing out here alone?” 

His grin is sinister. Sickly sweet in faux honey, blonde hair swept back and breath reeking of rum. 

“M-Me?” you stutter, trying to take a careful step back, to get his hand off your shoulder. 

Your heart is no longer racing with fury. It’s pounding with fear. 

“Does it look like there’s any other pretty girls out here?” he slurs with a chuckle, glancing around to his friends.

You look around as well, and realize with sinking trepidation that there’s no one else out here, “No. But, uh, I’m good. I.. I’m not… interest-” 

“What’s your name, honey?” he leans in closer, and you can’t help but lean back. It makes his grip on you tighten. “I’m Jason. Are you all alone? Because, I’ll be honest, I’ve been striking out all night and would love to take a pretty thing like you home with me.” 

“I’m g-good,” you start again, “Please, uh, please let go-” you're shaking your head, trying harder to pull off his hand. 

“Oh, come on. It’d be fu-” 

He doesn’t finish his sentence. One second, he’s pressing too close to you, holding you tight enough to leave bruises as you’re cringing and suddenly squirming to get out of his grasp, and the next – he’s gone. 

“Get the fuck off her.” 

You’re still too shocked to move, glancing down at your shoulder that’s now red and sore. But you know that voice. 

It’s the voice that had just told you he’d hated you before he ever met you. 

“Hey, man!” The intruder, Jason, protests as he’s shoved harshly against the wall. “What the fuck?” 

You finally look to see what’s happening properly. Eddie isn’t facing you, his broad back and shoulders appearing menacing in the shadows as Jason sinks further back against the wall. 

“She’s not going home with you.” 

His tone doesn’t waver, even as you catch the clench of his shaking fist. 

Jason catches sight of you, still standing where he left you, and the nauseating smirk returns, “I think we should let her decide, shouldn’t we?” 

You see Eddie move to raise his fist, and your body finally unfreezes. In an instant, you’re at his side, and your hand wraps around his bicep to prevent the punch he was surely pretending to send Jason’s way.

“Eddie,” you plead, tugging him backwards, anger momentarily forgotten. He doesn’t look at you, but he immediately takes the arm in your hold and wraps it around you in order to tuck you further behind his body, away from the wide, drunken stares of these men. You hate it, but it makes you feel safer, even as you grip the leather of his jacket’s sleeve tighter, “Eddie, please, let’s go.” 

“So she’s spoken for?” Jason pushes his luck, still slurring his words. 

Eddie’s fist clenches again. Without thinking, your hand not on his arm reaches down to grasp his fist. 

Your heart's still pounding. You’re still trembling, shaken up terribly – he can feel it. 

“Please,” you beg one last time. 

This time, he listens. The fist unravels, and in an instant, he has your hand locked in his, palm against sweaty palm. 

He’s not as rough as you expect him to be as he’s dragging you away from the scene. You can still hear the cat-calls, the taunts, of the drunken men, but it only spurs Eddie to walk faster. You struggle to keep up, his long legs carrying him more easily through the long strides, but you don’t protest, eager to get away from whatever the fuck just happens.

Neither of you say another word during the walk to his apartment. Your shoulder continues to ache, your hand stays tangled in his, and you can still feel the prick of civility’s shards in your chest, lodged dangerously close to your vines and closing buds of hopefulness. 

Civility. What a broken construct. 

–

BIRDIE: they are literally on a date right now. 

JOHNNY: I’m not doing this right now. 

DINGUS: god, i hate to admit it, but rob’s right. are they at a bar right now? am i seeing that right?

BIRDIE: yes!! i called it!! i fucking called it!!! god, only five hours in and they’re already on their first date.

ARGYLE ​​😎: love is in the air my dudes

JOHNNY: @ARGYLE ​​😎Don’t encourage them. 

NANCE: It is NOT their first date. Eddie wouldn’t take her to a bar for their first date.

BIRDIE: hold on, how would you know what eddie would do for their first date? 

NANCE: He’d probably take her somewhere nice, like whatever this town’s equivalent of Enzo’s. 

DINGUS: when the fuck has eddie talked about where he’d take her for the first date? 

BIRDIE: nancy what the fuck do you know?

JOHNNY: Lol

NANCE: Forget I said anything. 

BIRDIE: nancy, please explain yourself immediately.

DINGUS: nance? when? the? fuck? 

NANCE: He was drunk, he probably didn’t mean it.

BIRDIE: NANCY.

JOHNNY: Now you’ve done it. 

DINGUS: NANCY.

ARGYLE ​​😎: does this mean what i think it means?

BIRDIE: NANCE. 

JOHNNY: Just couldn’t keep your mouth shut, could you? 

NANCE has left the groupchat.

[lovefazedforsoundwave]

OFM! SOUNDWAVE X GN!CYBERTRONIAN! READER | SMUT

Warnings: valve teasing, SPIKE IN VALVE INTERFACING, small Praising.

You had been working aside soundwave under megatron and his orders. You two both remain as work partners, but you want to be more than that. It just didn't feel right as a work partner. It gave you a sharp feeling in your spark. It pounded when you were close. Who knew if he felt the same about you,

You had just wished you had enough courage to tell him that you loved him, and you needed him. Soon, each cycle and micro second you wasted no time to spend together strengthens your relationship with him. You get more confident each cycle. And you had planned a few cycles ago that it was time to admit your feelings to him since they can't just hide there forever. Cycles pass, your crush for your work partner grows, and you even plan to make a confession, eventually.

Cycles later, it's decided that you tell him what you've been wanting to. You practice & muster up courage each day, to tell your work partner you love him, he's gotta be somewhere, maybe in the communications?, you go check but he's not there. You should ask the other vehicons or the other fellow decepticons. You walk around and somewhat manage to find vehicon ST3V3,

"Hey. Steve, have you seen soundwave? Anywhere??"

"Oh. He's in his headquarters, and he wanted me to invite you there, I was going to find you."

"Oh, thanks, steve."

You walk off waving goodbye at steve before going off to soundwaves headquarters. Maybe he needed something? As you drift off into paradise, you find yourself by his headquarters door. You shake out off it and knock on his door and he then opens it.

Oh, uhm. Hi, soundwave. I've heard you've requested me?."

" Yes. I have requested for some personal reasons."

You look at his towering from. You've always been shorter than him. He invited you in and locked the door, he retracts his mask and placed it down on his desk as he turned to you and walked closer and kissed you out of the blue, his soft dermas against yours fell so nice, you shutter at this but accept his passionate kiss, he shoves his glossa into your intake while you moan to the sudden action, his yellow visor brightens to your pleasured sound, he breaks to kiss to breathe, the long Saliva string on his tongue and in your mouth, you breathe hard.. he moves you to the berth, he towers over you as you lay down, you blush and hold back a whine of pleasure as he runs his two digits over your interface panel

"Permission: may I open your panel?"

"Ahm.. ye-s.. you can.."

He's so careful with what he does, so it won't hurt you in a way. He takes off your panel, the cold air hits your valve lips, you shiver, he grumbles a praise, and he then adds his digit to your valve Thrusts in and out slowly, your valve gets wet with transfluid by the second, you moan as he geta deeper each microsecond , you get closer to releasing your pent up cycles of pleasure, your fantasies got ahold of you, soundwave on top of you, touching you, and it's exactly what you'll get. He's thought so many things of you it's impossible about how incompatible he becomes when his fantasies of you get stronger each cycle, he speeds up his digits, hitting all the right spots, causing you to moan, you were just about to overload, but he pulls out and sticks his two digits into his mouth tasting you, he grunts, you whine after the cold hits your valve lips again but then he takes his own interface panel, revealing his spike, it pulses, the ridges, and bio lights glow, he spreads your tibulens gently, he positions himself by your valve entrance, he pushes in gently, taking his cable inch my inch, you moan, from both pleasure and pain, he runs his digit over your chassis, as a sign to insure you, that you'll be fine, adjusting to his cable, stretching you out, you nod meaning he can move, he moves gently in and out, the pleasure builds up each Thrust, you moan so generously for him, he praises you,

"Your moaning generously for me, good, good bot."

You moan as he praises you, his Thrusts getting faster by the minute, making you moan, you're getting so close to overload. Your spark chamber pounds in this passionate moment you both share, his yellow visor glows, and he groans loudly as he Thrusts, his digits grab your tibulens more, he Thrusts faster each second hitting your gstation , hitting places you'd never knew, you overload, as he just rides his overload out roughly inside your valve, being oversimulated, his transfluid drips out your valve as he pulls out, heaving a breathe, as you drift off to recharge, he comes closer and kisses you on you're faceplates.

"I.. love you y/n,"

He admits something he hadn't for just anyone before, a new feeling had sparked him.

[sexiestpodcastcharacter]

Sexiest Podcast Character — Scripted Bracket — Round 5

Propaganda

Mabel Martin (Mabel):

the girl half-burning!!! the bitch queen of hell!!! dead girl walking!!! rot-hearted girl!!!! consort to king anna limon!!!! lesbian icon!!!!

Who is doing it like Mabel Martin? No one. She's a lesbian. She is the lamb, and the knife. She is so loved that god herself tore a hole between worlds to find her again. She tore out her own veins to bargain with the house that holds her. She is the girl half-burning, she kept a bullet that came out of her (it was hers. she birthed it), she is the Labyrinth. And she is the Minotaur.

a vote for Mabel is a vote for insane codependent lesbians everywhere 👍 also for women with large noses (the hottest of women)

Hera (Wolf 359):

I don't care if she's an AI with no physical form, she is HOT

my digital wife <3

oh it's always "i want a hot computergirl with poor cable management to glitch on my shit" and "i want to fuck her until she bluescreens" on this website until it's time to put your money where your mouth is. i have a post about usb penetration with tens of thousands of notes. i see the things you all say. you have a hot computergirl in front of you and this is how you all repay her? you would abandon her? prove yourselves as the computer sex website; vote for hera NOW!!!

"everyone voting Hera in this round is doing it strictly because she is an AI" WRONG. INCORRECT. everyone voting for hera is doing it because she's funny and thoughtful and passionate and wears her heart on her sleeve despite all of the times people have let her down. because she's anti-authority, and that's sexy. it's sexy that she's an AI because the way she navigates being a woman in that context is inherently transgender, and THAT'S sexy, but on its own? not even like, top five most relevant things about her. self-determination? that's sexy.

VOTE FOR HERA. i'm not done. i've made the case that she would want this more, and that's true, but you should also want her. the propaganda says she doesn't have a physical form - in one sense, that's true, but she DOES have an internal self-image and the desire for physicality. most of the physical sensations she's experienced so far have been painful - think of what you could do for her. she has human desire without the means to act on it. she's the most touch starved anyone has ever been. making love to someone who can't be touched by conventional means IS inherently sexy and it IS a win for disabled trans women everywhere.

she's passionate and kind of emotionally unstable and fiercely loyal - "officer eiffel? he's your deadman's switch. if you let him die, or if you do anything that doesn't fall under the category of do no harm, i will go off. i will rain acid on your ass. i will crank the temperature in the room so high that your skin will crack, and bubble, and burn. i will vent you into space through a hole the size of a quarter. and if i am feeling very, very generous, i won't do all those things slowly." like come on!! what more do you want!!

VOTE FOR HERA. my final, last-minute appeal: her character arc is fundamentally about identity, autonomy, and being seen the way she wants to be seen. the way she navigates her identity as a woman in this context is inherently transgender, and that IS sexy. she's funny, she's passionate, she's sweet, she's been let down repeatedly by almost everyone she's ever met and she still opens her heart to people because she so badly craves connection. she's frustrated, touch starved, and pent up, and was initially rejected from service because of her impulsive, emotional, unorthodox way of thinking. i have so much more i could say on her behalf, but this IS a contest of sex appeal. thinking outside the box, breaking rules, and reaching beyond the limitations of her own form is so central to who she is. hera could come up with freak shit beyond the comprehension of the average person, and she IS enthusiastic enough to make it work.

Art of Mabel from @kayleerowena.

[captain-mj]

Pay-Per-View

Based (loosely) on a phone call I got at my work, but basically, the gang finds out Ghost still pays for cable porn instead of literally any other option. I understand that in the uk, cable porn is different but I've tried to get a straight answer on how it works and came up blank so I'm working with what I know

It was either this or werewolf porn and I finished this first. Pure crack.

"Wow, you actually still have a cable box?" Alejandro asked as he glanced at the clunky box attached to the tv. The 141, Alex, Farah, Alejandro and Rodolfo had come over to his flat. They had all been invited by Price and somehow, someway, they ended up at Ghost's house instead of Price's flat. He knew it was because Price had a flat and Ghost had inherited a house, but still.

"Yes." Ghost continued to make tea. "I'll eventually set up that stick thing you guys got me, but I'm rarely here."

Alejandro frowned at him. "Giant flat screen and you watch cable? Really? You have internet, I could set it up for you right now?"

Ghost shrugged and Alejandro quickly started to set it up. Alex stood by to help, as they tried to figure out how to unhook the cable box to set up the Roku they bought him.

They turned on the tv and moans filled the entire flat. The two men on the screen were looking into each other's eyes with the amount of passion that only really showed up in porn.

"I told you that you belong with me." The 'top' character growled and rocked into the person underneath them. He was big and tattooed, holding the smaller man underneath him by his wrists.

"Yes, sir." A soft whine came from the person underneath. He threw his head back to expose his throat.

Alex scrambled to change the channel as Alejandro started to wheeze. "YOU PAY FOR FUCKING PAY-PER-VIEW?"

"Where else would i get porn?" Ghost didn't seemed bothered at all despite the mortified looks of a few people. "I have a flat screen. I want to use it."

Alejandro was still wheezing as Alex finally managed to pause it. "It's three fucking hours?? Do you jack off the whole time?"

"...Yeah?"

Rodolfo cleared his throat. "So! Dinner plans?"

"How do you not finish?" Gaz ignored him trying to tactfully get away from the situation.

Ghost frowned. "I just stop, wait a minute and keep going?? Same thing you do during sex?"

Gaz looked flabbergasted. "That's not normal."

Price tried to talk louder to get everyone's attention. "So, Rodolfo, dinner plans you were saying?"

"Fuck you mean not normal?" Ghost scoffed. "Can't a man relax in his own home? Sometimes a bloke wants to take it slow."

Alejandro asked. "What do you light candles? Put on some classical music?"

There was just a bit too long of a pause before Ghost said, "No."

"Oh my god. Oh my god." Alex covered his face. "I don't want to envision this."

Soap interrupted. "Classical music? Really?"

"Sometimes I put on jazz."

Soap nodded and got out his phone.

Farah hummed. "Alex, we have pay per view on our cable. You've used it."

"I have not!" Alex blushed.

Farah frowned. "When you click on the porn channels on tv, I pay for those."

Alex stared at her. "I don't use those."

"...Alex. I've caught you using them. Please do not patronize me."

Ghost raised his hand at Alex. "See, Ale."

"Don't ever pronounce my nickname like that again."

Ghost sighed. "Dinner plans?"

Soap hummed. "So what porn do you like?"

"Are we seriously doing this?" Gaz asked.

Ghost frowned. "So dinner plans?"

They shelfed the conversation for later.

[fueledbysano]

𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐖 Izana Kurokawa

ligaw. [noun] courtship; dating; woo. the university's local rockstar tries to win your heart in his classy ways ♡

♱ izana kurokawa x fem!reader

♱ tags, and for my favorite people in the fandom, Izana stans 🖤 : @hiraethsdesires @fuyuluvr @izanazqueen @iluvizana @half-baked-biscuit @ask-the-insect-hashira @sukunassuka @izanapogi @em-plosion @chrofeisnightmaregf @mattsune

♱ a/n: belated happy birthday to our king 🫀 I'm sure all my filipina girlies will agree when I say that Izana is that expensive guy who hangs out a lot in bgc and is probably famous in campus.

Izana Kurokawa was quite a popular guy on campus at his university in the Philippines. He was a part of the “Tenjiku” band, playing the guitar, and he was known for his love of motorcycles and his skill on two wheels. He was known to make quite an entrance when he parked his bike before his classes.

Izana had always been a bit of a control freak when it came to his precious guitar. It was the day of the university’s annual festival night, and his band was going to perform. Izana's instrument was like an extension of himself. He took great care of it, tuning it to perfection before each show and making sure that no one else touched it without his permission. Not even his band mates, he knew they were professionals themselves, but he trusted it to no one but himself.

So as Tenjiku bandmates were doing a soundcheck on the empty stage, Izana’s heart dropped when he saw a stage crew carrying his guitar. Her name plate read “[ Y / N ]” at the front, carrying his guitar carefully. If she wasn’t wearing the pass, he would’ve mistaken her for another performer, considering how attractive and how nice she was styled too.

He usually would’ve thrown a fit, but it wasn't just that she was touching his precious instrument, but the way she was carrying it. She was holding it with such care, like it was a priceless work of art rather than just a tool for playing music.

“What are you doing with my guitar?” he asked, his tone serious.

“Some amateurs and I think… fans managed to get backstage and peek at your instrument,” [ Y / N ] explained. "I couldn't let them touch it, so I took it to you. Sorry if I intruded."

Izana was impressed by her care and consideration. He knew how much his guitar meant to him, and he was grateful to have someone like her who understood that. “I’ll get someone to bring you guys’ your water bottles too, the performance starts soon.”

And so as Izana was performing on stage, his guitar ringing out over the crowds as they cheered and clapped. He was in his element, the music flowing through him like blood, the energy of the crowd pulsing through his veins.

But as the set went on, he started to notice that his guitar was sounding a little off. It wasn't much, just a slight distortion that seemed to be coming from the speakers, but it was enough to rattle his concentration. He couldn't focus on the music, constantly worrying about whether the audience was hearing the same thing.

Luckily, [ Y / N ] seemed to be listening in, because she quickly rushed up to the sound booth to fix the distortion. "There we go," she whispered, her voice low and calm. Izana quickly peeked at her from a distance, grateful for the assistance. She quickly started to tinker with the equipment, checking the cables and fixing a few loose connections after giving him a quick nod.

Izana couldn't help but feel a pang of attraction at what she just did. She seemed so passionate about her work, and he couldn't help but admire that.

Izana was still riding the high of his band's performance at the end of the night, when he spotted [ Y / N ] at the parking lot. As he made her way towards her , he felt a sense of anticipation, eager to see her again. “Hey.” he said, catching up. “Thanks for all the help again today.”

[ Y / N ] couldn't help but feel her heart rushing as she looked up at him. She felt a mix of emotions– admiration, attraction, and a bit of nervousness. “Of course,” she said, a hint of exhaustion mixing with her kind tone. “You guys did so well. I liked your set.”

Izana smiled at her words, feeling a sense of pride and satisfaction. “Thanks,” he said. “You know, I never let anyone touch my guitar, but you carried it like a pro. Not to mention, you noticed the off-distortion in the middle of my performance. I must say, that was really impressive.” He smiled. “At least let me take you to your place. It’s getting late too.”

As they rode through Taguig City, [ Y / N ] couldn't help but feel a sense of excitement and adventure. She loved the feeling of the wind in her hair, and the way the city lights stretched out before her like a dazzling kaleidoscope. Izana was the perfect driver, making their trip smooth and comfortable.

Despite the late hour, the streets were still full of people– college students, young professionals, and tourists alike. The city was alive with energy, and it felt as though they were being called in.

As they neared the corner, Izana spotted a food bazaar and immediately made a left turn. [ Y / N ] followed his lead, smiling as she took in the sights and sounds of the bustling night market. “I love this place,” Izana said, dismounting the motorcycle and helping [ Y / N ] down. They were immediately met by the colorful stalls, the sizzling sounds of meat cooking, and the call of the vendors. [ Y / N ] followed Izana through the maze of tents and stalls, trying to make sense of the smells, sounds and smells that attacked her senses.

Finally, they reached a stall that seemed to capture Izana's attention, and she watched as he ordered a plate of sisig (spicy pork dish) and a serving of white rice while [ Y / N ] settled with a simple order of Lumpia (egg rolls).

[ Y / N ] couldn't help but smile, appreciating the joy on his face. She had never seen a grown man enjoy food so much. As they sat there, she couldn't help but think about how much they had done together in such a short amount of time. It had only been a night, and she had gone from never having heard of him to having a well-deserved late dinner together after a long day of putting up a show for everyone in the university.

The night air was cool and crisp, and the sounds of the street vendors and bustling crowds filled their ears as they walked. The vendor poured the frosty coconut juice into two glasses and handed them over to Izana, who smiled and held out one of the glasses to [ Y / N ]. She took a sip, and the cool liquid refreshed her after the long, hot day. The juice was creamy and sweet with a hint of coconut, and [ Y / N ] found herself finishing the glass before she knew it.

As they rode through the city, the lights and billboards shining brightly against the nighttime sky, [ Y / N ] couldn't help but feel a sense of wonder and amazement. It was one of those moments that made her feel tiny and insignificant, like she was just a spec in the vastness of the universe.

Izana rode with a sense of ease and grace, his eyes scanning the streets for any potential hazards. She felt safe and secure in his arms, like he was her personal guardian from the world's dangers.

As they neared her dorm, she couldn't help but feel a sense of sadness. The night had flown by in a flash, and she wasn't ready for it to be over. But she knew that it was only the beginning of their time together. She knew that there would be many more nights like this, many more adventures and experiences to share.

and she was right, it was just the beginning of something beautiful with Izana. Him being a man of class and culture, Izana went on going above and beyond to truly show [ Y / N ] that he was serious about her.

He would surprise her with gifts, take her on unforgettable dates, and become her personal rider as they go to and go home from school together on his bike. He was a true gentleman, and made sure she was comfortable.

He was a natural leader, someone who was always in control, always focused and driven. And yet, he was also sensitive and compassionate, always putting [ Y / N ]'s needs above his own. He was a man with a kind heart and a fierce love for those he cared about, and [ Y / N ] knew that she was one of the lucky ones to have him in her life.

Izana was a true connoisseur of the finer things in life, and he loved sharing that with [ Y / N ]. She was flattered that he took such joy in showing her the luxurious and artistic side of the city, and she knew that these experiences would be forever etched in her memory. These activities not only brought them closer together, but also made them appreciate the beauty of life and the world around them.

So as an arts lover through and through, he loved taking [ Y / N ] to art museums and galleries, where they could spend hours gazing at the incredible works of art, appreciating the beauty of each piece. From the historically rich walls of Manila into the imposing architecture in Bonifacio Global City, they would stroll along the streets, surrounded by high-rise buildings and lush greenery. The city was alive with energy, and there was always something new to discover.

As much as they loved high-end corners of Taguig, Izana and [ Y / N ] would often venture out to Cubao, the place to be for the local music scene where they could catch local bands jamming out and performing live music. It was a unique experience, and they could feel the energy of the crowd as they watched the bands on stage.

They enjoyed exploring different venues and checking out different genres, from rock to indie to even jazz. Izana was a big fan of rock and indie music, so they often frequented places like the Hard Rock Cafe, which featured local bands playing these genres. [ Y / N ], on the other hand, enjoyed exploring different genres and discovering new bands that Izana loved. They loved the experience of trying out different sounds and seeing the different reactions of the crowd.

It was during these moments that [ Y / N ] felt the most in tune with Izana. They would rock out to their favorite songs, sharing headphones and singing along together. It was a way for them to express themselves, and even though they had different music tastes, they found common ground in their shared love of live music.

[ Y / N ] couldn't help but feel grateful for the love and commitment that Izana showed her every day. She was truly blessed to have found someone like him, who was not only her lover, but also her best friend, her confidant, and her soulmate. She knew that their love was something special, something that would last a lifetime.

So when [ Y / N ] gave Izana her sweet "yes", everything was worth it. As Izana held [ Y / N ] in his arms, the whole world seemed to fade away. All he could see and feel was her, and their shared love. He had waited for this moment for so long, and now it was finally here. Everything had led up to this moment - the long nights of studying, the late nights of conversation, and the sweet moments shared together.

It was now as if they were one, united in their love for one another. They had started as friends, and now they were partners, companions, and lovers. It was a journey that had taken them from strangers to soulmates, and it was one that they would always share from now on.

[techtainia-makes-things]

I love your Mtmte Megatron x reader stories, and I re-read them a bunch of times because they are so good! And I yearn for more soft Megs. You write him so well.

If you're up for a little request- how about their first kiss? Like, how does it happen? Who started it? Do they talk about their feelings after that or pretend it never happened?

You have no idea how much I love writing some soft Megatron. Something about poets and pining just does it for me (so much so that MTMTE Megatron x reader fic was what finally convinced me to read MTMTE). Feel free to ask for a sequel, because I already have ideas.

I personally don’t think that Megatron would initiate anything unless he thought it was his last chance, like with my DOTL fic. That being said…

—

Another long day, and another even longer meeting. You checked your watch and sighed: it had only been an hour, and Ultra Magnus clearly wasn’t planing on stopping any time soon. You don’t even notice when you had pressed your face into the palm of your hand, squishing your cheek in the way that some of the less respectful mechs would coo over you for. 

You exhale, amused at the thought as a brief memory moves your thoughts away from the meeting. You remembered the look on Megatron’s face the first time he had seen it happen, the exact way his optics narrowed, and a more prominent frown that usual set across his face. The way he shot the bots a sharp comment: “Shouldn’t you all be working instead of tempting an intergalactic incident?” 

You just couldn’t help but smile into your hand, your pointer finger resting over your lip. He picked you up after that, and let you sit on his shoulder for the rest of the day. You had watched the way that his optics hilighted the bridge of his nose and the edges of his helmet, the slight quirk of his lip whenever you shifted to lean into him just a little bit more.

“It’s warm,” you lie to yourself, “He just has nice warm neck cabling.” You suppress a chuckle and shoot him a look.

He was looking back at you with the same softness that he used when he thought you wouldn’t notice. You always did. It was a nice feeling, it was nice to be appreciated. There definitely wasn’t any feelings attached. Definitely. Absolutely no chance that you enjoy how he guards your honor. No way. 

You glance at him again. He’s still looking at you with a look as soft as scarlet rose petals. He writes something down, probably notes. You never know though, he could be composing a new poem about his light in the dark, his little rose…

Fu-

“And that concludes todays meeting.”

You jump in your seat. Your eyes snap to Ultra Magnus. You straighten your back and take a moment to clear your throat. “Yes, of course Sir.” You glance around his face, taking a moment before you manage to meet his eyes. 

He raises a brow ridge at you, but says nothing. Maybe he would have if he had the time, but Megatron had already offered you his hand to step on. You smiled at him in thanks. The red reflected on his cheeks brightened. Your face was warm.

Megatron left the room with steps that echoed through the hall. He held you close to his chest, against his Autobot insignia. If you really wanted to, you could reach up and cup his cheeks in your hands, taking in the way that the cold metal would absorb your body heat.

His optics widened. His stride stalled. It was just the two of you, staring into each other’s eyes, lost in a moment.

You don’t notice when you press your lips to his, perfectly satisfied to ignore the size difference. You let your eyes flutter closed as you melt into his touch.

He’s stiff, unable to move until after you pull away with your hands still on your cheeks. You shrink back.

He shrinks down so that he had to hold you atop of his forearm as the other servo guided you back to his lips. He matched your passion, maybe even doubled it with a touch of desperation as he held you close. His nose pressed into your cheek, his optics dimming before going offline all together.

The second kiss lasted a bit longer, and in those extra seconds you could taste every ounce of all of the sweet words he had ever written for you, only to hide them away in the depths of his collection of personal datapads.

You could feel his hand tremble against your scalp as he let you lean back and away from him. His optics were frantic, but held no regret. They never held any regret when it came to you and him.

He glanced to the side, and took a moment to clear his throat. “Forget-“

“No,” you said with a firmness that Megatron decided was quite becoming of you. “Let’s talk about this over drinks, shall we? My treat.” You smile at him with eyes as soft as pink rose petals scattered across the ground.

You swear you can see as his walls as they came crumbling down reflected in his red optics. Red optics that were so easy on the eyes. Red optics that you had come to adore. 

“Let’s.”

[seat-safety-switch]

Here's something you probably didn't know: corporations have too much money. Because of a bunch of really bad decisions, they've been allowed to jack up prices, pay workers unfairly, and keep the lion's share of the revenue. What that means, however, is that they have a lot of loose cash on hand. Cash that I would like.

You're looking at Pick-N-Pull's newest Writer In Residence. Now, this is not a conventional role you see in mega-corporations. I just kept cold-calling companies that I loved, FedExing them my hand-scrawled notebooks full of terrifying rambling, and following their executives home from work until they agreed that they should probably just give me some of their money. My grandpa always used to say that the best way to get a new job was to go out and look for one, by hanging a corporate middle manager upside down while sparking their nipples with battery cables until self-ignition. That second part was implied, because Grandpa Switch knew that our phones were tapped.

So what does this fancy new job require me to do? Well, not much. You see, they've become accustomed to the bohemian (that's French for "all fucked up") life of the creative. Once in awhile, I have to come out of my greasy office, which is filled with parts I bought using my healthy corporate discount, and write something fun to put on the bulletin board at work. HR has gotten involved with a few of them, but they understand that I'm passionate, and artistic, and also spending my entire paycheque on Slant Sixes, so they decided it was probably a good idea to just leave me alone.

At the end of this year, I'm supposed to release some kind of fantastic work of art – the great junk novel – so that they can hype it in their investor prospectus. We're not just a car junkyard, they will explain, we can be a junkyard of the human spirit as well. We'll see how that project goes, but at the moment I have a serious case of the ol' writer's block. As in, there's an old AMC Eagle 258 bottom end sitting on my desk, covering up my corporate issued computer. Don't worry, IT will replace it. They know how to spend the company's money.

[lets-try-some-writing]

I brought this up with some friends a while back and wanted to see what thoughts you could have about it:

when Optimus first is assigning the kids’s guardians, initially he was going to assign Jack to Ratchet. So what if Ratchet actually was his guardian?

What an interesting concept. I've always wondered how a swap up of guardians would have gone. Arcee certainly wouldn't have ended up as well off.

Ratchet & Jack

Ratchet had always been rather hostile toward the humans, even after years of interacting with military personnel. Optimus didn't blame him, but he did have a plan to rectify that hostility before it became detrimental. The children merely gave him the perfect opportunity to adjust and then implement that plan.

The children needed guardians, and while Arcee's mental state was worrying, her pain would pass with time. Ratchet's hostility however was a long brewing thing, a danger that needed to be dealt with. So even after Ratchet tried to reject the order, Optimus pressed and assigned Jack to Ratchet nonetheless. The medic was, simply put, not at all pleased.

Ratchet: Optimus! You can't be seriously assigning me a flesh bag to watch over on top of my work!?

Optimus: I am. You need the interaction.

Ratchet: How am I supposed to operate the groundbridge!?

Optimus: Arcee will take over that duty when required.

Ratchet: And what about repairs?!

Optimus: Both myself and Bumblebee have basic knowledge of medicine, enough to keep a mech alive until they can be seen by you.

Ratchet: .... This is outrageous.

Ratchet was not pleased and neither was Jack. Both hated each other with a passion simply because they were stuck together. More than once Ratchet dumped Jack in a box and left him there with a blanket like some stray cat while he went about his work. In retribution, Jack took to slapping stickers with all sorts of obscene things all over Ratchet's plating when the medic wasn't looking and then stealing his smaller tools.

For weeks they were practically at each other's throats, both going to Optimus daily to request separation. Of course Optimus said no, although his hopes in his plan were dwindling as time went on. The duo bickered like an old married couple, with Ratchet lamenting having to do anything for the boy and Jack hating being stuck with the medic. Jack suddenly gained a great deal of sympathy for women who tried to poison their spouses as Ratchet ranted and raved, grumbling all the while when he needed to pick Jack up (which was rare considering his alt-mode).

Whenever both could manage it, they would stay as far away from the other as possible. Jack even took to trying to hang around with Arcee instead of the prickly medic, an act that was not taken to kindly but reluctantly accepted by the two wheeler. He also did his best to only ride with Bee or Bulkhead so that he wouldn't have to piss off Ratchet more than necessary and be forced to listen to his lectures the next time he needed a pick up.

However with time, just as Optimus had predicted, the two developed a begrudging respect for the other. Ratchet saved Jack and the children from being crushed a handful of times. The medic took the time to assist Jack with his homework when the boy's procrastination got to him. And there was even an instance where he bailed the children out of school with his holoform when Miko got them all stuck in detention. In return Jack began actually taking the time to learn from his guardian, quickly picking up bits and pieces of Cybertronian medicine simply because he had nothing better to do. He also learned more of their history and gradually came to actually be a bit of an asset as Jack could offer up information only Ratchet generally had when needed.

Of course the duo never said anything about their slow acceptance of the other, but as their personalities began to clash less and instead work together, the team noticed.

Ratchet: *throwing a wrench at Bulkhead* Downright ridiculous! You tore a whole cable set in your left arm you buffoon!

Jack: And dislocated his right shoulder if the jutted plating is any indication.

Ratchet: EXACTLY!

Jack: Honestly you should be more careful. Stressing those joints too much could lead to deterioration further down the line.

Ratchet: Precisely! At least the HUMAN gets it!

After the incident with Unicron where Optimus was out for the count, they only grew closer in response to the stress. Jack began operating the groundbridge and dolling out basic medical advice while Ratchet worked to find their Prime and restore him. They became a real team, working together in tandem with Jack riding on Ratchet's shoulder to keep him up to date on things and to give a second opinion on things.

Jack even took to mimicking his guardian alongside Rafael once enough time had passed. He was never as bad as Rafael who might as well have been a human clone of the medic, save for their differing skillsets. But Jack certainly gained the stare of utter disappointment that Ratchet often bore down on any who displeased him. Jack also took to throwing things at offending bots as well, although mostly because it was the best way to get their attention. Together Ratchet and Jack became a terrifying force capable of dragging anyone, human or bot, back down to earth and in for a medical exam.

There were more than a few instances where Jack took to quietly watching the bots and reporting back to Ratchet with what he had seen since the team tended to overlook humans in base while focused. Then like a drug dealer, Ratchet would give Jack something he had been wanting and take the information and use it to drag bots over to his medical bay for any number of reasons. Optimus most of all wasn't safe. Jack was trained by the medic to notice signs of common aliments the Prime suffered and tried to hide. With this knowledge he would scurry to Ratchet the instant he noticed Optimus standing eerily still for too long or noticed his optics being unfocused.

Of course Jack also reported back on the others at Ratchet's behest. He was told how to notice when Bee's voice was bothering him, in which case Jack would as usual, tell Ratchet or silently slide over pain medication. He was taught to notice joint pain in Bulkhead who often tried to walk it off, earning him a visit from the doctor of doom once Jack informed the medic. And lastly he was trained to pick out when Arcee was having a bad day, in which case he would report and Ratchet would leave the two wheeler something nice to cheer her up.

The team knew Jack ratted them out, but no matter where they went or how hard they tried to hide their pains, Jack found out. If needed he would even get Miko and Rafael involved in helping him gather information. He would never admit it aloud, but he cared for the bots, especially more so after learning of their history and woes from Ratchet. If he could help, he would do so. And both Miko and Rafael were always spoiling to get into a little trouble and so happily aided Jack in his efforts when needed.

Ratchet: Report.

Jack: Arcee has a blaster wound she is hiding in her right leg. Bulkhead damaged his knuckle joints again. Bee seems fine but looks a little unsteady, and Optimus is, as always, dead on his pedes.

Ratchet: *patting Jack on the head like some evil mastermind* I see... good work. Take Bee some painkillers while I haul those resistant glitches into my medical bay.

Jack: I was already planning on it.

Optimus wanted to regret getting having Jack be Ratchet's ward considering how deadly they were when they worked together. But seeing Ratchet so much less... aggressive and more open to the idea of protecting humanity made the constant visits to the medical bay worth it in his mind.

[steamyearlgray]

Thought I’d jump onto this train for once… What an odd combo… either way I love it. Honestly, Star Trek TNG has always been a comfort show for me. I used to watch it every day after school and on weekends whenever it was on WGN.

Real honest moment here below the cut. Feel free to skip if not. [TDLR: Thank you to their creators. They mean so much to me.]

Star Trek TNG has always been there for me. As a kid growing up I would turn it on every day after school and on weekends in the afternoons when it would come on BBC America or WGN. I stopped needing it constantly on after my parents got divorced. Don’t get me wrong I’d still turn on an episode or two every so often but it wasn’t every day like it had been.

My senior year of college I found myself needing it again. First I turned it on for one of my classes. (I wrote so many papers on Data and the federation that semester.)

Then… I just didn’t turn it off until I moved out and discovered (You guessed it correctly) Ghost.

I would turn on daily marathons of TNG whenever I was in my apartment needing to escape the passive aggressive silence that filled it. I felt like Data again. Not understanding the humans around me and the emotional ‘cues’ that were being given to me. Any time I could have TNG on, I did. I felt that no matter how I approached the situation with my roommates I wouldn’t catch any hidden meanings in their tones. Only they wouldn’t take the time to explain or share exactly why they were upset. I remember having the apartment to myself at the beginning of the spring semester, just laying on the floor with it playing in the background and sobbing. (Between the living situation and losing my Grandma it was an odd combo of things)

Ghost came into my life around then. I didn’t fully look into it until later that summer after graduation. I found comfort in the bumbling anxious Cardinal. He seemed just as unsure about social interactions as I was. (It also helped that the music fucking slapped.)

I started obsessively listening to everything I could. My partner was so supportive, happy to see me have some sort of outlet while I worked my lonely accounting job. I loved the concept of them and when I managed to snag tickets to a ritual this past August I cried.

That ritual opened a fucking floodgate my guys, let me fucking tell you. I joked with my partner about starting to write Ghost fics, bringing up the line between regular fic and RPF, and when he traveled for a month I guess I had a bit too much time….

That month I wrote over 81,000 words. That month I posted around 3,000 words every other day. I created a massive fic that seemed to run and drag me along by the wrist.

I’m so grateful for everything Ghost has given me. New friends, a newfound passion for writing, and the spark I needed to start drawing again.

I guess what all of this was leading to was this: I’m so grateful to my boys for supporting me through these past few years. I’m grateful that when Tobias turned to his wife and pitched the idea of being a satanic pope on stage full time she said yes. I’m grateful that ST:TNG was available on Netflix and on cable for my entire childhood. I’m grateful that my mom introduced me to Star Trek and Star Wars early on.

I uh….yeah. Thank you to my boys. Thank you to the fandoms.

Imma just set this one down and walk away for a bit…. It’s time for bed.

[queer-crusader]

One of the more difficult things for me in realising I may in fact be autistic, is the facing of old insecurities. I mean, I've been a weird kid who's socially awkward all my life. The signs have always been there. I've been lucky with a caring family that has accommodated for a lot of the struggles I might have faced, which means I didn't really face them head-on and was never really held back that much by them - and thus not very actively aware of them. Yes, my social development was a little different, a little slower. But in the end, I really grew into my own in my college years. I learned how to interact with people more easily, I came out of my shell. Then, after uni, I got a call centre job, and structural communication became so integral to that work that I became almost an expert on how to communicate easily and clearly (maybe more than almost - I'm a coach, now training others in communication, and I'm good at it!). Reading people was something I'd developed in acting class and through my writing skill that I'd worked on over the years, and now I can bring it to much more effective fruition with the training from work. After all those awkward teen years, I finally have a good grade in Communication, something easy to want and possible to achieve!

And then the realisation slips in that I do get socially overwhelmed and need my "crotchety old man in his rocking chair shouting 'get off my lawn'" time to chill by myself. That I crave structure, despite my love of chaos. That I do still say stuff that can be considered weird or awkward, and that I am sometimes unaware of this in the moment, despite my developed ability to read a room and adapt to it. And that the way I was all those years, both as a little kid and a teen, was FULL of signs of autism that I just missed.

And like, all of that is fine. No-one can be perfect at human interaction. But when you're at a point that you feel comfortable in your social skills in a way that makes you feel normal and confident, it almost feels like it's always been that way. You remember being awkward as a teen, but it also feels like you're at a normal point now, and the skills you've developed have come naturally over time. Thus, you must be Normal™ and Good At Social™.

Except... Well. I'm pretty sure I am some flavour of autistic. The skills I've developed have come later than they might for others, and have been hard-fought to gain. I'm okay with not being normal, I'm also fairly sure I have a flavour of ADHD. I get passionate about things others might not, in ways others might not. I get energy from specific things and struggle with menial tasks others do with minimal effort or grumbling. That's cool. I have coping mechanisms that develop all the time. I like being me. Love it, even.

But I was PROUD to be Socially Competent, you know? And I still am socially competent. But now I see the layer beneath the end ("end") result with more clarity. The insecurity about not being socially competent. The rocky foundations. The extensive work to build me up to where I am.

I hated being socially awkward as a kid. I was an outcast, and the people I DID manage to hang out with were even bigger outcasts. I wasn't bullied per se, but I just. Never fit in. Never felt socially fully happy or fulfilled. Not until after secondary school. And that insecurity is still there. The reminder of that awkward time is there in the foundations of the work done to be where I am today.

And now, with my realisation, I'm looking under the hood to find the absolute mess of cables that keep my engine running. It's a less pretty sight than I want it to be. But I've always been a perfectionist who sets unattainable goals for themselves. I cannot fix the mess that makes up the foundation of me, I can only learn to accept it and keep developing and strengthening myself. That is a lifelong project. But I'll get there.

Eventually.

Hopefully.

[ghostxrose]

Of Monsters and Men | Bakugo Katsuki x OC

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven |

Tags/Warnings ~ Fem!OC, angst, hurt/comfort, eventual fluff, enemies to lovers, potentially triggering content, universe-typical violence, Enji Todoroki (yes, that is a warning, he's trash), character death, (more tags to be added as story develops <3)

Note ~ Loveliiiieeessss!! Let me know what you think of the story so far!! If I'm being totally open with yall this story is my passion project and I'm a bit hyper-focused on it.. but if yall have any xReader ideas/requests don't be afraid to hit that ask button! Obviously, I love writing for Katsuki, but I'm also comfortable writing for Izuku, Shota, possibly Hawks.. If you have a request just send it in and I'll let ya know if I feel I can accomplish writing something up to your expectations! Enough of my rambles, enjoy the read! <3

Enji had managed to keep up his neutral facade despite the bubble of pride that had welled up inside of him at the sight of his daughter piloting his old Jaeger. He even congratulated himself for being correct in his assumption that Azusa and Bakugo would Drift well together. Watching the two exercise perfect control over Bravo Inferno and perform little tricks was admittedly quite entertaining. That was until his bubble of pride was harshly burst by the sound of the system’s AI telling Loccent that the pilots had gone out of alignment.

He watched with masked panic as Iida and Aizawa tried to get the two pilots stabilized again. Fear and embarrassment flooded him when he watched the arms of Bravo Inferno rise, the Jaeger’s palms beginning to glow molten red. Rangers and techs hurried out of the Loccent Command Center as seasoned Rangers cleared the observation platforms just outside.

“Pull the main power line!” Enji had shouted to Aizawa before he could even think about what else to do.

Aizawa was on the task in an instant, pulling at the large cable with all of his might. Finally, with one last grunt of effort, he pulled the plug from the control panel. Enji looked out to the Jaeger, watching with hidden relief as it began powering down. That’s when the anger began settling into his bones.

~~~~~~~~~~

“This is exactly why I wanted to pilot by myself! If she hadn’t gone out of alignment first, then none of that other shit would have happened! You’ve seen my damn sim scores, you know that I would never fuck up like that if it was just me in that Jae-”

“That’s enough, Ranger!” Enji’s sharp tone effectively cuts Bakugo off from his ranting. “You know damn well that you cannot pilot a Jaeger by yourself, no matter how good your simulation scores are-”

Bakugo exasperatedly cuts Enji off, acting like a petulant child, “You’ve done it before! You brought Mighty Endeavor back on your own-”

“Because my co-pilot died! Yes, I finished off that Kaiju and dragged my Jaeger back to the Shatterdome by myself, but I had to because my co-pilot was dead in his harness right next to me.” Enji bites out, anger twisting his features as he steps closer to Bakugo whose mouth is clamped shut with eyes averted to the floor.

“And do you know what happened after I got back from piloting that Jaeger by myself?” Enji asks half rhetorically, but he pauses and waits for an answer anyway, and Bakugo shakes his head.

“I became so sick from the radiation that I was bedridden. My body burned like I was on fire and I could barely keep conscious. For three fucking days, I was like that.” Enji grits out before he releases a tired sigh and partially turns away from Bakugo. “We still do not have the technology to run single-pilot Jaegers, and I refuse to purposefully put any Ranger through what I went through. Marshal Aizawa and I will talk about what happened today and decide what to do about your co-pilot pairing. You are dismissed, Ranger.”

Bakugo bows slightly and, surprisingly enough, leaves without another word. Enji takes a moment to recollect himself, trying to calm the anger racing through his veins, but then there’s a knock at his office door. Crossing his arms to hide his clenched fists, Enji tells the Ranger at his door to come in. The metal door squeaks as it opens and closes, Azusa walking into the office. She doesn’t sit but rather comes to stand a couple of feet in front of Enji. Her face is neutral, but her eyes hold a bit of anxiety among the rage and her anger only aids in fueling Enji’s own.

“Marshal Todoroki, I-” Azusa begins, but Enji doesn’t let her get very far with her sentence.

“What the fuck happened out there, Azusa?!” Enji starts, immediately letting his anger boil over as he lays into her. “You know, one look at your simulation scores would lead anyone to believe that you would be a strong candidate for becoming a pilot! But what I saw happen out there was pathetic and embarrassing! Who would have thought that the Marshal’s daughter would pull a fucking stunt like that causing another Ranger to fail! You let your co-pilot down today, Azusa! You let me down! You were an embarrassment to every single one of the Rangers observing!”

By this point, Enji is too caught up in his anger to even realize that Azusa has started silently crying in front of him. He can’t stop himself from yelling, can’t stop himself from spitting venomous comment after venomous comment. Deep down, very deep down, he knows that she didn’t do anything substantially wrong, but his pride and his ego won’t let him quiet down.

“What you displayed out there today was that you are no better than the Rangers that just got dropped here from boot camp! No child of mine would have made such an embarrassment out of the Todoroki name like that! You almost caused hundreds of deaths and millions of dollars in damages! Do you realize that?!” Enji spits, his shouting echoing off of the walls of his office as Azusa cowers in front of him.

What Enji says next slips too fast from his mouth to stop in time and he regrets them as soon as the words are spoken, “Toya would be incredibly disappointed in you! You don’t even deserve to pilot Bravo Inferno!”

A sharp gasp knocks some reality back into Enji along with the weight of the words he just shouted into his daughter’s face, and he looks down at her. Horrified shock fills her features as much as it does his, but sharing his shock is immense guilt. Enji is at a loss for words as he tries to think of how to take back or amend what just flew from his mouth. Floundering, he just stares at Azusa’s tear-soaked face, her hurt practically palpable in the air around them.

“Azusa, I-I didn’t mea-”

“Don’t.” She states quietly, making Enji’s words die in his throat. “I-I understood you loud and clear, M-Marshal. Permission to be dismissed, Sir?” Her voice is strained as she speaks and she’s just barely able to stand up straight and look Enji in the eye. All Enji can do is nod since the lump in his throat won’t let him speak.

He watches helplessly as she flees from the room, the door slamming shut behind her. Stunned by his own behavior, Enji slowly moves around his desk to sit down. Leaning forward to rest his elbows on the desk, he buries his face in his hands. He doesn’t know how he’s even going to attempt to fix this kind of fuck up. He isn’t sure that Rei will be able to soothe over the hurt that he’s caused. She may not even be willing to offer him advice on the situation, not that he would blame her.

Enji spends more than a few minutes recollecting himself before calling Aizawa to his office. He’s exhausted now, all of his anger replaced by insurmountable guilt. He let his ego, his pride over his esteemed reputation, win just like so many other times in the past. Enji is the one who let Toya down today, not Azusa, and he fears that he really won’t be able to get his daughter back now.

Knocking pulls Enji out of his spiraling thoughts and he clears his throat before telling Aizawa to enter.

Aizawa enters the room quietly, closing the door behind him before he makes his way over to the chair in front of Enji’s desk. Aizawa just stares at the man for a few moments before letting out his famous tired sigh.

“What happened today was nobody’s fault, Enji. We both know that the chances of something like that happening during a team’s first Drift is highly possible. I’m just surprised that it didn’t happen with more of the other teams.” Aizawa says as he leans back in the chair, tipping his head back and closing his eyes.

At Enji’s silence, Aizawa decides to move the conversation forward himself, “So did either of them request a different co-pilot? I’m sure we can switch the teams around, make it work.”

“No,” Enji utters exhaustively, deciding to end his silent brooding. “Bakugo just requested, yet again, to pilot by himself but I sorted that out already. We’ll keep Azu- Ranger Todoroki and Ranger Bakugo as co-pilots for Bravo Inferno, but we won’t send them out on any deployments until they go through a few more trial Drifts.” He states as he clasps his hands and rests his chin on them.

Aizawa straightens up in his seat, raising a questioning eyebrow at him, “I know that I kind of just advocated for them, but are you sure you don’t want to try putting them with other Rangers? I witnessed, just as you did, that they have the potential to work well together, but if they go out of alignment again and neither of them can bring the other back.. They won’t make it out in the field like that, Enji.”

“That’s why we’ll have them run through a few more trial Drifts. If this was a one-off type of situation, then they’ll be just fine. And if it happens again, we’ll either see if they can bring each other out of it or we’ll pair them off with other pilots.” Enji firmly states with a bit of frustration.

Aizawa relents with a sigh, scrubbing a hand over his face, “Fine. I’ll have their Jaeger sent to one of the Bays with less foot traffic so that when they try again tomorrow there’s less of a chance for catastrophe if something goes wrong again.” He says as he types out the message on his tablet, then sends it to the crew in the Shatterdome.

Aizawa then looks up at Enji, the man being able to read him like a book after working with him for so long, “So how hard were you on her?” His tone is knowing but free of any real judgment.

“Too hard.” Enji admits reluctantly before continuing, “I said things that I shouldn’t have.. I wouldn’t blame her if she honest to god hates me now.” He finishes quietly.

“Well, I don’t know shit about parenting, so it’s up to you to figure out how to fix it, but do you want me to go talk to her?” Aizawa offers with tired nonchalance.

The perpetually exhausted man has worked with Enji for so long that Azusa along with her siblings sees Aizawa as family, or a mentor at the very least. Azusa has always gone to Aizawa if she needed to talk through some stuff, especially after Toya’s passing. So, Enji ponders the offer for a minute, thinking that it may help Azusa to have someone to talk to after what all just went down.

“It’s up to you, Shota,” Enji says with a long sigh. “She may not want to talk to anyone right now.” He says with defeat, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his hands over his face.

“Well, I’ll try stopping by her bunk, knock a few times, and if she doesn’t answer then I’ll leave her be,” Aizawa says as he stands up, wincing a bit when his knees crack loudly. “Try not to spend all day cooped up in here, Enji. Go get something to eat, scare the new Rangers, just anything to get you out of this office.”

Aizawa’s attempt at humor doesn’t do much to pull Enji out of his self-loathing, but he appreciates it all the same, “See you later, Shota.”

Shota leaves with a half-assed wave and Enji is left alone with his thoughts, once again. He thinks about stopping by the family bunker to see Rei, hoping that Azusa hasn’t talked to her yet so that he can have a few moments of peace with his wife before he tells her himself about just how badly he messed up this time.

Note ~ Lemme know if there are any tags I should add! I love and appreciate you, Lovelies! <3

Taglist ~ @tomiokasecretlover

[quazart]

OK now infodump about your OC. I know nothing about them.

Well, first of all, I never expected my oc to gain much attention. So thank you for asking😊💕

And second, into the bio!

Name: Mambele the Pangolin

Species: black-bellied, long-tailed Pangolin

Gender/pronouns: female, she/her

Age: mid. to late 20's

Eye color: Crimson Red

Scale color: Dark Orange and black

Career: Archeologist, treasure hunter

Relations: Bliss the Bat(best friend), Knuckles the echidna (adopted son)

Universe: Boomverse

Description: Quick on her feet, headstrong, and passionate in everything she does, Mambele is a well-known archeologist and treasure hunter( like a mobian version of Indiana Jones). On occasions, will give classes and conferences on her findings, whether it be on her latest treasure find, rediscovered, or newly discovered abandoned civilizations, or etc.

During a particular hunt, among strange ruins, no doubt left behind by the ancients, or at least a group in close association with them, Mambele scours the haunting crumbling city. After a day of searching around and coming up short, she heads back to her camp only to drop through the floor into what she first assumes is a cave. Only to discover a chamber of sorts. Cords and cables, advanced looking machinery lining the weathered walls. She sees a doorway on the opposite side of the room. That must be the entrance then. Long vines and weeds cover the doorway and dangling through cracks in the ceilings, covering numerous pods of sorts. She's not sure what is inside of them, but she does take into account that they were no longer working. No sounds or lights coming from any of the twenty or so pods. Well, none of them, but one. She takes a closer look, wiping away at least an inch worth of dust, to reveal what looked to be an egg. Resting her hand on the metal surface of the machine, she accidentally brushes her hand against a pad. A screen to her right comes on, showing what must be the vitals of whatever was in the egg. They were still alive?! After some quick thinking and good guesses, she manages to open the pod safely. Observing the egg, she hesitates to touch it. Unbelievable. Absolutely extraordinary. This one little egg somehow survived whatever calamity befell its people. She must be very careful. She cups her hands, ready to take the little miracle into her hands, but halts at the sound of a crack. In less than a couple minutes of being freed from its glass casing, whatever lay inside, for who knows how long, was already so eager to come out. She waits another minute, holding her breath for what fell like hours, before finally, a little snout pops out. The little creatures muzzle, biting at its egg with a single little tooth. She begins to hear squeaks and grunts come from the infant inside a it pulls its head back and reaches its hand through the hole. Bright red fur is the first feature she notices, along with a tiny clawed and spured hand. What sort of mobian is this? If it even is mobian. With an efforted cry, they finally tears their egg in two. Giving her a full view of what her mystery creature. Her eyes are wide, and her mouth is set in a thin line. She can't believe what she's seeing. There is no way. It's impossible. They've been extinct for centuries. And yet, here before her, a little round, bright red echidna puggle wiggles out from his egg. Half of it still sitting on his head. His eyes squinted up at her, showing off his beautiful violets. She can not believe it. Even as he smiles and squeaks for her attention, she can't believe it. What sort of technology could do this!? Preserve an egg for hundreds upon hundreds of years! She's broken from her thought as the puggle lets out a whine. He's looking right at her, wanting her attention and warmth. She hadn't noticed before, but the room was fairly cold. He shivers and looks at her with such sad little eyes. She snaps out of her shock and picks him up. A happy coo came from the little one as he's lifted against her. And did his best to snuggle as close as he could. Mambele carefully wraps her arms around him and observes as he finally gets comfortable. So many emotions and questions run rampant in her mind, but something inside of her manages to push it all down for now. Those could be dealt with later. She must focus on the now. Like, packing up and getting home as soon as possible. This puggle will no doubt be hungry soon, and she has nothing prepared at home for caring for a young one. She takes a breath and makes her way to her camp, to gather her things and leave.

She'd never planned on having a family. Far too busy with her work. But once Knux comes along, she becomes very dotting and overprotective of the puggle. And even with little to no knowledge on infants, she looks to books and motherly instinct to guide her in properly caring for and nurturing her new charge. Her new son.

[ten-cent-sleuth]

A Galling Yoke, Part 7

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for the Teacher/Teacher or Both Single Parents square on my July Break Bingo card

See this post for main info, including a masterlist and synopsis. See this post for warnings.

Word Count: 2.4k

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x f!Reader

Rating: Teen

Within the hour of your arrival at Sherlock’s flat, the board he used to lay out cases was filled. Sticking to the efficiency of paper notes and adhesive tape, he had placed the deduced or revealed aspects on the left side of the board and the unfilled gaps on the right side; opting for the fun of push pins and colour-coded ribbons, you wove a bright web across the board. 

Purple connected the yet uncategorised ideas and deductions: pieces of the puzzle neither of you knew where to fit, which meant many of Sherlock’s deductions, as “seeing connections is a murky task with so little firsthand and therefore transparent evidence,” as the detective explained.

Green outlined the general facts about the situation with which you two were working: from your scribbled “Edmund had no close confidants but large ton presence” to Sherlock’s “Coltidge hired me”.

Pink bridged each detail of the timeline, with Miss Algar’s recounted beats going on the left of the board and a desperately scrawled “What happened after she lost consciousness? How did S end up with a phaeton and A end up on Cable Street?” on the right.

Yellow highlighted aspects of the perpetrator’s modus operandi that could lead to identifying him, including the meagre but appreciated descriptions Miss Algar provided of the man’s physique and movement.

Red strung together all of the considerations and possibilities of motive—theoretically. At the moment, the red ribbons only connected three pieces of paper on the right side of the board: “For money??”, “For revenge??”, and “For passion??”.

You tilted your head at the little triangle and wondered, “Money is the greatest likelihood, is it not?”

From a few feet away, where he was leaning over his desk, his head bent over a new piece of paper, Sherlock replied absently, “That was certainly my first direction in this case, but I have backtracked. The money Sulyard was skimming from your and his bank account was not to pay off debts: based on Miss Algar’s description of their arrangement, that money was to put up a mistress. The discrepancies were minor but regular, you recall, which would be unusual for debts of honour but fit perfectly with a single woman’s establishment.”

“That does make sense,” you mused. “Edmund would have had to sneak the money out so that Lord Pittford, my father by marriage, would not find out. Edmund still allowed his father to manage his more boring affairs, including his bank account, you see.”

“Singular,” said Sherlock, though he still sounded only half interested. “Ultimately, that means the other common motives for murder are to be equally considered. After all, somebody wrote an incensed letter to Sulyard about ill usage and misrepresentation—a demand, really, to do better or else—and that becomes quite the unanswered question if there is no other sign of substantial debt.”

“Yes, where is that letter? I ought to add that to the board.”

Sherlock waved a hand over his shoulder in a very unhelpful over there motion, concentration remaining on whatever he was pondering at his desk. The gesture reminded you so strongly of being a little girl growing up alongside a little Sherlock—your childhood friend poring over some book and forgetting you were even there until whatever you were messing with to occupy yourself inevitably crashed to the ground—that you almost, almost, refrained from roving your eyes over his now not-so-little form. The chiselled jaw, the wide shoulders, the strong hips, the deft hands, all very well flattered by a smart and confident selection of cut and cloth… No, those you certainly do not remember from your youth.

Shaking yourself, you made a note to self to find the letter later then left the board in favour of seeing what had Sherlock so distracted. “‘What is the maid…hiding?’” you read off of his paper. His penmanship too has certainly improved—er, not that his physique has improved, only developed! “Mrs Kinley? Sir, what do you mean by this?”

At last, Sherlock turned to give you his full attention. “Surely, you also found her dissatisfied with her home and work with Miss Algar. I cannot believe she has not sought fulfilment of some sort on the side: humans are not built for long-term unhappiness, it is only individual tolerance that varies.”

“If Miss Algar is safe and healthy, and the post so unsatisfactory, why must any surreptitious moonlighting on the maid’s part be suspicious?”

“It is more than that; she seemed quite anxious to get us out the door.”

“She did not wish us to come in at all, if you recall,” you reminded him with a teasing smile. “Calling that early is far from the done thing, Sherlock.”

“Why do you fight me, my lady?” he sighed.

“Fight you?” Laughing, you patted his hand in mock consolation. “I do not wish to fight, sir, only to make sure you do not get too accustomed to everyone bowing to your will.”

His nose scrunched in the most adorable fashion, as though he’d swallowed something sour. “I thank you for your consideration, but I believe that is what Enola is for.”

You smiled, remembering your new young friend. “Oh, yes, I can imagine she keeps you on your toes.”

Rubbing his face, he dropped into his desk chair. Your smile wavered as you realised your words had somehow weighed on him, and your concern—and curiosity—was such that you forewent prescribed ladylikeness to move closer and lean against his desk to be near him.

“Sherlock?” you prompted. “What troubles you?”

“Enola.” He closed his eyes and brushed his forehead with tense fingers. “That is, the state of my relationship with her—my being her guardian.”

“Indeed? What of Eudoria?”

After explaining his mother’s disappearance and his brother’s agreement to give up custody, Sherlock said, “I do not doubt that I made the right decision then, but I fear making grievous errors now. On my toes indeed! I know naught about raising a teenage girl!”

“You need not raise her,” you told him with a shrug. “When one’s ward is already six and ten, quite independent, and quite strong, one needs only guide and protect her. Be there for her, Sherlock—be a support and a fallback, and you shall be enough.”

“I know naught about doing that, either.”

Your heart leapt to his defence, then plummeted with the stony reality that you could not disagree with that. If made to choose right now, would you trust Sherlock to be your primary support and fallback? After what happened last time?

Pushing past unpleasant memories, you laid your hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “You can inquire and learn. Surely the great Sherlock Holmes is not opposed to that?”

“No, indeed, my lady,” he said, smiling up at you.

With a solid nod, you let go of him and clasped your own hands tightly to ward away the tingling sensation of loss in your palm. “Meanwhile,” you added, “you may confide in me any doubts or complaints. I know that it feels shallow to bemoan parental anxiety and frustration that one could have left to another, but in truth, such burdens are just as heavy on the shoulders of the one who took them upon themself willingly as on those of the one who had them thrust upon them.”

“Yes…” He watched you sharply. “That you knew one of my great concerns without my breathing a word of it astounds me. How…?”

“William,” you said with another shrug, this one with a weaker bravado. “Our mother having died when we were young and our father being…himself, I endeavoured to be the caring presence and upright role model in my brother’s life. I could not voice my hurt when he railed against me or my worry when he seemed in danger of going down the wrong path, however, for someone would have silenced me for involving myself in what was not my business.”

Sherlock’s gaze was keener than ever, yet it sparkled with realisation, which you could not understand: what had he newly noticed, did he newly comprehend? “Just as I could have left Enola’s care to Mycroft, you could have left that of young Pashbroke to Lord Coltidge. You did not, despite the difficulties, and—I am glad.”

You jolted back ever so slightly. “Glad?”

“Quite glad. I have long wondered at the compassionate gentleness at the core of Lord Pashbroke’s docility, at how he did not end up a fatuous sycophant instead. Evidently, I have your undying courage and your ever-impressive empathy to thank.”

You chuckled first at the picture he painted of what, you were sure, William could never have become, then you giggled at the barrage of compliments that, you were sure, Sherlock could not really mean. Doubt only crept in when the corners of his eyes crinkled with hurt.

“I…” Abruptly, he stood from his chair, and your breath shook in your throat at how much closer he suddenly was. “I hope you know, at least, that I am grateful for your offer of someone who understands the circumstances. I shall appreciate having a fr— No, having you to turn to, when I am uncertain whether I do right by Enola.”

“I was happy to make the offer,” you said, awkwardly but not insincerely. Eager to untangle yourself from this heart-to-heart that you had not expected and were even less prepared for, you scooted to the side until you were no longer leaning against Sherlock’s desk—no longer stuck to it, effectively, by how close he stood and how closely he watched you. “Well, then. Shall I add this piece of paper to the right side of the board?”

He blinked a couple of times, then looked at his desk, picked up the note, and handed it to you in one swift, sudden movement. “So you agree with me now?” he questioned.

“I always did,” you retorted as you searched for a space for the slip of paper. “Did you notice how Miss Algar did not reveal that she could see and understand us until Mrs Kinley had left?” Sighing, you punched in the pin for the new note. “If only our one lead in the flesh did not communicate so limitedly. I feel that we are missing something, that we neglected to ask the one yes-or-no question that could crack this case wide open, and there is no way for her to tell us that.”

Sherlock appeared at your side with unspooled purple ribbon. “There is nothing more stimulating than a case where everything goes against you.”

With an arched eyebrow, you watched him tie the ribbon around the push pin and work the addition into the colourful web you’d been weaving. Once he’d finished and stepped back to take in the board and its dozens of notes, you remarked, “You must be enjoying this case, then.”

“I suppose I must. The case of indirects. Twelve years between witness accounts or physical evidence and us. A middleman between the identifiable victim and the individual with identifiable motive.”

You turned towards him. “What do you mean, a middleman?”

He stared at you for a moment. “Did I not explain that?”

You gave him your most acerbic look. “No. No, you did not.”

“Right. Forgive me.” And how could you not when he looked so boyish rubbing the back of his neck like that? “I have deduced that the character Miss Algar described was a hired killer. The first clue was that the man obtained Sulyard’s schedule so that he could decide his best opportunity to end his life; an educated and cultured gentleman the likes of which wrote that letter—the education and the culturedness are evident in his penmanship and diction, you must have seen for yourself—would not have been able to follow Sulyard to the Younges’ lodgings or other shady parts of town without drawing attention.”

“The gentleman could have hired someone for the investigating, then done the killing himself,” you pointed out.

Sherlock nodded. “The second clue was the restraint and the efficiency apparent on the night of. A first-time killer could not have spirited away a witness and set up an almost perfectly convincing ‘accident’ for the intended victim without so much as a gossiped report of suspicious activity in the shadows. Even before the clean-up of the act, however… The murder weapon was a hammer—a hammer, my lady: the vessel of a man’s blunt force, the symbol of crude brutality—and the letter writer had quite strong feelings about Mr Sulyard. Yet in the dark of night, riding on the inevitable high of power that comes with standing above a person entirely in one’s power, the killer struck his prey only once, and not even particularly violently.”

The intensity in Sherlock’s voice had swept you up into his accounting of events, and you remembered breathlessly what it was to be let into—to be welcomed into—the thoughts of such a brilliant mind.

“All in all,” he concluded, “whoever delivered the killing blow was too professional for me to think he is anything but a professional.”

You smiled at him. “Yes, I see now. I thank you for explaining it to me, Sherlock. I know you do not take the time to do so with everyone.”

“With you, I could do no less.”

Heat rushed to your face, but Sherlock didn’t seem to understand the effect of his words and he rambled on, “Considering the contemptible lack of motive available to us, I believe the direction of this case is to find the hitman in order to identify who wanted Mr Sulyard dead, rather than my wont of discerning why someone was killed to identify who killed them.”

You giggled at the consternation on his face, but when he did not look any less put out by this inconvenience, you stifled your amusement and steered him towards the kitchen.

“Perhaps you only need a small break, dear sir. Shall we see what can be scrounged up for lunch?”

“Hmm. Yes, that may prove helpful. My lady, you have the brightest ideas sometimes.”

“Ha! And I suppose the rest of those times, the brightest ideas are yours?”

“Well…naturally.”

“Quite good fortune that we are a team, then.”

“I would even argue that it is the best of fortune. The very best.”

Thank you for reading. I hope you all appreciated the (sort of) focus on plot this chapter because the next one is going to be completely about the romance—or, rather, the romantic angst hehe… Until then, another cookie to anyone who can point out the Arthur Conan Doyle reference. ;P

[handercover]

"Tom?" I sigh quietly as I see the frankly quite large bump on my bed, knowing who it is by now, not even going to question how he managed to sneak in the Hufflepuff dorms at this point

Tom shifts under the blanket before I pull down the covers, sitting down on my bed, his hair is ruffled and he looks tired but he still looks up at me expectantly

"Couldn't sleep?" I ask in amusement, ruffling his hair as he whines almost petulantly at the affectionate action, but doesn't pull away. Instead he just narrows his eyes at me before relenting

"Yeah" murmurs Tom still looking up at me expectantly "I didn't find you so I came here* he explains quietly as I blink, "I was actually talking to Dumbledore" I hum in response

Tom, oddly enough doesn't do anything despite the fact that there's tension between the two, he merely blinks slowly

"Do that one more time and I'll start to think you're a cat" I hum in amusement flicking Tom's nose, he smiles briefly with a scoff "So what did he say?" Asks Tom quietly, I shrug "The usual, today's socks were horrible" Tom snorts at that, still not understanding my passion for odd socks

"You and your socks, I swear" he mutters before looking back up at me "... can you do the thing?" Hr asks barely above a whisper as I frown

"Do what?" I ask tilting my head "the thing" he insists sitting up, looking tired as I raise my brow "That thing with the strings"I blink, silent for a few seconds before letting out a quiet ooh as my hands open the drawer my bedside table

"You mean you want to hear this?" I ask as I take out the object, Tom immediately nods as I scoff. Years later and I'm still baffled at how, among all of my things, Tom could be fixated on my Mp3 I unravel the cables around the all device as I turn it on, placing both earbuds in Tom's ears as he immediately lays back down and closes his eyes "What song do you want?" I hum in amusement

"That one at the piano, the one from your the don't open section" he responds immediately as I raise my brow "Be mote specific, there's a lot there" I smile softly "The one that makes you cry" he says bluntly

I blink, taken aback, before nodding silently as I go to click on the title. Tom closes his eyes as soon as the song starts, and I'm left watching at him as he relaxed visibly, I look around the room biting my lip before moving to stand up

I don't go too far as Tom's hand moves to grab my arm and pull me down next to him

As he does that he moves the blanket to cover the both of us and turns to his side to hold me, once I'm practically pressed against him he sighs contently "Thank you" he murmurs

I blink in surprise before I nod, moving my hands to rest on Tom's back and rubbing it slowly as Tom melts, relaxing completely as he finally falls asleep

I lay awake for a while longer, for once my head is completely clear of any thoughts, and I don't even know what I'm feeling or how I'm feeling. I feel like I've been laying here for hours when Tom remover the earbuds and rolls until he's laying halfway on top of me, his nose pressed in my hair as he holds me even tighter

I blink as, without wanting to, my eyes close and I fall asleep

A few minutes after Han falls asleep Tom opens his eyes, looking down at her before he closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep "You're so dumb sometimes, woman" he sighs before he too is off like a light

I write more short and dumb stuff than actual oc lore or art, too lazy to explain or context ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[rovermcfly]

How I Made C-53's Cube For My Cosplay

(cosplay)

This isn't going to be a full step-by-step guide or anything, just an overview to give an idea of all the materials and effort required for this specific cube so I skip a lot of details. If you do manage to use this as a guide to make the cube yourself I'd appreciate a credit (and would love to see it).

For anyone curious about my process: I worked on this for about two months in total. I started out with different materials and a different concept and ran into a lot of roadblocks, at least one short circuit and spent quite a bit of money. I had to learn basics of LEDs, programming them, circuitry, electronics etc and spent many hours not even making anything and just learning things to get an idea of what I will and won't be able to do (for example I couldn't program the LEDs myself because the additional cables and microcontroller board simply wouldn't have fit inside the cube but I had to learn a lot about it first to reach that conclusion). I'm not gonna share the previous versions but they all followed the basic general idea (blinking/"moving" LEDs inside an acrylic box) just executed worse.

The parts and tools I needed for the final cube:

and there is a German website that makes custom acrylic boxes so I chose a 105 x 105 x 105 mm box with the screws to hold it together (I like the screws for a more computer/technology look) :

The bluetooth controller came pre-programmed with exactly the light effect I wanted and I control it with my phone.

All the LED parts are connected/soldered together in this general layout:

After connecting everything I stuck the LED sheets to the plastic cube that I cut with an exactor knife to make space for the cables and connections based on how I personally could work best with it

I sanded the acrylic box before assembling it to give it a frosted look and diffuse the light and for additional diffusion I made sheets with the polyester cotton by wrapping it in the clear packing tape so I can easily take it all out and put it back in

And it all fits together like this and the lid of the acrylic box becomes the bottom so it all rests on the battery pack and bluetooth controller so when turned around it gives the illusion of a free-floating cube inside the box

The final result is pretty much exactly what I had envisioned and I am unbelievably happy with it. All the hours and money that went into making this were absolutely worth it and if nothing else this showed me again how you truly can learn and do anything if you just bring enough curiosity, passion and confidence to a project.

Also a quick shoutout to Kamui Cosplay and their discord, without their resources (videos and books on LEDs) and the helpful people in the discord I never would've been able to make this!