#nearly fixed

[sightseertrespasser]

Odds of Survival part two: Electric Boogaloo

Part 2 of Jazz and Prowl in space!

Prowl loves entrusting his life to reckless strangers.

———————————————————————

Prowl pulled the release to the airlock and the music was swallowed by the vacuum of space.

Bursting forward, Jazz launched outwards riding the pop of escaping air. The first quintesson had its eye socket repurposed as an ankle bracelet before the second measure even began.

Ah.

Prowl probably should have specified he wanted to try speeding past rather than confront their opponents directly.

Jazz's improvised footwear writhed sluggishly before the mech twisted his ped inside its brain case, finishing it off and turning to face the next nearest opponent.

Odds of survival 26%

The white and blue mech launched himself upwards as the nearest quintesson went for a dive bomb. It's teeth breaking on impact with the sky bridge. Jazz twisted in midair.

They fell in slow motion, back arching against a starlit backdrop. An upside down visor met blue optics. Jazz nodded his head to the side, flicking one horn up and one horn down.

Did he just wink? (#^%)

The falling mech unsheathed a blade from his wrist, driving it through the sputtering quintesson.

Oh Primus has he been flirting the entire time?

Jazz spun, slicing into the next quint to close the distance.

I can not. I can not assume that was intentional. It has to be a cultural miscommunication.

The last two quintessons pounced. Swinging hard, Jazz caught one's jaws with a forearm while he kicked the downed another in the side of the head. The third was attempting to bite into his back but the teeth couldn't get a full purchase on the rounded compact plating.

Odds of survival 22%.

Prowl snapped out of his social etiquette downward spiral. Sprinting from the safety of the airlock door, he knelt behind a large section of external piping, lining up his shots.

Tacnet spun to work.

It was designed to calculate hundreds of possible variations of large scale engagements, including the number of soldiers, type of weaponry available and could even determine the approximate number of ammunitions that would be left over, provided Prowl had enough data at his disposal.

Calculating the marksmanship needed to dispatch three hostiles at medium range while distracted by a highly competent ally?

Odds of Survival 32%

Laughable.

Three shots burst through the thin atmosphere.

Quintesson wreckers were built thick skulled and stubborn. Luckily they came with easily identifiable gaps in their organic construction.

The Quints fell from Jazz, each with a smoking hole where and eye used to be. Jazz looked at Prowl, then the smoking quintessons and back up to Prowl before doing finger guns again.

Speaking of thick skulled and stubborn.

Prowl put on his best Commanders Scowl and pointed in the direction they needed to be currently running in.

Doorwing sensors hiked as he picked up on movement from behind. The incoming hostiles was palpable even in the moons thin atmosphere. Quintessons rarely favored stealth.

Prowl began running.

Jazz kept pace, half turned around to keep track of the incoming troop. Prowl kept his optics locked forward, not remotely willing to risk tripping on the torn apart path.

Tacnet locked on to a large silvery pillow that'd been exposed to the atmosphere.

Expanding LLX Lithium battery. Explosion on contact 90%

Prowl shouted a warning but the air was too thin to carry beyond his own audials.

Jazz will step on the lithium battery in 1.5 clicks (88%) and will be critically injured in at least one leg (76%).

Prowl grabbed Jazz's servo and yanked.

Music erupted in the moment of connection.

Vibrations ran up his arm and across his frame. Inside his audials, Prowl could make out the song Jazz had begun in the airlock. Looking at his visor, mouth agape, only one thought could form in Prowls mind.

How fragging loud is he playing that music?!?

Jazz perked up, and pulled Prowl around in an arc. Multiple sharp impacts thudded into the ground behind him. Prowl turned and almost wished he hadn’t.

Three heavily armored Quintesson bombers equipped with bio-mechanical ballista.

The javelin like spikes were as long as Prowls arm and designed to pin targets in place while the slow moving blimp-like body of the bomber got into position to blow them all to the Pit.

Prowl tugged Jazz in the direction of their objective, refusing to let go in case he tried to launch himself at the bombers. Prowl wasn't sure how Jazz would manage to do so, but Prowl felt an overwhelming nagging sensation in his tanks that he'd fragging try.

Jazz was evidently fine with this arrangement.

As the music pulsed between their palms, Jazz leapt at a diagonal, pulling Prowl along for the ride. The low gravity was so damn floaty. It continually forced Prowl to readjust his footing so he wasn't frantically treading air every time his peds left the ground.

Jazz was evidently fine with that too.

Another round of ammunitions impacted where the two of them had been running.

Their egress began to take on a pattern Prowl was quick to pick up on. It took the bombers 8 clicks to reload, launching at the same time, half a click after musical flair in Jazz's song. At the moment of the flair, the mech would launch them in a nearly unpredictable pattern. After the first two times of nearly getting his arm dislocated, Prowl began catching onto these moments and moved his momentum in sync with Jazz.

They'd started dancing.

The Tactician had an iron fisted focus on matching Jazz’s frankly eradicate lead. The longer the duet continued, the more data he had to work with. Prowl steadily progressed from Reacting to Anticipating. Feeling a core deep satisfaction that came from sinking into mastering a new skill.

By the time they’d escaped the bombers range, they’d made it too the base of the first hurdle.

Their reprieve would only be brief. The bombers would catch up in approximately 50 clicks (88%), giving the mechs a small window of precious semi-safety in which they needed to scale the wall before them.

Prowl craned his helm back at the barrier.

He would not be able to scale it on his own in time (95%).

Could Jazz? (65%)

While carrying him? (19%)

Jazz rapidly tapped his side.

The alien was crouched low, impossible legs bent with potential energy. He tapped his own back, gesturing for Prowl to grab on already.

Prowl threw himself over the mechs broad back. His digits frantically searched for a hand hold, flinching away from nearly digging into fragile vents.

I can’t-

Jazz leapt.

“You’re really grab-able - Isn’t that kinda stupid?”

Stupid stupid stupid.

Prowl skated off of Jazz’s rounded compact plating, that he specifically SAID was supposed to make him hard to hold on to.

He landed hard on his aft, denta clanking together painfully.

47 clicks remaining.

Jazz hit the ground beside him before Prowl had fully gotten back up. Now facing him, Jazz grabbed Prowl by both wrists and pulled him chassis to chassis. Jazz positioned his arms to link Prowls servos behind his helm, then set his own servos tightly onto Prowls waist.

Jazz nodded once, like he was satisfied with what he’d just done.

Prowl made a facial expression that a psychiatrist would find concerning.

42 Clicks.

Jazz nodded again, like expected Prowl to respond in any coherent manner, and lifted.

Prowls legs swung forward on instinct. Following the motion, Jazz wrapped them around his waist. Through the screaming haze of his processor, Prowl had the presence of mind to lock his ankles together as he realized Jazz’s true intentions, and manually aborted the logic cascade that had nearly crashed over him.

Package secured, Jazz let go and started their ascension.

Legs bent at an impossible angle to slam multi segmented peds flat against the metal walls. Despite Prowl’s body blocking most of his view, the alien mech was unfettered by the lack of vision. Jazz hardly bothered with proper hand holds, instead opting for incredibly strong magnetic grip built into his servos.

The magnetic backwash splashed over Prowls doors wings, forcing him to temporarily offline them or risk crippling vertigo. The structure they were scaling shook violently like something large had just irrevocably broken.

This is fine this is fine this is fine this is fine.

At 35 click’s remaining, Prowl centered himself enough to search for their pursuers.

Damn it!

The bombers were a fraction faster than he initially calculated. Six clicks before we’re in range (87%). Luckily, Jazz was more than a fraction faster than initially calculated as well. At this rate, they’d reach the top simultaneously.

No reason not to be proactive.

Prowl found that if he tightly cupped one servo around the back of Jazz’s helm, he had just enough leverage to bring out a side arm. After all, the bombers were already in range of him.

Steadying his elbow over the other mechs shoulder, Prowl took aim.

Five clicks.

The bombers flew in V formation.

Four clicks.

Too heavily armored for a standard sidearm to pierce.

Three clicks.

The lead bomber opened up its front in preparation for combat.

Got you.

Prowl threaded the gap, his shot skirting over the ballista in favor of impacting the bombers prodigious cargo. He watched something spark inside a split second before it succumbed to total annihilation.

The shockwave felt like a single soft papft of a breeze in the starlit air.

Jazz hefted them over the top of the wall, not dropping Prowl in favor of sprinting with him at full speed across the top of the hurdle.

One of his arms curled around to support Prowls back, allowing the Praxian to release his death grip on their helm. Prowl leaned back into the hold, allowing Jazz freedom to see again.

Jazz turned his helm around 180 degrees-

Did not know he could do that did not know he could do that.

- to look at the fire works behind them.

Jazz whistled appreciatively at the sight. He turned back to Prowl, visor locked onto his face as they carried him across the roof.

Reverberating music, nearly crashing, numbed doorwings, and a deeply satisfying kill all followed by a display of casual body horror was making Prowl just a little bit delirious. As a result, Prowl wasn’t entirely sure what expression he was making, just that Jazz was inordinately fascinated with it.

Without looking away, Jazz leapt off the end of the roof.

Prowl watched as Jazz glanced over his shoulder and back to him.

Do a double take.

And then crush Prowl to his chassis.

Jazz’s visor was over bright, both horns snapped completely forward and from somewhere inside his chassis, Prowl could feel some internal component spinning into overdrive, sounding for all the world like teeny tiny screaming.

Why are we still falling.

Prowl turned as far as possible in Jazz’s iron grip.

The sky bridge was collapsing.

Odds of Survival 4%

———————————————————————

Jazz, everytime Prowl one-shots an enemy: I need to get his number.

If you’re curious, the song Jazz is playing can be whatever you like. Personally I kept switching between listening to “I Was Made For Lovin’ You” by Kiss and “I Feel Love” 12” version by Donna Summer while writing.

- SSTP

<- First Next ->

[veliseraptor]

the weird schrödinger's emotion that is "that character death was narratively satisfying and emotionally impactful and ultimately the best way to handle their character arc" simultaneously with "noooo but I wanted them to live :( :( :("

[emacrow]

Phantom the new rogue in gotham.

Gotham's new rogue started out during Gotham's museum new night theme space area that started at 9pm. Unfortunately, close due to the repaired need to be done instead of opening today as Bruce and his fam were with them, along with other people, sadly disappointed. (The bats had to fight two rogues who ruined the space part of the museum the previous night for attempt stealing a priceless artifact from there)

The group were in the museum garden when out of nowhere, the doors were close shut with glowing green chains, locking the garden area of the museum became ice cold.

Was it Mr. Freeze? No he was at the other side of Gotham city.

The culprit was a very tall, long white-haired androgynous person in an ancient looking uniform with six glowing green eyes, pointy ears and sharpen teeths, four arms pulling out a comedically large machine from the sparkling starlight that was his gravity defying robe.

"I had enough of this city, no stars in the sky, not even a single gleam of fresh air in sight, and now the space area of museum is closed down for repairs! I destroy the accursed clouds the dare block my views!"

"Gotham city can thank me, Phantom later!" The being named Phantom said before any of the Bats could distract the obvious new rogue for some of them to escape. The being pressed the button, causing the machine to shift, literally draining the city electric power, turning a ray toward the darken clouds, glowing an ominous lararus Pit green color blasting straight toward the sky as people started panic and scream.

The entire smog clouds that were covering black out Gotham city were being filled and coated over by Lararus Pit green glow before suddenly it was shrinking, along with the clouds and the smog...

30 seconds in in, the dark sky clear of the clouds completely the night sky full of stars, the moon was full and beautiful. Bruce immediately looked down to where the rogue was only to find him gone, along with the machine.

People were staring in awe at the night sky.

The bats would have no clue what had happen as day break in the next day, gotham city having a clear sky day with not a tiny bit of smog out beside a powder white cloud here and there.

Cass is typing in chat with the other robins.

Black Bat: i can fix him 🦇

Part 2 -> here

[umblrspectrum]

infinitely funnier visuals in my head, likely because they werent subject to my actual skill level in art

[notrobinsomethingworse]

Since I work at a power station now, new headcanon that the Bats use Gothams Power station as a makeshift jungle gym.

Dicks climbing around without a grapple scaring the fuck outa Bruce when he flips himself off the top turbine hall and barely catching himself on one of the railings.

Tim, Staph and Cass are playing a complicated game of hide and seek/ tag. Trying to minimise the use of their grapples to not destroy the place. Cass is winning by a margin. She’s now just trying to scare the shit outa both of them.

Damian is checking all the nests scattered around the site. Scattering feed and fixing nests that have been destroyed. (Much to the dismay of every operator who just wants them gone. Unfortunately for them, the last engineer who kicked a nest had both his legs broken shortly afterwards. Everybody knew who did it. Nobody wants to talk about it).

Both Duke and Jason have graduated form understanding how the plant works and instead are arguing about how to make it better/fun things to do. Topics include: using leftover heat to heat homes in crime alley, including some sort of gas capture system, making shit hotter, and opening the turbine to “watch it spin nothing will happen B shut the fuck up”.

[belligerentbagel]

merjune

[bunnieswithknives]

Do you have any plans on drawing twice-cursed Lyle in your "things that crawl? au? If he does indeed get twice-cursed?

Nnnot entirely sure if this is the final design I'll stick with but heres something

[daily-dose-of-lepidoptera]

Daily Dose Of Lepidoptera

[Day 121]

-Salt Marsh Moth-

Estigmene acrea

-Apple Hawkmoth-

Langia zenzeroides

-Campylotes histrionicus-

[leafmealoooone]

god i love solarpunk. Shout out to solarpunk.

Sometimes it gets criticism for being just an art aesthetic, and i get that, fair enough, but for me thats the whole point.

I can't always picture a future worth fighting for on my own. It would be so much harder to hope for and work towards a better future without the images others have crafted of what that better world might look like. Sometimes what keeps me going is pretty imaginings of a beautiful, flawed, near-utopia that's mostly just vibes and sunshine and plants growing regardless of whether the conditions are well suited to it, and humans who continue and endure and care for their world and community.

[askthehedgehogs]

Poor Sonic is gonna burst from all the chilli dogs y'all are giving him LMAO

I don't really have a question but y'all are very cute and I love seeing how y'all answer and interact with each other and the questions!

Heh, don’t worry about me. You’re talkin’ to Green Hill’s Chilli Dog Chomping Champion 5 years running! I can handle it.

Poor Sonic? He’s living the dream.

Keep ‘em coming! And thanks for stopping by, Anon~

[turtleblogatlast]

Every day I’m haunted by the fact the boys happily swim in sewer water

Even if it’s filtered somehow there’s no way it’s not still nasty 😭 Bet they can defeat any of their villains just by accidentally giving them diseases I swear

[wildechildwrites]

Espresso

Gaz/Reader

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: awkward main character, cliched writing <3

No use of Y/N

Gender neutral reader

Summary: You're a barista at a local coffee shop, and your newest regular is unbelievably, breathtakingly gorgeous

A/N: Not another fucking coffee shop au

AO3: Espresso

There's something comforting about the process of making coffee. Grind, tamp, pull, pour, repeat. it's mindless, muscle memory taking over, the smell of beans nestling into your clothes and hair. You easily lose yourself in it, the quiet hum of orders, the music playing throughout the small corner café you work at weaving in and out of your focus. 

You're cleaning up from the morning rush, refilling sauce bottles and restocking cups when the bell rings. You look up automatically, locking eyes with the most attractive man you've ever seen as he sails through the front door.

He’s boyishly handsome in a way that’s detrimental to your composure, his large dark eyes the same almost black as espresso. His features are strikingly symmetrical, but when he shoots you a careful smile, one side of his mouth tips slightly higher than the other, crooked and charming. Despite your best efforts, your gaze lingers on his full lips longer than what is socially acceptable.

A glance down to his broad shoulders and surprisingly muscular chest, straining against the shirt he wears, indicates that his warm eyes are really the safest place to look if you want to maintain any semblance of dignity through this interaction. 

“Hello,” you call, yanking your wandering thoughts back to heel. Your voice sounds alright to you, definitely shaky but passable. “Welcome in.”

His eyes flick to the menu. “Could I get a small hot honey latte, please?” His voice is smooth, almost silky, rich with an unexpected accent, and your pathetic efforts to pull yourself together are bashed to pieces. You need to be put down, apparently. One handsome man is enough to crush the semblance of sanity you had.

You clear your throat and your head, your voice coming out humiliatingly squeaky. “Name? For the order?” 

“Right,” he smiles, a genuine, friendly smile, and the flash of perfect white teeth makes your heart stutter off beat. “It's Gaz. With a z.”

“I'll have that right out for you, Gaz.” You beam at him, then duck your head, embarrassed at yourself. He’s probably used to it, someone this beautiful must have people falling stupid over them all the time, but you can’t quite shake the humiliation of succumbing so easily.

 You make sure to pull the perfect shot of espresso for him and contemplate writing your number on the side of the cup before immediately shutting yourself down. There’s no way this man is single. You settle for scribbling his name with a little smiley face, then scoff at yourself. A smiley face? He’s a grown man.

When you turn around, Gaz is surveying the pastries with an impressive amount of concentration. You gaze at him helplessly, your eyes dipping back to the muscular planes of his chest and arms. You bite back the instinct to whimper. When you glance back up, you get swept up in the depths of his warm brown eyes, drowning in pools of warm coffee. Is it possible to die of self consciousness? You wordlessly thrust his drink towards him. 

“Thanks, love,” he murmurs, and you wonder if his voice is an octave lower than it was before, or if you’ve just completely lost your mind. His long fingers brush against yours as he grabs the cup, warm and surprisingly calloused, and you feel such swift and complete kinship with Mr. Darcy in the hand scene™ that you look down to make sure you haven’t spontaneously spawned a cravat. 

“Have a nice day,” you muster out faintly, gripping the counter to keep yourself upright. Gaz shoots you another world shattering smile, his eyes lingering on your face, and slips out the door. 

You allow yourself a ten minute break to have a full fledged meltdown about it, babbling on the phone to your best friend incomprehensibly. “He was— And I just— Oh god his biceps—” 

She’s got the audacity to laugh at your agony and then ruin your day by telling you she’s talking to her ex again. You lecture her half-heartedly, too distracted by the memory of a dreamy pair of brown eyes to be truly effective. 

You spend every one of your shifts the next few days hoping Gaz will come back. Every time the front bell chimes you get your hopes up, only to be disappointed again and again. It’s either a testament to the indomitable human spirit or the final nail in the coffin of evidence that you’re a sad, pathetic loser. Another long day drips by like molasses, and you wonder if it’s reasonable to say a hot man ruined your life. Gaz isn't coming back, he was probably just in town visiting and now he's gone forever. Or he hated the latte you made him. Or you fully hallucinated him. All valid options.

The bells above the door tinkle and you immediately accept your place as the universe’s favorite, your dramatic spiral melting away like spring snow. Your heart does a backflip, a ridiculous smile settling on your face.

“You’re back!” You cry, then immediately realize how completely insane that sounds, but Gaz just looks pleased, his dark eyes sparkling, smiling just as brightly at you. It’s better than you remembered it being, perfectly crooked and sweet enough to be cavity inducing. All the borderline obsessive yearning you've done is immediately reaffirmed. You are so fucked. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” he says, voice soft like he means it, and your knees get a little wobbly. “Couldn’t go through life without knowing the name of the person who made me the best latte I’ve ever had.” He leans against the counter, far too close to you for you to come with a comprehensible response, so you just smile at him like an idiot. He smells incredible, like one of those ridiculously described characters in a romance novel. No one smells like rain and leather and a warm day at the park when you were six. 

Except, apparently, this unbelievably handsome man leaning into your space, looking down at you with warm doe eyes, framed by unfairly long eyelashes. You hope you're in good enough shape for your heart not to give out with how it's palpitating.

You realize you’ve been staring at him with a stupid smile on your face for a beat to long and stutter out your name like it’s the first time you’ve ever said it out loud, mentally kicking yourself. He repeats it softly, his voice just a note deeper, a touch breathy, and you come to the conclusion he might actually be trying to kill you on purpose.

“Do you want me to make you another latte?” You ask, already turning around, trying to escape the siren spell the brunt of his attention has cast over you. He hums an affirmation, and you manage not to spill the milk this time, anticipating your hands shaking.

He's definitely not flirting with you. If you write your number on his cup and he never texts you, you’ll have to leave society and live in a cave somewhere. You draw a heart next to his name and immediately want to cross it out, but that seems somehow worse, so you take a grounding breath and turn around.

Gaz is looking down at the little cakes in the display case, a quirked sort of smile on his face. “Are these honey flavored?” 

Warmth rushes to your face. “Yeah, made them fresh this morning,” you try to shrug. Honey flavored for no particular reason, of course. Everything you’d made lately had been. No worries, handsome stranger. You’ve just been the focus of all the lame escapist daydreams I use to cope with life. Why are you running?

“You make them yourself?” He asks, astonishment clear in his voice. “They look delicious.” 

You smile shyly, ducking your head, soaking up the praise. If you could squeal and do a little dance without scaring Gaz, you probably would. “They’re alright.” 

“Will you split one with me?” He grabs his coffee out of your hands, warm fingers on your own, the full force of those brown eyes focused on you. You feel yourself slipping into their hypnotic pull.

“What?” If you wake up right now you’re going to be so mad.

Gaz bites his full bottom lip the way you’d like to, looking suddenly bashful, and your brain abandons you. “If you’re busy that’s alright but maybe–”

“I’d love to!” You squeak, and are instantly rewarded with a wide smile. He has dimples. How did you not notice the dimples until now? You are definitely so fucked. 

You make yourself a drink to try and get your palms to stop sweating, discreetly wiping your palms on your black apron as you sit an appropriate distance away from Gaz on one of the more comfortable couches. It's a disgusting plaid patterned relic of the 80s, the cushions sunken by years of usage, perfect for afternoon naps. He scoots closer to you, enveloping you in the smell of his cologne, balancing the plate on his knee. You’re treated with a perfect view of the way his extremely muscular thighs strain against the material of his pants, and have to mentally coax yourself to keep breathing. In. Out. In. Out. I need to be sent to a nunnery.

Gaz takes a bite of the cake and lets out a low hum of satisfaction, his eyes sliding closed in a blissful expression that has heat blooming low in your stomach. Your traitorous eyes flit back to his spread thighs.

“I was right,” he says, smiling softly, voice honey-sweet, blissfully unaware of his affect on you. “This is delicious.” 

“Thank you,” you say, cringing at how shaky your voice is. You clear your throat, trying to act normal. What do normal people talk about? “Uh, what do you do? For work?” 

His shrug is charmingly self deprecating and highlights just how deliciously broad his shoulders are. “Military. Special forces.” 

Any social commentary you have on the military is pushed down as he scoops up another forkful of cake, offering it to you. “Have a bite.” He coaxes. 

Your face is on fire but you obediently open your mouth, awkwardly letting him feed you. “Good,” he purrs, his eyes on your lips, and you forget how to swallow, the cake sticking to the roof of your mouth as your body flushes with inappropriate heat. You attempt to break the spell, grabbing your drink and taking a loud sip. 

“You've got some,” Gaz gestures to your face, and you self consciously swipe at your mouth with the back of your hand, feeling unbelievably childish. He flashes those dimples at you. “Do you mind if I?

Faster than you can react, Gaz's warm fingers are on your face, gently tipping your chin up, carefully brushing crumbs from the side of your mouth, leaning closer, eyes on your mouth. You’re stuck like this, mouth parted in an aborted attempt to object, frozen in his grasp.

You realize you haven't taken a breath in the last minute and inhale raggedly as he pulls his hand away from your face. The bell above the door jingles, one of your regulars walking in with a cheerful smile. You're not sure if you're grateful or borderline homicidal at the interruption.

“Be with you in a second Jan!” You call out. If you were braver you'd ask Gaz to stick around. “I should get back to it,” Coward. You rise with no small effort, wrenching yourself free of his magnetic pull.

“Thanks for taking the time,” Gaz’s voice is light, but his dark eyes are intense and focused. He stands, and you're subject to the unfortunate reminder that he’s tall, the force of his gaze magnified by how he towers over you. 

“Of course,” You respond, aiming for casual and missing it by about a mile; “Anytime.”

He smiles, crooked and perfect. “Do you work tomorrow?”

“Oh,” Your eyes widen, and you smile before you can stop yourself. “Yeah. Yes.” Eloquent response.

“See you tomorrow then.” Gaz flashes his dimples, setting off another swarm of butterflies in your stomach. 

“Kay.” Eloquent again. You know you're grinning like a moron, but you can't make yourself stop. He's coming back, coming back for you.

“Who was that handsome man?” Jan asks in a stage whisper once you get behind the counter. “My god, the accent? He seems quite taken with you.” 

“Don't say that!” You bury your face in your hands. You cannot be out here projecting your delusions on this poor man. He just likes the way you make coffee. “He's just being nice.” You mumble from behind your fingers. You can feel Jan's eye roll.

“Whatever you say, sweetie.” 

Gaz is back and he brought a friend. A slightly menacing looking friend, dressed in all black, sporting a mohawk, even taller than Gaz is, and built like a brick shit house. He looks around the shop, his face carefully blank, taking in the plants growing on every surface, the mismatched furniture filling the room. Any intimidation you feel is immediately neutralized when his eyes land on you and crinkle at the corners, his mouth splitting into a beaming grin, his loud voice bouncing off the walls of the shop.

“Nice tae make yer acquaintance a’m Johnny! Yae must be who Gaz haes bin gantin fir—” Gaz shoves his elbow into the Scotsman’s ribs and you unsuccessfully stifle a snort.

“Nice to meet you Johnny,” you smile at him warmly. “Can't say I really understood half of what you said so I hope it wasn't anything bad.” 

“All good things,” Gaz cuts in, a touch too loudly, and Johnny snickers. Gaz’s elbow shoots out lightning fast, but Johnny seems to anticipate it, stepping out of range with another laugh. 

You smile at Gaz, glad you’re not the only one on the back foot for once. “The usual?” 

“Yes please, love.” He replies, and heat rushes to your face at the term of endearment. So much for not being on the back foot.

It’s easier to ground yourself with someone else in the shop to focus on. “Anything for you Johnny?”

“Cannae get a hot latte with oot milk?”

You pinch your lips together to suppress a smile and look Johnny dead in the eyes, serious as a heart attack. “Can’t make a latte without milk, sorry.” 

Gaz snorts a laugh, and you let yourself grin at your own dumb joke. Johnny smiles, a mischievous look in his eyes, then turns to Gaz. “Caen tell why ya’ like this… place.”

You hear rather than see Gaz smack his friend as you turn back to make their drinks. “Got anything fun planned for today?” You ask over your shoulder.

“Not much, might get something to eat.” Gaz pauses awkwardly. “Do you eat?” 

Johnny’s laugh is loud, and you turn as he hunches over with the force of it, massive shoulders shaking. 

“Been known to, yeah,” you say with a smile. Gaz looks like he wants the ground to open up beneath him. On anyone else, it’d be adorable, but it's Gaz, so he kind of looks like a model trying out a new pout. Life is so unfair. “Do you want some recommendations?” 

Those brown eyes are steadfastly glued to the floor. “Yeah,” He finally mumbles lamely, looking up at you through his eyelashes. Johnny’s still wheezing but has regained some composure, his eyes sparkling as he claps a large hand on Gaz’s shoulder.

“There’s a few brunch places nearby, if you’re in the mood for that.” You set their drinks on their counter, trying to think of other spots. “If you like Thai, there’s a place right down the road that’s really good, and the owner’s a sweetheart.” 

“Gaz loves Thai food, right Gaz?” Johnny says, taking a loud sip of his latte and then cringing when it scalds his tongue. You suppress a snort, already borderline inappropriately fond of the Scotsman. You hope he starts coming in regularly too. 

Gaz makes no response, his gaze fixed on you, doe eyed and unfairly handsome. You stare at him. He stares at you. Your eyes dart down to watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallows, then back up to his eyes, hyper aware of the seconds ticking by. Maybe you’ve got something on your face? Your eyes flick to Johnny, who's inexplicably grinning like a cat who got the cream.

“Well we’ve got a busy day,” Gaz blurts, quickly turning to his friend. “Best be going.” 

“But what aboot—” Johnny starts, but Gaz grabs his arm, practically dragging the other man away from the counter. You’re left standing there, completely bewildered.

“Good to see you!” Gaz throws over his shoulder, his voice a touch too loud again. The bell clangs with finality as the door slams shut behind them. 

“Bye,” you say to the empty shop.

You fiddle with the key in the lock, quietly cursing. It always sticks, and every day you vow to bring something to grease it with, and everyday you forget. When you finally get it to cooperate, you let out a loud sigh, turning around to walk to your car. Someone’s leaning against it, and you freeze momentarily, your heart dropping before you recognize the figure. 

Gaz makes your shitty beater look like a prop in a photoshoot, lounging against it, the light of the setting sun haloing him, making his skin glow and highlighting the sharpness of his cheekbones. He lifts his hand in a friendly wave, and you gawk at the way his arm muscle flexes with the casual motion. 

“Hey,” he calls, all signs of his previous awkwardness gone. “How was the rest of your shift?”

“It was good,” you say, reflexively glancing around. “Did Johnny ditch you?” 

“No, I ditched him,” he rubs the back of his neck, the bashfulness creeping back in. “Brought him for back up.” 

“What did you need back up for?” The confusion must be evident on your face, because Gaz’s mouth quirks to the side, one of his dimples popping. 

“Had to have someone there to blubber to in case you told me to fuck off,” you watch him set his shoulders back with a deliberate nonchalance. “Would you want to go out sometime?” 

You can hear your blood rushing in your ears, and quickly unlock your knees so you don’t pass out. “You thought you might need backup?” You say faintly. 

He shrugs, trying and failing to look casual. “Wasn’t sure you’d say yes.” 

You snort, and then immediately cover your mouth in embarrassment when he looks wounded. “I’m so sorry, I’m not laughing at you I just— I thought I’d been painfully obvious. I get all stupid and flustered everytime you speak to me.”

“I fluster you?” Gaz has the audacity to look shocked, and you wonder if it’d be a crime to give someone so beautiful shaking baby syndrome.

“Do they not have mirrors where you’re from?” You throw back, your voice sour. He barks a laugh and looks surprised at himself. 

The cocky smirk that settles on his face is new, and you have the good sense to be terrified by what it might mean, his gaze going molten as he takes a careful step towards you, closing the gap. You get a whiff of his cologne, your knees wobbly as he glances down at your lips, his own parting subconsciously. 

“Is this flustering you?” Gaz murmurs, his voice deliciously low. 

“Um…” you say articulately, and he grins triumphantly, melting back against your car, generously giving you space to breathe. 

“So you will go out with me?” He coaxes, cocking his head to the side.

You blink up at him, trying to clear the cotton balls out from in between your ears. “Did I not say yes? Yes. Please, yes.”

Gaz smiles, sweet and blinding, and you want to bottle it up in a jar and keep it forever. “Thai okay?”

[cacaocheri]

what if I PROJECTED on SUN FNAF. what then

[gaydaroreilly]

I would like to say: I hate the US military industrial complex. I will not give it my time or money beyond my motherfucking taxes which I have no say over…

I will also say that when I saw a billboard advertising an air show with the n*vy blue angels my heart rate picked up like I just saw my fucking crush or some shit.

Not. Cool. DumbGayPlaneHimbos. Fuck. You. (This is about icemav and hangster and hollywolf.i hate your gay shit for literally ruining my whole life)

[dookiespooky]

Finally drifting dreams again,, i think mabel should get to be a little itty bit morally corrupted. As a treat.

Dreamcaptor ford belongs to @neonross

[tridentkickflipper123]

I just did the world's most dogshit rigging ever