035. Last Dance -- Prowl/Jazz -- Rating PG

035. Last Dance -- Prowl/Jazz -- Rating PG

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Prowl normally wasn’t one for parties. He always made a point to stop in though, make sure mechs weren’t getting to rowdy. After he arrived the mechs would start to clear out, stumbling their way to their berth or the berth of their partner. Sometimes he wondered if he should be offended by that.


The best part though was watching Jazz dance with the other mechs. He only ever arrived in time to see a few dances but he was always impressed with Jazz’s dancing ability. He moved with a easy grace on the dance floor whether the dance was fast or slow. Sometimes he fantasied he was the one dancing with Jazz.

Prowl watched from the corner as Jazz waved goodbye to the last stumbing pair before starting for the door himself. He didn’t get far before Jazz’s voice stopped him.

“Where are you going so fast Prowler?” Jazz grinned as Prowl turned to face him, “I save the last dance for you.”

Prowl frowned and looked around, part of him wondering if this was a joke and someone was watching. “There isn’t any music Jazz.”

The saboteur smirked and began to play music over the internal comm. A soft, slow song from the golden age. “Now there is.”

Prowl felt himself pulled forward as if by some unseen force until he was close enough he and Jazz could have touched, “I don’t dance well Jazz.”

The saboteur smiled, “I’ll teach ya Prowler.” He put his servos on Prowl’s hips pulling him closer, optics locked with Prowls, “It is all about the spark.”

Prowl followed Jazz’s lead hesitantly gazing deeply int Jazz’s optics, “ok.”

Together alone in the recroom, the last dance of the night that they shared was only the first of many they would share together.

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022. Odds and Ends -- Cosmos -- Rating PG

022. Odds and Ends -- Cosmos -- Rating PG

(First attempt at Cosmos...playing with personality and trying to develop his character.)

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Cosmos didn’t own many things. Just a small box of odds and ends; colorful crystal samples from places he had crash landed, degraded holo captures of the places he had been, a few bent pieces of scrap metal. All things he could hold in his servo and keep on him at all times.

He had to be able to keep everything he owned on him, being in space so often. Circling the Earth, or whatever other planet he was surveying. Most of the time that didn’t bother him, being in space that is. Sometimes it was soothing and he enjoyed talking to himself, acting out scenes in his head that others would make fun of it they saw him doing it--so really it was better he was all alone in space. 

Every item in his little box had a meaning and a purpose behind it, each piece reminded him of a story. Of a time, good or bad, that he had spent with another mech. It was a small box.

Someone, a mech whose designation he no longer remembered, had called it junk once, a box of junk. It was all he owned though, the things that told the story of his life.

Sometimes cycling earth alone, he wondered if that meant something. That the only record that would remain of him should he suddenly offline wouldn’t live in any real memories held by his comrades, but in a box of odds and ends. A box of junk.

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