#has this been done before? almost certainly

[wowcatboys]

trinkets for a magpie.

♡ Lucanis/AFAB Crow Rook ♡

♡TW's: Lucanis's PTSD, implied violence/torture, Lucanis is a little bit of a nasty freak ahhh, Masturbation♡

♡NSFW♡

♡Divider by @cafekitsune ♡

It begins with something small, and almost entirely innocent.

Lucanis awakes to find that Spite has packed them tightly into a previously-unmaterialized closet of the Lighthouse. He’s surrounded by ordinary things—a broom, a large wooden bucket, a fat-bottomed coffee mug stuffed full of paintbrushes. The air tingles with tin and dust. Spite, angry at having control snatched away, snarls in his ear. Give. it. Back! A headache prickles at his temples and the back of his eyes. 

Damn this demon. How long has he been out?

Lucanis scrapes his palm against the Lighthouse’s rough walls, grounding himself. Not in the Ossuary. Not in a cell. Back in control. And then he begins to filter through the mental checklist he keeps for when he comes to, in the middle of Spite’s ‘outings’.

He scans the fronts and backs of his arms, feels for broken ribs, gingerly puts all his weight on one foot and then the other. No new scrapes, sprains, or—Maker forbid—tattoos. (Spite had asked a lot of questions after they’d passed by an abysmally drunk pirate in the Hall of Fortune, getting a beetle inked into the fold of their asscheeks. The implication there fills Lucanis with cold dread.)

When he wiggles his toes in his boots, Lucanis realizes he’s missing his left sock. But before he can ask Spite about it, his attention pulls away. There’s a small weight in his breast pocket that wasn’t there before. It’s round and light, and it presses into him gently but insistently.

He fishes it out. It’s cool, fragile. When he opens his hand he sees it’s a dainty glass bottle, no bigger than one of his fingers. It catches the light and bends it softly, shining like spilled lamp oil. A crystal stopper plugs the top. In the bottom, a few drops of clear liquid make a shallow pond. Lucanis recognizes the bottle. He knows immediately where it’s from. 

He knows the merchant that sells this. He bought shaving cream from her once, and he remembers the dry soft leather of her hands as she carefully pressed his change into his palm. One of the last kind touches he felt, before he was dragged into the Ossuary and almost forgot such a thing existed. 

It’s why he remembers the encounter so well. For a time, before Spite, he unspooled that memory through his brain to soothe himself. To remind himself there really was a world above, beyond the pain and screaming and all that dark, dark water.

The perfume. He blocks his thoughts from revisiting the Ossuary, and focuses on the perfume. He knows it costs thirty four gold pieces and is supposed  to smell like sea breeze. 

Gingerly, Lucanis twists the glass stopper and holds the bottle to his nose. He inhales.

Sure, there is a bit of sea foam there. But also, underneath, something else. Some kind of spice? Lucanis’s eyes flutter closed. His mind fills as he takes another deep sniff. A hint of patchouli. Post-combat sweat. A kind smile. The color of her hair…

Rook.

 Of course it’s Rook’s. Who else would have Antivan perfume?

Panic squeezes his chest as he realizes Spite must’ve stolen it from her. His eyes fly open, and he sends the demon an accusing look. 

“You cannot take peoples’ things, Spite,” he rebukes. “Where did you get this? Why did you take it?”

Spite mirrors Lucanis, scowling. His lips curl back from his teeth, and he snarls his response. 

“She. Threw it out—we did not. STEAL. It!” 

Lucanis hmm’s, at that. The anger on his face softens. The bottle is almost empty, and Spite, for all his terribly annoying and vexingly mischievous tendencies, is not usually a thief. He sniffs the perfume again, considering. If she’s done with it anyway, would it really be so bad to just…keep it? 

His secret. Nobody needs to know he has this.

Lucanis remembers that once, when they weren’t quite boys anymore but certainly weren’t men yet, Illario stumbled across a gloriously detailed picture of a naked woman in a book. He remembers how Illario sliced the page free from the book’s spine with assassin’s precision. For months, his cousin kept the paper tightly rolled up and hidden in an empty dagger sheath. He would quietly unfurl it when he was alone in his bedroom, and if he was feeling generous, he would let Lucanis look over his shoulder, too.

He wonders if Illario ever felt this rush of —what was this, tingling down his spine and spreading through his fingertips? Nerves? Adrenaline? Something else entirely?—when he held that picture in his hands, when he rubbed his thumbs reverently over a pair of sketched tits. Did his secret ever feel this precious?

Lucanis feels a twinge guilty. Perhaps even slightly desperate. But as he rewards himself with one last, deep, mouthwatering sniff, one thing is certain—he doesn’t feel regret.

Lucanis empties a small leather sheath and, with careful hands, stows the bottle within. He doubts that Rook will poke inside his weapons stash. But if she ever finds it— he will pretend he hasn’t held it up to his nose every night for months, and blame it on the wisps.

The ring, at least, makes sense. When Lucanis comes back to himself in the middle of a screaming migraine, he understands why Spite took it. 

He sits up on his cot, groaning, and reaches to grab it off the shelf his klepto-demon left it on. It’s a thick band, gold flecked throughout with something that looks like little bits of charcoal. The pantry candles flicker lazily in its reflection. As Lucanis holds it between his fingers, he realizes it’s still warm. Like someone left it sitting in the sun. 

A shiver races down his back. Did Rook just take this off? Lucanis imagines it. His mind paints her meditation room, and he sees her sink wearily down onto that gem-green settee. He thinks that she would rip her boots off first, maybe, and then flex her toes and groan while she works at the fastenings of her armor. 

He forces himself not to think of those strings, those straps, those buckles coming undone under her fingers. Of the skin that swims underneath it all. He has not studied her armor before, while walking behind her in Arlathan Forest and Dock Town and Treviso, he has not mapped it all out in his mind and thought about what he’d need to loosen and unlatch to make it come off. And there is not a rush of heat that comes to his cheeks while he does not think of these things, and it absolutely does not settle low and darkly in his guts. 

Lucanis shakes his head. His mind refocuses, and he blames its wandering on Spite. He knows she sets her jewelry on that bookshelf behind the settee, next to Varric’s mirror—he’s seen it piled there, before. She must’ve gotten back from a mission, shucked her combat gear, and fallen immediately into a dead-sleep. Spite, in his wanderings, could have slipped into her room and stolen the ring then. Still warm from use. Still warm from her.

Or…it could be the enchantments, woven through the metal. It makes sense. The ring’s meant to augment fire spells. Of course it would be warm. The latent magic thrumming through the band would make it so. 

It isn’t from the gentle heat of her naked hand. It isn’t, it isn’t, it isn’t—it’s magic, just magic. And that’s why Spite took it. Because that little bit of the Fade, bound to the ring, called to something in him. It makes sense, and it’s very simple, and there is nothing more to it. 

But this isn’t a discarded perfume bottle. It’s combat gear. It will need to be returned. The realization makes Lucanis’s throat prickle.

Giving it back proves easy enough, though. One doesn’t become a Crow without learning how to lie.

He waits until the next morning, while Rook and Davrin equip their gear. (Lucanis is finished dressing first, as per usual. Even though his armor is the most complex, he’s got the quickest hands.) Lucanis hums Rook’s name behind her as she’s fastening her bootlaces, gently prodding at her attention. 

“Rook?” He asks, and when she turns around with a lifted brow, he simply holds up the prize. “I believe you may have left this at the dinner table? I found it in the kitchen.” It’s a convenient lie, easy to spin, even easier to believe. She got stuck with dish duty last night, after all.

“Oh,” Rook says, “thank you.” When she holds out her hand, Lucanis’s brain floods. He knows what Illario would do, here, and the image almost makes his back stiffen.

 Illario would purr something dripping thick with honeyish double meaning. He would take her soft hand into his, and slide the ring smoothly onto the correct finger. (And Lucanis does know which finger it belongs to. Her left pinky. He’s noticed her trying to fit it on the others, but it’s too small. It won’t go past the second knuckle.) His brain cannot decide how she would react. Would she stare up at him, shocked by his sudden forwardness? Smile shyly, girlishly? Perhaps rub her thumb over his knuckles before taking her hand away, and make his fluttering heart stop dead in his chest?

But really, it doesn’t matter what she’d do. Because he is not Illario, and he isn’t half so charming, and he shouldn’t be flirting with this breathtaking powerhouse of a woman, anyway. Not when there’s traitors in his shadow, and a demon wedged into the crevices of his mind, and gods to kill.

So Lucanis presses the ring tenderly into her outstretched hand. He ignores the pleasant twinge in his gut as her fingers close around it. And with great willpower, he pulls away first.

Spite is angry to see his prize go. He growls and gnashes his teeth and spits that I. took it—for us! 

‘Us’. Lucanis doesn’t like that. So for the afternoon he’s a stone wall to the demon. He lets Spite rage and howl and demand to know why Lucanis gave it back, and he ignores every word. 

His mind is full, anyway. It is busy convincing him that he didn’t notice how the ring felt in his fingertips, before depositing it in Rook’s open, waiting palm. 

By then, it had gone cold to the touch.

Sharing a body with a demon has its quirks. By far the most irritating is Spite’s tendency for escape attempts. Even Lucanis’s coffee pot runs dry sometimes, and the demon lies in wait to take advantage. All he needs is a second—a moment that Lucanis’s tired eyes close too long, that the edges of his mind get too fuzzy. And then Lucanis wakes, confused, usually to one of his companions body-blocking the eluvian. 

On rare occasions, though, something else grabs Spite’s attention. Usually something mundane, some sort of mortal custom that fascinated the demon—Lucanis has come back to himself throwing blank papers into Emmrich’s fireplace, punching a pale lump of bread dough, scraping a dry paintbrush against the Lighthouse’s stucco walls. Odd, to be sure, but Lucanis has learned to roll with it and simply be grateful that at least Spite didn’t try to escape again.

Still. Waking up on top of Harding’s greenhouse with a spoon in his mouth is quite the surprise.

Lucanis sits on the edge, legs dangling over the lip of the roof. His boots and socks are missing, and his pants are messily shoved up to his calves. He regains control of his limbs in the middle of Spite carefully swinging his legs, like he doesn’t quite understand why he’s doing it or what it’s supposed to accomplish. Lucanis’s heels thud against the wall. First the right. Bump. Then the left. Bump. 

Vaguely, Lucanis remembers seeing a little elf girl in Dock Town, sitting on the edge of a pier and breaking apart clumps of seafoam with her toes. Spite had watched for a moment and then asked why nobody came along and pushed her in. Strange, Lucanis thinks. It’s so curious, the things Spite’s mind hoards up to try later.

Like the spoon. He has no idea where Spite got that idea from. Lucanis pulls it from his mouth and stares at it; his reflection stares back, dull and warped. He turns it over, noting the intricate carvings spread across the utensil. Some sort of vine twists around the handle and erupts into a flower bud at the base. 

The Lighthouse boasts an eclectic collection of silverware, as if it reads the minds of those sitting down for dinner and materializes their vision of what a spoon and fork should look like. He recognizes this design, with its delicate leaves and large silver basin. It’s Rook’s. (Because of course it is.)

Lucanis turns to face Spite. He holds the spoon up at him, and raises an eyebrow.

“Why…?”

Spite smirks wickedly.

“Wanted a taste.”

Heat dusts Lucanis’s cheeks. He swallows thickly and looks back down at the spoon, considering. Not long ago, this had been inside of Rook’s mouth. It had known the velvet of her cheeks, felt the caress of her tongue as she cleaned potato soup from it. The flush of heat travels down his face, all through his chest, down into his undergarments. It’s been scrubbed since they ate—very vigorously, considering Bellara did the dishes last—but still…

Lucanis scans the ground below, just in case. And then, when he sees that the courtyard is empty, he slowly lifts the spoon to his mouth. Tenderly, reverently, he slips it past his lips. He drags the cool metal of the basin back across his tongue. Testing. Searching. Yearning.

But whatever he was hoping to find is not there. Lucanis tastes nothing but the faint, sudsy memory of lemon-basil soap. He closes his eyes, sighing through his nose. He’s so disappointed it’s almost painful.

“Her taste!” Spite proclaims proudly. 

“No,” Lucanis corrects. “Just dish soap.”

When Spite spits in frustration and pounds a fist against the greenhouse roof, Lucanis doesn’t chide him. He’s holding back from doing the same damn thing, himself.

Lucanis respects the privacy of others. Really, he does (so long as he’s not been hired to kill them). In normal circumstances, he would’ve put the journal down and walked away. But he regained control of his body about ten seconds ago, and his thoughts are scattered around like the light coming through a suncatcher, and it’s just instinct to examine the book gripped tightly in his hands.

The journal is light. About a hundred pages, he guesses, maybe a little more. It’s leather-bound, dyed to a plummish purple-blue-black. There’s a stub of satin poking out. Unthinking, Lucanis slides his index finger in the journal, right next to the makeshift bookmark, and cracks it open.

And twice as quickly, he snaps it shut. His eyes fall across the handwriting, and he knows immediately that fuck, he just looked inside Rook’s journal. Nobody else writes with such a heavy hand, scraping the pen across the paper like they’re punishing it for something. 

Obviously it’s Rook’s, Lucanis berates himself as he squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose. If he took a second to think, he would’ve recognized the cover as Crow leather. He would’ve considered the fact that the satin-scrap bookmark looks suspiciously like a shirt Viago wore until it went out of fashion.

He didn’t read anything, not really. Still, it feels like he’s leered through the open curtains of her mind. The thought disturbs him. He thinks of things he was subjected to in the Ossuary. The blood magic leafing through the folds of his brain. Spite raging against the confines of his skull, ransacking his thoughts, tossing them everywhere before the two learned how to uneasily co-exist in one mind and body.

Of course looking inside Rook’s journal is a tame invasion. It’s free of violence. It’s free of blood. But it feels, in some sense, just as perverse, just as horrid, just as deplorable. He’s taken something from her. Broken into the safety and privacy of her room, and searched through pieces and parts of her life. Does it really matter that it was Spite? It was still his hands that turned her doorknob, his feet that carried him into her bedroom, his eyes that stumbled clumsily across her unspoken thoughts. If he’d been more vigilant, if he’d drank another pot of coffee, if he’d told Spite to stop taking Rook’s Maker-cursed things… 

A sudden guilt sits solidly inside him like the pit of a stone fruit. He needs to bring this back. Immediately.

And he needs to stop thinking about the one word he actually read and noticed, the one string of letters that his brain snatched up before he snapped the journal closed. Written in a gentle hand with curling, sloping letters, almost as if Rook eased up on her poor, weary pen, as if she were whispering it into the pages of her journal—

Lucanis. 

When Lucanis regains himself, his hands are trembling. His chest is sticky with panic, the muscles through his back tight and tense as piano strings. The hair on his arms—the hair everywhere—stands at attention. There’s an aftertaste of tin draped over his tongue. And all along his body, his skin feels the faint but unmistakable streeeeetch of being somehow pushed and pulled at the same time.

Mierda. Shit, shit, fucking shit. Spite went through the eluvian.

Lucanis is back, hunched on his cot in the pantry, but wherever Spite took them—whatever he did—it cannot be good. Lucanis grits his teeth, pushes back rising nausea, and hisses at the demon looking down at him.

“Spite. What. did. you. do?”

The demon licks his tongue over the sharp, canid lines of his top teeth. When he speaks, his voice simmers.

“Stop. Fussing. Just followed—we followed. Her.”

In a better mindstate, Lucanis would’ve wrinkled his nose at being told not to fuss by a demon. But his brain is still stumbling, scrambling. He digs his teeth into his bottom lip, feels his brow knit together sharply, bunches up the pebble-gray fabric in his fists—and only then realizes he’s even holding something.

He loosens his fists and unwads the fabric in quick, jerky motions. When he holds it up to the light, Spite’s chest puffs out. A show of pride. But Lucanis? His heart drops. All the way to his fucking feet. 

It’s underwear. Smalls, specifically. Still deliciously warm from being sandwiched in between skin and layers of clothing and armor. Soft, well-worn, starting to pull loose at those delicate threads that connect the sides. Lucanis’s jaw clenches so tightly his teeth squeak. 

He doesn’t need to ask whose they are. He recognizes the slate gray fabric. An arrow snagged Rook’s pants one time, ripping them across her right hipbone. He touched himself to that shade of gray for three nights in a row and felt pathetic as a teenager. Like some horny boy, pawing and panting in the dark over a flash of underwear and the barest hint of skin. Maker, how she undoes him.

Lucanis’s mind races to answers before he can even ask Spite the questions out loud. They share a body, after all—he knows this demon. He guesses that Spite noticed Rook stumble sleepily towards the eluvian with a towel folded up in her arms. Where she bathes, he doesn’t know, but he’s seen her emerge from the eluvian with wet hair before. 

Lucanis breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth. He does this three times. Then he carefully sets the underwear down over his knee, and shifts on the cot so that his trousers don’t feel so Maker-forsaken tight.

“Spite,” Lucanis asks cautiously. “Tell me she didn’t see you take this.” 

Spite sneers, nose curling like the very thought offends him.

“No! Of course, not!”

“You’re sure?”

“Was cautious. Watched her. Waited. ‘Til she put her hair underneath.”

And ah. Qué pena—that’s too much. The knowledge that Rook was naked. That he saw her naked, that she was close enough and undressed enough for him to map out constellations in her freckles and witness her scars, places where she’d been stabbed but was too strong and too stubborn to die. All that, in his eyes, but not for him. For Spite. He saw her, but the memory isn’t his to keep. 

Lucanis hates masturbating. With Spite lurking, the act is colored with shame. But right now, he can’t stop himself. His skin is burning hotter than Andraste, his mind is all sharp edges, his underwear constricts his cock like a snake that wants to kill. He thinks, he knows, if he doesn’t relieve himself, he’ll surely die or go mad with lust. 

He looks down at the smallclothes on his lap. With a reverent hand, he traces the seam running horizontally across the crotch. Then he sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, and opens his pants with a quiet, slow ziiiiiip. 

“Tell me…what she looked like,” he asks, and his voice has never been so gentle or soft to Spite before, never so pleading. He almost says please. (Almost. He lies to himself as he shimmies his pants down past his hips, and pretends that he still has some dignity left. At least enough that he won’t beg from a demon.) 

Spite’s lips curl up in malevolent glee. Whether he’s pleased from replaying the sight of Rook’s body, or he’s just happy to have the upper hand for once, Lucanis isn’t sure. As he spits on his palm, he cannot bring himself to care. The cool air of the pantry smooths over his thighs, whispers over the ultra-sensitive tip of his penis. There’s already a glistening drop, leaking out from the slit. Lucanis thinks he should feel shame. 

He does not.

“Like a statue,” Spite starts, and Lucanis firmly wraps his hand around the base of his shaft. Not much to go off of, but he doesn’t need much. Lucanis has memorized the cello-curves of her body, the smell of her. He rubs the seam of her smalls and groans. Up, down. He wants to go slow but he burns, and he can’t. 

“Squeaked in the stream. Cold water. She shivered. Made her chest. Jiggle. Like jam. On a spoon!”

Lucanis, Maker help him, can see it. He hears her voice squeal high and girlish, in a way she never lets the others hear. He sees how the cold water beads up on her skin and how her hair drinks up the stream, then falls in limp wet ropes over her shoulders. He sees the chill curl into her nipples—he sees them pebble, and he swallows thickly. He squeezes his cock tighter, pumps faster. A groan erupts from deep in his chest. It’s not enough. He needs to smell her. 

With his free hand, Lucanis grips Rook’s slate gray underwear and brings it to his face. And he inhales like he’s a man drowning. He just reached the surface—these smallclothes are the air he needs to survive for even a single moment longer. He moans, and it comes out quiet, muffled by the fabric. Mostly he smells sweat, but it’s good because it’s her. But underneath there’s a whiff of her perfume, and deeper still he can detect the salt-cream musk of pussy. 

She’s divine. What did he ever do, to earn the right to even breathe in her presence?

Lucanis’s mind flirts with putting that fucking seam in his mouth, and for a moment, he balks at the desperation. But he’s alone. Who would Spite tell? He’s in the depths of his shame and need already. He pumps, hard and fast, and his muscles coil from his toes all the way up into his neck. Everything everywhere is too tight, too hot, he needs her, fuck it—

Lucanis growls and takes the smalls into his mouth, feels the seam line pressing into his tongue. He bites down with violence and moans around it. Rook’s taste—mierda. There’s no words to describe it. Not in any language he knows. 

He can only think in feelings, in images. How velvety and warm her pussy would be against his tongue; how it would taste just like this. Tang, sweetness, salt, paradise. He would lick and lick and lick until she dripped down his chin like the first bite of summer fruit, ripe and leaking and staining his beard with juice. Her thighs pressing against his head, muffling her whimpering, drowning out the wet suck of his mouth on her clitoris. He would make her cum and cum again. His imagination keeps shifting between giving her pubic hair or shaving it clean; between feeling those course, perfect threads in his mouth or feeling his tongue glide against folds smoother than glass—

Lucanis’s thumbnail brushes the underside of his tip just so, and he imagines it’s Rook’s nail instead, and that’s all it takes. He whimpers into her undergarments, biting down. His body shakes and trembles like he’s just been blasted close-range with an electricity spell—his toes curl so hard, he thinks he feels scraping inside his boots. Warm cum jets from him, splatters his pants and coats his still-pumping hand. He’s on fire, yes, but it’s so fucking satisfying. Lucanis rides the last sweet shocks of his orgasm to their very edge, and he imagines Rook sweeping up a thin stream of white and sucking it off her finger. 

Dios mio. He dares not imagine that she could ever be as obsessed with him as he is with her. Even in post-orgasm bliss, with his fingers around his softening cock and his head pleasantly fuzzy with relief, he won’t let himself think that her fingers might, on some lonely nights, sneak past her waistband with similar thoughts. He won’t let himself consider that she might sneak into the pantry while he makes dinner, might bury her face into the stiff bulge of his pillow, and silently breathe him in. Surely, she does not put her lips to his coffee cups, searching for his taste there in the dark roast.

She’s beautiful, she’s a goddess, she’s a godkiller. What is he to her, other than an adoring weapon, waiting in her shadow to be used? 

But in the afterglow of such an intense orgasm, Lucanis finds it impossible to think of anything too challenging. Feelings, desires. What’s deserved and what isn’t. He allows himself to wallow in the pleasant buzz—not quite happy, but for once, content. The flames lick the candles downwards, and Spite remains thankfully, blissfully quiet. Lucanis stays like that for a long moment. It’s been so long since he’s felt so comfortable in his body. So safe. He dares not dwell on all the implications of that.

When Lucanis finally stirs, it is only because his neck has started to seize at an impossible angle. After wiping himself clean, he turns to Rook’s smallclothes. He cannot imagine how he’s supposed to sneak these back into her wardrobe without her noticing. And what could he even say if she caught him red handed, trying to slip her sex-smelling underclothes into a pile of her dirty laundry? Or even worse, if one of the other companions found him. Emmrich? Davrin? Maker’s breath, Taash? Better not to risk it. 

And perhaps that is an excuse. But it is an excuse that settles comfortably in his stomach, and one that soothes his mind as he pulls the dagger sheath from its hiding place. Lucanis picks Rook’s smallclothes up from his cot with admiring hands. He rubs his thumb affectionately over the smalls’ waistband. Then he folds it up, carefully and tender-fingered as if he were handling a love letter. He slips the roll of fabric into the sheath, fitting it next to her perfume. His prizes, his little trinkets. 

He will never admit it. But Lucanis thinks that maybe, just maybe, these tokens are payment enough to kill any god Rook asks.

[captainsophiestark]

Dance Like Nobody's Watching

Dick Grayson x Reader

Masterlist - Join My Taglist!

Written for Fictober 2024!

Fandom: DC

Day Twenty-Seven Prompt: "Let me remind you."

Summary: Dick's SO is having trouble adjusting to the new scrutiny of attending Wayne galas as his date, but thankfully, he has an idea to help with that.

Word Count: 1,449

Category: Fluff

Putting work into an AI program without permission is illegal. You do not have my permission. Do not do it.

I sipped my champagne, trying to get a handle on my nerves. I could handle fighting the Joker and Scarecrow with no problems, but attending a Wayne gala as the partner of Dick Grayson was throwing me for a loop.

I fought the urge to scowl about it. If one thing could make this night more awkward, it would be some person I barely knew finding me making faces in the corner.

What irritated me the most was that this was by no means my first Wayne gala. I'd grown up with Dick and spent countless hours in the manor with him and his family. We'd been each other's primary entertainment at these things as kids. But being here as his date, and as an adult expected to do more than turn the banquet tables into a fort, was turning out to be surprisingly stressful.

When we were kids, nobody seemed to care what we did much beyond just noticing and thinking we were cute. Now, it seemed like everybody in this room wanted something from Dick, and either saw me as a threat to their ability to get it or as a secret backdoor to him, if only they could get me on their side.

I was seriously on the edge of losing it and going back to the buffet tables kid-style.

Dick had done his best to stick with me, but people kept showing up to pull both of us away from each other for a conversation, and we hadn't been able to do much without being incredibly, obviously rude. I'd finally managed to extract myself enough for some breathing room, but I could see Dick still in the middle of things, a group of old men who almost certainly wanted money from Bruce talking his ear off.

Even from here, I could tell Dick was barely paying attention to them. His eyes scanned the crowd, and after a moment, they landed on me. He raised an eyebrow, and I gave him a reassuring smile. Unfortunately for me, he knew me too well and was too good of a detective to believe it.

Dick quickly made his excuses to the men around him, and didn't take no for an answer as he left the conversation and headed in my direction. He crossed the massive room quickly to stand before me, and this time when I smiled at him, it was much more genuine.

"Hey," he said, returning my smile and leaning in to kiss my temple as soon as he reached me. "How are you doing?"

"Good." I tried to strengthen my smile, but Dick saw right through it. He raised an eyebrow at me.

"...Are you sure?"

I sighed. "It's just... this all feels a little weird. I've known you forever, you know it's never been important to me that you're the famed son of billionare Bruce Wayne. But it seems like that's all anybody else here can think about, and they all either hate me because they want to be with you or want to be my new best friend, all so they can get to you and Bruce. It's fine, none of their opinions matter to me, but... I just didn't expect to feel so weird coming to one of these things again."

Dick took a step closer to me, reaching out to take my arm with a concerned look on his face. He spoke quietly enough that, even if someone had been intentionally eavesdropping (which had happened more than once tonight), they wouldn't be able to hear him.

"Do you want to go? I'm happy to leave if you want to. We don't have to stay here."

I shook my head before he'd even finished his sentence.

"Running and no-showing Bruce's galas isn't a long-term solution. And seriously, it's fine, I'll adjust. I just... I don't know. I miss the days where we hid under the punch bowl giggling out of sight of everybody, you know?"

My boyfriend grinned. "I mean, if you really think about it, there's nothing keeping us from doing that again."

"I can think of a few things," I laughed, swatting his shoulder lightly. He hummed, but sobered quickly as he scanned the room, clearly thinking.

"Well... if you're sure you don't want to commandeer the space under the desert table?"

"I'm sure."

"Then why don't we try dancing? That's a little more... socially acceptable than hiding under the tables, but it's one of the things we used to have the most fun doing at these things. Remember how we'd just take over the entire floor to do whatever we wanted when we were kids?"

I laughed. "Yeah, of course. Although it's a little harder to remember the feeling that inspired us to just run out there before."

Dick smiled softly and extended his hand to me.

"Let me remind you."

My heart did a little backflip, especially when I met Dick's sparkling blue eyes. I huffed a little laugh of disbelief, especially at the thought of stepping into the center of the spotlight when I knew just how many people were going to be watching. But then I looked at Dick again, and I decided that, as long as I was with him, they didn't matter.

I took his hand, and he didn't waste a second before pulling me after him to the dance floor. I laughed, unable to hold back a smile even as heads turned towards us. Dick ignored them completely. He pulled me to his chest when we reached the center of the floor and wrapped an arm securely around my waist, the other taking one of my hands. I rested my free hand on his shoulder, and as we started swaying together to the music, his eyes didn't leave mine for a second.

"You know..." he started after a moment, drawing my attention back from a glance over his shoulder to where people were watching us. "This is nice, but a slow dance wasn't exactly what I had in mind."

I gave Dick my full attention and raised an eyebrow.

"I'm almost afraid to ask, but... what did you have in mind?"

He grinned. "Something more like this."

Suddenly, Dick was spinning me out and away from him, twirling across the floor before pulling me back. We'd know each other long enough and spent enough time as vigilante teammates that his steps were easy to follow, even as he started something closer to swing that didn't match the music at all.

I laughed, a warm feeling spreading through my chest as I shared a smile with my partner. In the back of my mind, I knew more people were probably watching and judging than ever. But suddenly they didn't matter like they used to.

Dick swung me around again, then pulled me close and into an exaggerated dip. If I didn't know he was a superhero, I probably would've been a little worried about him dropping me. Instead, it just made me laugh, especially as Dick grinned and led me into something way too close to something you'd do to Cotton Eye Joe.

With every second that passed on the dance floor with Dick, everyone else in the room faded further and further away. It felt like when we were kids, just me and the most important person in the world to me having the time of our lives.

"Feel any better?" asked Dick, whispering in my ear as he pulled me close again, both hands wrapped tight around my waist. I smiled, running my hands up his arms and across his shoulders.

"So much better. Thank you."

"You don't need to thank me. We're partners, you know I'd never leave you hanging."

I pulled back enough to meet Dick's eyes, and found their familiar sparkle and a smile waiting for me. I gave him a soft smile back.

"I love you, Dick Grayson. So fucking much."

Dick beamed back at me. "I love you too. Now come on, the band's finally catching on to what we want. I want to dance with the love of my life to music that's actually fun for dancing."

I just laughed as Dick swung me out and away from him again, the two of us twirling across the floor, this time in sync with the now-faster music. Suddenly, after a few minutes with Dick, the propsect of all these Wayne galas didn't seem nearly so daunting anymore. Sure, I might have to deal with a few unpleasant strangers whose opinions didn't matter to me. But I'd also get to do this, laughing and dancing and having the time of our lives, with my favorite person in the world.

Worth it in the long run, as far as I was concerned.

****************

Everything Taglist: @rosecentury @kmc1989 @space-helen @misshale21

DC Taglist: @gaychaosgremlin @v1ckycheesue @lavender-dinos @g0atmansbridge182

[eponymous-rose]

Some (many) thoughts on Arcane s2 while it's still fresh in my mind:

(tw: discussion of fictional depictions of suicide)

I'm gonna do some nitpicking here, but only because I really did like it overall - I think for me s1 was a solid 10/10 and this season was an 8.5/10, so I'm certainly looking forward to rewatching it! The animation was a big step up from s1's incredible work, the music was great, the performances were fantastic. I do think the overall writing/story fell down a bit, though.

It's weird, because my go-to when character arcs feel rushed is to want more episodes, but I don't think that necessarily would have solved my issues with this season.

Cait turned on Ambessa on a dime - we love to see it, but I think we maybe needed a few more overt hints of her discomfort with her position, maybe a sense of wrongness in their adoptive relationship and some parallels with Jinx & Silco given what Vi says early on ("why are you the one acting like her?"). Ambessa believes her daughter to be lost, and Cait has lost a mother - they were certainly playing on that substitution, but the eventual turn, while fun, felt a bit quick and unearned. I saw someone joke about the word "Cupcake" flipping Cait back like a sleeper agent, but that's kinda how abrupt things felt.

I think Mel's plot largely hung together okay, although it was pretty disconnected from everyone except Ambessa - would've loved to have seen some acknowledgement that Cait was filling her shoes as Daughter for a while there.

Isha was sweet and I liked the parallels with the Powder-Vi relationship (LOVED Jinx running with the pink chalk and Isha with the blue), but I think the sacrifice metaphor got a little muddled. The parallels with Powder charging in and killing everyone around her, versus Isha charging in and saving everyone but herself felt a little forced and I struggled to see how they served the greater narrative. The whole point of Powder's failure was a messy combination of bad luck, overcompensating for what she perceived as a lack of confidence in her, etc. Isha had Jinx's confidence on her side, I guess, and now of course we have the foreshadowing of Jinx dying to save someone else, which she's been trying to do since Act II.

Suicide was a pretty heavy concept throughout the first season. We had the parallels of Jayce and Viktor, we had the little-remarked-upon moment where Viktor hesitates before cutting the wire on Jinx's bomb. I actually think this season did pretty well with those two (although I'll talk about a couple things that irked me below), but the concept that we can't escape the things that we've done and we instead have to find salvation in those around us felt kind of contrary to Jinx's finally finding a way to die for her sister. I don't know that Jinx's story was necessarily supposed to feel satisfying or complete, but without another season there's not much to dig through there.

And that brings up the main reason I don't think more episodes would have resolved my quibbles with this season: it was pretty prone to overexplaining. To me, one of the most exceptional things about that first season was how little it explained. You had these gorgeous, evocative flashes of Vander trying to kill Silco, Silco stabbing him and fleeing into the night, and that's all we needed! That's it! We didn't need to know the specifics, we didn't need more backstory than that - the whole point of the season was that these kids are trying to make their own stories, and these guys have set the stage and are in the process of bowing out. Much as I loved the glimpses this season into the past generation's adventures, it felt like it was pinning something down that was more effectively left to the imagination.

There were also some weird fumbles with discussions of disability, especially in that last episode. I loved so much of what season one did with it - the older generation of Zaunites almost all had some form of disability due to the way they'd been systematically poisoned and their constant exposure to danger, and that was a really in-your-face way to challenge the early "why can't we all get along" stuff. And so much of Viktor's and Jayce's arcs are tied in with the sense of time running out and how Heimerdinger's long-term goals are incompatible with helping the people suffering right now. But instead we get this weird "you didn't like your imperfections so you tried to eliminate all imperfections", which doesn't quite ring true.

We just fundamentally didn't get to a resolution that I think was heavily implied, especially in Act II. "No one in power is innocent" is a great, raw line, but we didn't really see it play out. Instead, we have everyone stopping from othering each other in order to band together against an even bigger Other. As a side note, I don't think that Sevika's ending is meant to be a positive thing - we see from the skeptical looks of others that she's got a long road ahead. The revolution we saw coming just sort of fizzled out, and I think it's still on the horizon, which makes things feel incomplete.

There were also a lot of notes that repeated instead of echoing or harmonizing. We had variations on the theme of Vander dying three different times. We had Vi being unable to kill her sister several times. The repetition felt a bit like it was filling time instead of moving things forward the way s1's plot kept pushing.

This season is also the first time I felt the hand of League of Legends Canon shoving the plot into place. We knew Vi was heading for that enforcer uniform, but after the initial conflict it sometimes felt more like we just unlocked a new skin for the character. The Vander-as-Warwick stuff was kind of silly and out of left field, although it was executed pretty well and certainly pulled at the ol' heartstrings. Ekko getting his time abilities was fun and impacted the final fight, but I feel like we were missing something there as well that I'm having a harder time putting my finger on. Some of Viktor's lines felt designed to make the League players in the audience go "HE SAID THE THING". And I hate the feeling of setting up the Next Installment in the Cinematic Universe, probably just because I'm exhausted with Marvel stuff - I'd love for an adaptation like this to be able to really and truly stand on its own.

Overall, it just felt less like the characters were driving the story and more like they were ticking off boxes, which is just something that any good finale has to contend with one way or another.

Anyway, that's a lot of nitpicking. Fundamentally, this felt almost like it was a really strong fic that did a surprisingly good job of wrapping everything up and was stunningly put together in places... but still lacked the spark of the original.

Stuff I loved: Vi/Cait getting a pretty strong arc and certainly the first lesbian sex scene I've ever seen in a TV-14 cartoon. Animation and score was stunning. I did love the what-if of episode 7 - something I've been waiting for them to acknowledge is that literally everything that happens in the show follows from that one break-in during episode one. I actually think Vi and Jinx's reunion and reconciliation felt earned.

I'm curious how I'll feel on subsequent rewatches - the first time I watched s1, I remember being blown away but not in a "this is the best thing ever" way, and it wasn't until the second time that it really clicked for me.

[delusionalme8]

hey, i have been a fan yours since your Instagram and old tumblr days, so just wanted to pop in ask you how you've been doing? also asking for your hinny fic recs!

Hey, that's actually so cool!

It's been about three years since I stopped using that account. Unfortunately I had to study a lot to get into University and my free time has been greatly reduced. But all in all I'm fine now, thanks for asking. I hope you are too!

There are so many fics that I love that it's impossible to remember them all, so I'll try to fit some in here!

Consider that I like really everything from these authors, so I recommend you read their other fics in addition to the ones I suggest. It's totally worth it!

-Brumous by @seriouslysam8 and its prequels (my personal favourite is Backstabber). As far as I'm concerned, it's one of the best fics I've ever read and she's an amazing writer. She's on a break from Brumous at the moment, but is releasing Selcouth which is just as good in my opinion!

-7 Scandals and a Baby by @ginnyw-potter ! It's a story set during the Regency and has an incredible atmosphere around it! She's an incredible writer and has an insane creativity too. Think of any trope and 99% of the time she's already written about it lmao (if she hasn't already, she almost certainly will). Also, her Harry and Ginny are soo good. (Not a Done Deal is one of my favourites too!)

-These Cuts I Have by Melindaleo and its sequels. It's a trilogy set in the post-war period and it's a wonderful read. I just reread it for the third time and I love the way it deals with Harry's horrible childhood and the relationship he develops with the Weasleys! Read it!

-The Path From You by @takeariskao3 too! I feel stupid for only now discovering her work, but I'm spending my afternoons catching up on it all lol. It's a story full of angst and great tension building before Hinny arrives. But I love a good slow burn, I have to admit, and she wrote it so damn good! I really recommend reading it!

-An Hour of Wolves by @solvskrift ! This one is quite heavy and angsty because it deals with a particularly sensitive subject, but I think it's absolutely worth it. The worst thing is that it's about something that could have easily happened in the canon and it's horrible to think about. I love the way it is written and deals with such sensitive topics, as well as the wonderful characterization of the characters. It is a work in progress, but it is definitely worth reading because it is incredible!

These are just a few fics and I don't know how many more I'm missing, but feel free to recommend me some too!

[sgiandubh]

Thank you for the detailed explanation of the financial and administrative situation and the investors' shares, Caitriona.

But is it normal for the role of her personal assistant to extend to her commercial investments?

Outlander is over, what is the explanation for Tony joining a new company in October?

Do you have a deeper vision for this madness that has been going on since the appearance of the so-called Tony in Caitriona and Sam's lives?

Dear Detailed Explanation Anon,

I am sorry, honey, but I am certainly not C, nor (to be honest) would I ever want to be. I am perfectly happy with my own life and adventures. I will answer your questions in order, rather quickly.

Yes, it is perfectly normal and legal, once you know and understand some easy UK company law ropes I discussed in my answer to @bat-cat-reader's Director Anon, yesterday evening. As long as C remains the sole PSC in that company, he has no legal means to pretend to anything she owns in her own right. One more time, his position can be easily revoked anytime and I do think that the only reason he is present there, in that capacity, is because he needs to have a modicum of dignity/status, in the process. Please note that 'Director' seems to be the favorite 'occupation' he likes to mention in almost all of his business/company documents (and I even think on that Marriage Certificate, too, if I am not mistaken). This is what he wants to look like, this is his jam. What do I think about it? I think it is a bit childish, it's a bit like putting 'Expert' on my own business card (expert in what exactly? climate change? mixology? late Mycenean pottery?), which of course I don't. If anything, Anon, it is harmless enough and vague enough. Count your blessings and remember that before thinking marriage or relationship, the first thing that comes to mind is perhaps 'arrangement', when it comes to these people. A mutually profitable (and also very lucrative for one of them) one, at that. Mark me. I am ready to die on that hill.

T joining a new company in October? You should have your eyes checked, Anon. Byron Benirras is anything but new, in my book. It's been around for ever and it is her dedicated, visible and traceable money stash. Her credit score, her taxes, her revenue are based on its accounts. Why is he there now? I already answered that part in my 'Two Questions Anon' and nope, sorry my dear, I will not budge. Use your critical thinking skills - I think you might know why, you just need validation. Consider it done, darling.

Do I have a deeper vision? The answer is the same as ever, Anon and sorry if it displeases you. In fact, I do have a deeper, wider vision. Will I further discuss it here? Nope. Not for all the tea in China. Why? Because this is not my call. I am not 12 and I am not a fool.

[narcissosbythepool]

John didn't think he'd ever feel this way again.

His life has been a tapestry of almosts and ones-who-got-aways. At some point he just accepted that what he wanted was just out of reach. He would marry himself to the job and be done with it, think about it again if he survived until retirement. Surely there were people who would find a veteran interesting. Alluring. Hot even.

Love is a chore – a necessary evil, something he tries to bury and procrastinate but every now and then it peeks its curious head out and leads him right into trouble. By now he knows to expect it, to feel fondness spill over the floor like sunlight through curtains, and staunchly ignore it even when it lingers.

He doesn't expect Kyle.

He tries not to play favourites and fails miserably – Kyle's just too good to let go, and John wants to monopolise him before anyone else can. Kyle is his perfect soldier, everything he could ask for. Here it comes again – his curiousity gets the better of him again. His affection for Kyle turns him inside out and exposes him with all of his vulnerabilities.

*

The firefight is intense and before John knows it, he's on the ground, his head spinning and a pressure somewhere on the right. He's hit – but he can't tell where, just that he's not in pain, and that could be very bad news.

A figure appears on top of him and John grits his teeth, willing his body to move to grab his knife and stab whoever this fucker is—

And then he's stopped as the figure leans closer, saying something that's becoming clearer and clearer.

"Price? Boss, can you hear me?"

"Aye," John groans and Kyle sighs in relief.

"It looks like your helmet got clipped by a bullet. How are you feeling?" His brown eyes are full of worry and something in John's chest twinges at the sight.

"Fine," John replies and tries to sit up, but his strength leaves him. Kyle rushes to steady him so he doesn't hit his head and the feeling of being held in Kyle's arms is like having another concussion.

John tests his strength again, but it's not yet there, and he's acutely aware that they're running out of time. "Oh, fuck it. Advance without me, Gaz. I'll follow you when I get myself sorted."

"I'm not leaving you," Kyle says with determination and John has to admit he was hoping that Kyle would fight back.

"That's an order, Sergeant."

"And you have a concussion."

"Possibly." He can't exactly deny it, his vision blurring until it's only focused on Kyle.

"So I'm taking over."

"Since when did you get so mutinous," John mutters and Kyle gives him a brilliant smile.

"Learned from the best."

John's heart skips a beat.

Funny, he thinks, over this?

But there's no denying it. His heart beats faster, as if a hound racing towards some truth now that it has the scent of it, and something settles over him wholly and completely.

Bloody hell. Certainly a place and time to find out.

"You alright there, Boss? Stay awake with me, now."

"I'm awake," John says, and he wants to laugh. "I'm awake."

[mydadleft471]

Okay to anyone who cares because this show has destroyed me hehehe

Anywho, spoilers for Arcane Season 2 Act 3…

Or just Season 2 in general.

what the fuck.

Okay. Okay. I love the lesbians. But the CaitVi sex scene seemed kinda… off? Like the making out and shit was good (ahahaha I’m so bisexual it hurts) but like… Vi just got abandoned by her sister. Her sister that she’s had a VERY troubled relationship with, one she just got back and almost died protecting. Now she’s out and about and has implied that she’s going to do something drastic. And Cait just walks in there all sexy and she’s like “did you think we needed that many guards on the bridge teehee wink wink” and they just start fucking? Like I’m all for it, but it just feels very… off. I would’ve liked it better if they had angry sex in the scene where Vi founds out Jinx was arrested. Idk. Felt off to me.

And and and… Jinx’s “sacrifice?” I’m saying that lightly because people have pointed out very good reasons to why she might still be alive and she just left which opens up a whole other can of worms but that’s beside the point! Anyway, like… it felt so pointless! She’s fought and survived and dealt with so much loss and grief and I understand that Silco told her to walk away and break the cycle but… that’s Silco. The man who never forgave Vander (maybe he did in the “is there anything so undoing as a daughter” scene but ya know) and paid the fucking price? Why couldn’t Jinx break the cycle of hatred and learn to coexist with her sister? To deal with her mistakes head on? To help put that explosive power to good use? It just doesn’t make sense in my brain. I hated it tbh. It felt like such an intentional (shallow) emotional grab to “kill” one of the most beloved characters in the series. Maybe it’s just me, but I hated it.

Mel is cool tho. She is such a woman. A fucking powerhouse and it felt so good to watch her use her golden powers.

So is Ekko. I love him. He’s done so much. I love the consensus that they had to throw Ekko into the wild rune thingy otherwise he’d be too productive and save everyone before anything ever happened. That’s so him.

Poor Jayce. He went THROUGH IT. And Viktor’s design? The way his mask literally splits his face? And the gay power and ultimate sacrifice they did at the end? YES. So fucking good. Viktor’s scenes have been STUNNING this season and I’ve been eating it up like stuffing and gravy on Thanksgiving.

Arcane is certainly a one-of-a-kind show. I’ve never felt so emotionally invested before. I’ve never cried and then danced around my room with joy in such a small amount of time before. Fortiche (I think I’m spelling that right) had the weight of the universe on their shoulders, and boy did they deliver, but there are a few hang-ups. That doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy the show or I want my time back. Absolutely not. I loved the ride and I’ll definitely be thinking about Arcane for a long time. What a show.

[typewritingyip]

The Arcturus Missions

Part Three - The Final Frontier

Part Two

———

People or more specifically organics were not in mind when space bridge technology was originally designed on Cybertron at the beginning of the Golden Age. It would have its tweaks done by other societies later, but most of the bridges opened by Cybertronian’s were not made for organics to go through safely. Groups that stole cybertronian technology didn’t realize that for a rather long time and some still don’t, at least according to the reports. Some simply just don’t care, so long as they are in a certified space craft than that’s safe enough to get through the bridge without much hassle.

Opening bridges in the most random parts of space had become a custom of different species, sometimes to dump things they no longer desired or to hide things from authorities, it was the easy way the intergalactic underworld operated since they left limited traces throughout the vast universe. No one was hurting anyone, most people didn’t go to the Orion Sector, there wasn’t much there other than a handful os uninhabitable planets for the most part. Or unintelligent life forms that still needed to evolve, the perfect place to dump space junk or hide your treasures. If stuff came back through the bridge, it wasn’t their responsibility.

—

Each space shuttle was named after something iconic, usually a ship or command module from the Apollo era. The shuttle carrying the Mech suits was specially crafted for this purpose by Mecha, with assistance from NASA, the Odyssey was titled after the Apollo 13 command module that never reached the lunar surface. It defied the odds assigned to it. The pilots weren’t sure if it was meant to be hopeful or show their fate, but it was titled that non-the-less. The Arcturus missions were projected to use three shuttles and two rockets, the second shuttle was already under construction even before the Odyssey had been moved out of Palmdale. The Iliad and the third thought to be called The Aeneid, but the jury was still out. Supposedly the boss had fallen in love with the thought of the trilogy, even if it abandoned previous precedent, he would leave it up to NASA to cover the change. Usually, space shuttles were built with the capability to return to Earth, landing on a typical runway of sorts from orbit, though Mecha doubted that these three shuttles would be returning anytime soon.

Thirteen days, twenty two hours, and thirty six minutes had passed since they left Earth. It certainly already felt like longer, well over a million miles from home, and their differences shining almost brighter than the sun. The locks to their suits were still currently active, as it was trying to conserve energy for the shuttle as they hurdled through space. So, the pilots were confined to the main bay and cockpit, unable to access their usual and more comfortable spaces. Footage had been sent back to Earth multiple times, but at the moment the cameras were not rolling and Hound was thankful for that, as the twins were acting up, starting to go a little stir crazy in the confined space. They were all back in the main bay, enjoying the artificial gravity, though that meant that the twins could be at each other’s throats with equal footing.

“Nothing is happening and nothing has been happening for almost two weeks, so please, for all our sanity turn off your ‘kicking-butt’ playlist!” Sunstreaker was practically shrieking, pulling at his hair, which Hound thought would be incredibly painful, “I don’t have much other music bro, so just chill. If you and the old men didn’t have such shitty taste, I wouldn’t play just this when it’s my turn to play music.” Sideswipe shoved his brother while gesturing to the MP3 player in his hand, “They are children.” Breakdown had his face leaning against his fist, clearly bored himself as he played solitaire. Nodding slightly, Hound moves over to the airlock back into the cockpit, really not interested in whatever argument they were about to get into; “Just pick something else to listen to! For all our sanity!” They continued to argue while Sideswipe turned the music louder. Hound shutting the door behind himself for a blissful moment of quiet before going through the routine of adjusting to non-gravity, entering the cockpit.

He knew they’d be arriving at Jazz’s last coordinates soon, he for one figured the guy had crashed into some space debris so there wouldn’t be much there, but it was something to report at least. That there was nothing there. Moving up to his seat, he straps in loosely, checking through the system for any messages from Earth, at their ever expanding delay. Sighing slowly, he sits back the best he can and stares into the emptiness; there really wasn’t any way to prepare someone for how much nothing there was out here. The dash lights up briefly, so he presses the receiving button, “This is the front.” Hound sounded tired, which in all honesty, he was. It was hard to sleep the last two weeks, just anticipating today, “Uh, Hound, the airlocks to our suits have deactivated. This part of the plan?” Breakdown sounded outright anxious and the twins were yelling obnoxiously in the background, “Um, yeah, I think so. We were supposed to gain access to them once we got to Jazz’s last coordinates, just in case any kind of recovery could be made.” Even though it had now been years since his disappearance, “Are you sure?” There was something else in his tone other than an anxious tilt, it was more than anxiety and bleeding into worry; “Yeah, but you should all come up here and get strapped in, I don’t want us to get thrown about in whatever Jazz crashed into.” Hound turns off the connection and sighs, checking his watch, Thirteen days, twenty three hours, and five minutes since they left Earth.

Slowly, the others made their way back into the main capsule. Though the twins had both gone through the tubes to their mechs, only to discover they hadn’t gained full access yet. They were still bickering of course, but it had quieted down when Breakdown pulled communications back up with Earth. It was hard, to sit in the dark and quiet space, just waiting to see if there was anything out here of their fallen friend. For the moment, with the movement of everything in the last five years, there was nothing in site other than distant Mars. They all fell silent as the minutes ticked by to the two week mark, to the very moment that Jazz had gone missing. Five years to the moment, Hound cues up the microphone, “Command there is nothing out here for the moment, next report, five minutes.” Sunstreaker sighs slowly, loosening his hold on his seat, “I didn’t know what to expect.” Nodding, Sideswipe clears his throat, “Maybe some aliens but not nothing.” They fell quiet as the seconds ticked by, before the very moment Jazz officially went off radar hit. Breakdown gulp, Hound swore quiet, Sunstreaker held his breath, and Sideswipe clutched at a chain around his neck.

—

They all stared at nothing.

Five minutes till next report, in five minutes they’d send another report to Earth that would have a twenty minute turn around. Their current report hadn’t even reached Mecha command, let alone NASA. They were entirely alone out here so if anything did go wrong, it was just them and their locked mechs.

The locks disengaged distantly as a precaution set on a fixed timer.

Five minutes could feel like forever while they waited, it was the anticipation of it all, right?

—

Every instrument in the shuttle flashed bright as they hit, something. The front window lighting up a bright, green? Before they were re-introduced to a dense gravity, slamming into the base of their seats; “Everyone to your suits, now!” Hound was tearing off his seatbelt and getting to his feet as quickly as he could. Stumbling over the shift in gravitational pull. Breakdown was trying to get the shuttle operational system back online. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe stumble out of their seats and throw themselves at the airlock, tugging on it the best they can.

“It’s stuck!” Sideswipe tugs at the emergency handle, Sunstreaker joining in to try to get it open. “Move!” Hound grabs the emergency handle and pulls as hard as he can, getting it to move just enough for them to slip through. Sideswipe was the first one through the door, pulling Hound through next and taking off towards the suits.

The entire shuttle shock violently, the metal heating up rapidly, wherever they were, it seemed they were entering an atmosphere. Sunstreaker fell across the cargo bay hold, sliding towards his suit’s tunnel, “Shit!” He crashed into one of the tables as the whole shuttle tilted.

Hound was the first through his tunnel and into his now unlocked mech, climbing into the piloting chamber while pulling off the top half of his spacesuit. Assisting suit folded in the command chair, system still shut down, he pulls himself into the command seat, “Come on, we’ve gotta survive whatever this is, yeah?” He pulls the visor on first and boots up the suit.

Comms were one of the first things to come online, Sideswipe coming online at the same time as Breakdown was reporting from the shuttle. Everything was heating up as they were dragged towards the surface of somewhere.

“How the hell did we go from being in the middle of no where to being dragged to the surface of a planetoid?” Sunstreaker shrieks as he too comes online, “I have no idea but get ready to brace for impact, alright? We don’t know where we are or how we got here, but we’ve got to focus on landing safely. One of you is going to deploy with me and the other is going to help Breakdown land the shuttle.” Hound was quick to finish his set up in the suit and disconnect from the shuttle, shifting into awareness like the suit was a second skin.

“I call it!” Sunstreaker was quick to deploy too, still setting up his suit though, “Jerk! Alright Breakdown, I’m with you.” His own mech shifting about to help guide the shuttle into not only a more gentle landing but to protect Breakdown’s own suit. If they lost a suit out here they would never stand a chance against the alien’s if there were more than what attacked in the battle of the Atlantic. If they really were going to get to the place where they were originating from, they’d need all four suits operating at their peak capacity.

Hound and Sunstreaker were in a free fall, integrating completely with the system, adjusting their assistance suits on or over their space suits quickly while adjusting the systems to the shift in gravity.

When you were in a suit, it wasn’t like you were actually in a suit, it was as if you became a bigger metal version of yourself. Every pilot would talk about feeling the most themselves when in their suit, feeling at home, but being at home wasn’t quiet the right description, it was like feeling at home in your own skin for the first time. Added joints or an advanced vision, none of that took away from the feeling of being a bigger version of yourself. It was natural, it was just who you were once you were found compatible with the technology.

It was hot, the decent towards the surface. They were all hurdling towards the planet with no idea of where they were, how they got there, or how they’d get back to their planned mission route.

———

A/N:

Again, lol. Alright! Part three done, part four anyone? It’s funny cause I started to write this with of course keferon’s inspo for the Mecha AU, but my sister and I talk about their art and AU’s all the time. So this was at first me writing down our ideas and I’ve just… expanded.

I desperately wanted to include my OC originally, but decided against it cause ew. If they pop up it will be like, a bit piece for myself, but I’m still undecided yet.

Thank you for reading it and I hope you continue to enjoy it!

Also tagging those who re-blogged it so they can find the next part.

@lunarlei68 @whirlywhirlygig @loop-hole-319 @pixill-jesters-reblogs @pixillandjester

Also would love @keferon to see it but who knows, I know everyone be blowing up their blog with their amazing writing and art too.

[irate-iguana]

Sorry, but we’re burying your girlfriend alive. Yeah, she decided that the laws of Zeus take precedence over the laws of the state. Your father’s trapping her in a cave in punishment for giving her brother a burial. I mean, you can try to talk him out of it, but good luck. So sorry.

[raichett]

that fucking desert is basically the third member of the scarian polycule at this point

[thepsychopompsthrenody]

desolation row has been done to death but i just wanted frank caps

last gif--no frank, but also no cops at pride

caps from the music video for desolation row covered by my chemical romance for the Watchmen movie (2009)

[fizzymilkcan]

Side profile practice or smthn idk

[korrasamibottles]

Lost focus and had a consensual workplace relationship

[swiggity-swexual-i-am-asexual]

DPxDC media story prompt

Okay first off, this sort of thing has been done before, but here’s a different version involving Jazz Fenton.

Popular in DPxDC fanfic is that the GIW have a media blackouts—or whiteouts, there’s kind of a difference, where whiteouts work more like… there is a file, but you can’t edit it or it may be locked out for certain users, or an edited version of events where things are ‘whited out’ like with correction paste, among other definitions.

Point is!

The GIW have a media restriction, and among these is social media, probably with certain words or phrases pinging to location restrict the post. There was probably a phase for a while where the A-Listers tried to get around it, but ultimately failed, and since they could only get information IN rather than information OUT, and possibly still a limited amount of outside information in the first place, social media didn’t take off as much in Amity Park than in other places in the world. There’s still a small local presence, but at this point it’s almost like a city wide chat room than actual social media.

Enter in, Jazz Fenton. She’s chronically behind on trends, so by the time she decides to get on social media, the GIW aren’t being as militant on it. And she has that habit of calling the ghosts by code names instead of their actual names, such as Crate Creep instead of The Box Ghost, or Ghost X instead of Skulker. By pure coincidence of her personal language use and Tucker messing with all of Team Phantom’s phone locaters for easier excuse giving, Jazz manages to dodge all the word censors.

She accidentally creates a whole online story community convinced it’s some kind of altered reality game or role playing game, what have you. Meanwhile, Jazz is letting off steam by ranting online with, of course, made up names of all the people involved. She doesn’t even notice the numbers, and that’s assuming the GIW didn’t just—region lock the ability to see them for whatever reason. The few Amity Parkers on social medias see Jazz, maybe look at a complaint post or two, then move on because this isn’t even an unusual video inside Amity Park’s social media sphere.

Heck, PHANTOM has a social media presence and he’s done several rant videos too! One particularly famous one is him complaining about keeping his boots and gloves white while being chased and one of the GIW agents actually stops and gives him advice before shooting at him again.

Those outside Amity Park, of course, only see Jazz’s videos. And she has no idea that she has an entire online presence and mild amounts of online fame. And again, almost everyone thinks the whole thing is just a fun little game, if oddly detailed.

Until, that is, a certain young man by the name of Bernard comes in. One of the few who are totally convinced this is real, he tries to also convince his boyfriend—Timothy Drake-Wayne. Who, in turn, finds it incredibly suspicious that it’s this hard to get news and posts from one random town in the Midwest.

[random-jot]

I got that dog in me.

The dog:

[pidges-lost-robot]

*Keith and Shiro are splitting off from the team*

*Lance catches Keith's arm*

Lance: Hey, uh, be safe

Keith:... We will

*Shiro and Keith head off*

Pidge cradling Hunk's face: Be safe...

Hunk dramatically: I'll be so safe

Lance: Will you guys stop?-

Hunk: I'll be safe... for you

Lance:.... I'm gonna kill you

Pidge, still dramatically: But how would that keep us safe?