#hopefully it was worth the wait

[cdelphiki]

Jason and the Three Terrors, Chapter 76

the normal tumblr link thing is not working, so here is the new chapter!

Here's an excerpt:

Mara frowned deeply, and almost looked like she was going to start up again as she said, “But they’re not. You’re not really my brother. You’re just pretending.” Jason sat back on his heels, and gave Mara a long look. He, uh. He hadn’t told the girls about what Damian found out, had he… “Uh, Mara,” Jason said slowly, “Did Damian tell you what your grandfather told him about me?”

read on ao3

[basicallyjaywalker]

Trying To Make Something Out of Clay

It only took me getting back at school to finish editing this! I am not kidding good grief

Anyways! At long last @cboffshore I deliver you: JAY! my specialty

Prompt: Jay, Look Who’s Inside Again by Bo Burnham, eagle, fastidious, pardon, clay, separation, earthquake, and protest

AO3 Link

Fic also under the cut!

Pottery classes wouldn’t have been Jay’s first idea for a birthday gift to himself, but he could never dodge his mother’s chipper voice in his head. 

Coupons! They’re like an excuse to do things. Always keep your eyes out for the real deals… From there, she’d go into a spiel about good versus bad deals, ones designed to make you spend money rather than save it, and eventually that would develop into discussions of unit prices and store brands and what-have-you about “mother’s know-how.” 

All that to say, when the coupon came in for “Free Pottery Lessons!” with the purchase of a starter pack, Jay knew how to calculate the value. Cost was the starter pack, lessons would cover all of the basics of pottery, he would be able to make more cool gifts for his friends and family… worth it. Plus, the studio said once he finished his lessons, he was still welcome to come back and use their equipment to mold and fire the clay. Plus plus, if he decided he didn’t like it, he could always use the clay and tools in the starter kit for another project. No matter what, there wasn’t a way to lose! His mom would be so proud. 

And that was how he ended up sitting in front of a clay-stained table, almost a month after his birthday, sculpting. Now Nya’s birthday was coming up and he was making her a seagull figurine. Unfortunately, they hadn’t gotten to the “figurine” part in his basics classes, so Jay was having to wing it with what he knew. However, what he knew seemed to be very lumpy and not very gull-like. 

He frowned, examining the vaguely bird-shaped lump of clay on the table. Its legs were short and thick, holding the uneven, bulbous body up off the table. Jay had thought he made wings, but they seemed to be lost within the sinking mass. The head was little more than a drooping oval, the end of which molded into the torso much too high up (or maybe this gull's neck was just in the middle of its spine). 

… Yeah, he couldn’t pass this off as a seagull. He could barely pass it off as a bird. Maybe he should just make Nya something else.

 Just as he reached to put his tools up, the studio door opened behind him and he spun around to see his teacher, Kat, in her clay stained apron.

“Ah, pardon me,” She smiled at him and raised her hand in a wave, it was stained reddish orange, “just grabbin’ somethin’ for my next group. Whatcha makin’?”

“Something for Nya,” Jay said, trying to shield the misshapen heap from her view. The light-up grin on Kat’s face told him he failed. 

“What a lovely turtle! I’m sure she’ll love it.”

“It’s supposed to be a seagull.”

“Oh.” 

Jay sighed. “Yeah, we’re not quite there yet.”

“Well,” she clapped her hands together, sending a few splatters of rust-colored clay flying, ”trust the process! It’ll turn out swell, I’m sure. Do you need a reference?”

“That might help,” was what he said out loud. What he thought was, I know what a seagull looks like. I don’t think looking at another one is going to help. Still, he managed to hold his tongue. As much as he liked Kat, some days, her teaching just bugged him. She always went on about “the process.” Trust the process! Everything looks bad until it’s done! Sometimes, it even looks bad after, it’s just the artist's way. 

As she left the room, Jay continued ruminating on that idea. Trust the process. He stared at the ugly lump on his table. He wasn’t sure “the process” could save this one. Still, he supposed giving it a try was better than giving up. 

Frowning, he tried to fix the head, adding some clay to make it rounder, more… sharp? Less like a turtle. A few globs there, a dab here, some shaping… hey! Now that was a seagull. The legs could use some carving, but they were sleeker now; he could actually make out the shape of wings in the blobby body, and the neck wasn’t coming out of the middle of the spine! Jay could almost envision the thing trying to steal his french fries on the beach, as long as he was squinting really, really hard. Slowly, he drew his hands away.

Immediately, the head drooped and detached from the rest of the body.

“Oh, come on!” Jay exclaimed just as Kat walked back in and interrupted what was about to be a long string of words about the clay, gravity, and the concept of seagulls in general. In her hands she cradled a majestic gull perched on a rock, caught mid-caw.

“This is from one of our old students. She left it here and never came back, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you used it as reference.”

“Thanks.” Jay took the figurine and examined it. It was a simple shape, lots of round circles, and some small details for the wings and feet. It looked easy enough to make. Looked being the keyword. 

Kat looked at the self-decapitated bird and tilted her head. “Fix-it attempt gone horribly, horribly wrong?”

He nodded, pursing his lips. 

“You’ll get it,” she said, spirited as ever, “it just takes some time to master, y’know? New skills and all that.”

He nodded again. She’d told him the same thing during his first few lessons, when the teacup he tried to make for Master Wu ended up looking more like a soup bowl made by an avant-garde artiste. He knew she was right, it was just the way learning went, but it didn’t stop the nagging irritation he felt staring at the pathetic pile of muddy material in front of him. 

“I’ve gotta get my next class started, lemme know if you need anything else.”

One last nod and Kat was gone, leaving him alone again. Jay sat down and continued to stare at the distended body. He placed his new reference next to it and felt the minute bit of confidence that sprouted from his forming gull fly away. 

Maybe he could pass his off as a seagull that went through a tsunami or earthquake. Then again, that felt a little too morbid. Maybe a mutant seagull, left alive to propagate his species after a nuclear apocalypse wiped out the rest, save for him and the perfect specimen sat beside him, a symbol of a simpler time? 

No, that was too far-fetched. 

Sighing, Jay figured his best way out was to start from scratch. He pushed the majestic reference gull out of the blast radius before slamming his fist down on his failure. The wet clay gave easily under the force, body and head merging into one flat, knuckle-imprinted puddle. Jay knew it wasn’t necessary—and rather messy—to do it this way, but it allowed him some sort of catharsis. That alone made it worth the bit of splash onto his apron and face. 

Now, he could start again. 

His hands started to shape the clay, eyes focused on the reference as he tried to imitate the product in front of him. He didn’t need the rock, just the bird. That was enough of a change to keep it from being plagiarism, right? Could you plagiarize a clay sculpture?

As he worked, his mind wandered. Initially, it was just about the concept of plagiarism and if copying the reference counted. He was pretty sure he watched a video recently on that. Could one plagiarize an artstyle the same way they plagiarized research? Then it moved to the feeling of the clay. It squished under his hands like mud, but held like a sand castle. He used to build sand castles in his yard, when he was too young to help his parents build their various projects. His mom would give him a water bottle and tell him his job was to make a palace for the nearby ants to live in. Jay took his job very seriously, working fastidiously far after his parents went inside and even when Edna tried to call him in for dinner. He never truly mastered the art, despite various attempts to mimic the grandiose castles he saw in the storybooks his father used to lull him to sleep. His castles always ended up a solid mound. No doors, no windows, and definitely no rooms where the creatures nearby could rest. 

Well, that little memory didn’t bode well for this project. 

Jay clenched his jaw and forced himself to focus on the task at hand, but still his thoughts swirled about his head like a storm. He was good at so many things, how come castles and seagulls outsmarted him? He was an inventor, for First’s sake! Sure, he fell out of practice recently, but he’d done it his whole life! Surely no one loses skills that fast, right? All his years of practice should amount to something, should translate to making a clay bird? But wires and gears and cogs were so much different than clay. They were rigid, fixed. They fit together like pieces of a puzzle and always worked as intended. They were predictable. Clay wasn’t like that. It morphed not only under the weight of its creator’s hands, but under its own. Sometimes, it held its shape perfectly, strong like a tree in a storm. Other times, as Jay experienced over his time learning to sculpt pots and cups, it drooped or flattened or folded itself over like a cloud rolling over the horizon. Capricious, that’s the word he would use to describe it. Clay was capricious.

Okay, maybe inventing wasn’t his best comparison. He rifled through his skills toolbox again. An art form would serve better as a comparison. Painting? Paints could be difficult too. When he first started learning, driven by the small pieces his father used to make of the night sky, he hated it. The paints always turned to a muddy mess on his canvases, leading him to ruin more than one still-wet attempt by throwing it into the sand. He only got the hang of it after sitting down with his dad one day, both of them looking to capture a gorgeous eagle that landed in their junkyard. It was rare to see them in the Sea of Sands, as they preferred the shores of Ninjago more, but here this one was, perched on a pile of scrap his dad pulled out for a project the day before. At first, Jay didn’t understand why his dad had a sketchbook and pencil out or why he took a picture of the bird. Instead, Jay went straight to trying to capture its glossy feathers and curved beak, only to be vexed when the browns and whites he was using merged into one murky beige. He tried to fix it, but the problem only worsened until, with a yell, he scribbled over the whole thing in black. The commotion frightened the bird away, which only served to heighten Jay’s frustration. Great. Great! The bird was gone. Now he had to remember what it looked like to try and paint it again. 

That was when his father picked up his painting, examining the mess he made. He commented on how they would have to repurpose the canvas for something else and Jay felt a hot flush of shame hit his cheeks. He apologized for his outburst, but his dad just patted his head and sat with him. He explained how painting wasn’t just about putting paint on the canvas, but how you needed a sketch to start with so you could have an idea of how to make the picture by hand, how to plan your layers so your colors wouldn’t all mix, and how to control your brush so there were no stray bumps in the smooth lines. Jay still didn’t fully get it, but this time he actually finished the painting. It was rough, looking closer to a pigeon than an eagle, but it was dry and not covered in sand. His dad hung it up in their living room. 

Maybe Jay could draw on his painting skills. Paint was finicky, often felt like it had a mind of its own. Surely, there was something within this childhood memory that could help him out now?

Splat.

The noise roused Jay from his thoughts. In his daydreaming, he’d pulled the neck of the gull out too thin and the head—which was just a little bead at the end of the spaghetti string—now drooped on the table. 

Dammit. 

Jay squished the horror noodle back into the body and checked his watch. The place closed in an hour. He’d made no progress. His deadline wasn’t imminent (Nya’s birthday wasn’t for another few weeks) but it still weighed heavy on his mind. He wanted to get something done today, before Kat asked him to clean up. There was no telling when an attack on Ninjago might drag him away from this, swallowing his time and bringing the date closer and closer until he was forced to rush the project to completion.

Change of plans. He wasn’t good at sculpting, but he wasn’t willing to switch to painting. He was going to make the most of this studio and his work so far. He was good at engineering. He stared at the clay. This gull wasn’t a sculpture, it was a… a machine! Like Zane’s Falcon. Yeah, he could work with that.

First step of the process, separate the parts. Separation was easy, since the limbs of this bird seemed intent on breaking apart. There was the head, the wings, the feet, the torso… he could break those down further! The head had eyes, a beak, feathers on top? Little hairs? Whatever. The point was, he could break it down. He could maybe get somewhere with that.

What next? He had the parts, now he had to figure out how they fit together. The bird needed a base, otherwise its feet would be too small for its body (or alternatively, to support itself its feet would need to be comically large, which must’ve been why the original had a rock base). Then, the torso rested on the feet. The wings then melded to the torso, becoming almost part of it. The head was connected by the neck, which needed to be enough to set it apart from the body, but not too long and skinny that it would fall. That’s where his issue was. The first-forsaken neck. Solve that, he solved the whole thing.

Maybe he was a genius. Maybe he’d finally cracked the code! …Okay, maybe he already knew that was the problem, but breaking it down helped! The storm in his brain calmed and he could focus his attention on the task at hand: fixing this stupid bird before Kat—

“Hey, Jay!”

Are you kidding me?

Kat bounded over, her apron, arms, and even parts of her face stained orangish brown with clay. She grinned from ear to ear as she settled back into her spot across from Jay. “How’s it going?”

“Eh, fine. I’m just trying to figure out how to make the neck work.” He sighed and rolled his eyes. “I can’t figure out how to make it look like a neck, y’know? Like… How do birds even function? I know their necks aren’t super complicated, but it’s like I put the head on and it all goes splat!”

“Have you been using an armature?” 

“...what?” 

Kat burst into giggles. “You’ve not been using an armature this entire time? It’s what helps the clay keep its shape. You’ve been freeballing it?”

“I didn’t know!” Jay protested. This whole time he’d been missing a key part of the body—robotic, flesh, or clay—skeleton! Muscles! That’s why the stupid bird kept self-decapitating! It had no bones! How hadn’t I realized?!

Kat leaned over, examining the bird while Jay’s face cycled through shades of red. “Well, in that case, as an act of freestanding feathered figurine formation, you haven’t done a half bad job.” She held her hand out. “And if you can come back tomorrow, I’ll show you how to make a wire armature. Then, we can get you going on this project, for real this time. Deal?”

“I’ll try to make it.” Jay sighed and held his hand out, still covered in clay. “Deal.”

After a messy handshake, Jay washed, put away his tools, gathered his things, and left. The late afternoon sun hung lazily above the horizon, not ready to dip fully out of sight, leaving the sky a brilliant, cloudless azure. The golden light reflected off the lush zelkova trees that lined the sidewalk outside, turning the leaves chartreuse. Crickets chirped quietly at their feet and in their branches, warming up for their song later in the evening. Other than that, the streets were quiet. Warm rays hit his face and he sighed. In the distance, he could smell something cooking, maybe a barbecue in the residential area a few blocks over? His stomach growled. It really was time for him to head home.

Tomorrow, he’d come back and make an armature. Then, that stupid bird would finally come into form. 

All things considered, Jay figured he made good on that coupon. Free figurine lessons! And he didn’t even have to buy a second kit. Plus, something about working, letting his thoughts roam free… Jay wasn’t sure what it was, but he was excited to go back there soon, and there wasn’t much more to say about that.

[quibble-auk]

@thebrokenmechanicalpencil

Another look into Echo’s head. He is smth else tbh. I feel like in this blurb Echo feels like a different character, he’s not I swear. He’s just ticked off. Buddy wants to go shoot people because it’s what he’s good at but Dropmix says no.

So he’s just snarkier than normal. And kinda manipulative.

Oh I also had to split this in two because it was getting long and I didn’t want to write them walking.

—

Echo moved through the empty corridors toward the medical bay, his doorwings twitching with each step in a barely noticeable rhythm. It was a familiar pattern, subtle enough that most wouldn't notice—just a slight flick with every pace—but other Praxians always caught it. And for reasons he didn’t fully understand, it annoyed the hell out of them.

They said it was like sending out false signals. Misleading. Disruptive. As if he was doing it on purpose.

Echo wasn’t. At least, not usually.

Rumbleclutch, though not a Praxian himself, had grown up on Praxis. He spoke the language of doorwings well enough to know what was and wasn’t deliberate. And like the rest of them, he found the constant twitching insufferable.

So Echo had learned to save it—this indulgent little habit—for when no one was around. When the base was quiet and his wings could speak in peace.

Like now.

The majority of the base's personnel had been sent off to aid in a firefight by the border. To no one’s surprise, they had told Echo to stay behind and guard the base instead of helping in the battle. Still on full medical leave, apparently. Dropmix hadn’t cleared him for fieldwork yet, which meant Echo was stuck filing reports, rotating between boring shifts on the security monitors, and very pointedly not testing the capabilities of his replacement joints, or struts, or pedes, or anything.

Echo shuddered at the thought, he had nearly had everything replaced. Dropmix had tried to explain to him that replacing the parts that the Decepticons had replaced for him was essential. They could be faulty, or be bugged. Unfortunately, that meant Dropmix had basically taken Echo apart all over again. Though this time the small blue mech got to be asleep during the process. Which was nice.

The sharpshooter shook his head, he really shouldn’t think like that. About what had happened. He stopped in the middle of the hallway, doorwings falling still as he glared at nothing in particular. How had he gotten to that topic again? He had been thinking about something important, he was going to the medical bay for a reason. Echo frowned, wings drooping as he tried to recall why he had gotten on the topic of Sunrazor.

Another moment passed before Echo snapped and smiled. He was thinking about how annoying it was to be stuck on medical leave. The blue mech continued his walk through the familiar hallways, wings returning to their fun bounce. Dropmix had him on a special kind of medical leave, Echo still had jobs, like filing reports and…

He flared his plating in irritation as he rounded the corner.

Security duty sucked.

It was boring. His entire job was to sit and wait for something to happen, but he didn’t even know what he was supposed to be looking for. How was he going to find it when they didn’t give him clear directions? And it was way too easy for him to get distracted thinking about other things, like when he would get to see Tempestrift again or if Saberfire would try and host another movie night.

Moral of the story—they had taken him off of security.

His wings flicked harder at that thought as he stopped in front of the medical bay doors. He paused, taking a moment to smooth his posture and calm the twitching. His bobbing wings finally came to a halt as he stared at the metal door that loomed ahead, sterile and silent.

Jeopardy had pinged him earlier, asking for help. And since Echo wasn’t exactly drowning in critical responsibilities, he’d agreed. Better than staring at blank monitors for another cycle.

The doors slid open with a soft hiss, and Echo stepped into the familiar brightness of the medbay. The lights were harsh as always—white enough to make the blank, sterile walls glow. Music drifted from the various speakers around the wing just like it always did—Echo had only heard it silent in here once before, and that had been when Dropmix had left to go offer support for a neighboring outpost.

The main ward was clearly in prep mode. Cots lined the walls. Equipment lay neatly on trays. Cabinets sat open in mid-stock, and between them moved Dropmix—quiet, efficient, imposing.

The medic’s hulking frame shifted with practiced ease, pulling supplies, sorting instruments, navigating tight corners with a grace that shouldn’t have belonged to someone his size. But Echo had seen the cracks in that grace before. The slight hitches in his joints. The occasional stumble. Little tells that age was creeping in.

Not today, though. Today, Dropmix looked sharp and steady.

He turned, catching Echo’s arrival, and offered a small, tired smile. “Ah. Wasn’t expecting you.”

Echo rolled his eyes and let his wings flick lazily upward. He quickly scanned the room for Jeopardy—his search was unsuccessful. He fiddled with the latch of a small compartment on his waist. Echo’s gaze shifted to Dropmix, he returned the older’s smile with more challenge, “You’re the one keeping me on medical leave.”

The dark medic shrugged casually, still smiling softly as he turned back to sorting instruments. “Fair enough. Need something in particular? Nothing’s causing problems, right?”

“Nah, everything is running perfectly,” Echo shook his head, once again casting a glance around the room. For a moment he almost tried to use his wing sensors to see if he could pick up where Jeopardy may have been—though he was quickly reminded by the numb feeling in his wings that his sensors were currently disabled. “I’m looking for the mini-you, he sent a message asking if I could do him a favor. Any idea where he may be?”

“A favor, huh?” Dropmix huffed, squinting down at a bottle of something for a moment. “Should be in room three, knock first,” The medic frowned and then tossed the small bottle in the nearest waste bin.

Echo watched the throw, running his middle finger over his thumb absently. Impressively Dropmix had managed to make it in despite the bin being halfway across the room. The blue mech whistled low, his wings twisting upwards as he teased the other, “Nice shot. I’ve gotta watch out for you, my position as sniper might be at risk if Rumbleclutch sees your skills.”

Dropmix shook his head, looking at Echo with a raised brow. He almost looked unimpressed, though the small smile begged to differ, “I’m pretty sure that would be a demotion.”

The Praxian paused, snickering to himself, his wings flicked upwards again, fluttering gently as he grinned. “Alright, well, I should go see what Jeopardy wants. Wouldn’t want to keep the baby Doc waiting.”

Echo didn’t wait to see Dropmix’s reaction, instead he turned sharply on his heel and headed for the side room. As he walked, his pace slowed just a little. The hallway was short, but something about the moment called for a breath. When he reached room three, he paused, his hand resting on the doorframe for a brief moment. He lifted his arm and knocked lightly, a single tap on the metal.

The faint sound of shifting came from inside, and then the voice Echo had been half-expecting.

"Come in."

Echo stepped inside with fluid grace, wings tucked neatly and shoulders relaxed. The lighting here was softer—dimmer than the medbay, but still functional. A contrast that made it feel less clinical, more like a recovery room.

Jeopardy sat by a berth, half-buried in a pile of blankets with a datapad in one hand and a bright look on his face. His other arm was still awkwardly wrapped in a bumble of blue fabric, though he didn’t seem to mind the odd angle.

“You’re just in time,” Jeopardy chirped, grinning. “He just woke up.”

The blue mech blinked, wings lifting upwards slightly as he processed Jeopardy’s words. Slowly, Echo’s attention shifted to the blue mass of blanket on the bed. He narrowed his eyes, squinting at the form until it clicked. The pile of blankets looked familiar. Blue. Lumpy. Unmoving.

It had to be the one mech he had given the small figest toy too earlier in the week. Echo’s jaw tightened as he squinted at the mech, he had always been better at faces than names. But the pale green mech had an interesting name, it had caught Echo off guard the first time he heard it. It had to do with some celestial object, Stellar? Astro-something? Solar maybe? Meteor—not meteor, comet.

Cometeater.

He had almost completely forgotten about the awkward interaction from just a few days ago. It wasn’t an unpleasant experience, but by far his less favorite conversation of the week. Granted, that day had generally sucked so maybe that was why he didn’t look upon the memory fondly. But Cometeater had just not given him anything to work with, he had sat quietly almost the entire time just… watching.

Echo looked at the pile of blue blankets, expecting to see Cometeater’s face to pop out at any moment. The mass didn’t move though.

Jeopardy tapped the datapad against his leg, still smiling—something too innocent and hopeful in his eyes. “We moved all his stuff to my room for now. The medbay’s gonna be packed soon and we need the space. I was wondering if you could, you know, show him around a bit?”

The Praxian couldn't help but flex his fingers as he realized what he was really being asked to do. Babysit. Jeopardy wanted him to babysit a mech that was perfectly capable of functioning as an adult—at least from what he had gathered. Echo stared at the blanket lump, then back at Jeopardy. Echo tilted his head, expression flattening. “You want me to babysit him.”

“No! No!” Jeopardy waved a hand, then immediately glanced nervously at the blankets. “I mean—not really. Just keep him company. Show him the rec room, maybe the dining hall. I’m pretty sure there are some old games on the third floor that you could check out. Just let him get familiar with the place while it’s quiet.”

The pale green mech stirred, saying something, though it was muttered and slurred enough that Echo had no hope in deciphering what he was trying to say. The Praxian just awkwardly stared as Jeopardy slowly pulled his arm out of the blankets. “I know you don’t need a babysitter. Echo’s not babysitting you. Most of the base is off-site right now. I’d love to go with you, but I can’t just leave Dropmix hanging.”

Cometeater blinked, eyes half-lidded and groggy, but slowly starting to focus. He sat up with the sluggish resistance of someone who had been asleep for far too long. Or someone who didn’t really want to be awake at all. He muttered something else—Echo once again had no clue what he said—but Jeopardy smiled brightly, helping his friend get untangled from the blanket.

“Yeah, we gotta get you out of here so we can have more space, there's a battle at the nearby border. That's where everyone usually is.” The young medic stood up, tucking the datapad under an arm. The medic then motioned to the Praxian, “Echo usually goes with them, but he's not cleared for battle yet… Or combat. Which includes sparring and training so please don’t do anything stupid.”

The pale green mech made a faint, noncommittal sound in response—something between a groan and a hum—and shifted again, his limbs unfolding slowly like he was afraid the world might shatter if he moved too quickly. Echo watched with an expression that danced the line between unimpressed and vaguely horrified. He wasn’t sure if Cometeater was just that lethargic, or if Jeopardy had actually dragged him straight out of recharge for this.

The kid was scrawny enough that he could probably use the extra sleep, and a couple energon cubes. Echo narrowed his eyes as the pale mech slowly stood. Seriously, was Jeopardy and Dropmix not feeding him? He seemed way too thin to be healthy, even if his alt mode was something light.

Or maybe he had just channeled all of his mass and energy into becoming tall. It wasn’t like Echo wasn’t used to being towered over—he hung out with Leoblast and Tempestrift, both of which were big—but he was kind of tired of hardly reaching a younger bot’s shoulder. He was a solid head and a half below Jeopardy’s shoulder and Cometeater wasn’t much different.

Echo’s fingers twisted at his sides, fingers flexing against his plating as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

Cometeater finally straightened to his full height, frame swaying slightly like he wasn’t quite used to standing on solid ground yet. His optics flicked toward Echo, dull blue and unreadable. He blinked once. Twice. Then looked away again, as if Echo was just another fixture in the room—like the ceiling fan or the wall-mounted scanner. Not worth reacting to.

Jeopardy, blissfully unaware or choosing to pretend he didn’t notice the awkward tension already forming, beamed at them both. “Alright! You two go get settled, maybe grab something from the rec hall. I’ve got to finish the prep with Dropmix.”

He gave Cometeater a quick pat on the arm—Echo noted the way Cometeater didn’t flinch, but also didn’t respond—and then he was gone, out the door with a cheery hum.

The silence he left behind was immediate and oppressive.

Echo stared at Cometeater. Cometeater stared at the floor.

The Praxian shuffled his posture a bit, wings flicking and fingers flexing again as he tried to think of something they could do. He doubted that Comet would really want to play games. Or talk. Or do much of anything actually. But Echo couldn’t do that, he needed to do something to keep his mind from what his friends were dealing with right now. The idea that he may not get to see them again or get the chance of being there in their final moments. All because he was stuck on base, not allowed to do anything.

No training, no simulations, no sparring, nothing physically taxing.

But Echo needed to move, he had to. Usually, when he got antsy like this while on medical leave he could at least go to the shooting range. But Dropmix didn’t want him to put his joints under any unnecessary stress while he adjusted to their replacements. Jeopardy had disabled his code to get into the gun lockers. Which was lame, he didn’t need to be babied by the baby of the base.

Cometeater presented an interesting development though. He probably had a code to get to the gun lockers, or at least a key card for the base. Was it morally wrong to use Cometeacter like this? Probably. No, most definitely. He would be pissed if someone did this to him. But he's had a terrible week and he really needed to do something other than sit, walk around the base, and file reports. Maybe punishing a couple targets would finally put him in a better mood, something less broody.

And he was still showing Cometeater around.

Jeopardy didn’t need to know where.

Echo cleared his throat, a light click echoing in his vocalizer as he made a decision. His fingers traced a transformation seam on his thigh as he looked at the mostly unresponsive mech before him. "Shooting range," he said flatly, already turning toward the door. "If you're going to be stuck here with me, might as well get some target practice in. You ever been?"

Cometeater didn’t answer at first. Echo glanced back just in time to catch the green mech finally lifting his gaze off the floor to look at him. He didn’t nod. He didn’t shake his head. He just… stared.

Echo huffed, smiling as his wings lifted slightly. "Not much of a talker?"

Still no answer.

The blue mech’s smile fell and his wings drooped. He really wasn’t going to talk to him. Echo turned fully, walking out the door and assuming—maybe hoping—that Cometeater would follow. To his surprise, there was the shuffle of feet as the taller mech trailed behind him without a word.

Echo would probably feel bad about this later, he definitely would. He was already starting to feel it, but the promise of finally getting to fall back into an old routine was enough motivation to keep him moving forward. He just needed this one break, he could blow off some steam and then go back to his usual patient self.

Echo was just fed up with being forced to wait when the rest of the world got to keep going.

[scribeoffate]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Teen Wolf (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Alicia Boyd & Vernon Boyd, Vernon Boyd & Erica Reyes, Vernon Boyd & Derek Hale Characters: Vernon Boyd, Alicia Boyd, Vernon Boyd's Mother, Vernon Boyd’s Father, Lydia Martin, Erica Reyes, Derek Hale, Laura Hale Additional Tags: Canonical Character Death, Angst, Suicidal Thoughts, Episode: s02e03 Ice Pick (Teen Wolf TV), Episode: s03e06 Motel California (Teen Wolf TV), Episode: s03e07 Currents (Teen Wolf TV), Pre-Canon Summary:

Six times Vernon Boyd misses his sister. (No plus one.)

[ancient-pokehistorian]

[ puzzle ] from bri, for pascale!

PROMPTS FOR ORDINARY THINGS THAT FEEL INTIMATE (open still, somehow) [ puzzle ] sender helps receiver solve/put together a puzzle

"I can't believe I found this when I went ruin-hunting with a friend's grad students a weeks ago." Pascale's was warm, laced with an undeniable excitement as she set the object down on the table between her and Bri.

Although she handled it like it was made of glass, the box seemed remarkably durable. Though clearly aged, there were few dents and even fewer scratches in the still vivid violet exterior. At first glance, it seemed to be a solid block of an object, but the knowing look in the ancient queen's eyes as she slid into her chair said otherwise.

"Your grandfather gave this to me shortly after I came to Kalos for my wedding. It's a puzzle box, but with nothing to push or turn. But, if you move in the right pattern..." Pascale demonstrated by running two fingers horizontally across the top of the box. Where she touched, the color darkened to black, then turned silver, but when she pulled her fingers towards her, it quickly faded back to violet.

"I remember that first step, across the top. But I never did manage to get it opened. What do you make of it?"

[slicing-clovers]

DERREN FELT his gaze turn to the wall, a finger curled before his mouth as he weighed her words. Tanith needing to keep from the cold was a given, for sure, but any more than one heater did seem a bit much...

On the other hand, the sensation of Tanith gently laying her head at his shoulder definitely wasn't. He took that as a good sign, especially when he felt his own breaths easing more.

"Well, I'd wager it would be," he found himself chuckling back, "but it's your call, as to whether it'd be comfortable for you. Still, yeah... just one would already be fine enough for both of us, huh?" Getting one wouldn't be so difficult, really, especially if they looked for the smaller varieties at a nearby store.

He gingerly took another sip of his tea, feeling that it was significantly cooler now. He already heard enough of Tanith's complaints about fall and winter to know she wasn't exactly anticipating it. As such, he wanted to do his best to make sure she remained comfortable— refreshments included, of course. That did also remind him...

"Hmmm... maybe I can ask onee-san could recommend any other nice teas for us. I know she's been experimenting with different flavors of coffee lately, too, and she says it's been pretty fun!"

Shedding her skin would come soon with the autumn and winter seasons dropping in with the dry, freezing cold. She was not excited for any of that. She kept herself huddled underneath the blanket, all while Derren had taken the opportunity to snuggle next to her to share that warmth.

For once, she felt less like shivering than before and instinctively brought her head slowly to his shoulder. This felt ... nice.

Perking up for a moment, her ears raised up high, " ... cute? Like, having the heater within my tail?" She asked, laughing to herself. "I, uhm ... there probably are some. Like the rainbow-colored ones that light up! Or like the ones that put on ceiling lights. But just a small one. We only really need the one, anyway ... "

[robo-writing]

Okay, now I need a fic based on the session the reader and Logan has when he was slapped. Like the thought of her passing out and he still continued to fuck her? And her coming too and he’s just pumping her full of his come? Lord have mercy 😩���

me getting this anon while i was knee-deep in writing angst is something so funny to me, crying my eyes out then opening my inbox to see this gave me mental whiplash like you can’t believe He barely sounds human, more man than beast. The weight of him pins you into the bed, unable to move. The creaking of the bed, your weak cries, his downright animalistic grunts of pleasure as he thrusts into your tired, achy cunt—you two sound like a cheap porno, and not in a good way.

You have no one else to blame for the six foot wall of muscle that pins you to the bed, holds your hands behind your back and fucks you like he’s got something to prove. His hips meet your backside again, and again, and again—each thrust leaving your ass raw.

You don’t know how long it’s been since he’s put you on your stomach, and you don’t care to know; all you want is for him to keep going. Hell, you’re not sure Logan would stop even if you begged him.

Reduced to his animal instincts, if he’s not panting in your ear like a bitch in heat he’s mumbling the filthiest fucking words into your skin, tongue lapping at the salt that clings to it.

“Mine, mine, mine,” he groans, each word emphasized by the sound of skin slapping on skin. “My girl, mine to fuck, mine to breed.”

It genuinely hurts to breathe, but all you scratching at his arms does is spur him even further. Eventually you give up, lie back like a good little whore and let him fuck you until either you pass out or he runs out of energy.

Unsurprisingly, option A seems to happen first.

A few spots in your vision, a ringing in your ears, then nothing. An unknown time passes, and you wake up in the same spot as before, spread open and speared on Logan’s magnificent dick.

At least from what you can gather he’s a bit more put together now, still pumping himself inside your warm walls, but much less violent than he was before. You feel the familiar thrum of orgasm on the horizon, an odd sort of pleasure-pain that keeps you aware long enough to listen to your boyfriend speak.

“‘M sorry baby, fuck, just couldn’t stop,” he says, kissing up and down your spine in apology, still chasing after his own high with each word. “Feel too good, so, so good, goddamn—“

He’s stuttering, cutting himself off, unable to string together a full sentence. You chance a glance at him and fuck, he’s a goddamn mess. Sweat dripping from his brow, muscles flexing so hard you could count each vein, a rosey blush running from his face to his chest—he looks like he’s just came from hell and back. Damn near incoherent, whispering sweet nothings into your shoulder—

“Lemme come in you baby, just one more time, one more fuckin’ time—“

It’s a rhetorical question at this point; like you ever had a choice with the way his cum drips from your cunt. So full of him that each thrust pulls more out of you, only to be replaced. He’s had to have cum inside of you multiple times, the sloppy sound of it mixing with the sound of his balls slapping against your ass.

And yet, he keeps on going.

An urge to control, to keep, a need to stuff his cock inside of you and have you know exactly who it is that has your pussy creaming for him.

[littlestormofmess]

my piece for the @aa-spring-swap, some emapollos being rowdy during karaoke night at the cluuubbbbbb for @whomst-yall !! and a little bonus w/ the "afterparty" after the cut !

the prompt mentioned apollo's aparment and i just couldn't resist featuring mikeko sjadj

thank you so much to the mods for organizing this lovely event !!

[bucketsofmonsters]

I have a dragon x princess one shot I'm posting on Sunday that I just finished!! It is fully illustrated by one of my lovely friends and it's Gorgeous so everyone get excited

[councillor-roland]

Roland's choice of words had been rather deliberate. He knew Rhys fairly well by now, knew he liked to keep himself put together and that it was like a kind of armor for him. Well, if they were going to do this and Rhys was really going to hand over control, it seemed only fitting to start with a command like that. The vampire watched attentively as Rhys slowly removed his clothing, the slow striptease almost tantalizing as more skin was revealed. He noticed, of course, when Rhys seemed to hesitate and he was fairly certain it had more to do with the new nature of this particular encounter than any shyness Rhys still had about his body with him. Roland had seen and delighted in it so many times at this point that that would be absurd. He nodded just slightly, his lips quirked up in a slightly smile, encouraging Rhys in a way that had nothing to do with the game and was just the usual support he gave him. Rhys looked away and they resumed their roles again until he was bare before him. Roland raked his eyes over him slowly, drinking in the details he knew so well before he met his gaze again. "It's a start." He mused, a little haughty, and rose imperiously from the chair. He unhooked his cape as that would likely only get in the way and let it fall, leaving him still very much fully clothed but putting more of the sheer shirt he wore on display. In the blink of an eye, he was in front of Rhys, hand on his throat again yanking him towards him into a rough, bruising kiss, practically punching his mouth into Rhys'. It was more tongue and teeth than anything and he let it go on for a long searing moment before he pulled back just as abruptly as he'd started, eyeing Rhys. "Now undress me." He loosened his grip on Rhys' throat and dragged his fingers down his chest and stomach, hard enough to leave red lines but not break the skin. He let his fingers just brush over Rhys' cock, the touch suddenly light, before he removed his hand entirely and waited for the command to be obeyed.

Rhys tried not to dwell on how symbolic the command was. Keeping himself meticulously put together was a constant need for the witch; physically, mentally and emotionally. It was the only way he knew how to be these days. To be ordered to undo part of the illusion was as unnerving as it was alluring. He had mentioned wanting to give control over to someone other than himself for a moment and Roland had accepted such a responsibility very well; Rhys couldn’t fault him in the slightest. He stifled the whine that threatened to leave him as Roland’s grasp tightened around his throat and was fortunately distracted enough by the following shove to get his thoughts in order. It was always far too easy to lose himself entirely to the magnetising allure of Roland’s presence and snapping out of it was always more of a challenge than Rhys anticipated.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself a little further, Rhys obediently followed the order and slowly stripped himself of the various layers, a hint of trepidation slowing his actions as his fingers stilled over the buttons of his waistcoat. It wasn’t as if he had anything to truly be apprehensive about, not in Roland’s company — this wasn’t exactly a rare occurrence, but the new edge to such an atmosphere had Rhys feeling as if it were their first night together all over again. He held Roland’s gaze for a second before averting it once again to the wall behind him, swallowing the last of his reservations and ridding himself of the penultimate line of his physical defence. Gathering what remained of his mental strength, Rhys dragged his gaze back to meet Roland’s own once the last item of clothing was removed and aimed a small smile towards him. “There. That good enough for you?”

[muscariii]

Part 5...

Hello... I am back from the dead after almost two months... <:'3

First of all I'm sorry for just disappearing like that. Lots of stuff was on my head and this semester is very intense. And another thing is that I really wanted to make this part look good.

I was set on making this comic a bit more high quality. Since the previous parts are just. I don't know. I want to make good things. So I colored every page which was a bit tough. But I did it!!

Also!! Thank you for 300 followers!! Wow!! I would never guess I'd get so many people wanting to look at the stuff I make!! WAAAA!!!!

If any of you still remember me thank you for being patient!!

[idlingmoons]

hi oc enjoyers, i now have ref sheets! in order, from top to bottom: apricot, bloodmoon, daydream, and sungrass

with all my ocs present here, i'll talk a bit about the universe that they're from! i've been calling it what's your worth (wyw), and i've been hoping to at least maybe plan a fic and sort out some details about it.

the base premise of wyw is that y/n has cut off their family and sold off any belongings related to them! after getting a trailer to get away from their family, they somehow keep attracting bots to them.

unfortunately, not every bots gets to stay with y/n, but i like to think that each one is impactful on y/n's journey, along with everyone else's. i like to think that y/n gets to kiss every bot that stays with them, and at least hug every bot that they meet. it's up in the air who stays with y/n for now, but it's sure fun to think about!

[demaparbat-hp]

Almost

[jojo-schmo]

[The Forgotten Land Roleswap: Chapter 2 49-50]

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[cryborgmechs]

part five, previous parts here

[docsbestkissedoperative]

The (My) Centerpiece of Violence

Sequel to the Ocean of Blood

See under the cut for transcript and rambling

[START OF TRANSCRIPT]

DOC/2BDAMNED: I've been thinking of that dream you told me about.

And as I did, I started to ask myself...why I never considered what would become of you.

(and you) (and you) (and you) (and you)

Living a lifetime of violence. Forced to fight and forced to rise without your say so.

Do you do it willingly, HANK WIMBLETON? Does it even matter (to me) if you do, HANK?

There are things at play much larger than either of us. And I know at least one thing. They need you for whatever it is they have planned.

But the problem is, I need you too.

You are perfect in the ways I need you to be.

You knew madness before you knew your own name.

You are a killing machine. Violence is an inseparable part of your being.

It is exactly what I need. MY DUTY cannot be fulfilled without it.

Many sacrifices have been made to keep us (me) alive. And you are the latest one.

...

...

I'm sorry, Hank. I will not stop now. That status quo must remain.

Maybe you resent me for it already, and maybe one day you will understand (forgive me),

but I will not wait.

[END OF TRANSCRIPT]

Rambling starts here! I'm very tired so I hope this makes sense. I also won't talk about every bit of the comic, so it might be that I jump here and there!

WOW! This one took a long time to make. This comic has been cooking up in my mind not long after I posted the Ocean of Blood one. From Doc's perspective, it is the point where he has to fully acknowledge the ramifications of what he does. Specifically, if he can justify taking another person's agency for the sake of his goals.

I mentioned in another post how Hank lacks a lot of agency, and how his status as the "eye of the storm" plays a lot into this. I added that this is partly because even if he has his own goals, he's only usually able to move if they happen to align with another person's goals as well. Right now, that person is Doc, and in the comic now, he's contemplating on whether to bring Hank back or not.

I believe Doc's work is very important to him. In one of the flashbacks in Project Nexus, Christoff describes what Doc does as "ghoulish", and THIS is the only time we actually see him mad! In the rest of the game, he's always the one who's keeping his cool, even when a meeting with the VendeVice goes wrong. To see him drop that and snap back because his work was questioned is SO interesting.

With how much he values what he does, I think another point of interest is his willingness to let someone lose their agency to fulfill his goals. The two best examples I can think of here is Hank and the Player from arena mode.

Quick context on this, the Player is essentially trapped in a timeloop because if not, Nevada will fall. While Doc can't control these loops, he shows no desire to help the Player even when he is made aware of the loops by them. At most, he thinks it's impressive and fascinating, and he tends to be cagey about revealing the information he knows.

For Hank, that's what I wanted to look at in the comic! I wanted a moment where Doc can't shrug it off as easily. In this case, not only does Hank directly tell him about it, but he has to contend with the fact that Hank is experiencing this because Doc has and will continue to make decisions that takes Hank's agency away from him.

For the Player, it's easy to say it's all as it was intended to be, all he did was start the process, especially when the Maker himself agrees on this. But now, Doc has to do more than just waking someone else up. He has to deliberately choose to bring a body back, put it together, revive it, command others to bring the body and revive it, tell Hank to do things for the sake of SQ, etc. He is now the main decision maker.

On the comic itself, I wanted to mention my color palette. While I use three colors, the most important ones here are red and white. In this comic and the Ocean of Blood, I tried to follow this logic: Red is a representation of violence and madness, while white is a separation from it. More often than not, the backgrounds are red because Nevada itself appears to be inherently violent.

(I try to keep this logic when I choose what color the text is, but I have to admit that it sometimes becomes a matter of compromise so you can actually see it)

When I drew the Player, white was used to also represent the Nowhere, which I see as separate enough from Nevada that that permanent state of violence doesn't quite reach it. The only thing you can do there is surrender yourself to it.

Moving on to Doc, his hair isn't kept as short as it usually is, and the things that tend to give him a more intimidating appearance are also gone (goggles, jacket, etc). Doc is just as prone to danger now as every other Nevadean. This is my way of showing Doc being "vulnerable" to some degree, since this is a moment where he has to think a LOT about what he's doing and its costs. So when he tidies his hair and puts it all back on in the end, it's his way of "locking in" so to speak.

Also fun fact! the parentheses were, for me, a way of Doc being just a liiiiiittle more honest about how he feels, but very quietly so.

I can't say he's made complete peace with his decisions, but because he deems his work as highly valuable, there's nothing that will stop him from continuing it.

A lot of panels also make use of things that have appeared in the Madcom series! The vollyball (it's spelled this way in the series!) and wanted poster are from MC4, the guitar lessons are from MC 9.5 part 1, and "MY:DUTY" and the poster in the same panel is from DISSENTER. I did my best to copy each one (with some liberties and added symbolism). If you look at which line Hank's name is written on the vollyball and guitar lessons posters, it should line up with where it's written in the real ones!

The vollyball and guitar lessons posters are also very important in Hank's case! For someone who lacks agency, the moments where he does show agency are really noteworthy! Hank chose to sign up for these things!

The Vitruvian Man is said to symbolize the perfect/ideal man, and the fibonacci sequence is said to appear often in nature. I wanted to say this because these are the 2 panels I had in mind since I first made this comic. the Vitruvian Man was something I considered for Ocean of Blood, but decided to move it here. I wish I could spend paragraphs here complaining about how long it took to make these 2 panels, but I'm happy with how they turned out so I'll let it slide

The last thing I want to mention is the hand gesture Doc does in the MY DUTY panel is the symbol for chemical equilibrium! Tbh, i struggled to find something that could symbolize the status quo, but i'd argue that doc would want that equilibrium as part of it

EDIT: I FORGOT TO MENTION UNTIL SOMEONE MENTIONED IT IN THE TAGS! It might be obscure-ish, but the panel that says Hank knew madness before he knew his name is from part of the 2nd makeship plush description of him: "A little known fact about Hank is that he was unaware of his name until he read it on wanted posters."