#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.

[valleymyristica]

if ur requests r still open,,, small fic based on Hazel finding out dev still remembers fairies n junk cause she said she wanted her friends to remember and sub-consciously she still sees dev as a friend,,, happens to be one of my fav theories

Indeed! The requests Are still open

Thank you dearly for the request! Do hope this one is to your liking Even if a bit short It's actually quite cute ᵔᵜᵔ

Words: 714

It's nice to have friends, isn't it?

░░▒▓█ Remember Me █▓▒░░

“Okay, he forgot all the magic stuff right? But that doesn't mean he forgot all about me, right?” Hazel asks her fairies, or Wanda, as the other is busy comforting his son. She’s just trying to understand the day.

“Yes,” Wanda tells her.

“So then, why is he ignoring me? I thought we made up?”

“Well, that was in fairy world, maybe he's not fully sure how real it was? It’s sure to be a blur.”

“I don't know, he doesn't even seem angry at me. Like before the whole thing he was pretty much his usual self. But... I don't know... It's like he's just avoiding me.” She thinks for a moment. “Do you think he remembers?”

“He shouldn’t.” Wanda notes.

“Then why is he acting so weird?”

“Maybe he doesn’t know how to act?”

“But we’ve interacted before? What makes now so different?”

Thinking for a moment.

“You know what. I’ll just ask.”

“Ask what?” Wanda worries slightly.

“Why he’s avoiding me.”

“You sure that’s a-”

“I wish we were at Dev’s house!” She announces, assuming he’s home.

Wanda sighs, gives her husband a sweet little look, before teleporting away with Hazel.

░░▒▒▓▓█████▓▓▒▒░░

Dev is sitting in his room, drowning out any thoughts of the day with the sound of his game. Best to just let time pass. Let it move on by. Let everyone forget about him, so that he can remember them instead.

The doorbell rings.

Wonder who that could be? 

Then again, it’s probably just someone here to see dad. Or an idiot with some brilliant idea. It doesn’t happen too often, but it is annoying when it does. Guess that’s just a part of living in the city center piece.

The doorbell rings again.

The O-Pairs will handle it.

The doorbell rings again.

Or not.

They have protocols for handling unknown people, and if Dad knows them, then they know what to do as well. Wait. That means-

No...

It’s someone he knows.

It- he doesn’t know anyone.

At least... he’s not supposed to...

Before the door can ring once again. He gets up. 

Open.

Oh. It’s Hazel.

Keep cool. 

Remember? 

Remember what?

There is nothing to remember.

It’s fine.

“Why are you avoiding me?” She asks straight. 

It’s not fine.

“I-” He takes a step back, she stays. “I’m not.” He concluded. As if it’s true.

“Yes, you are.” She follows him in. “Why?” She demands.

“I-” He studies his ground. “Why do you care?!” After what he did, there’s no way they’re still-

“Because we’re friends! Right...” Why wouldn’t they be? Despite all he did, he accepted the consequences. She just... kinda assumed they would go back to being friends again. So, why was he avoiding her?

“We are?” Is that true?

“Yeah?”

“I-” If they’re still friends, maybe it’s okay to tell he remembers. Just, one last apology. “Even after everything I did?” He asks carefully.

“Yeah,” She smiles at him warmly, before the realisation hits. “You remember!”

“No, I-” He can’t really deny it. Can he? “I just-” 

Why are words so hard?

“I’m sorry.” He looks down. Hopefully she’ll still be his friend. 

“It’s okay, Dev.” 

He looks up.

“Honestly... I’m more surprised you remember. I thought for sure Jorgen erased your memory.”

“Who did what?”

“Jorgen, with the memory wipe thing?”

“I- yeah- that...” Out of all his memories, that was the most blurry one. All he really remembers was that he should forget. That he should have forgotten.

And, for a moment, it feels as though he did.

“Maybe it malfunctioned or something, cause it didn’t last long... clearly.”

“Wait. So you lost them, then got them back?” Could it be-

“I- Yeah?”

“My wish.” She mutters softly under her breath.

“Huh?” He couldn’t hear.

“My wish! I wished that my friends would remember fairies, well, my friends and brother, of course.”

“Uh huh,” does that mean...

She smiles at him. “You’re my friend, Dev, and in a way, you did help save Fairy world, right?”

“Yeah... but, you know, I kinda...”

“But you also helped fix it!”

“I guess...”

“Also, you know...” She tells, a gleeful smile clearly forming.

“What?” He tries.

“We can all have fun together! With magic!”

“I- Oh.” He didn’t even consider that.

“Come! Let’s go!”

░░▒▓█ The End █▓▒░░

Also, in regards to the headcanon

A thought hit me while writing, what if Dev did lose his memory, but when he starts becoming friends with Hazel again, he starts regaining them?

After all, Hazel's wish was pretty much that her friends+brother who helped save fairy world should remember fairies forever

So, when Dev reaches both those requirements, he should get his memories back, right?

Just food for thought

Regardless, do hope this was an enjoyable read and as always, I'd be happy to hear what thoughts there might be ᵔᵜᵔ

Did ya like it?

[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?"

[asiatic-apple]

The colonel's uniform

Caleb x female reader

Words: 5.1k (pls forgive me)

Content: reader has a thing for uniforms, a few dog metaphors to describe caleb, CMNF, slightly jealous caleb, mean-ish dom caleb, but also switchy/sub caleb, his hat used as a blindfold, evol used as restraints, some unserious roleplay, one instance of “attagirl”, gloves on while he teases you, pussy spanking!!, safe word check-ins, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), multiple orgasms

a/n: thank y'all for voting in my wip poll! this was inspired by his cafe dialogue when you say you prefer his hat from the fleet; the line is used verbatim (you’ll know it when you see it) Read on AO3

A few months ago, when Caleb had just come back into your life, you blamed your inexplicable feelings toward his new uniform on the fact that you wanted to see beneath all the layers. You were desperate to peel back the restricting outfit—only metaphorically, you convinced yourself—and see what secrets and hidden pain laid under it all.

But even after that feeling passed and you worked through your complicated emotions surrounding what Caleb had become, you were still left feeling…tense whenever you saw him in that damn uniform.

It takes you a few more weeks of inadvertently acting all flustered and shy around the colonel before you realize what your problem is. You notice it every time he tips his peaked cap down over his stormy eyes. Every time he adjusts the aiguillettes draped in front of his chest or runs a gloved hand down the length of his body to smooth out any wrinkles in the fabric.

Caleb in full Fleet regalia is your Kryptonite.

Even though you two have long since confessed feelings for each other, you keep this little secret to yourself. You master the art of subtlety. With stolen glances, you quietly admire the winged accents along the broad back of his coat and the way his gloves fit snugly on his long, slender fingers.

It’s easy to believe you might get away with your depraved thoughts and your silent, simmering obsession. Maybe Caleb will never find out how much you dream of grinding yourself on him without taking a shred of his clothing off.

That plan goes straight out the airlock when you let your guard down one evening.

You’re just visiting him in Skyhaven for the week. It’s about time for him to return home from work, and you anticipate the usual: Caleb half-changed already—his coat, gloves, and harness folded over his arm when he enters.

Instead, the sound of the door clicking open reveals the length of his coat, all his gear still carefully arranged on his tall body. You’re officially screwed.

After a long day at work, he somehow looks even more devastatingly handsome. The strained smile on your face twitches when he flops down onto the couch beside you, apparently too lazy to change out of his clothes just yet.

Work seems to have left him in the mood to rant. And really, you don’t mind listening to him vent. Even if he only mentions endless paperwork and frustratingly stupid mistakes from subordinates who should have known better. In fact, you cherish this moment.

There aren’t many opportunities for Caleb to share details about his work with you—always claiming confidentiality when you know he’s mostly doing it out of some twisted sense of protectiveness. So you’re grateful he’s confiding in you a bit right now, finally revealing what’s on his mind instead of keeping it close to his chest.

And you swear, you’re listening to him. You’re trying to.

But how can he expect you to pay attention to the words coming out of his mouth when he’s sitting so casually beside you in his slightly rumpled uniform?

It looks like the day wore him down. His tie hangs a bit loose around his neck, and the crisp lines that usually define his coat and pants have now softened into feathered creases. His colonel’s cap is thrown haphazardly on the coffee table in front of you, and you have half a mind to beg him to put it back on.

Your eyes travel the expanse of his chest, following the strap of his leather tactical harness before getting lost in the shiny insignia on his left breast. What would it look like if he proudly bore your mark instead of the Fleet’s?

“Helloooo,” Caleb says as he leans closer to you with an amused smile. “Ground control to Major Pip-squeak. Have you even been listening to me?”

Heat flares across your cheeks, embarrassment blooming as you blink like you’ve just snapped out of a trance. Hopefully he didn’t catch the exact direction your eyes had wandered—or magically guess the thoughts that went with them.

“Huh? Oh, yeah…yeah, I was listening,” you quickly reply, trying to hide the lie in your voice. “You were saying something about paperwork, right?”

“Pips, that was ten minutes ago.”

He sounds unimpressed, but you know he's not really upset you zoned out. There's only concern and curiosity on his face. The latter half is what you need to shut down quickly. It’s time to switch tactics.

“Oh, right. Silly me.” Your chuckle sounds less carefree and more nervous than you want it to. “Hey, shouldn't you change into something more comfortable? I’m sure that uniform is stifling, yeah?”

Shit, that sounded too suspicious.

You're about to backtrack, but Caleb catches on quickly.

“Y'know, you've been actin' real strange lately,” he says slowly.

He's not necessarily accusing you of anything, but his brows are furrowed in that way they always are when he thinks you're keeping things from him.

A thousand curses flood your panicked brain. Changing the topic made things worse, so now it’s time to act stupid.

“Hm? Strange?” Your voice cracks, but you soldier through it and hope he doesn’t notice. “Nope, nothing strange here.”

Throwing in a small shrug for good measure, you hope the casual act will somehow cover the way your entire body has gone rigid.

It’s not really surprising he sees right through it all.

His playfully narrowed eyes inspect you carefully as he leans in even closer. “No, you’ve definitely been acting weird,” Caleb argues. “And it's only when I'm wearing this uniform.”

He's hit the nail on the head, and you make it way too easy for him to see it. His knowing response is a simple chuckle, but it doesn't have its usual lighthearted lilt.

There’s a familiar, faraway look in his eyes now. You’ve noticed it more and more often, ever since you reunited with him. But you still haven’t figured out what it means.

When his gaze finally returns to you, his voice is eerily calm, but there’s a shine of unshed tears in his eyes. “Do I scare you when I'm dressed like this?”

The question catches you off guard, knocking the breath from your lungs. You two have had this conversation before. Caleb can be terrifying when he’s hyper-focused on certain things—like protecting you, whatever it takes. But fear is not at all what you’re feeling right now.

Scooting closer to him, you cup his face, desperate to erase that strange, sad look in his eyes. “No, that’s not it,” you say sternly. “You could never scare me, baby.” The first half of your statement is true, at least.

Even if he catches the slight hitch in your voice that gives you away, he seems to take you at your word. He breathes a sigh of relief and nuzzles into your hand, the tension dissipating from his body with your gentle touch.

For a second, you almost forget your previous embarrassment at where this conversation was headed. But Caleb’s mind is a steel trap when it comes to anything involving you—especially if he suspects you’re hiding things from him.

He lightly tugs your hips, carefully maneuvering you to straddle his lap. “Then what’s been bothering you?” he asks, his voice a soft whine. He’s pulling out all the stops to get you to confess, giving you those big puppy dog eyes of his and even pouting cutely. “C’mon, you know you can tell me anything.”

You want to deflect. Want to keep telling him nothing’s wrong, but the words never make it past your parted lips. Because now you’re on the colonel’s lap, and the heat of his body is searing through all those layers of fabric you’ve spent far too much time ogling.

Thought abandons you. All that exists is the coarse weave of his coat beneath your hands, the faint creak of leather as his harness shifts with each breath. There’s a sharp trace of gunpowder clinging to him, cut through by the familiar, grounding scent of the cologne you love.

And then you catch the way he looks up at you. So willing and ready to fix whatever is troubling you. It’s like all you have to do is snap your fingers, and he’ll heel like a good boy.

He’s the colonel of the goddamn Farspace Fleet, but you’re the one pulling his leash. That thought has arousal heightening in your body, its greedy chokehold so tight you can practically taste your own need.

Your breath shudders at the same time your self restraint cracks.

It’s instinct causing your fingers to curl slightly into the lapels of his coat. Worst of all, your hips roll. Just the slightest movement, subconscious and slow. But god, you feel it—the tiniest bit of friction.

Caleb feels it too.

He stills. One brow lifts ever so slightly.

“Pip-squeak…” His voice is a low warning that makes you want to keep testing him.

His hands settle at your waist, thumbs pressing into your sides not in restraint, but in silent acknowledgement. He doesn’t push you away, doesn’t scold you. He just waits, assuming you’re only trying to distract him from his earlier question.

But it's exhausting denying yourself what you've wanted for so long. It’s easier to just show him what you need with trembling hands.

You slide your pointer finger beneath one fold of his lapel and glide it down to the center of his chest. When you switch your attention to the metal tip of one aiguillette, you can’t help but tug experimentally, entranced gaze locked on your colonel’s large frame jolting a bit from the motion.

Now it’s clearer what you want. No more hiding from Caleb’s eyes as they darken with lust and amusement.

“Well…would you look at that?” he whispers to himself, realization dawning on his gorgeous face.

You feel the shift in his body. The way he draws in a shaky breath. The way his posture straightens like he’s readying himself to stand at attention. He grins, wide and wicked and entirely too pleased with himself.

“And here I thought you were just shy.” His voice drops further, low and teasing—like you’re back in college and Caleb is the big meanie who caught you looking at something naughty and wouldn't let you live it down. “Turns out you’ve been tryin’ not to pounce on me every time I wear this, haven’t you?”

That smug look on his face pisses you off. But your pussy loves it. He leans in, nose brushing your cheek while he waits for a reply you stubbornly don’t want to give him. 

It doesn’t matter if you don’t admit it out loud, because Caleb’s observational skills are always sharp around you. You don’t need to use that pretty mouth to form words when he knows deep in his bones that he’s right.

He rocks his hips ever so slightly beneath you—just enough to make your breath stutter and your eyes flutter closed. There’s only a second of delicious friction before he’s ripping it all away from you with a chuckle.

A surprised yelp escapes you as he effortlessly lifts you from his lap only to toss you right back down onto the couch—so you're seated where he was a few seconds ago—legs parted just enough by the fall.

Not a second passes before he slips down to the floor in front of you, settling on his knees and pressing lazy kisses to your neck, over the thin fabric atop your chest, down the curve of your stomach. His hands rest heavily on your thighs as he leans in closer, trailing even lower with each kiss, until he’s fully nestled between your legs.

His affection is relentless—a steady, simmering thing that never quite lets up. Even now, with his lips brushing the waistband of your shorts, he can’t resist toying with you. The way he pauses there is deliberate, maddening.

Caleb has never been one to rush moments like this.

He eases your shorts down with aggravating leisure. The fabric kisses its way down your thighs, making you shiver. He keeps his eyes locked on you the entire time, watching your breath hitch and your hips shift restlessly under his touch.

The moment the shorts reach your knees, he dips his head and presses a single, reverent kiss just above the band of your panties. Then his hands shift, curling beneath your thighs. He lifts your hips just enough to slide your shorts down and off. The fabric falls to the floor, forgotten, while his gaze never leaves you.

Tugging on the hem of your shirt, he murmurs, “Take this off too.”

Where Caleb is all slow patience and eager to drag this out, you’re the exact opposite.

You don’t even think. There’s no hesitation in your limbs. No self-consciousness. Just an urgency that makes you tear the shirt over your head and toss it into some far-off corner.

Your chest rises and falls in a rush of breath, completely bare to him. The sight of your exposed skin has his jaw tensing and pupils dilating.

He always does this—looks at you like it’s his first time seeing you. You normally find it incredibly endearing. But right now, you nearly whine in impatience.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, not even trying to hide the way his gaze drinks you in.

But he doesn’t pounce yet. Instead, the cool leather of his gloves tickles your legs, stroking in slow, reverent passes that leave goosebumps in their wake.

One hand trails upward, pausing at the edge of your underwear. Then it dips just low enough to brush against the growing wet patch at the center—and he groans when your legs instinctively spread wider for him.

You’re burning beneath his stare, almost every part of you laid bare and aching for him. And he’s still fully clothed. But for once, you don’t want him to take a stitch off.

He hums in smug amusement and brings one thumb to press over the soaked spot on your underwear, rubbing a slow circle before gliding upward until he nudges your clit through the fabric.

“Is this what you wanted?” he asks, his voice laced with that perfect mix of tease and tenderness. “Is this really all because of what I’m wearing?”

The soft brush of lips against your thigh feels like a brand. Like he’s staking his claim on you before looking up again with a cocky tilt of his head.

“Do you like the colonel’s uniform,” he murmurs, "or the guy wearing it?"

Is he seriously jealous right now? If you weren't so high-strung with need, you’d laugh. Only Caleb could be jealous of his own damn clothes.

After all this tension and the way he drags out your pleasure at a torturous pace, you might as well let the green-eyed monster fester inside him.

You pretend to think it over with a quiet hum, as if his question requires careful deliberation.

His fingers still, and one brow arches in mock disapproval. But you see the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth—he’s amused, even as he clings to the role of the cold colonel.

“You're cruel, baby,” he growls, pressing his thumb to your clit with firmer pressure. “If it's that hard to decide, maybe I should give you some private time alone with my uniform.” His voice is lower now. That usual trace of playfulness is gone. “But first…I think you need to be properly disciplined for keeping secrets from your commanding officer.”

He snatches his hat from the coffee table behind him before obscuring your field of vision with it, angling the brim so it’s half on your face and down low enough that you're plunged in darkness.

“Wha– ugh, Caleb!”

You reach for the brim, intending to yank it off so you can glare at him. But he stops you easily. Gravity tugs at your wrists until they're pinned loosely at your sides.

There’s a soft tut of disapproval, and then comes the sudden sting of your panties being snapped back against your wet heat.

“Don't move, soldier,” he warns smugly, as if you even could. “You're under the colonel's command now.”

The pressure of his Evol fades, but he clearly expects you to stay obedient. And for now, you do. You know better than to test him—at least, not yet.

Still, in case you forget, he reminds you with icy authority, “Insubordination will not be tolerated. Understand?”

This is unfair in so many ways. All you want is to see him, to touch him. But the hat, the rules, the aching need between your legs—it’s all too much.

You can only reply with a frustrated huff, and the sound soon melts into a whimper as he finally hooks his fingers in your panties and begins tugging them down your legs.

Once they’re off, there’s a deafening beat of silence before Caleb finally breaks it. “If you need me to stop, you know what to say, yeah?” His voice is gentle now, a jarring shift from the commanding edge it had a moment before.

You’re grateful for the check-in, but right now all you want is for him to keep going. You nod eagerly, but that doesn’t seem to be good enough for the colonel.

“Say it out loud, pip-squeak.”

“Apple juice,” you reply breathlessly, repeating the safe word you and Caleb have used in the past.

“Attagirl.” His praise curls around your spine like a hot wire, setting every nerve on edge.

You can’t see his face beneath the hat still shading your vision, but you can feel his eyes on you. You’re willing to bet they’re dark, hungry, focused entirely on what’s between your legs.

He proves you right with the slow, deliberate stroke of leather gliding up your inner thighs and brushing against your quivering heat. He’s touching you again, finally. But it’s frustratingly soft, every sensation dulled by the smooth barrier of his glove. The feather-light contact makes you twitch, hips rolling instinctively, desperate for more.

The chuckle that rumbles from his chest tells you he’s clearly pleased with how responsive you are. “You’re so wet for me already,” he murmurs, lazily dragging his fingers down your slit to collect your slick and smear it against your clit. “Bet you’ve been like this since the moment I walked through the door in this uniform.”

It’s addicting when Caleb gets like this—so drunk off the sight and feel of you that he can’t stop yapping about everything he wants to do to you. It’s as if touching you sets something loose in him that was hiding beneath the surface before. You try to bite back your moans, straining to hear every delicious word he spills against your skin.

More of your arousal gets captured between his fingers. You can hear it clearly with each obscene squelch from your cunt.

Caleb groans in appreciation of a sight only he can see. “You're makin’ such a mess for me, baby,” he says, voice rough with desire. “Maybe if you hadn't lied to me, you could have seen the way you’re soaking these gloves you seem to like so much.”

You can't stop yourself from huffing out a retort from beneath his hat. “But I didn't lie–”

Smack!

Your whole body jolts at the sudden, delicious sting of his palm landing hard against your swollen pussy. The seams along his gloved fingertips brush against your clit on the way down, and the sharp tingle of pain mixed with pleasure nearly unravels you. His name tears from your throat in a yelp, and he just laughs like this is the most amusing thing he’s ever seen.

But even though you can practically hear the sick smile on his face, he’s still Caleb, still careful. “Was that okay?” he asks, voice soft and grounding despite the burning heat between the apex of your thighs. “Do you need to use your safe word, baby?”

You shake your head fast, too desperate to want this to stop. Your clit throbs, greedy for more of that delicious sting. And your thighs tremble where they press around his kneeling body.

He gives you a moment anyway, even if you’re trembling with need instead of nerves. And then, finally, he strikes again.

The second smack is sharper, leaving a slightly more intense sting in its wake. Heat blooms across your pussy with startling clarity—and that’s when you realize he’s taken off his glove.

The next hit comes just as quick. His palm against your soaked, sensitive flesh makes your toes curl. With each spank, blood rushes to your clit, making your cunt slicker, hotter, and hungrier than before. It doesn’t take long for the pleasure to build during each frustrating pause when Caleb juxtaposes the pain with tight circles rubbed against your aching bundle of nerves.

The feeling soars higher and higher in the pit of your stomach…and then you anticipate the tension about to snap in a sudden rush.

It’s overwhelming and unstoppable all at once.

“Fuck, I’m going to–” is all you manage to cry out before his fingers are inside you. Two thick digits plunge deep into your pussy and curl hard against your g-spot like he knows you’re about to come undone before you can even warn him properly.

Your orgasm crashes over you so violently you convulse. Your thighs squeeze around his broad torso, the harsh fabric of his uniform lightly scraping your smooth skin like a possessive claim: you’re his to break apart, and his to hold together.

That familiar, magnetic pulse of his Evol clings to your body again. It keeps the hat firmly on your face and pins you down as your slick gushes around his rough fingers. There’s no escaping the intense pleasure he pulls from you.

You whimper through the aftershocks, mind spinning, body trembling. But even now—blissed out and soaking wet—your cunt still clenches helplessly around his fingers.

It was all too soon. Too fast. The sweet release you were craving just minutes ago now feels like a hollow ache, a need left open and begging to be filled.

“Calebbb,” you whine beneath the hat, too wrecked to deliver the scolding he deserves. “That…that was so mean!”

Condescension drips from his voice as he coos in reply, “Aww, poor little thing.” The mocking lilt of his words makes you throb on his fingers all over again.

Luckily for you, he’s nowhere near done yet. You've barely caught your breath and he's already moving his fingers again, sliding them in and out at a lazy pace while his other hand—still wrapped in cool leather—snakes up your trembling body to play with your pebbled nipples.

“Want me to kiss it better, sweetheart?” he asks before shifting closer and blowing a gentle stream of air right on your clit.

His mouth just hovers there for a few painstaking seconds, taking his sweet time in getting you all riled up again while you squeeze his fingers with your cunt.

When a fat glob of spit lands on your heated skin and drips down to meet his fingers, you struggle to keep your hands by your side like he demanded. The added lubrication only amplifies the sounds coming from your greedy pussy. It’s sucking his fingers deeper inside with loud squelches—and you’d be embarrassed if you weren’t busy getting your brain turned to pleasure-filled mush.

But Caleb doesn’t waste the opportunity to keep being a big meanie.

“Ohhh, listen to that,” he purrs through a satisfied groan. “She’s practically singin’ for me.”

That infuriatingly smug tone seems impossible for him to keep at bay. His fingers curl inside you with pinpoint precision, nudging your g-spot in a rhythm so calculated, so perfect, it has you twitching for him.

“At least this pretty cunt never keeps secrets from me.” The words are muttered so close to a growl that you can barely tell if you actually heard them or imagined them, lost beneath the growing sounds from between your thighs.

You’re going to lose your mind like this. You’re seconds away from being locked up in a padded room if he keeps this up without putting that sinful mouth of his where you need it most.

Clawing helplessly at the couch, your voice breaks with desperation. “Please, Caleb! Stop teasing me.”

Some merciful god above must take pity on you because finally, Caleb decides you’ve been punished enough.

His Evol yanks the hat off your flushed face and throws it to the other end of the couch. You’re relieved to be able to see him again, but slightly annoyed he’s not putting it back on himself. Your disappointment only lasts a second though, because the sight you’re greeted with nearly makes you come on the spot.

As soon as your gaze meets his, he smirks. And then his mouth descends upon your clit like a man possessed. His mouth latches on with zero hesitation, tongue flicking with terrifying accuracy. One deliberate stripe, then a harsh suck that rips his name from your throat in a breathless cry.

And all the while, he watches you.

Bliss is written all over his face, and he moans against your sloppy center like this is all he ever needs in his life. Caleb doesn’t just eat pussy to make you feel good. He eats it like he never wants to part from your glistening folds. And when he enjoys a meal, he makes a mess out of it.

With each curl of his fingers inside you, you’re dripping more of your arousal across his chin and down his damn wrist. And he is smearing it all back on your twitching pussy with a depraved moan, eager to make you feel more, so much more pleasure than you can imagine.

He only parts from your clit for a second to demand that you keep your eyes locked on him, no matter how good he’s making you feel. After all, your attention should be trained solely on him while he licks and sucks on your swollen clit. He wants to look into your eyes and pinpoint the exact moment you come because of him—and only him.

You’re so close to giving him what he wants, your hips jerking as you start to grind against his mouth and hands at a more feverish pace. He gets the hint immediately, moving faster to match the rhythm you desire.

Any control the colonel had a few minutes ago is gone. It’s washed clean from your wetness and from the way he melts into the soft, needy heat of your cunt. Now, all he can do is look up at you in worship while he whines a whole damn symphony against your flushed skin.

You try to hold out for him—god, you try—but your body’s already a trembling mess, wound so tight it only takes one more flick of his tongue to unravel you completely. Your second orgasm of the night tears through you with a cry of his name as your hips roll against his mouth in a final, desperate grind.

Caleb doesn’t let up.

He keeps curling his fingers, keeps moaning against your drenched pussy like he’s savoring every drop of your pleasure. The intensity leaves you shaking—mind hazy, body spent, nerves frayed in the best way.

By the time you slump back against the couch, sweaty and panting, he’s already surging up to steal a kiss from your lips. It’s all desperation and greed, his tongue curling past your lips to share the taste of you and swallow your sweet whimpers.

When he parts for air, you find yourself suddenly boneless in his arms as he lifts you like you weigh nothing at all. His Evol helps him along and caresses your skin as it ensures you don’t squirm in his hold.

You expect him to tease you about how wrecked you are—maybe even throw you right back onto the couch and start again. But instead, he carries you deeper into his home, feet moving with purpose.

It’s clear where he’s taking you without even needing to ask. Of course it's the bedroom. Of course he wants more. So do you.

There’s a beat of tense silence as he crosses the threshold, the anticipation burning in your veins. He could take you against the nearest wall, could push you into the mattress and ruin you completely, but he doesn’t. Not yet.

Caleb once told you he likes to take his time when he shows his affection. And he’s always stayed true to his word. But you’re still getting used to the way he drags out every moment of pleasure between the two of you.

When he finally sits down on the edge of the bed, he keeps you in his lap, cradled but not restrained. The pull of his Evol has faded now, but you don’t make any move to leave his arms. You simply shift to straddle him, legs settling on either side of his hips.

Even after your intense orgasms, you still want more. And it doesn’t take a genius to know he’s going to fuck you now.

You wait—for his hands, for his voice, for anything. But he leans back to lie on the soft bed. You watch in confusion as he folds his arms behind his head. And does absolutely nothing.

One blink. Two. He’s still just lying there.

“Well?” he drawls, voice low and unbearably smug. “You said you like my uniform so much. I’m givin’ you your alone time with it.”

Your breath catches at the implication. That cocky bastard.

Alright. Two can play at this game. You just need to persuade him with the gentle rock of your hips. It seems to work for a second, causing his cock to twitch beneath you. But he still doesn’t budge.

“Caleb,” you whine, “stop playing around.”

He only smiles wider at your plea, eyes sliding half-closed like making you squirm is better than any other pleasure you can provide.

Desperate to convince him to do something, you ask, “What happened to you barking out orders and calling all the shots, hm?”

Still not even a flinch from him.

“We both know you’re always the one in charge, baby,” he says so simply it makes your jaw tick in annoyance. “So go ahead. Use me.”

It seems he’s settling in for the show, arms folded behind his head as if he has all the time in the world.

This isn’t just him being a tease anymore. It’s a full surrender wrapped in a smirk.

And then he promises, “I’ll follow any orders you give me, Colonel Pip-squeak.” He knows you can’t pass that up.

The uniform you’ve been obsessed with is all yours now, but the man beneath it has always belonged to you. Maybe it’s time to remind him of that.

I'd like to give a big shoutout and HUGE thank you to @walleeli for beta reading this and giving me fantastic feedback And I'd like to thank my bff @sirianisrock for dealing with my usual antics, indecisiveness, and listening to me rant about this fic for days LOL ~ Creds: mdni banner by @/cafekitsune glove/apple dividers by @/thecutestgrotto

[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.

[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!!

[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 !!

[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?”

[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

[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

[cryborgmechs]

part five, previous parts here