Thoughts of a Lacenet first kiss that's after a lot of build up and yearning and angry fighting because when else would it be, like. Come on.
It's a surprise for Lace, but it's a choice for Hornet. Both believing they're undeserving of such softness for one reason or another. Undesirable, not enough, duty bound, above it all. All thoughts mix and coalesce into something that's just harsh noise, making them irritable, making them clash until--
It's definitely a choice Hornet makes on her part. Looking at this beautiful, righteous fury currently residing in her bellhome. Lace has her own, just across the way. Dark and dusty since the day it was hoisted up. Always an option for her. A formality at this point. Lace goes to storm out threatening to spend the night there instead when the choice is made.
There's a claw at Lace's wrist, holding, not stopping her, but she stills anyway, her own claw on the door and clenching.
There aren't any words when she swings back around. Just Hornet anchoring her in place with a simple touch. Something much too delicate for the likes of them, knight and sentinel, soldiers in ancient wars of unfathomable scope.
But that claw is gentle now as it moves, glides over Lace's threads as if she knew how to strum them, knew how to make her sing with just her hands. Gods, she would, wouldn't she. She already does, really, when she fights. When they squabble and snip at eachother and Lace screams, but sometimes it's like arguing with a stone wall, her own words echoing back to bite her.
There's no wall there now. If anything she's a mirror, because Lace is seeing every shade of turmoil she herself is warring with in right there in Hornet's dark eyes.
The weaver breathes. Then leans in.
"Spider...?" It's barely a returning breath from Lace as her face is cradled, tilted up with those sure hands. Her back is cold against the door.
"You will stop me," Hornet declares, quiet and matter of fact. "If you've sanity enough to think you'll stop me right now."
Another breath, thick with heat, and then she's being kissed like it's the last thing Hornet will ever do. Being grasped as if she could unravel right there, as if this, this one kiss, were the thing to finally do it. And gods, it just might. Melting her from the inside like this, claws digging in as if to claim.
Stop her? Absolutely not. She pulls Hornet in with two fistfulls of her cloak, the weaver getting lost in the kiss, lifting Lace up to wrap her legs around her waist while she devours every inch of the pale beings panting mouth.
Then there's a knock on the door. Someone requesting help with something or other and Lace sighs when Hornet predictably leans away. Of course she would stop something like this just to go help--
"Leave," Hornet commands through the door, tone flat and grip tight around Lace's thighs like she wanted to tear them apart. Lace might just let her with how that one word had her nearly squirming, whining like a whore in heat. Her spider had chosen her. Kept choosing her. Chose to keep her despite every blazingly obvious sign not to. It was enough to have her making a choice, too.
"Any problems can be seen to tomorrow," Hornet continued, clipped and to the point. "Do not bother us--"
"Tomorrow? Oh no, my dear spider." It's Lace's turn to gently caress the shapes of Hornet's face, tone sweet and sharp as she maps the slopes and planes under her hands. "If I have you in that bed tonight we will not be leaving for the foreseeable future."
And suddenly she's straddling Hornet on said bed, crowding over her with the intent to bite, maim, and claim.
"Tell them to give us the week at least."
Sanity isn't something beings like them are afforded much, anyway. Might as well have fun with it
I can't get 42 saying "train me properly" out of my head my goodness
It starts with the smallest, airiest of sounds. 42 almost thinks he's imagined it.
He had told himself that he would completely power down for the evening. It's good to let his body rest for a couple of hours every now and again, to completely turn off his brain for an evening and just be. He imagines its what sleeping must feel like, this tiny, controlled death. You were tasked with pressing a button in his chest cavity after your first cup of coffee, something you happily agreed to without an question. The weight of the request may have been lost on you.
That's part of the reason he hadn't been able to flip the switch tonight. It's not because he doesn't trust you; he really does, even though you two have only been here for two months. His hesitancy has nothing to do with how safe he feels in your hands. No, it's quite the opposite. He trusts you entirely too much.
He's fallen in love with a human before. (Not... that he thinks this is love. Just some affection induced by close proximity over a long period of time. Some sort of crossed wiring that's confusing lust and enjoyment of your company with something deeper.) Peach leaving left him shattered for a long while, so he knows how sideways this whole ordeal could leave him, especially with someone from your part of the solar system. Not only do you ome from a planet where androids are banned, you live 13 light-years away from his home. After this job is done, the two of you will probably never see each other again. This trist, if he can even call it that, is starcrossed.
And yet, 42 finds himself staying up to think about you. How you laugh, how swear trickles down the back of your neck during the day and how chills cover your chest at night. He wants to run over every memory, looping and looping and looping and looping until every ounce of coolant in his body burns up and his circuits fry.
"Ah."
He startles from his chair. The drift of your voice was barely there, more breeze than voice, but he swears he can hear it. There's an edge to it, something nearly pained, and he wonders how the hell you could have hurt yourself in your sleep-
For privacy sake, 42 had left the sleeping quarters completely for you. He didn't need a bed or much space, so it made sense to give you the room to yourself. Privacy is important. It gives you space to-
"Ah, shit."
Masturbate.
He's not dumb. Once he has a millisecond to process, he realizes what's going on and it freezes him in his tracks. The rare stillness of the desert at night overtakes the base; not a single grain of sand is disturbed by wind and 42 doesn't move a nanometer. All that moves in the world is you, behind that closed door. If the wind was roaring as usual, if he was shut down the way he was supposed to be, he'd never know.
"42."
But he does know.
He knows what you said. And it hits him like a god damn meteor.
His entire body goes hot. 42 can't taste it, but he can feel how his exhale thickens with coolant. According to Peach, it sweetens the air like cotton candy. 'I can taste how badly you wanna fuck me,' she'd say into her kisses.
42 plops back down into his seat with a heavy plop, like his legs have rusted in the joints. The control room glows with the single computer screen still on, the screensaver bouncing from corner to corner to side to side to side to side, in this predictable, multicolored pattern. He occupies his circuits by following its motion, counting down the rotations until it hits a corner again. Side to side to thinking about how your chest moves when you walk around braless in the mornings to side to side to when your lips were chapped in the middle, leaving a sore spot darker than the rest of your skin, one that he watched too intensely when you spoke-
"I'm in trouble," he says to the empty room of machines.
He's also very, very hard.
Genitalia does not come standard on most android bodies. It's a... niche attachment, if not a controversial one. It carries a stigma of perversion; androids are not programmed to lust and they do not have a biological need to breed, so there is no technical need to get a hard wear update. It's aberrant. It's depraved and debauched. Getting an erection is probably the least natural thing that an android could ever do.
And yet 42 can't remember running the code to make himself hard.
Arousal twitches through his faux-skin, all the way down to his fingers as they wrap around his length. This is anomalous. Dionysian. His sexual desires have always been focused on giving pleasure; he enjoys being a toy, a tool. 42 has always been used by his partners, often to the point he loses track of his own pleasure. What's more important is his devotion to service, his task of making his lover as wet as possible, rolling their clit in his fingertips until their body can't handle anymore.
The friction of dry touch feels good around his cock.
You deserve a toy.
He could be that toy, if you let him.
Three strokes, that's all he gives himself, that's all it takes to get himself shaking. It'd be a better night if his hand was between your legs instead, slick with cum. Before he even had a cock, it's the way he'd entertain himself most nights, fingering Peach until she wordlessly pushed him away. 42 doubts you'd be wordless, not with the way you were moaning all on your own. No, hopefully you'd pull him in and ask for more.
Just one more touch, then he's done. He'll manually soften himself. 42 just needs one more second thinking about how he could make sex good for you, how he could-
Down the hall, the door slides open and 42 quickly puts himself back into his pants. Luckily, there's no blood to flush his cheeks and no real breath for him to pant, so his demeanor is normal by the time you round the corner. You're only wearing a tiny camisole, thin enough that your nipples are fully visible through your top, with no pants, only underwear and socks. When he moves, you nearly jump out of your skin, fists balled to fight.
"Shit, hey," you say. "You're awake."
Your panties - these tiny, feminine things he would have never expected you to wear, but he certainly loves that you did - have a wet patch that he can't pull his eyes from. He only does when you shift to cross your legs. He expects you to be mad, but your eyes are wide and bright in the electric glow.
"You're awake," you say again, much softer this time.
"So are you," he whispers back.
He installed his dick to fuck human women. He feels predatory when he admits it to himself, how much he's always coveted the female form, how since he was introduced to porn, he knew that he needed to love like that. The idea of having sex with you ignites that desire more intensely than he's ever felt it.
He walks to you.
Is it bad to want this?
"You smell like sugar." Suddenly, your face is a breath away, your hand on his cheek. That simple touch sets him ablaze again. He can feel his hardware go hot, his breath get thick with exhaust. The knot in your brow is full of concern as your thumb guides his mouth open and you lean in even closer to breathe it all in. "You're burning through coolant like a motherfucker.
42 leans in, hoping you can taste it. The way his eyes flicker up and down, hanging on his lips-
"Ask me," he insists. "Tell me what you want."
With a great hesitation, his hands find your waist. "Train me."
You're not like his past lovers. They were soft in ways you aren't, tough in ways you'll never be... where Peach would demand him, you clutch his shirt with barely closed hands.
"I can't," you whisper.
"I could teach you-" He bends over, forehead pressed against yours, noses brushing. The warmth of your skin feels good against the chilled recycled air and it scratches an itch he couldn't reach himself. -"How to teach me."
And you crane, straining to reach his lips and yet not quite closing the gap. It offers him a control he's never had before, one that burns so hot he can feel his cloying breath. He should be measured, controlled, but the moment he lets himself have you, he breaks, slamming an open mouthed kiss into your lips. A gasp escapes you, but you melt into it, trying to match his ferver and failing. Instead, you slow his kisses down. Your rhythm is syrupy, pulling him deeper into you, your warm tongue pressing against his lips.
How do you taste, he wonders. He has no ability to even conceptualize smell or taste, but he wants to know how else you could light up his circuits-
Much too soon, you break away,
"Tomorrow," you whisper, suddenly bashful. "Not tonight, I-- "
What expression did the Vigilante see as they raced away from Eclipse, and what was going through Eclipse’s mind as he watched them slip out of his grasp?
(Page text is typed in the image descriptions if you can’t read my hand writing)
Spoilers for Getaway-Part 8 of the Sleuth Jesters series by @naffeclipse based off of @starlightcloudbaby ‘s Detective AU, thank you so much for the wonderful stories and all the inspiration <3 @sinnabee ’s Eclipse is also perfect and definitely influenced me for that end design.
IT’S FINALLY DONE I am going to go rest now but I’m so happy with how this turned out ;v; …I’m lying about the resting bit, so many ideas to start on now that this is done (no promises but there may be more robo-cleavage in the future). I am so proud of that final page, it was the main idea I wanted to draw after reading the chapter and then everything else sprouted up around it ;v;
Gosh, there’s a lot of Lore behind this one. One sec, lemme try and remember
Okay, part of an organisation that deals with the security of the remaining settlements of mankind after The Outbreak, Alto and her partner must keep the high priestesses safe from the hostile environment that threatens to swallow all that is man and man-made whole. Many, many years before, a plant based zombie outbreak ravaged the land and kicked off some bizarre flora and fauna mutation, developing several different evolved species of carnivorous plants. Entire forests became mobile hunting amalgamations. Oceans were soon lined with roots thicker than the bows of ships. Man-kind shrivelled to nothing but three modest settlements...
or something like that, at least. I can’t quite remember. I just know I named her Alto, her partner Bass, and the main antagonist Treble.
I dunno, seemed cool at the time
She’s had a redesign recently, I’ll try and find those
Basically I was writing this interactive story game thing about a painter who wakes to his dead wife and thinks he somehow killed her. He then goes all tell-tale heart and hides her hacked remains and runs yadda yadda mind deterioration, hallucinations of his dead wife in store windows, kills someone on accident, then not, then sets fire to a monastery... yaknow just all around tormented bastard character development.
Then some jesters turn up as like, a boss fight scenario. This one you was supposed to defeat by ringing a tower bell to confuse her, and then eventually drop it on her
Sighhhhh I miss having *Ideas*. Young Me was ON that funky creative juice
Plus a line art version (Feel free to colour! In fact please do and tag me or something if you do please please please I wanna see all the different vibes and aesthetics!)
I honestly feel like they wouldn't know how to use it. Like, of course they know how. The mechanics and the thought processes are still there but they just. Can't.
There's too much to say. Not enough to say right then and there in that moment. The moment of pure, unadulterated emotion in front of the person they've come to adore, the one that gave them life and purpose and comfort. The one they love dearly who just gave them back an integral part of themselves, of who they used to be and it's just. It's too much.
No words come out. Maybe a burst of rough static when Sun really tries to force something out that can validate all of y/n's hard work, but it's nothing legible, nothing that communicates accurately just how much this one act of kindness atop all of the others means to them.
I don't think they say anything tbh, don't think they can say anything, and immediately y/n comforts them. Let's them know that they'll try again and again until they find something that works. There's a sudden hug, and in the silence that follows, after y/n has finally allowed themselves this shared comfort, their voicebox sparks to life with a quiet "thank you"
I think the first thing Sun and Moon would say with a fixed voice box is say "I love you" cuz i just imagine them thinking it a thousand times but never SAYING it cuz y'know. No voice (and having to actively sign to talk)
But they've become so accustomed to not being able to speak that it just slips out without them even meaning to because they haven't had to use a thought to speech And then it is immediately followed by them fumbling over their words, flustered and trying to recover from the slip up while Y/N is there red faced and FLABBERGASTED
snowghoul
tangentwithtanner
janainaart
areudirty
romaincrisis
dededos
yousharknotpass
