aquadestinyswriting

[aquadestinyswriting]

The imagery in this is amazing and the room and the girls are just gorgeous to imagine 🤩. You really did an excellent job here. As for wicked!Merri.... *squeals and kicks feet*. Oh my gods, the languid, almost careless.....Ionah-ness is fantastic to see (apologies, but words are not working right now).

And that part where Merri reveals Elowyn to Yoruk is just *chef's kiss*. I cannot imagine the thoughts going through Yoruk's head, but, honestly, I'm a bit busy with giggling over Elowyn sitting in Merri's lap and the two of them being so physically close and touchy-feely.

Utterly gorgeous work, my dear and the heroforge pic is the icing on an already perfect cake. Love you 💜💜💜💜

But When She was Bad, She was Wicked

CW: Possessiveness, chains, human shield, dubcon touching, implied drugged character Notes: This crackfic was so much fun to write :D Not least because I got to indulge my flair for dramatic descriptions, get some implicit whump in there, and finally make use of the millions of stone pics I took at the Nat. History Museum. But also because wicked Merri is delicious <3

The first thing they notice about the stone room, with it's swooping arches, decorated columns, and ancient mouldings is that it glitters. Everything shines with the reflections of precious metals, caches of faceted gems, and incautious stacks of other, shimmering treasures.

The second thing about the room is the gilded dais, almost stage like, which rises from the sea of the horde, and the mythril-riven throne of onyx atop it.

The third thing the collective eye is drawn to is the woman sprawled, laissez-faire, upon the throne. A dwarven woman, with hair like embers and a chilling smile upon her lips She, too, glitters. Chips of damourite and rubies, pressed into claps of red-gold, adorn her beard and hair. A crown of mythril, peppered with ruby cabochons and fire opals, a giant blood diamond of perfect clarity at its centre, rests upon her head. Golden armour, finely smithed with geometric patterns, decorated with electrum cloisonné and foil-backed rubellite, reaches down her arms and torso, revealing nothing but scale under-armour of priceless mythril. About her legs is a skirt made from plates of intricately worked gold, covered by a cascade of diamond-studded mythril chain, as fine as any linen.

"I see y'made it then?" the woman says, her electric gaze sweeping over the them. "Took a mite longer than I was expecting. I didnae give ye that much to cut through." "Meredith," a strident voice calls out. "Stop this." A striking figure in brass-trimmed plate steps forward, raising a mighty warhammer towards the dais. "Ah. Husband," Meredith says, voice dripping with cloying insincerity. "So lovely to see you, dear." "Meredith, if you don't stop this madness, I'll be forced to–" Yoruk's voice dies in his throat, as Meredith gives a gentle tug on a fine gold chain, looped loosely around the arm of the throne. At the end of the chain is a shorter woman, who stands dreamily from her place at Meredith's feet.

Dusted in mythril, she shimmers; points of light highlighted against nut-brown skin. The chain in Meredith's hand leads to a collar of finely braided platinum, the terminus studded with ice-white diamonds occluded with mythril. From the collar to delicate cuffs of white-gold are chains which shimmer with calcite. Her modesty is barely covered by a cage of white metals culminating in a vibrant diamond over her sternum, and plates of agate, swirling red and white, hung on a chain around her hips like a loin cloth. Her feet are bare, but her ankles flicker with silver bangles, which chime gently as she steps up to settle in Meredith's lap.

Meredith curls one hand about Elowyn's waist, the other about her neck. She smiles wickedly, her voice sweet, as she says, "You'll be forced to... what, exactly?"

[aquadestinyswriting]

Another Ordinary Day

Summary: Just a little short story showcasing a day in the life in the Goodwin-Frigidwake household. I fancied writing something cute and adorable.

words: 722

Keep reading

[aquadestinyswriting]

Have I told you how much I love you lately. The mental image is glorious and now I also need to see Elowyn and Merri dressed to the nines for... reasons.

It doesn't help that I was just listening to one of the last sessions of the campaign where Merri ressed Elowyn the minute after the latter dropped to a demon assassin. The tone I used with Merri there is kind of reminiscent of this idea if I'm being totally honest (which, ngl, the idea is hot as hell).

Thank you for sharing such deliciousness with us xx <3

HMMmmmm had a crackfic idea for the Fighting Fantasy World of Titan 'verse:

Gold-sick/ corrupt Merri & pet Elo.

No, I don't have any other details except an outstanding image of Merri on a throne holding a mythril & gem-studded lead to a collared and docile Elo, both of them wearing the most extravagant outfits.

@aquadestinyswriting 🧡️

[aquadestinyswriting]

Tit-for-Tat (You Got My Back, I Got Yours)

Universe: Fighting Fantasy World of Titan CW: Character near-death

"Lieutenants, an honour guard is hardly necessary in the first place," Elowyn says, as she's fiddling with the cuffs of her new dress-uniform. "Which makes the sniper setup overkill. No criminal is going to try something in front of the whole damned Watch."

Snotgrut gives a tight smile. Using their titles means she's pissed, but fiddling with the strangeness of the uniform means she's uncomfortable. As usual, she's masking anxiety with anger. His new Captain – provided the ceremony goes off without a hitch – is just as readable as ever. Elowyn's grousing is aimed at Breakwood, though, who to be fair is fretting. But it also saves Snotgrut from having to defend their position.

"They're both necessary, Bug," Breakwood says. "We all know this place would go to the Pit in a handbasket without you to steer it." Elowyn raises her eyebrows. "You're mixing your metaphors, Brek. And we both know it wouldn't." "They might shut us down though," Snotgrut has to put in, because it's a worry that has been keeping him up at night. He doesn't know what either of them would do without their work. Elowyn frowns at him, as if she's confused by the suggestion. "They can't." "They could try–" "You misunderstand. They can't." Elowyn does this squirmy thing with her face; it means she's done something where the ends have justified the means. She says carefully, "I... petitioned to have the Special Recondite Unit enshrined in the City's constitution. Some of the council were... less... easy to... persuade than others. But it means they can't shut the Unit down without thorough due process. So all of your plotting is overkill, and I need neither honour guard nor snipers."

Snotgrut and Breakwood look at each other. From Breakwood's cocked eyebrow he didn't know about what Elowyn had done either. Another smile escapes Snotgrut – he does enjoy it when their Captain is the sneaky one. Breakwood's eyebrows and mouth are both tilted. Snotgrut nods and turns back to Elowyn. With an easy shrug, he says, "Everything is in place now. Might as well go forward with it." When she narrows her eyes, rather than scowls, Snotgrut knows she's going to cave.

Elowyn sighs, rubbing at the spot between her eyes. "You're really that worried, huh?" Snotgrut opens his mouth, but finds a pithy response lacking. Breakwood snorts. "Always. I have never met someone so diligent at finding trouble as you." "Besides yourself, you mean?" Elowyn grins. For the moment, they're ignoring him, which is good because Snotgrut can't figure out why he felt so blindsided by the question. "Fine," Elowyn's saying. "We'll do it your way. But I reserve the right to tell you I told you so when nothing happens." "And when it all goes Pete Tong, we'll do the same," Breakwood retorts. And then there's no more time for introspection because a runner from the Courts is knocking on the door, telling them it's time, and they need to gear up.

––

Elowyn gives a good speech. She always has done, ever since Snotgrut has known her. The speech she's giving now is excellent, aided by the faint glow of her Mark. He's willing to admit, too, that her perception is second only to his own. But her focus is on delivering her speech, so he can forgive that she doesn't pick up the flicker of movement from the roof of one of the nearby buildings.

He's moved before he can think about it, reappearing in the air above the building in question. But he's misjudged the teleport; he's too high. And, of course, he didn't bring any Slowfall items... Just when Snotgrut thinks he's going to end up as a small green stain, a shadow falls over him. The back of his armour is snagged by a claw, and his decent is slowed considerably.

But when he lands, the rooftop's empty. Whatever he saw has vanished. Possibly spooked by the presence of the large golden dragon who's assisted him. He wonders if he saw anything at all... then spots an open skylight. Before he takes off, Snotgrut pauses and looks back at the dragon. "Auriana. Is she–?" Auriana snorts. "If she wasn't, I'd not be here." "Right." He gives a sharp nod and takes off towards the skylight, wondering what's gotten him off his game.

In the plaza below, he can still hear Elowyn giving her speech of acceptance in front of the Cathedral of St Cuthbert. She'll notice him missing, of course, but by now she trusts him to get things done out of her view. She wouldn't have made him an LT if she didn't.

There's moss on the bed below the skylight. He's on the right trail, at least. Snotgrut lowers himself down and, on the lightest feet, makes his way out of the room and along the sparse corridor beyond. A narrow, servant's stairway is traversed, bringing him out to a dark hallway beyond.

From outside comes a smattering of applause. Elowyn must have finished speaking. Snotgrut shoves himself into a shadowed corner and asks Ardyss for his vision. The little pseudodragon complies in time for Snotgrut to see his Captain, with her shiny new pauldron, accept the applause with an uncomfortable grace. Then she's leaving the stage, preceded by a blond elf from Watchhouse Eight and Breakwood behind. There are dozens of people swarming to congratulate her, and he spots a flicker of a grimace. Then she looks back at Breakwood – eyebrow raised, three fingers tapping on her shoulder – passing a message in a language Snotgrut has not yet learned. But she's fine, which was all he wanted to see. Snotgrut relinquishes his familiar's vision. Keep an eye on her? he asks Ardyss. Ardyss mentally rolls his eyes, as if to say 'yes, obviously', and cuts the connection.

Snotgrut can't help but smile. Elowyn always thinks he's lying when Snotgrut tells her that Ardyss likes her more, and assumes he has ulterior motives for his familiar hanging around her. He can't deny those motives do exist... but it's not only at his bidding that Ardyss prefers her shoulder to his.

Faint light filters in from narrow window slots, highlighting the dust in the air, as Snotgrut makes his way through the empty house. It's on the second story that he spots a figure ahead. He increases his pace, drawing a wand. "Watch. Stop where you are!" The figure freezes and spins. They're an elf-gnome cross, dressed in a cloak to heavy for the season and carrying a large, flapping bag. "Who are you?" Snotgrut asks. "Please, sir. I'm just a humble caretaker. The family are away and asked me to look over the place while they're gone." "Is it your policy to drop moss on your employers' beds? I want to see in the bag." "Of course, sir..." Really, he should have seen it coming. Stepped to the side. Fired first. He's so off his game...

There's a flare of pain in his gut. It grows and grows like a fungus of lighting, consuming his consciousness. Snotgrut just about has the wherewithal to pull out a healing potion, but it's plucked easily from his fingers before it can be consumed. "Tsk," says the Bad Guy. "Can't have the little dog being well enough to run barking to his master." In short order, Snotgrut is relieved of all his obvious potions, wands and trinkets. There is nothing he can do, pinned to the ground by pain. The only thought in his mind, as it swirls towards darkness, is – how can they call him 'little' when they're both the same height?

His stint in the blissful void is short-lived. He's called out of it by something near his shoulder, thrumming with power and yelling his name. It feels like it takes aeons, but he manages to knock the speaking stone from under his lieutenant's pauldron. "Snotgrut!" Breakwood sounds annoyed. Hmm. "I swear to Libre, if you–" He hits the stone to activate it, a stabbing pain radiating like Flame Strike. "Situ– Ugh. Help."

The next thing he knows, there's a gentle radiance enveloping him; gold like honey wine, warm like a cosy fire. He swims through it, towards the light... and surfaces to hear someone turning the air black and blue in several languages. "–Backup, you idiot. You know better! I know you know better, I was there! Don't you dare make my first official act having to appoint an new LT, I will never forgive you. Come on, you pain in my arse. Why can't you just wake up!" This last is suffused with anger, fear, and a wet sort of plea. He halts out with a croaky voice, "Did the speech go alright, your Ladyship?" The warmth never flickers. She releases a relieved sigh. "Snotgrut, I'm going to throttle you." "Did you get them?" "I don't know. Farren hasn't checked in yet, and Auri's too pissed off for me to tell." Snotgrut starts to rise, but Elowyn pushes him back to the floor. "Sit your ass back down, I'm not finished." "I feel much better–" "You're still bleeding." There's a tightness around her mouth, only partly masked by the furrowed, concentrated brow. It means she's struggling to keep from voicing a vehement opinion, because now is not the time. For once, he appreciates the discretion.

The warmth of her healing gradually fades away, and Elowyn steps away looking exhausted. Sarcastically, Snotgrut says, "May I stand up now?" A smile creeps over her face. "You may." The smile shrinks again as she watches him clamber to his feet, feeling like he got trampled by a pack of wargs. He tries to keep the ache off his face. "We need to talk about this," she says. "Yes." Snotgrut keeps his gaze pinned on the floor, remembering a time not long ago when their roles were reversed. She had the decently to look abashed, and so shall he. "But later. Right now, you're going home." She steps past him, unfurling a handkerchief. "I feel fine. I can prestidigitate my clothes–" "Don't you dare," Elowyn snaps, in the midst of tugging something from the wall. "No magic for the rest of the day. You lost too much blood. You're going home, you're going to eat something solid, then you're going to rest until at least nine bells tomorrow." She grunts as she finally pulls whatever-it-is from the wall. "Am I understood?" "I can continue with my duties, LT. I really am–" "Snotgrut." The hard tone stops him dead. Elowyn turns and, oh – there's an expression she hasn't worn for a while. The last time, he thinks, was in fact that same night, but it was aimed at her aunt. It means she's been scared shitless and is furious about the fact. It takes him a moment to repress his instinct to bicker the point; he doesn't fancy testing that wrath. "May teleport myself home?" "No. Don't think I missed the fumble you made with your last 'port. I don't want to get in and find you melded yourself with a table. We'll ask the Guard if they have horses we can borrow."

Outside, she approaches where the elf from the Eighth is waiting in front of the building entrance. "Captain." The elf greets Elowyn with an inclined head. He eyes snap over her head. "Lieutenant Snotgrut." "Lieutenant Aveskamp," Snotgrut greets back. "Aves," Elowyn huffs. "Not an hour into my new job, and I already have a jurisdictional nightmare on my hands. D'you know who's on point for this attack?" "You're in luck – it's Second precinct. Cap. Willoughby's sent Lieutenant Poulner over to deal with it." Elowyn blows out her cheeks. "Good. Can you ensure this gets to him, please? I'll report in with him later." She holds out a bloodied crossbow bolt. As Aveskamp calls an officer over with a glass jar, Snotgrut realises that was what went through him. No wonder he aches still...

Elowyn leads him to a chair, tells him to 'sit' and 'stay' in a way that makes him think of the gnome/elf's insult – a little dog, barking to his master – before vanishing to secure them transport home.

––

She's always always taking charge, Snotgrut thinks. Always busy, always moving. Si non me, quis ergo indeed. Even here at home, when she should be free to relax, Elowyn is filling in Mrs Higgins on what's happened and directing her to feed him leftover pie and asking the aubolds to keep an eye on him. And, and, always and. The only time she stops moving is when she sits down to take his statement in the chicken-scratch she calls writing. He makes a mental note to redo it later in his more legible hand.

Then she's standing, pulling on a cloak, ready to whisk away again. "Cap?" "Hmm?" "You should stop." A frown. "Stay, I mean." A raised eyebrow. "Have a cup of tea." Elowyn huffs out a laugh and gives him a gentle smile. "I'd love to, but I've got to get this over to the Second. The description you gave will help us figure out who did this. We'll get them, I promise. Now, remember–" "No magic, plenty of tea, rest in between," Snotgrut intones. "Yes, yes." "Good." She squeezes his shoulder. "Be safe." His eyebrows shoot up. "You're the one going outside." "What, are you worrying about me again?" She grins and sweeps towards the door. "I'll be fine. Don't wait up!" Snotgrut stares after her. "Yes," he says in the quiet aftermath. "Yes, I do. All the time."

[aquadestinyswriting]

Last week I accidentally took an edible at 10x my usual dose. I say “accidentally” but it was really more of a “my friend held it out to my face and I impulsively swallowed it like a python”, which was technically on purpose but still an accident in that my squamate instincts acted faster than my ability to assess the situation and ask myself if I really wanted to get Atreides high or not.

Anyway. I was painting the wall when it hit. My friend heard me make a noise and asked what was wrong—I explained that I had just fallen through several portals. I realized that painting the wall fulfilled my entire hierarchy of needs, and was absolutely sure that I was on track to escaping the cycle of samsara if I just kept at it a little longer. I was thwarted on my journey towards nirvana only by the fact that I ran out of paint.

Seeking a surrogate act of humble service through which I might be redeemed and made human, I turned to unwashed dishes in the sink and took up the holy weapon of the sponge. I was partway through cleaning the blender when it REALLY hit.

You ever clean a blender? It’s a shockingly intimate act. They are complex tools. One of the most complicated denizens of the kitchen. Glass and steel and rubber and plastic. Fuck! They’ve got gaskets. You can’t just scrub ‘em and rinse them down like any other piece of shit dish. You’ve got to dissemble them piece by piece, groove by sensitive groove, taking care to lavish the spinning blades with cautious attention. There’s something sensual about it. Something strangely vulnerable.

As I stood there, turning the pieces over in my hands, I thought about all the things we ask of blenders. They don’t have an easy job. They are hard laborers taking on a thankless task. I have used them so roughly in my haste for high-density smoothies, pushing them to their limits and occasionally breaking them. I remembered the smell of acrid smoke and decaying rubber that filled the kitchen in the break room the last time I tried to make a smoothie at work—the motor overtaxed and melted, the gasket cracked and brittle. Strawberry slurry leaked out of it like the blood of a slain animal.

Was this blender built to last? Or was it doomed to an early grave in some distant landfill by the genetic disorder of planned obsolescence? I didn’t know, and was far too high to make an educated guess. But I knew that whatever care and tenderness and empathy I put into it, the more respect for the partnership of man and machine, the better it would perform for me.

This thought filled me with a surge of affection. However long its lifespan, I wanted it to be filled with dignity and love and understanding. I thought: I bet no one has hugged this blender before. And so I lifted it from its base.

A blender is roughly the size and shape of a human baby. Cradling one in your arms satisfies a primal need. A month ago I was permitted to hold an infant for the first time in my life, an experience which was physically and psychologically healing. I felt an echo of that satisfaction holding my friend the blender, and the thought of parting with it felt even more ridiculous than bringing it with me to hang out on my friend’s bed.

[aquadestinyswriting]

Chocolate guy... What the fuck!?

[aquadestinyswriting]

Lord Megatron and Arachnus Prime

My thoughts on what would have happened: what if TFA Optimus had stayed on Archa Seven instead of Elita? Written from Megatron’s pov, sort of

A lot of time passes before anyone realizes there's another unplanned passenger on board.

Megatron isn't sure how their unexpected guest even managed to sneak onto his small reconnaissance vessel, which he used to travel to Archa-Seven with Blitzwing and Starscream.

But the fact remains. None of them noticed. And then, by the time they were aboard the Nemesis, it was already too late. He must have waited until they left the hangar and slipped off the vessel while no one was watching. After that, it’s fairly easy to hide in the dim lighting of the Nemesis. But how he managed to evade even the ever-watchful Starscream remained a mystery and an unpleasant scar on the deputy’s pride. To Megatron’s eternal delight.

The crew noticed something was off when a ration count revealed a shortage. Minor, but still noticeable. Then the soldiers began to quietly whisper about strange things they had seen or heard during their shifts. Rustling, scraping. And the feeling that someone was watching.

Soon the whispers reached Megatron. Normally, he would have dismissed it. But, as unpleasant as it was to admit, he himself had been haunted for some time by that eerie sensation of silent observation.

Megatron decided it was yet another of Starscream’s failed attempts to get rid of him by driving either him or the entire crew insane. Which would happen first was anyone’s guess. But either his SIC was a damn good actor, or he was genuinely terrified.

With no evidence to hold him, Megatron let the bothersome Seeker go and chose to deal with the situation himself. And the problems kept piling up. When they were nearly at New Kaon, someone broke into their database, rummaged through everything they could, and didn’t even bother to cover their tracks.

Megatron had had enough. Until the thief revealed himself, they would remain in space.

And soon, that’s exactly what happened. During one of his recharge cycles, a panicked soldier rushed in and informed him that they had found the intruder.

As it turned out, the culprit had finally decided to come forward—and in a rather impolite manner demanded that Starscream grant him access to one of the emergency pods.

When Megatron arrived, he was met with a sight unlike any he would ever see again. It became one of his happiest memories.

The image of a bitten seeker shrieking in falsetto something along the lines of “Get him away from me, he wants to eat me!” was etched into his processor for eternity.

He never let Starscream forget it.

And of course, he would never forget the first time he saw Him. That beautiful chimera woven from darkness and starlight.

He stood proudly over Starscream’s convulsing body, gazing at everyone around him with his many ruby-like glowing eyes. Claws and fangs gleamed in the dim lighting of the Nemesis. His frame was haloed by the glow of distant stars through the protective glass behind him. Every limb, every curve was sharply defined. Megatron felt as though the poet within him had awakened once more, ready to sing praises to this creature.

Soon, most Decepticons would know him as Arachnus Prime.

To Megatron, he would forever remain Orion.

And he despised their data archiving system. Once the dust had settled and Megatron managed to negotiate with him, Orion delivered an entire speech about the utterly pathetic database in which “a Terrorcon would break his leg,” and how “even an Autobot cadet knows this kind of encryption is unreliable.”

After Starscream’s sarcastic “as if you could do better,” he actually did do better.

It would be a long time before his beloved revealed to him his deepest thoughts and sorrows — the ones that gave him no peace, not even for a moment. Before he learned the whole story.

Of betrayal by closest friends. Of pain and loneliness. Hunger and fear that gnawed at his frame and processor. The sense of hopelessness that swallowed his spark. The revulsion toward his own body, forcibly altered by organic monstrosities. They left nothing in him but a lingering melancholy, trailing behind him like an eternal shroud.

And in Megatron, it ignited an unrelenting fire, burning with a single thought— to burn them all. To destroy those who harmed, those who abandoned, those who failed to save.

But Orion didn’t care. The melancholy still surrounded him, but in his new life, he found small joys that made his existence feel less pitiful.

His greatest passion, bordering on obsession, was the search for the Allspark. He studied every archive, every scrap of data, every footnote accessible to the Decepticons. And when that wasn’t enough, he began hacking Autobot databases. Shockwave was more than happy to assist, of course — in exchange for intel on how to properly integrate into Autobot society.

Over time, it seemed they became friends. Which was strange. Especially when Megatron would walk into Orion’s office to invite him to another sparring match, only to find him gossiping with Shockwave over a secret comm channel.

His data raids sometimes escalated into full-blown incursions into Autobot territory. During these missions, Orion found loyal companions — ones who understood him in ways even Megatron never could. They knew what it was like to serve the great machine and be discarded by it at the first sign of malfunction.

Orion knew exactly how Autobot society worked — their thinking, their weaknesses. And he had learned what it meant to be a Decepticon. How to think. How to live. He had the courage to criticize both sides. Enough bravery to call out Megatron and his generals to their faces. And of course, Orion wouldn’t be Orion if he didn’t “know how to do it better.” And he did.

Soon, Autobot colonies were almost willingly falling under the protection of the Decepticon Empire. Funny, how when you build a world on propaganda and half-truths, erasing dissent, you don’t create a healthy society you breed a herd. A herd that follows the shepherd blindly. And sooner or later, someone takes the shepherd’s staff.

Orion was magnificent in every way. A warrior, a scholar, a strategist.

He was flawless. Megatron couldn’t help but love him with every fiber of his being. And this beautiful chimera returned that love, not immediately, but Megatron was willing to wait. He was willing to fight for it. The greatest obstacle turned out to be Orion’s deep-rooted sense of inadequacy and disbelief that anyone could love a “techno-organic freak and a mistake of nature.”

But Megatron was relentless. And soon, even that fortress crumbled before him.

He had never felt such intoxicating joy from any of his victories as he did from this one.

Yet the most important goal remained out of reach. But wandering the endless cosmos in search of a lost relic was far easier with your beloved by your side. You fall asleep together and wake beneath the glow of the stars.

Not always, of course. Orion needs more time to recharge. Sometimes he overexerts himself. His migraines become unbearable. But Megatron always knows how to help. And if he doesn’t, the old irritable medic,who chats far too freely with Deadlock, is always keeping a close eye on his commander’s health.

Then one day, Orion collapses. Just like that, in the middle of trying to decode another batch of stolen Autobot data. “Just fatigue,” he insists, hurrying out of the medbay and away from the medic’s concerned gaze. But the fatigue keeps returning, and the migraines become constant. Orion tires even from simple movement; his strength leaves him more and more often.

The medic, confused and desperate, admits he doesn’t know what’s wrong. For the first time in a very long while, Megatron feels fear. And with that fear, something stirs at the edge of his subconscious a premonition. As if something irreversible is about to happen.

Orion can’t walk for long anymore. The constant pain clouds his thoughts. The only thing that remains unchanged is his obsessive drive to find the Allspark. He sits at the monitor, barely moving his fingers, his optics squinting in pain but he keeps working.

One morning, Megatron rushes to the medbay in horror. Orion woke up and the first thing he said was,

“Who are you?”

“It’s temporary,” the medic says after a scan. “His migraines are damaging his processor.”

By midday, Orion remembers him.

And then, when the Decepticon leader tries to embrace his beloved, Orion screams in pain. His armor is covered in lesions, as if someone tried to melt it.

At last, the medic identifies the problem. The organic part has been damaged. Energon, metals, and radiation — harmless to a normal bot— have been slowly poisoning Orion. All this time, his techno-organic body had been developing illnesses that showed no signs until now. And now they’ve spread too far to be reversed.

But Megatron refuses to believe it. He won’t accept it. He still has hope. If science is powerless, then he needs a miracle. He searches for the Allspark with renewed fervor.

With each cycle, things worsen. Orion feels unbearable pain in every limb, every organ, every tiny component of his frame. On good days, he can sit and decode data for a while. On bad days… On bad days, he can’t even remember who he is. His body is drained of all strength, and he barely opens his optics.

With each cycle, the Nemesis feels more like a funeral procession. It seems everyone has already buried Orion or is preparing to. Even Starscream is too quiet.

The SIC spends more time pestering the medic and playing nurse than doing his actual job. But Megatron doesn’t care.

He’s not causing problems and that’s enough.

Finally. The long-awaited moment. The triumph among triumphs. It’s so close. Amid a field of asteroids and space debris, they find the Allspark.

When the Allspark is in his hands, he rushes to the ship, not taking his eyes off the figure sitting by the window. Orion looks back at him, smiling tiredly but with a happy smile, and it gives Megatron strength to fly even faster. Just a little more and he will be healed. No more pain, no more suffering.

There is no grand entrance, no triumphant march through the corridors of the Nemesis. Megatron runs to his beloved, clutching his salvation tightly in his hands.

“Orion, we finally found it,” Megatron places the capsule with the Allspark right at Orion’s feet, “you should be proud, thanks to your efforts we…”

It feels like someone hit him in the chest with full force. Megatron looks closely at Orion. Nothing. All his eyes are closed. With that gentle smile on his face. He must have fallen asleep again, his strength has been leaving him too quickly lately. But now everything will change, now he will be healed.

Megatron doesn’t pay attention to the color of his body. It’s just the lighting playing a cruel trick. Orion’s red-gold body with purple details too often looks like that under the lighting of the Nemesis.

Megatron reaches out to touch Orion’s palm but immediately pulls back. Touches hurt Orion. Even if he says it’s just a little, every time Megatron reaches for him, he always feels that moment when Orion fights the urge to flinch, trying to hide his pain. That’s why he never touched his Orion unless Orion allowed it himself.

This is no exception. Orion is sleeping, he needs strength, he shouldn’t be awakened in such a terrible way. Let him rest, and when he wakes up, they will finally heal him.

In the silence of the hall, a sound is heard. Drip-drip. Why is his faceplate wet?

He looks at Orion again. That smiling, wonderful Orion. Unable to resist his emotions, he touches Orion’s palms. Takes both in his hand and waits for his beloved to wake up.

Nothing. No cry, no gasp, not even a tremble.

Someone sobs. Megatron is shaking. Orion’s hands are so cold. They need to be warmed. He brings them to his lips. Gently kisses them, first the palm. Then each finger, turns it over and kisses the back. They are cold. He blows warm air on them. He remembers that before the illness, this was one of Orion’s ticklish spots. He always laughed so brightly when Megatron did that.

Silence. Only drip-drip.

Megatron lays his head on his lap, still holding his hands in his own.

[aquadestinyswriting]

[aquadestinyswriting]

characters raised to be tools

Weapons. Trained, tested, forged in steel and fire. Failure is an inevitability that ends in death. Pain should not be felt--it should be recognized, familiar, and inconsequential

Martyrs. In the form of servants and princes, of leaders and underdogs. If blood is necessary, the martyr will lift their hands and offer it all

Shields. Like tempering a sword, but only to bear and not to lash out. Wounds are medals--not symbols of pride, but symbols of worth. A pretty shield is useless; scars mean a job well done

Experiments. Raised on the cold comfort of a lab table. Restraints are only necessary when they're not in their right mind. Is it honorable, to be twisted beyond recognition? Or is it just a necessary evil?

Monsters. Cruelty, caution, and regarding one as a creature beyond reasonable thought is tempering in its own right. But if you keep a leash at the right length, perhaps the massecre won't reach you. One can hope.

Idols. Pretty face, pretty name, pretty hands around their shoulders and throat. There to seduce, manipulate, force any feeling to come to the surface and twist it to their favor. Any genuinity stays locked behind the guilded cage that surrounds their pretty little heart

Trophies. Status and wealth and the traditions that keep someone at their heels, on their knees, to display and serve and decorate one's ballroom.

Sacrifices. Drenched in honorable clothes, prepared and adored and cleansed. The gift of hope at the cost of one's life. Is it taken with no fight? How can you escape the ropes you were born in?

[aquadestinyswriting]

Foxfire says fuck them cops.

*You couldn't pay me to chase after lights in the hills of Kentuckiana, the Berkshires, or the Bridgewater Triangle, let alone deep Appalachian country. Sometimes when you see something strange, no you didn't.

[aquadestinyswriting]

I am currently listening to the recordings we have and this is so damn accurate. Now that you've pointed it all out, yeah, 'Grut really was the only person in the entire group that was actively looking out for her at all times. It was really very sweet once you get past 'Grut's.... 'Grut-ness 😅.

The drow plot was sadly before we started recording- the first recording I have is in the middle of the Brotherhood plotline, which started after you got back from dealing with the drow.

I would love and adore a short story with those two as a focus though. Maybe an investigation gone a bit awry? Or perhaps something from just before the giants started attacking Toreguarde at the start of Ragnarok because there were a couple of quite sweet moments with those two around that time.

Randomly thinking about Snotgrut and Elowyn.

About how Elo was a Shield and would protect everyone who she thought needed - even those that maybe didn't need it.

About how 'Grut decided that he was going become her Dog and protect her, but also trusted her enough to hold his lead.³

Particularly I'm thinking of an event¹ where Elo & some of the others had let themselves be captured by drow², and how, when it came time for Snotgrut to pull off the rescue, they both waited until everyone was out then proceeded to have an argument about who would be last. I think they finally ran out of time and 'Grut just shoved Elo ahead of him.

Oh and there was the time there was a bard who was making her uncomfortable with innuendos directed at her and he had a quiet word with said bard to make sure he left Elo the hell alone.

I'm also thinking about how 'Grut spent a few days with the group and basically went "this woman has the whole world on her shoulders and no one is doing anything about that. in fact they're expecting it of her and aren't helping with the weight. This won't do" and proceeded to help, usually in the most ass-backwards way he could manage.

--

¹ which is somewhere in the recordings but never made it to the transcript, so I'm paraphrasing as best I can

² I think we had to gather intel on them or find someone who was missing?

³ he knew about Elo's preference to offer leniency and arrest over justified homicide, and before combat would ask if this was a 'gloves on or off' situation, then respected her choice if outright killing beyond self-defence was an allowable option.

[aquadestinyswriting]

honestly you all are so annoying because motherhood IS interesting but fandom people are simultaneously obsessed with deciding that every woman has motherly qualities and completely disinterested in actually exploring motherhood as a role that informs a character. I do think exploring a character being a mother can be wildly interesting if they are canonically one, but because of misogyny, people just view motherhood as a totally unremarkable naturalized state that all women must inhabit!

[aquadestinyswriting]

✨ Here we are!

Welcome to Flash Friday Fiction!

✨ New to FFF? Let us fill you in!

Flash Fiction Friday is a fun writer event that’s meant to inspire, share and connect writings of all genres and writers of all ages. It’s designed to make people want to write, especially if they’re feeling blocked. Everyone and everything is welcome!

We always do our very best to keep the prompt’s genre open, entertaining, positive and encouraging.

Write between 100-1000 words. It can be any genre, in any text format and 18+ is fine by us, just please tag accordingly.

Use this Friday’s theme in your text. Any way you see fit.

Post on your tumblr blog and remember to tag us at @flashfictionfridayofficial​!! So we’ll see it, read it and reblog it!!

Deadline is 24 hours after the prompt has been issued (12 pm CET).

And then, next Friday, we’ll mention your work in a showcase post on our main blog before our next prompt drops.

Please post your entries as regular posts, not screenshots — or provide the text as a regular post as well. Let’s keep everything as accessible as possible!

We ask you to tag your works with any appropriate content warnings and let the reader know what they’ll find before they get the chance to read your work!

If you have a question, check out our FAQ page! If your question isn’t on there, don’t hesitate to ask!

You don’t need to ask for permission or need to get added to a list to join in. Just write, have fun and don’t forget to tag us!

We do not condone fiction, asks or comments that glorify: direct hostility, unconstructive critique, LGBTQIA+ hate, slurs, racism and/or general no-no behaviors.

If you want to be closer to the epicenter, you can come chat on our open discord: https://discord.gg/rUWCE8a

✨ We also introduced our very own Wishing Well, a place for you to whisper your prompt suggestions into. And we’ll listen! Check everything about it out HERE.

✨All your amazing works from last week can be found HERE.

Go check them out and consider supporting your fellow FFF writers with some likes and reblogs!

✨ And now, the new prompt!

[#FFF 319 Long Way Home]

This prompt has been brought to you by someone who wishes to remain anonymous, thank you very much! Whether travelled a thousand times or navigated for the first time, with all the difficulty and uncertainty of a lost soul, the destination couldn't be reached soon enough. What trials and tribulations await the characters along the way? Who is going to lend them a helping hand? What surprises will they encounter? Don't worry, they'll get there, so tell us about their journey!

.

.

.

The Collective

[aquadestinyswriting]

A concept I wish was explored more often in literature and film these days: a hero who will kill, in a world where death isn't cheap. Not an anti-hero. Not a former hero sliding down the moral slippery slope. Not a pacifist forced into an impossible, tortured scenario. Not someone who goes out of his way to kill, either. Just a man who has a firm understanding of self-defence and the defence of others, and knows that sometimes you have to stop people the permanent way.

[aquadestinyswriting]

Homophone mistakes seen this week in intelligent posts by people I respect. Minor flaws, but worth learning the difference.

POURED vs PORED

"I poured water into the cup."

"I pored over every page in the book."

REPEL vs RAPPEL

"That horrible smell will repel guests."

"We had to rappel down the cliff."

[aquadestinyswriting]

“Do you think seahorses write fpreg” and the many other riveting things my friend texts me right before I go to work

[aquadestinyswriting]

I made a bad comic and now you have to look at it