#Glyph Shifted

[yubriamakesart]

it's been a bit too long since the last time i drew a big lady. so i fixed it.

[beloveds-embrace]

(more of fae poly 141 x human queen reader || Masterlist)

It begins, as all fae things do, with something half-whispered and half-willed into being.

The Queen Mother watches from her high balcony, swathed in robes stitched from starlight and spider-silk, a goblet of elderflower wine in hand, and eyes like knives turned on her sons- indeed, only John may be her son of her own blood, but the other three have been married to him long enough she sees them all the same. Now, she is not subtle in her disappointment, but subtlety is not what’s needed now.

She wants a grandchild.

You are the wife, thus you are the womb. You are also- unfortunately- entirely unconvinced.

Which is a problem.

So the court changes. Just a little. Just enough- and all by the Queen Mother’s hand.

You notice it in the morning, when your tea no longer arrives lukewarm but steaming gently in a mug carved with delicate runes for comfort and staying warm. In the way the wind, once cruel and clawing, now stirs only to brush your hair back like a mother’s hand.

You find moss blooming along the path you take to the greenhouse- soft, lush, easier on your feet when you leave your shoes behind, as you often do. Glowy flits at your shoulder, a small sun in a kingdom that loves its shadows. Thrain trails behind with his antlers lowered, his hooves never once clicking on the stone, for the castle shifts beneath him now. Quiet, respectful for the being its Queen finds comfort in.

You don’t understand the change. You assume it’s the Queen Mother’s doing, for it certainly could not be your husbands’.

And you are not wrong- but you do not see the rest of it, nor do you understand why.

You do not see Johnny kneeling in your study after you’ve gone to sleep, trying to decipher the new system you’ve carved into court documentation like sacred text. He is muttering under his breath, muttering your name, because he can’t figure out how the taxes flow this smoothly without magic.

“Bloody hell,” he mutters, frowning at a sheet full of overlapping glyphs and sigils. “How does she even- ?”

He runs a hand through his hair and exhales, defeated. “Nae way queenie’s human. No way.”

He cannot do what you do, and it terrifies him as much as it excites him.

You do not see Simon standing outside your window at dusk, his silhouette caught in the trembling light of a fae firefly swarm. He doesn’t knock. Just watches. He thinks about the way your shoulders sag when no one’s looking. He doesn’t know how to help without breaking something, yet he doesn’t acknowledge that his inaction might be just as cruel.

“She’s always tired,” he says quietly, to no one but the trees that stare at him in silent judgement and accusation. “Don’t think we’ve ever asked why.”

You do not see Kyle trimming the hedge maze into gentler curves he’s the one who shapes the new garden path into a spiral, the human symbol of devotion. You won’t recognize it, not right away, but he hopes that someday you’ll walk it barefoot and feel safe, and the thorns will no longer prick your fingers or get tangled in your dresses.

“Be nice,” he murmurs to the leaves. “If she had something made for her. Not for show. Just… hers.”

And John… he leaves you a book. Not a weapon, nor a command, but a book; a soft, leather-bound thing from the human realm, tucked into your pillow. One you’d spoken about months ago in passing when you were trying to strike up small talk, the kind of memory no one was supposed to hold on to.

But he remembered, and he knows well enough not to tell you it was him who got that book for you, because he knows you wouldn’t believe it the same way you don’t believe any of them.

“She won’t believe it’s from me,” he says to the mothlight above your bed, and Glowy sharpens its light at him, unimpressed. “But maybe she’ll enjoy the story anyways.”

Their attempts feel like guilt wrapped in ribbons, like pity painted gold, so you wear your silence like armor. Your glamours grow sharper and darker, and become even more of what they always wanted you to be: untouchable, mysterious, other. Anything except human.

Not because you want to, but because it is safer.

And they- gods, they don’t know how to undo it.

They, the fearsome four. Masters of strategy, of illusion, of war. A beloved, respected King and his beloved, respected advisors.

They are helpless in the face of your doubt. Fools, all four of them.

Which is why the Queen Mother begins to meddle in earnest.

She speaks in circles at court dinners, drops names of fertility rites and lucky moons. She gives you gowns lined with moonstone and roses that only bloom when kissed by love. She leaves baby shoes- handwoven from frost-leaves- on your writing desk like a curse you make no mention of because acknowledging it is terrifying.

And still, she does not pressure you. Not directly, anyways.

Only… makes space. Opens doors. Makes them walk through them until one by one, they begin showing up.

Johnny brings pastries he says were “extra” but are clearly from the bakery in the fae city you once mentioned yoy liked. He never stays long, just drops them off, scratches Thrain’s fur for the five seconds the great stag lets him before it tries to bite his hand and head cleanly off, and mumbles about going.

“Don’t read into it,” he says, ears flushed, hands in his pockets and away from Thrain’s hungry maw. “Jus’ thought you’d like the wee apple ones. You always looked happier w’ apple.”

Kyle hums near your bath, not entering, but talking idly through the steam about human songs you’d once sung with the will-o-wisps. He doesn’t ask to join. He just exists nearby- even less than the time Johnny had kept you company.

“Remember the one with the moon and the river?” he asks, softly. “They still echo it down the west wing.”

Simon sits on the couch of your office and watches you. Never interrupts. Just… listens. Like he’s learning you all over again, but this time he is paying attention.

“You breathe differently when you’re upset,” he murmurs one day, not looking at you. “Didn’t know that before. I do now. Let me look at that ledger.”

John brings Glowy closer to your chair when you read. Doesn’t speak. Just adjusts the wings so the glow warms your feet, and then he watches in amusement as Glowy hisses at him for his audacity to reposition it like that- yet it eagerly stays in that spot to provide warmth for you.

You glance up, and his eyes catch yours.

“Light-… Glowy was too far,” he says simply. “Can’t have you freezing.”

It is not much- but it is more than nothing.

And still, you do not trust it; love should not come only after loss; love should not bloom only when you have nothing left to give.

But the court begins to whisper. Softer now. Not prey, not little queen.

Yours, perhaps, after all.

And when you wake one morning to find your glamours replaced by simple fabric, soft and real- no magic, no sharpness, no enchanted jewellery, just skin and breath and linen- and none of them flinch, none of them turn away, not even when you catch their stares and look back, unadorned…

You wonder, just a little, if something has begun to change.

You wonder if they see you now.

Thrain noses your wrist, grumbling deep from his belly, the sound happy. Glowy settles into your collar with a delicate fwmp of its wings. The wind, the fae wind, brings you petals instead of thorns.

And beside your pillow- tucked gently against the spine of your beloved book- is a letter, penned in four distinct hands, tied with gold thread and sealed with wax.

You open it with trembling fingers, and inside it reads:

We’d like to take you to dinner. No court. No masks. Just us. At the gazebo. Say yes, and wear whatever you like. We’ll be waiting.

Yours- if you’ll still have us.

[revelboo]

was reading some junji ito for the season and something something reader with metroplex about the house he made for them

I can’t tell if you guys keep asking about Metroplex to mess with me or just because you’re as awful about hopelessly, doomed romance as I am. @lockheed-martin-unofficial you see what you unleashed on me? Just… you guys have me wanting to figure out how this can work long term and even if he were to mass shift, he’s so big his smallest would probably be Skyfire sized and the amount of energy needed to even just move and transform alone… 😭

I Can Feel You Pt 3

Metroplex x Reader

• It doesn’t take long for the other Autobots to notice what he’s done for you. Speculating on why he’s more active around you, more alert. Watchful as Hound uses a servo to gently tap you on the head, calling you a ‘mini city speaker.’ That little touch sending an aching sense of longing through him, a spark of resentment. But Hound and Ironhide help you move your things into the space he’s made for you, making it your own. You’ll stay with him. There’s a mattress laid on the berth now and he almost resents that, too, because it means he can’t feel the heat of you, your little heart beat. You’re with him, though, and that’s what matters.

• It’s quiet around you, just a faint hum spilling up through you that you can almost feel in your bones. The thrum of Metroplex’s spark? It’s a peaceful noise, soothing away the anxiety of sleeping in an unfamiliar place. But it’s really not unfamiliar, is it? It’s Metroplex, watching over you. Laying your cheek on an arm, you look around the house he’d made for you and wonder what’s going on in the huge mech’s processor. How aware he is of the Autobots calling him home and of you. Enough to move you out of harm’s way and to do this for you so you have a place of your own. And if he is watching, that must be so lonely. Everyone living their lives so close, right there, but to always be separate. Dangling an arm, you touch the metal floor, feeling the warmth of the massive autobot. “Are you awake?” You whisper, wondering how much recharge he needs or if he’s always half asleep.

• Little, warm fingers against him, tracing spirals and designs. That touch grounding him, making it a little easier to focus on you. Cautiously, he shifts the surface under your fingers. It’s painstaking to create new things, exhausting his energy reserves, but glyph by glyph he writes you a message. Watches you lean out from your berth to watch, lips parting. He doesn’t know your language and doubts you understand his, but it’s all he has. A plea to stay with him, his gratitude at you for speaking to him, giving him a lifeline to keep him from drifting after so long alone. You broke that silent sea of indifference he’d drowned in for so long. So, please, stay. Keep talking to him. He needs you.

Previous

Next

[aventurineswife]

Kinich with Reader repairing some of his damaged clothes and making them good as new? Doesn’t even have to be because of a major event like the Abyss invading, could be that he was just doing his laundry and didn’t realize a thread had gotten loose and the piece of clothing started falling apart. 😅

Fixing What’s Torn

Summary: Kinich brings one of his heavily damaged shirts to you for repairs after realizing it’s on the verge of falling apart. Though his reserved nature makes him reluctant to ask for help, he quietly observes your skill and precision while mending his clothes. The interaction reveals a softer side to the stoic hunter, hinting at his growing appreciation for small acts of kindness and connection.

Tags: Kinich x Reader, Fluff, Slow Burn, Quiet Intimacy, Practical Bonding, Character Growth.

Warnings: Brief mention of Kinich’s self-reliance and reluctance to depend on others.

The quiet hum of the forest served as a backdrop to the scene. Sunlight filtered through the canopy, dappling the ground in shifting patches of gold. You sat cross-legged on the worn wooden bench outside your modest home, a small sewing kit open beside you. In your lap lay one of Kinich’s shirts—if it could still be called that. The garment was riddled with loose threads and frayed edges, the result of both his rugged lifestyle and, as he begrudgingly admitted, his lack of attention to laundry maintenance.

Kinich stood nearby, leaning casually against a tree. His arms were crossed over his chest, his piercing eyes watching you with a mixture of curiosity and discomfort. The stoic hunter was clearly unused to relying on anyone, even for something as small as this.

"You didn’t have to," he said, his voice low and even. "I could’ve just—"

"—worn it until it completely fell apart?" you interrupted with a teasing smirk, threading the needle with practiced ease. "I don’t think even you could pull off a shirt in that condition, Kinich."

He huffed, glancing away as a faint tint of embarrassment touched his cheeks. "It’s just a shirt."

"And this is just a needle," you replied, your hands deftly stitching up a particularly bad tear near the sleeve. "Relax. I’m doing you a favor, not signing a contract with Ajaw."

At the mention of his companion, Kinich’s wristband pulsed faintly, a golden glyph flickering to life before dimming again. He glanced at it briefly but said nothing.

You continued working in silence, the rhythm of your stitching steady and calming. Despite his gruff exterior, Kinich hadn’t outright refused your help—though you suspected that was more out of practicality than gratitude. Still, the fact that he’d brought the shirt to you at all was a small victory.

"You’re good at this," he remarked after a while, his tone surprisingly genuine.

You looked up, meeting his intense gaze. "Years of practice," you said with a shrug. "You’d be surprised how often people around here need their clothes patched up. Not everyone has your skill with traps and hunting, you know."

Kinich tilted his head slightly, as though considering your words. "Still," he said, "it’s... precise. Takes patience. Not bad."

You blinked, caught off guard by the compliment. It wasn’t much, but coming from someone as reserved as Kinich, it felt significant. "Thanks," you said softly, returning your focus to the garment.

The quiet stretched between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Kinich seemed content to watch, his sharp eyes tracking the movement of your hands. The steady pull of the thread, the neat rows of stitches—it was a kind of craftsmanship he could appreciate, even if it wasn’t his own.

As you finished the last stitch and tied off the thread, you held up the shirt to inspect your work. "There," you said, satisfied. "Good as new. Or at least, as close to new as it’s going to get."

Kinich stepped forward, taking the shirt from your hands. His fingers brushed yours briefly, and you noticed the callouses on his palms—a testament to years of hard work and survival. He held the shirt up, examining the repairs with a critical eye.

"...Not bad," he repeated, though this time there was a hint of warmth in his voice.

"You’re welcome," you said with a grin, packing up your sewing kit. "Try not to destroy it again too soon, okay?"

He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "I’ll try."

As Kinich turned to leave, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder. "If... anything else needs fixing, I’ll let you know."

It wasn’t much, but from him, it felt like a genuine acknowledgment of your effort. Smiling to yourself, you watched as he disappeared into the forest, his repaired shirt slung over one shoulder.

Maybe Kinich wasn’t as distant as he seemed. Beneath the cold, pragmatic exterior, there was someone who valued the small gestures—someone who, in his own quiet way, was learning to let others in.

[cafedragons]

Different Ways Fusions Can Result

(This post is specifically about fusion in CDD systems. I am open to questions, but I am not open to people shaming others' chosen recovery paths. Keep that off this post, please!)

Integration is the process of breaking down dissociative barriers between alters. The alters fuse when they accept and integrate with each other to such a degree that they function as one. This can end up several different ways! I'd love to show you some, using my own system/alters to explain & conceptualize.

#1: The "New Guy" (with traits from both)

Jayden, a 17 year old verbal protector, and Glyph, an ageless dragon soother/protector, fused to make Marcus, who became our system's primary caretaker. The alters both balanced each other out, with Jayden's "chill unless pissed" mixing neatly with Glyph's strong need to keep things in order/safe to make one responsible, organized, and laid-back alter.

#2: The "Old Guy With An Update"

Gemini, our co-host, fused with a bunch of memory-holding fragments. Nothing fundamental about Gemini changed, but he did have access to more memories and some skills.

#3: The "New Guy" (that mostly seems like an old guy)

Echo, our nonhuman shadow being of a gatekeeper, fused with Zeke, an avenger and anger holder who was also the host of his subsystem. Echo kept the name Echo and mostly seems the same at first glance, but sometimes Zeke's bluntness and habitual swearing come through. Zeke has found a lot of peace and healing by fusing with Echo, and Echo gained the perspective of "hot" emotions.

#4: The "Lava Lamp"

Finn, a happiness/energy holder, and Jukebox, a trauma holder, fused to who became Jukebox 2.0. Sometimes, this new alter is a lot more like Finn or a lot more like Jukebox or a perfect mix of the two. The ratio varies and he is ever-shifting. Consistently, he loves dinosaurs, orange juice, and gummy bears.

Overall, fusion can look different for everybody, and it can even look different in the same system! Fusion is a very diverse experience.

While fusion is a good thing, sometimes people do need to grieve it, just like any other large change. That's okay and it doesn't make you a bad person, nor does it make you "anti-recovery". Big changes can be very hard.

In my opinion, the most important thing to keep in mind about fusion, for those who seek it, is being kind to yourself throughout the whole process.

Sometimes, fusions don't work out too well. Sometimes, two alters aren't a good match yet. Sometimes, it takes a few tries. Ultimately, it's up to you and your system how or if you go about it - there's no "wrong way". Just don't rush things, trust yourself, and take it easy. It'll all settle in the end, I promise!

[wha-archive]

Chapter 78 is now available in Japanese! This chapter comes with the publishing of this very sweet illustration of young Agott. An official colouring of her old robes! She has such a different attitude to the Agott we know today - how curious!

Following a hiatus, Chapter 52 of Kitchen of Witch Hat has also been published! I've not seen any indication that it'll return to monthly publishing, but any updates from Sato are good to see. Hopefully she takes her recovery at her own pace!

[ID: A coloured illustration of a younger Agott, still with long hair and her old robes. The robes have a pink and white colour scheme, with a fucshia outer robe and dusty pink robe over a long white dress. She appears sheepish or bashful with a small smile on her face, wide eyes, her fingers knitting together and her feet shifting. The background is a red board with a gold frame upon which are numerous pages of magic runes. They are not complete glyphs - they instead appear to be the magic used to represent animals in sculpture magic. END ID]

[nonsscrapheap]

TFP: Universal Obversations

WE ARE BACK BABY

so sorry for the long delay! i kinda hit a writer's block with this chapter and au, but i managed it after focusing on other things! like ttp and dofb!

i'm still very much invested in this reaction story so don't worry! there's a little bit of plot here- you'll see what i mean! but ON WITH THE SHOWING!

ACT 1: Show Acting - II -

[ ----- TP : UO ----- ]

The Nemesis

It hasn't been that long since they found the mysterious unknown relic and already it has caused more ripples within his Lord, within the other Decepticons and within him.

Soundwave had been similarly apprehensive when they found the unknown relic within the warship's storage unit, he had been doing a routine check throughout the Nemesis' camera system that he noticed the spherical object clearly through the screen in a place that he had distinctly remembered it not being there before.

Immediately on guard, he had called for Starscream to retrieve the object to be examined while he tried to figure out who stored the object there as well as what it was.

Unfortunately, Soundwave couldn't find who stored it nor how it appeared in the first place, even through extensive searching through the security footage there was no sign of tampering or any sign of someone breaking into the Nemesis just to leave the sphere in their storage room. 

Inevitably he and Starscream presented the object to their Lord and Master, and as expected, Megatron was not pleased. 

It was with an aching spark that he dared to counter Megatron's order of trying to find out who left the damnable thing with the fact that no one knew where it came from, what it could do, nor who left it in the storage room. The Autobots were, of course, the top suspects yet it still begged the question as to why? And how? 

And then the sphere began to glow and it began to show things that were… 

A smiling, blue-optic Starscream. A kinder, blue-optic Megatron. Arachnid gently handling humans. Humans on the Nemesis, not hunted down. Soundwave with green biolights and a synthetic voice and a visor covering the faceplate he was missing because Optimus Prime—

To borrow a certain Decepticon's (who may or may not be dead, he had his doubts about it because of a certain Seeker) usual phrase; it began to show things that were illogical.

Yet at the same time, it was, undoubtedly, fascinating. 

They now knew the main function of the silver and gold sphere with Primal glyphs carved into its face, it was a powerful observation device, one capable of glimpsing into entirely other worlds. Universes where things were shifted, different, a world where it seemed like the morality between factions had flipped on its sides.

Give me your face

And now… now it was showing a world where Soundwave's world was of fiction, a play, a show. In a world where it seemed that humans and cybertronians were co-existing peacefully, unbelievably enough. 

While Soundwave has never really found humans to be that bad, they've created some amusing things and Soundwave did enjoy a good amount of their music (music was music and Cybertron's music has stagnated since the war…) even he was more than surprised to see the flesh-made organics working together in such a way.

Or he would be if the preceding and more important fact of Soundwave's world was a show in that world didn't come first. His alternate was… so free and young. Showing his faceplate (he still had his faceplate) with a smile on his derma.

They all were so…

The 'actors' that played his Lord and the Prime, the Autobot femme scout and the spiderbot- they were all young and free in a way that Soundwave refused to acknowledge as envy. 

He does not remember being that young.

He does not remember being that free.

All there was was Kaon, and the gladiatorial pits, and freedom in loyalty.

Loyalty to Megatron, to the Decepticons.

His optics, hidden behind his visor (he has his faceplate) dart over to his Lord whose own red optics are wide then they narrow and there's a curling snarl barely held back on his derma as the viewing continues. Only changing when the human woman mentions the words 'season one finale', immediately he and Lord Megatron understand the implications of what was about to be discussed;

Their future.

Important information that needed to be heard despite the way it was presented being… like this. 

As Lord Megatron orders the Decepticons to pay attention to their near future, Soundwave starts recording the holographic screen, he was not going to miss one second of information from this. 

[ "The natural conclusion of Unicron, The Unmaker, Cybertron's version of Satan- being Earth itself. Or at least the core." Caster finished with a slight laugh, sounding somewhat but only a little bit hysterical.

"Cybertron's Satan is the Earth's core, yeah." Jackson nodded with his fellow humans, "No one was expecting that." ]

There is a chorus of noise at the revelation as the screen pauses for some reason —

( "Jack, Raf, Miko! Pause the screen! Pause it right now!" "I- okay?! Why uh- SCREEN PAUSE?!" "What's wrong?! Why's everyone freaking out?!" "Cybertron's Satan is a Unicorn???" )

[ OBSERVATION PAUSED. ]

"-a trick! A lie! Earth's core cannot POSSIBLY be Unicron—" "-weet Primus, no wonder this planet is so chaotic—" "-at does it mean for us? What the frag do we— "-ashed landed on this Primus-foresaken planet—" 

"ENOUGH!" 

Soundwave stiffened, and while he hadn't been part of the cacophony of mutterings with his fellow Decepticons, he couldn't help but hold in a vent from his Lord's command. Lord Megatron's optics were glowing brightly, no sign of dark energon in his system quite yet, but there was a near-manic look of interest and a tight grin on his faceplate.

( Elsewhere, a Prime and a medic explained what 'Unicron' was to three human children. Retelling a prophecy of doom, the medic was quickly trying to figure something out on their base's console. It's a chilling realization as they try to comprehend the fact their planet is essentially the devil of cybertronians everywhere. )

The commotion is immediately silenced as Megatron turns back to the frozen screen with a newfound hunger. Yet there was some conflict hidden in those optics, a conflict that Soundwave was unsure about. "This blasted planet… Unicron is its core? Truly?" 

Soundwave said nothing as Megatron began to chuckle, the other Decepticons showed signs of being discomforted but Soundwave stood still. Not even shifting an inch when Megatron's chuckle turned into hearty and harsh laughter, as if hearing a joke that only he could understand.

Perhaps that was the point, only Megatron had successfully bonded with dark energon. Only he could understand anything that involved Unicron. 

"Soundwave."

Soundwave tilted his helm, giving his Lord his full attention. 

"Whatever it takes, get full control over the sphere. Find the human spawns if you have to." 

He added those orders to his priority tree, his tentacles unwinding out of his chassis to connect with the Nemesis. However, just as he was about to connect, the projected screen in the air finally started moving once more.

("If we want to know more about Unicron." Jack said grimly, "We're going to have to continue watching what's happening… so,,, uh, orb? UNPAUSE." )

[ OBSERVATION UNPAUSED. ]

"The Autobots clearly want to know more about this." Starscream muttered the obvious, why else would it continue? His intake clamped shut at the look Lord Megatron gave him.

Soundwave considered his priorities before halving his attention, letting his tentacles connect to the Nemesis while he continued to watch the screen and continue recording the shown universe.

[ "Like Orion said, big shock in the middle of filming." Venami told Caster, "We all suspected something was up with the 'dark energon' aspect of the show, we knew at some point Unicron was going to show up because- it's dark energon. It's Unicron's blood, the anti-spark, etc. etc. But we were expecting the usual depiction of a planet-sized planet-eater. Not, y'know, dormant Earth which held these little mongrels." She gestured to the human actors who just grinned at her.

"Speaking of dark energon, what does it taste like?" Polly couldn't help but interrupt, looking very curiously at the actors.

"No idea about actual dark energon but I liked the stuff the props-crew made." Orion said with an easy grin, "Amethyst-flavored with a pinch of bismuth." 

Caster's optics blinked, "You actually ate the prop of dark energon?" 

"Only the liquid form, the dark energon crystals are strictly visual props." Dion told her, "It's actually a pretty popular snack around the crew." ]

Lord Megatron didn't look too pleased with the way the conversation was heading on the screen, getting impatient with the lack of actual useful information being shown.

Soundwave however was picking apart the conversation for anything useful or at least interesting- the world of that universe was fascinating. Not only was the Autobot-Decepticon war had long been over, but the culture must have grown to the point that multiple depictions of old legends and myths were popularized. 

'Usual depiction' meant that Unicron was a regular thing in Cybertron's media, or even Earth media at this point. The tales of Unicron in this universe were old, from beyond Cybertron's Golden Age and there were tales of Unicron as a planet-eating monster, but not many. 

Thankfully, the conversation goes back to 'Transformers: Prime', speaking of events that had yet to come.

[ "Antonio," Polly spoke, gaining the young boy's attention. "Antonio, your character, Raf, nearly died near the season finale. We're all wondering- was he supposed to die and they changed it or…"

A brief series of clips showed as she spoke, of Megatron shooting at Bumblebee with Raf in the backseat with dark-energon powered blasts. Of him getting hit. Of a small hand slipping ominously lifeless in Bumblebee's mirror. Of the Autobots on some human military area, fighting and confronting Megatron only to look back and see the yellow scout forlornly stepping forward, cradling a small, pale and motionless body in his servos, barely breathing. ]

A dark chuckle comes from his Lord, a pleased look on his faceplate as he sees a possible glimpse of the future only to scowl as he remembers the words 'supposed' to being used by the human caster. "I'm almost impressed, the Autobot's human pets are resilient little things aren't they?" 

( Elsewhere, both Autobot and humans cried out at the sight of their youngest being shot at. And the chilling scene of Bumblebee cradling a seemingly lifeless Raf. Said scout took Raf into his servos again, beeping rapidly. The youngest human tried to reassure him, his friends and the other bots that he was okay while the Autobots promised to never let what they just saw, happen to him. Not in this universe. )

[ The clips continued to show Raf on a gurney, vitals unstable, of being wheeled into a chamber after Ratchet took some energon from Bumblebee to use against the dark energon infecting Raf. Blue light shining from within the glass and Raf's vitals stabilizing afterwards. 

"So sorry about that my boy," Dion said to Antonio who laughed at his fake-solemn nature, "Evil villain must be evil after all."

"It's okay! Well, we don't actually know if Raf was supposed to die there? It was just part of the script, you'll have to ask Rung about it. But he won't answer! We've all tried to ask him stuff but he's tight-lipped on certain details about his story!" Antonio answered Polly, "I didn't really like that scene- mostly because I had to be covered in all this make-up to look all sickly and almost dead. And I had to retake a lot of my scenes because THESE guys kept being too dramatic!" 

Antonio gestured to his castmates, they all grinned and laughed. "You'll uh, you'll see what he means when we upload the blooper content we have online- we got permission to do that." Rumi mentioned, smiling and waving shyly at the camera. ]

"Even if the dark energon mostly being absorbed by the scout, it's rather remarkable that the human managed to survive long enough to be healed from it." Starscream muttered, sneering at the soft-sparks on the screen. He couldn't believe that this… 'Dion' was Lord Megatron's actor of all things…

He couldn't help but wonder about his own actor. Was he… Was he content with his life as such?

Meanwhile Soundwave was more focused on this 'Rung' that was mentioned, this was the second time they mentioned the 'creator' or 'writer' of Transformers: Prime. Who was he? Who was this mysterious person (cybertronian or human?) who 'wrote' the universe that he and the others resided in? 

[ "This question is for the entire cast present; what do you think of the character you act?" 

Almost immediately, three cybertronians and human children turned to look at Dion who leaned forwad. "Oh, here we go." Jackson said with an amused and exasperated look on his face.

"Um…?" Caster glanced between both sets of actors. 

Orion laughed, "Pretty much all of us are content with our characters and have our own opinions of them but Dion… well, he's got a lot to say since the finale. Take it away Dee." 

Dion sat on the edge of the cybertronian-sized couch, "First off- I love Megatron. I love acting him out, I'm honored to be able to, he's genuinely one of my favorite characters from the show. He's strong, he's powerful, his design is badass and if anyone has been keeping up with the show, they'll know that Rung also released like- these little booklets and comics featuring the backstories of certain characters. Megatron was one of them. We learn his old name was like- Megatronus, after one of the original Primes and- he was a gladiator and stuff, love it. Absolutely love him."

A comic depicting Megatronus of Kaon artistically standing in the middle of a cheering stadium. ]

Optic ridges rose up at sight of the comic, Soundwave felt nostalgic at the sight of his Lord's past as a gladiator being shown.

"Man I remember those days, went to see one of his matches before when I was younger." He hears Breakdown mutter to KnockOut, "It was- well, it was awesome." Starscream scoffed but looked at the comic with a calculating yet critical eye, clearly remembering the reason why he came to Megatron in the first place like the rest of them.

Arachnid eyed the comic with a snort, but looked impressed nonetheless. 

Megatron huffed, but held his helm high with clear pride. Despite his counterpart merely being an 'actor' in that other universe, he clearly recognized greatness when he saw it. He should be honored to play his part as Lord Megatron in a fictional show.

( Elsewhere, an ex-archivist silently sighs at the sight of the familiar mech on the comic. While his human charges start asking questions of the past that he and Ratchet will answer. Only Ratchet could truly hear the sadness and nostalgia hidden in his tone. )

[ "Which is why I was so disappointed in him during the season one finale. " Dion said with a deep sigh, his castmates snickering around him. ]

There was an abrupt, short laugh (Starscream) that was quickly shut up from Megatron's furious voice. "What." 

( "Excuse me?" Deadpanned an unimpressed medic- it was hard to listen to an alternate Megatron, actor as he was, say it was an honor to play him in a fictional version of their universe. )

[ "Disappointed?" Polly echoed incredulously, sharing a look with Caster.

"Disappointed." Dion nodded, arms crossed. 

Caster leaned forward against her desk in interest, "Why were you disappointed?"

"He's disappointed Lord Megatron did the most illogical thing ever and knelt before Unicron and tried to become his servant." Cycla said sarcastically. 

"Essentially." Venami nodded while Dion grumbled with Orion leaning against him with clear amusement. ]

"He did wh-" Starscream started to say but forced himself silent with a flinch at the deep rumbling growl that came from the warlord. 

The Decepticon Leader looked incensed. Optics glowing a bright furious red at the floating screen showing the other universe. 

( Autobots and humans alike stared at the screen, optics and eyes wide and disbelieving. )

[ "Look- I just- I don't like the thought of Megatron. Lord Megatron! Gladiator from the pits of Kaon! Becoming a servant to anyone! Even towards the Chaos-Bringer himself!" Dion argued exasperatedly, "It doesn't make sense! Yeah sure, the mech's addicted to dark energon now, which- okay, another thing for me to be disappointed about but seriously! He called Unicron master! His Lord! That's not the gladiator of Kaon! That's not the Decepticon Warlord who waged war for millions of years against Optimus Prime! That's definitely not the revolutionary who wanted to break free from his masters in his backstory back when he was a miner!" 

"We've heard this rant about a hundred times at this point." Jackson said to a nearby camera as Dion continued.

"I'm starting to think Starscream was right in the show- those three years in space, in solace, messed up his processor or maybe the giant chunk of dark energon he found messed it up further. He became obsessed with dark energon and Unicron and that dumb doom prophecy in the show."

Orion spoke up, clearly very amused by Dion's words. "One could say he never really intended to become the servant of Unicron, that he was trying to deceive the god."

"I certainly hope so!" Dion huffed, "Still doesn't change the fact I'm disappointed in him. Hypocrite as he is, revolutionary to a tyrant, I love Megatron. I really do, but mech, he sometimes just… doesn't live up to the name he, himself, made." ]

Soundwave tried not to let the words affect him, though it was a little hard considering Dion looked so much like his Lord and played his Lord in that universe. An outsider criticizing his Lord's actions- he did not understand. He may act out Lord Megatron's role, but he has never been in the mech's pedes. 

Unlike him, however, Lord Megatron was clearly affected by the words of his counterpart. Canon powering up, a snarl on his faceplate as he quickly aimed at the orb.

Even Soundwave was alarmed by the sudden action, instinctively moving away from the incoming blast radius. "Lord Megatron?!" Starscream shrieked, throwing himself away with Knock Out, Breakdown and Arachnid close behind. Optics wide and frantic.

Soundwave could barely try and string together a sequence of clips to warn his Lord to do otherwise, the orb was far too useful intact than destroyed! "Lord Megatro—"

PHWOOM!

The world turned bright blue for a brief moment, blinding everyone within the room. 

However, there was no sound of explosion, or something breaking. Just a strange hum in the air as the light died down to show the orb… completely unharmed. A strange blue holographic shield covering it and the screen that floated above it paused.

( Elsewhere another orb glows brightly. "WOAH!" "What happened?!" "W-Why's the screen paused? We didn't do anything!" "Wait… who is that?" )

"Impossible." Megatron hissed, glaring vehemently at the orb, canon whirring to life once more. 

Soundwave had to intervene this time. His Lord was obviously displeased, about to no doubt berate him yet Soundwave pointed at the screen in urgent silence.

[ "Oh my." 

The screen was frozen over Dion's faceplate, a 'PAUSE' symbol stamped over it. The camera panned out to another screen and a thin cybertronian sitting at a desk in a strange office. Model ships lined the shelves on the wall, but the one that stood out the most wasn't a model ship. But an exact replica of a familiar orb. It was glowing.

The cybertronian in question was thin, lanky, clearly not a combative mech. He was painted in orange and white, with blue-tinted goggles covering his optics. Strangely enough, the mech had a spark window of all things, thankfully tinted though. 

The mech was looking at the glowing orb and then suddenly he was looking at them. ]

Them.

Through the screen.

Soundwave was unable to explain how or why, but he just knew the mech was looking at them through the screen. And he wasn't the only one.

Weapons were being activated, aimed suspiciously and cautiously at the screen and the orb. 

(Elsewhere, the Autobots were in defensive positions. The humans children being set behind them protectively. )

[ "Such hostility and confusion I sense, it has been quite a while since this thing operated on its own…" The mysteirous mech said, tapping the screen. "Curious." 

Clearing his throat, the mech gave a gentle smile, "Settle down you all, I mean no harm. Even if I could, I can't. Your relays are incomplete, damaged. I can't do anything in your world, nor can you do anything in mine. My name is Rung, it is a pleasure to meet you all… Somewhat." ]

[ ----- TP : UO ----- ]

WE HAVE A LITTLE BIT OF PLOT AND REASONING BEHIND THE ORBS! SPHERES! THE UNIVERSAL OBSERVATION DEVICES! just a little bit because i desperately wanted to write rung- ever since i mentioned him as the writer of the actor au's show... did he write it using the orb? maybe. maybe not. he has a sphere of his own!

and he can talk to them! kind of. you'll see in the final actor au chapter next time! which will hopefully be sooner rather than later this time.

the highlight of the chapter was definitely dion's opinion of megatron- what do you do when the actor that plays you says they're a fan but they're disappointed in you. not angry, not sad, just- disappointed? also i find it, fucking hilarious. (i may have projected a bit to dion there about my disappointment in tfp megatron. its unreasonable ik.)

it's a very good thing the spheres have a defensive mechanism!

ALSO! i am going to PREEMPTIVELY give you all a choice on the next au they'll be reacting to after the actor au! just so i can prepare in advance. it won't be for a while since i do have other fics to focus on but here we go!

you get FIVE options. next AU reaction is going to be way longer depending on which AU gets pick.

im honestly rooting for Mecha AU to win, bc there is a scene there i desperately want to write but i can't until i get through the very end of the reaction. im just torn whether to write it now or later.

then again, Sparkling AU (No Mecha) is SO interesting. like hahaha, THAT is going to cause some d r a m a on both sides!

Criminal Minds Crossover AU is again, a self-indulgent thing for me.

Apocalypse AU... oo that's also very good. has a very good established MegOp I'd say, but very surprising for everyone to watch >:D

Sparkling AU (Mecha) is kinda eh, it's the weakest of the bunch, i haven't thought about it as much but it could grow if i decide to work on it.

also all the aus are STILL mostly centered around / will involve the tfp kids.

anyway, hope you all enjoyed! thanks for reading and i'll see you again here... at some point.

[NEXT]

[PREV]

[START]

[alexa-yukiyu]

Devourer of ships (Shanks x gn!Reader)

A/N y’all I haven’t written in a non-requested piece in a hot minute!! Not sure about this one but I hope you like it, just a little thought I had. To avoid spoilers some definitions and explanations are at the bottom of the chapter

Here Reader is Replaced by dokucha which stands for reader in japanese

Dividers by @/saradika

"What are we looking for in this location," Beckmann asked as he glanced at the map lying between him and his Captain, his usual cigarette held between his teeth

"There are a couple of road pone glyphs in that location that we need to retreat."

"On the middle of the sea?" Limejuice asked looking at the spot where his Captain had placed a knife, confused at the lack of land underneath it or anywhere around it.

"Boss, I'm not sure about this. There is no land there, and there are multiple reports of the danger of that part of the sea." Snake frowned

"There is no land recorded," Shanks replied, still glancing at the map, a slight smirk on his face

"No one makes it close enough to the island to map it or to even know there is an island there."

"Boss, if the water is dangerous to the point one can't make it close enough to even see the island, how are we going to? How do you even know about the island?" Lucky asked casually as he took another bite from the meat in his hand

"Roger made it to the island back in the day; the island wasn't mapped due to a request of a friend that wanted the island to remain hidden; that being said, don't worry about the passage I know how to get across" Shanks explained waving away their worries

"Is this friend of yours still there even after so many decades have passed?" Beckmann asked with a frown

"They'll be there". Shanks spoke, an unwavering faith behind his words

Beckman let a sigh at this, smoke escaping his mouth as he did, his lip tilting upwards slightly

"Hard to argue with that."

_

"It's awfully calm for an area that was said to be so dangerous," Yassop commented, watching at the serene sea, the sound of soft waves hitting the Red force

"Perhaps the rough sea was a passing storm?" Rockstar suggested, humming as he spotted something in the distance

"Hey, What's that?" He asked, pointing to the object, knowing of his superior's heightened eyesight

"Looks like a rock formation; there's a few of them. Looks like they are forming a circle."

"If they are rock, why does it look like they are starting to move?"

"Huh? H-Hey, what's going on?! " someone in the distance screamed as the ship suddenly shifted direction, seemingly dragged by a current

"It's a whirlpool!" Yassop hollered

" Captain!"

"Hold the sails," Shanks screamed as he ran to the Deck, leaning against the railing of the ship

"Sea King!" someone screamed as an enormous serpent-like monster emerged from the water; what they previously thought to be rock formations turned out to be the teeth of the sea king

"Don't," Shanks called, putting a hand over the riffle of his first mate, having already been aiming at the intruding beast

"Hold your fire men, that's not a sea king," Shanks ordered as he approached the beast as it prepared to consume them

"Hello, Dokucha. Don't tell me you don't recognize me anymore."

"Captain?!" someone screamed, confused about their captain's actions, only to stare in shock as the monster halted

The crew watched as it quickly dove back into the water, taking with it the huge whirlpool that previously endangered the ship, returning the sea to its previous serene state

"Boss What was that?!" Yassop hollered down at his captain from his spot at the crow's nest

"You'll see."

"Something is coming up!" someone called, letting a scream as someone jumped onto the deck, the crew quick to draw their weapons

"Weapons down," Shanks order

"B-But boss i-

The words they were about to utter were quickly halted at the pointed glare their captain sent their way; nodding as he lowered his weapon, the rest of the crew followed after

At this, Shanks turned his sight back to the person in front of him, fins decorating where their ears would usually be and a small set of tusks adorning their mouth. On their head, they sported an extensive array of horns, with two pairs placed on top of their head as they curved upward and two more pairs behind their eared gills, curved in a manner similar to a ram. Their back sported a pair of wings with what appeared to be a row of sharp-like formations decorating the borders of it, a sharp horn structure at the end of them.

"It's been a long time, Dokucha," He called

--

After the grand commotion, due to appearance of the young creature calmed down. Shanks gathered his crew, explaining his relation to them. It turned out he and Dokucha first met in his younger years when he was still sailing with the other Roger pirates.

Dokucha served as a guradian to a small archipielago of islands, creating deadly storms and powerful whirpools to bring down any ship that got to close, effectively keeping the island not only safe but hidden to the outside world.

Roger, with ways still unknown to him managed to befriend the guardian. To this day Shanks believed it to be because of his Captain's incredible charisma and easygoing nature that he had managed the relationship to flourish.

Since their meeting, the archipelago served as a safe haven from the outside world, a place the crew could come and relax without any threat able to reach them. It was in the archipelago where Roger was able to find the last poneglyphs he needed to make it to the end of the grand line and the creature who could grant them safe passage to it, Dokucha themselves. It was with their aid that they managed to safely make it to the island that would later be named Laughtale.

Once their journey had ended, Roger returned the RoadPone glyphs to their original home. Where Dokucha had asked the Captain to keep the existence of the land a secret from the outside world, which he readily agreed to. Because of this, Dokucha's already established trust with the Captain had expanded, as they offered the archipelago as a safe haven not only to him and any treasure he may want to keep safe but to any of his successors as well, which is how Shanks had been able to calm down what was to be the downfall of the Red force. Needless to say, their re-encounter had been a cause for celebration.

"Say, Dokucha, how did our captain look when he was younger?" Lucky laughed at the now fussing beast

They turned to them with a smile

" Oh my, you should have seen him; he was just the cutest kid. He had all this baby fat you could just melt into," they exclaimed, pulling at his now reddening cheeks at the laughs that echoed across the mess hall

"Laugh all you want; you are simply jealous," Shanks called, drinking the rest of his drink

"What a handsome man you have turned into! You grew your hair out, I see! Oh, you also let a beard grow? Gives you a ruggish look; I bet you are popular with the ladies," they rambled, looking at him

"You also seem to be missing an arm; what happened?" they asked hurriedly, not missing a breath

"A sea king took it," he easily replied

"Why, those archaic beasts! How dare they? When I see them again I ought to exterminate every single one!" they huffed

"Dahaha, don't worry too much about it, Dokucha."

"Gee, I see you're still as easygoing as you were all those years ago. Losing a Limb is a pretty big deal, especially for a species like a human!" they pouted

"Don't worry, Dokucha, it was a fair trade. Besides, something tells me the old fish already got a beating”

"A trade? What kind of gambling are humans into that you would wager your own limbs?"

"A wager on a new era"

"Look at you, being ominous and mysterious." They laughed and teased him

"You never take me seriously, Dokucha," he whined with a pout

They let out small snickers at this

"Say, where is that straw hat of yours?

"I let someone borrow it."

"Borrow it? You were inseparable with the thing; who is this person?”

“It’s Luffy!” Lucky cheered

“Luffy?” they questioned

“The hell is a fluffy?”

“This is Luffy,” Beckmann piped in passing Dokucha, the wanted poster

“We’ll, I'll be; this Brings so many memories,” they sigh happily, staring at the young man with the white cloud-like appearance and the strawhat

Shanks ignored their statement, knowing of the other’s long lifespan as he continued to drink from his sakazuki

“Ah, that reminds me,” they exclaimed, putting the wanted poster down and throwing themselves on top of Shanks, wrapping their arms around his neck in a tight embrace, their wings following suit and wrapping around his torso

Shanks let out a small smile at this, giving them a side glance and promptly returning his gaze back to the sakazuki in his hand

“What’s this? Have you also fallen for my ruggish looks?” he teased with a gentle look on his face

“I missed you.”

“Sorry I took so long to come back. Have the others not visited you?”

“No, they probably didn’t know of mine and Roger’s promise; that old bastard probably forgot to tell them; you were just nosy, so you heard our conversation.”

“Hmm, I’ll be sure to let them all know; I will

Make sure they visit you.”

“Thank you,” they muttered

If you are a mythology greek, then you already know who this was based on; I know I said definitions would be at the bottom but im curious how many of you already know who it is, send an ask or a comment if you know 🤭 man I feeel like a famous youtuber, saying that

Sakazuki is a japanese bowl/plate like utensil used to drink, it is the one we often see characters drinking from : )

Taglist:

@Imaginarydreams

@amethystviolin

@h0n3y-l3m0n05

[robin-evry]

Hi, I love your headcanons, is there any way for a Kaibyo! Yuu?

Glad you enjoyed it, ask and you shall receive

𝐈𝐅 𝐘𝐔𝐔 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐊𝐀𝐈𝐁𝐘𝐎 😺👻

Kaibyō (怪猫, "strange cat") are supernatural cats in Japanese folklore. Examples include bakeneko, a yōkai (or supernatural entity) commonly characterized as having the ability to shapeshift into human form; maneki-neko, usually depicted as a figurine often believed to bring good luck to the owner; and nekomata, referring either to a type of yōkai that lives in mountain areas or domestic cats that have grown old and transformed into yōkai.

( English is not my first language )

Day 2 : kaibyo!yuu

The entrance ceremony goes exactly the same, waking up in a coffin,grim sets the fire to the school and acatera. Originally kaibyo!yuu thought that grim was the same kin, mystical cats able to manipulate blue flame and are capable of human speech, before the blue flame can spread kaibyo!yuu use their magic to stop it, for compensation kaibyo!yuu ask Crowley to allow grim to enter the school as another student.Crowley unfortunately has no choice ( literally )

Since the mirror said that kaibyo!yuu but they display some abilities to control fire and shape shift. So Crowley still allowed them to attend the school. When Crowley presents the ramshackle dorm to kaibyo!yuu, he swears they send him the most disgusted glared in the world. He swears when he was sleeping, he felt someone was watching and is cursing him. After being unable to take it any longer he fixed the dorms and that allowed him to sleep peacefully... For now.

Kaibyo!yuu as a student likes to sleep during class, when Mr trein asks them a question about a subject, they answer correctly, when a test happens they always get good grades and manage to stay on top of class and during a portion project they always get it perfect.

Technically kaibyo!yuu is 12 years old since in mythology if cats live more than 7 years or turn 12 years, they are able to turn into a kaibyo or bakeneko. So technically kaibyo!yuu is 12 years old but in cat years they would be 64 years old.

Kaibyo!yuu has the ability to manipulate blue flames as well to shape shift and are able to create illusion but it's not as realistic as kitsune!yuu. They are able to cast but they do need a piece of paper to cast them. By writing fire and throwing it or something touch it, it will summon a fire it's similar to glyph magic from the owl house.

Not to mention kaibyo!yuu have incredible stamina, flexibility, and speed as well to quick reaction speed. Since Kaibyo!Yuu have the ability to shape shift to a human disguise, but they usually aren't in this form either. Because it takes too much energy, so they fused both their human form and yokai form into one. In this form they have their feline features around their body but with a human body including their cat ears and a tail. Their body is covered in a thin layer of fur. As well a bonus to be immune to poison.

kaibyo!yuu is pretty laid-back but also quite blunt without realizing it. They are incredibly brutally honest but showing this side for those who are not close to them, only acting nice for those who are around their circle.

In this situation, when kaibyo!yuu was standing in the middle of a room too busy paying attention, someone stepped on their tale as a joke, let's just say the person ended up living with a multiple bloodied cat scratches on their body and face. rook is incredibly infatuated about them wanting to learn more about there physiology, so he went straight ahead and ask them let me tell you, kaibyo!yuu send this dude the most deadass glare in the world and that didn't work on him cause he keeps asking and every time when they tried to scratch he managed to dodge. Vil practically sees kaibyo!yuu as a potential to be a model or an actress due to their pretty appearance as well as there talent of memorising something quickly and perfectly, but their personality is a total downgrade.

Their main diets are usually poison. During lunch they will bring a snake, they hunt from the woods and eat it there, this certainly scares the vice warden of scarabia. After hearing their immunity to poison Jamil will ask for kaibyo!yuu to taste the food for kalim and if they like it, it means it's poisonous. This allowed kalim to eat food more freely as well Jamil not risking his lives.

Idia first impression on kaibyo!yuu was cute, behind the tablet he really wanted to pet them but after a few chapters. Idia is now afraid of kaibyo!yuu feeling they would judge him and send him a glare towards his way. He would just die.

Also after kaibyo!yuu have a cellphone given by Crowley. Carter introduced them into gaming and now they're hooked.

Kaibyo!yuu would not bid fairly in the octanaville chapter due to it taking place at water and they hate getting wet, because they feel heavy. And how long their fur can dry up, PS : they also mention having a sibling who is a nekomata.

[lets-try-some-writing]

Okay, I was reading the Mr. Pax Teacher Au and this idea popped in my head. So basically Optimus is finishing up a work day and a staff member comes up saying someone is here claiming to be his ‘wife’. Optimus questions the staff for a bit and then they reveal they have “pink hair”. Optimus then goes outside to see someone patiently waiting for him with a smile. (I’m a sucker for OptimusxElita, sue me!) Also Elita going “Yeah, you would.” Cause she just knows him. Hope this idea is fun for you!

Well I can't NOT write a snippet for this thank you. I have exactly two ships that I will devour without hesitation and Optimus/Elita happens to be one of them.

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━

Optimus's digits tapped on the desk along to the beat of a simple tune he hummed to himself as he looked over the day's papers. There were quite a few interesting pieces from his young archivists- students. His dear students. They showed such interest in the history he taught them. It was a joy to watch them grow and thrive under his tutelage.

"Abigail, you impress me yet again." He smiled as he looked over the girl's artwork. The assignment for the week had been to compose a model of something Cybertronian. Abigail, one of his more artistic students, had created quite the work of art. Despite having never seen any actual images of Optimus's fallen world, she managed to capture an admittedly quite accurate, if a tad abstract, vision of Uraya. It prompted his spark to flare in joy within his true frame.

"Mr. Pax, apologies for intruding." A feminine voice broke him from his work, prompting Optimus to place down his pile of paperwork and look up. Mrs. Glass, the school nurse, stood in the doorway nervously. She patted down her knitted sweater in what Optimus could only assume was anxiety considering the lack of any noticeable contaminant.

"Can I help you Mrs. Glass?" The nurse shifted uncomfortably before she nodded. Optimus stood up slowly, concern growing in his processors as he ran through the possible issues that might have arisen while he was working. Was the headmaster trying to tamper with affairs again?

"There is a woman outside who is claiming to be your wife." Optimus froze, his expression shifting as he tried to parse out what was happening. Arcee had already taken on the role of "aunt" for Jack. Being Optimus's wife would break her cover. It couldn't be June either for similar reasons.

Was he being stalked?

"Does she have any distinguishing features?" His expression settled into something firm as he readied himself to have to politely tell a confused woman that she had the wrong individual.

"She has pink hair and bright blue eyes. I think she might be wearing colored contacts." Whatever worry was settling into his spark halted the moment he got out the door and heard the nurse's explanation. Instead, faint hope grew steadily as he increased his pace and Mrs. Glass continued.

"She stated that her name was Ariel of Iacon. Although I am not sure where that city is-" Optimus stopped listening and broke into a sprint as he forced his holoform to go faster than it should have been able to according to human biology.

She couldn't be here.

He sent her away after the Allspark was taken from its place.

There was no way his Conjunx was on Earth after so many millennia apart.

"Being a teacher suites you." It was not the voice he knew, not entirely. There was none of the underlying glyphs or tones of their homeworld, but he knew her voice anywhere. He could never mistake her.

"Elita." He stepped out, his holoform momentarily flickering as Elita-One waited for him patiently, her arms crossed over her chest and a font smile on her face. He could almost see the mighty warrior that was his Conjunx through the veil of her disguise. He could hardly wait to wrap her in his arms properly as soon as they were away from prying optics.

"I missed you." She was the first to wrap her arms around him, organic as they were. Their forms melded in places as their holoforms struggled to maintain the illusion alongside their raging emotional states. However, Optimus found he didn't care as he looked into oh so human eyes and saw the spark of a Cybertronian hidden behind them.

She was here. He didn't know how or why, but Elita was here with him once more.

"I stopped by your base before I came here. I wanted it to be a surprise." She laughed as she nuzzled against his neck, searching for sensory lines that where not there. Optimus wrapped his limited EM field around her as he processed her presence and relished in it.

"It has been a most pleasant surprise to see you here after so long." Distantly, he noted Mrs. Glass watching from the school entrance. Optimus didn't bother looking back as he pulled away and took Elita's hands in his. The paperwork could be dealt with later. For now, there were bonds to be reforged, memories to share, and many long cycles apart to make up for.

"To base then?" Elita smiled up at him. Optimus could almost imagine her antennae perking up as he grinned in response.

"If that is what you want love."

[writeshite]

Nothing Do Us Part

Summary:

The bastard smiled at you before picking the lock and forgoing any caution. “You shouldn’t be here,” You argue weakly. Astarion huffed, the cell door now wide open; you had yet to reach out in any manner, “Neither should you,” he counterargued, “you’re filthy, bloody and thin as a rake.” He took the first step and grabbed at your hand, staring disappointedly at the cuts and bruises lining your skin. “I’m taking you home to Hells with the Harpers and whoever else thinks they can take you from me.”

Pairings:

Astarion x Male!Reader

Tags:

Long-Haired Astarion | Bhaalspawn Reader | Ascended Astarion |

Words: 1828

Author's Note:

Guess who's not dead lmfao (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ:･ﾟ✧ I found out there's a Bhaalspawn ending where they turn themselves in, and I was like, Ascended Astarion would not be happy about that.

The spawn came at first light, walking into Crimson Draughts with a curt smile; the curly mop of white that Araj had once hopped to brush her cheek whilst her life danced on the edge was now long curled trusses of hair reaching past his shoulders to his mid-back. “I need you to find someone.” His words went in one ear and out the other as Araj examined him; he was different from when she’d first set eyes on him and his intriguing companion in Moonrise.

“I’m surprised to see you alive, spawn,” she remarks. “I’d thought you dead in Moonrise.”

“Oh, hardly,” he laughs, “but I’m not here to discuss past adventures. As I said, I need you to find someone.”

“I heard you the first time, and I’m not a bloodhound,” she corrected.

“Hence my request, an expert of the sanguine arts, I believe is what you called yourself,” he fished a vial from his pockets, “I will reimburse you in as much gold and whatever equipment you require, as long as you find who I’m looking for and place an unerasable tether on said person. Understood?”

“Whose blood is it?” 

“Hardly any of your concern, is it? Now, will you take the job, or shall I pursue Sorcerers Sundries to find someone more willing to take my commission?” 

Araj huffed, “My, my, aren't we touchy? I’ll take your commission.”

The blood was intriguing. It radiated malice and murderous intent—as odd of observation as that was—the red would bloom darker colours before shifting back to red, and the odour was equally as odd, smelling too much like blood, a sharp, strong iron that piqued her interest. A godling’s blood? An Aasimar, perhaps? Though Araj wasn’t certain if such creatures bled, regardless, she had no doubt the spawn had brought her the blood of someone divine; whether said person was of the holy or unholy persuasion, she remained uncertain.

The Upper City was abuzz when Astarion returned; artisans, sages, pole-carters, and all manner of people traversed the streets of the Upper City. Astarion weaved through the crowd to his home in Manorborn, Ancunín Castle—his haven of estates he’d parted from a few patriar families—he’d spent quite some time hunting down artificers to add to his horde of spawn; he'd set them to work and rebuilt the castle from the grounds up to better suit his needs.

“Welcome home, Master Astarion,” Harette greeted him, a small bow accompanying her words; she took Astarion’s coat and folded it away as she caught him up on the morning’s events, “The artificers finished installing the sun-sift glass over the courtyards and atriums, and have begun casting warding glyphs per your instructions. The dungeons have been refurbished for the Rillyn’s children's stay, and you’ve a new bundle of invitations from other patriar families arrive this morning.” She finishes her morning catch-up as they reach his study.

“Thank you, Harette,” Astarion sat at his desk, dismissing her; he sifted through the invitations on his desk—Belt, Hullhollyn, Tillerturn—letters to their parties, brunches, and whatever else Astarion read through. He replies to them, declining their invitations with kind apologies and half-felt promises to join the next festivity; far more pressing matters needed Astarion’s attention. The Fist and Harpers had done a better job than expected covering their tracks whenever they moved you, but Astarion had come close a few times before, hence the need for the Drow, much to his displeasure. He may have been impervious to sunlight now, but the harpers had enlisted the help of Lathandernites and Selûnites, and Astarion wasn’t going to chance his resistance to sunlight, much less holy light. Astarion had been greatly against you turning yourself in; the stubborn persistence he’d usually find adorable became annoying, “If you’re worried about rampaging, you shouldn’t. I can keep you in line; I’ve done it before.”

“I wasn’t Bhaal’s Chosen then, just his progeny,” you’d corrected him, “I barely managed to hold myself back from harming you in the Shadow-Cursed Lands; I can’t—”

“I’m not some runaway spawn anymore; I’m a Vampire Ascendant.” Astarion had corrected bitterly, but despite his reassurances, he hadn’t been able to deter you from the decision, but it didn’t deter him. Some coin in the right purse and spawn or two in the right place, and he could visit you whenever he pleased, “You should leave.” You’d clung to him regardless of the venom in your words, desperate for some semblance of comfort; your initial prison had been some small nook under Wyrm's Rock Fortress, illuminated by torch and what bioluminescent fungi managed to break ground.

“I told you, pet,” he’d dug his nails in your back, later carving his name along your spine “lovers forever.” He absentmindedly traced the gauntlet you’d torn from Gortash’s body and had modified for Astarion, “I’m not sure if I should be honoured or revolted in some manner,” he’d joked then, yet the gauntlet still held its powerful magic and had been a constant presence on Astarion.

“I don’t remember much; I think I tore this from some patriar’s arm or stole it from a wizard before giving it to Gortash, I don’t know. What I do know is that I love you more than anything.”

“I’m meant to be a fearful Vampire,” he’d huffed, softening for a moment, “you make it quite hard to do so, pet.” Even as Bhaal’s murderous lunacy consumed your mind, a minuscule part of rationality remained, just enough to leave Astarion unharmed during his visits; the same could not be said about the Harpers tasked with guarding you. Astarion’s last visit was met with an empty prison and no Harpers in sight. Clever bastards had a headstart; he was almost offended by how well they predicted him following after them, but not surprised as Jaheira and Minsc had involved themselves in your transfer elsewhere before their expertise and skill were requested outside Baldur’s Gate.

The Drow asks for quite a hefty sum and a new plethora of equipment to complete her work, but she does manage, creating a tether as he’d requested; Astarion pays her for her service and prays he never needs it again. The tether leads to Myth Drannor, in the Dalelands, south of the River Tesh and some distance from Shadowdale; Astarion sneaks himself under the guise of a Harper, replacing the one he’d fed on some time prior, while he may have found where you were he now needed to find where specifically in Myth Drannor you were.

Everything was bloody. The floors of your cell were smeared in blood and dirt; the effigy you’d built yielded no response from your father. Nothing did. Pleading, crying, screaming, and tearing at your meat suit did nothing but elicit silence from the Lord of Murder. Your breaths were rugged and short, coming in quick succession as you fought to keep yourself in control of your person; Bhaal’s silence drove your mind to wander, to sing for blood; you shook your head and screamed, whacking the piled rats and punching the nearest wall. You repeated the action until you felt less like clawing at your meat suit.

You were quick to notice the pale elf approaching your cell, and you shook your head as your eyes widened when you recognised Astarion. The bastard smiled at you before picking the lock and forgoing any caution. “You shouldn’t be here,” You argue weakly.

Astarion huffed, the cell door now wide open; you had yet to reach out in any manner, “Neither should you,” he counterargued, “you’re filthy, bloody and thin as a rake.” He took the first step and grabbed at your hand, staring disappointedly at the cuts and bruises lining your skin. “I’m taking you home to Hells with the Harpers and whoever else thinks they can take you from me.” 

“How did you find me?” You stared at him desperately, holding his hand for dear life. 

“That drow we met at Moonrise has her uses,” he responds, tugging at your arm, “we can catch up when we’re far from here.” 

You followed without resistance, shuffling along the dark narrow corridors, it was luck that you didn’t bump into anyone on your way out, or the journey back to Baldurs Gate. It’s another miracle Astarion sneaks you through to the Upper City without spilling any blood. He led you to a large set of manors lumped under one estate by the looks of the courtyard, a handful of people moved about tending to said courtyard—sweeping, trimming the hedges, polishing the statuettes, and cleaning the fountains.

“Nice home,” you commented.

“Thank you, pet,” the elf is cheerfully proud of his home. The servants stop in their work when they spot Astarion, and all bow, returning to their work respectively once the elf walks past them. The interior is as lavish as the exterior—a richly coloured rug drew a path along the floor; at each side, paintings and columns alternated along the walls as chandeliers lined the ceiling above. More servants are also busy at work here; they bow the same as the ones outside and only continue their work once Astarion has passed them. 

The servants give you uncertain glances, confusion and fear in their expressions. “Ignore them pet; they should know better,” Astarion hissed, and their gazes darted away.

“Are they spawn?” you inquire.

“Most,” he shrugged in response, leading you through the halls to a room devoid of anyone else close by. His room, no doubt. “Some outsiders from the Outer City looking for a new life.” He led you to a tub and ran it with water and just about every perfume and soap he had at his disposal and all but begs you to step into the tub. It takes five cases of andanthe and shampoo to clean your hair thoroughly and two pitchers of a strong-scented liquid wash soap to wash out the dirt from the skin. Astarion picks up the skin and food between your teeth and shoves a whole stick of tooth powder down your throat.

“Is this necessary?” you cough at the strong, minty taste as the tooth powder turns to foam in reaction with saliva.

“If you want my cock and tongue down your throat,” Astarion scrubbed your second set of canines, “then yes.”

The water is dirty brownish-red when you step out of the tub; it’s strange to be without grime after so long, you look at yourself in the mirror. Despite everything, it was still you. 

Astarion draped a fluffy towel over your shoulders, “Tomorrow, we’ll get a tailor and cobbler in here for you.”

“You want to doll me up?” you snort. 

Astarion rolled his eyes, “You need to blend in,” he lightly chastised, “and I have an appearance standard to adhere to.” He huffed, drawing a chuckle from you. “After the tailor and cobbler, we’ll take care of your hair.”

“Hmm,” you nod as he dried off your body. “Whatever you say, starlight.”

End Note:

This started off as a Drabble but then we ended up here with another AU 🤪💀. The way I had to go look at a map of Baldurs Gate and was reminded how shit I am at reading maps lmfao 😭 I have read the Forgotten Realms wiki on so much for this fic. Stay Hydrated.

[yubriamakesart]

One of my 2024 goals is to be more self-indulgent with my art, and another is to draw more cats, so here's some new characters to help with that- Kish'da, her cat Fib, and her enemy-with-benefits to friend-with-benefits Godrinth. Kish-da and Godrinth are stuck together after an accident with magical items. They're both stuck with Fib because they gave her food once.

[boneapplet]

From Rust and Bone pt.8

Chronicles of the Lost Primarch

Relationship: Rogal Dorn x oc/afab!reader

Warnings: recovering from an injury, slight corpse remains, mentioned heresy through nightmares

Word Count: 2510

Requested tag:@noncon-photobomb @beckyninja @blukitty40k

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8

               Stopping at mid-morning in a shallow plateau tucked between ridgebacks, high enough to dodge runoff, wide enough for the herd to stretch. There's dry moss here, gray-green and soft underfoot, and a natural rock lip overhead to shield against sudden weather shifts. Arravox paces the perimeter once before settling with a low harmonic pulse that echoes softly through the stone.

“We’ll stay the day,” Kessa decides aloud. “Beasts need it. We do too.”

Dorn nods, dismounts without complaint. He’s steadier now. Still slow. Still cautious. But the ache doesn’t show on his face like it did days ago. They unpack minimal gear—tarp rolls, a portable cook ring, and some cloth to clean straps and claws. Nothing elaborate. They’re not building a camp. They’re just breathing. The sun never quite shines on this planet—always filtered, always pale—but the wind is cool here, and dry. Dorn sits on a flat slab near the edge of the camp, sharpening a utility blade. Not a weapon—just a tool. Motion for motion’s sake.

Kessa drops beside him with a skin of boiled water and a pouch of dried fruit slices. Offers it with a tilt of her head. He accepts both without a word. They sit like that for a while, quiet, but not uncomfortable.

Eventually, he breaks it out, “You get used to being alone.”

She glances over at him, having been chews on a slice of dried fruit, swallowing before she says, “You’re not alone now.”

“No…That part scares me more than the silence.”

Kessa doesn’t answer right away. She picks up a cracked bit of harness and starts rubbing it down with oil from a pouch.

“You were part of it, weren’t you.”

Dorn doesn’t ask what she means.

“You’ve seen echoes. You’ve walked under better banners.”

“Long ago.”

“Before the storms?”

“Before they were storms.”

A silence. The wind whistles low through the plateau’s edges.

“This world had a name then,” Kessa murmurs. “A number too. We used to be on some chart. Old Imperium stuff. Before they found the gene-lords and all that.”

He lifts his gaze. Watches the horizon, colorless and vast.

“I helped draw those charts.”

Kessa glances at him—dry, not mocking.

“You don’t look that old.”

“I wasn’t always like this.”

She studies him for a moment longer, then shrugs and returns to oiling a leather strap.

“Stories say the Imperium left us before it ever really began. Before the angels”

“They weren’t angels.”

“You one of them?”

A pause, before he quietly says, “I was.”

She doesn’t flinch. Just nods once, thoughtful.

“That explains the way you carry silence.”

“And the broken pieces.”

“Both.”

               Toward dusk, they sit in stillness. The beasts are resting, the wind down to a faint breath. Kessa gestures toward a ridgeline marked with age-smoothed stone slabs and glyph-scratched metal spires.

“There’s a marker up there. Pre-Unification, maybe right after. They say it marked a path during the first expansion push.”

“Still legible?”

“Barely. It has the eagle. Not the double. Just the single-winged crest. Old script no one uses anymore.”

Dorn’s brows draw slightly together. That was before even his time as a Primarch known.

“So old it forgot what it meant.”

“No,” she says. “We forgot. That’s different.”

He nods slowly. Approving.

“The Imperium burned itself into a thousand worlds like this. Then it lost the map.”

“We still see the shape in the dust sometimes. Names. Icons. The tooth of a starport gate. A cracked relief of men too tall, shoulders too wide.”

Her gaze flicks to him, unreadable.

“Most people just think they were myths. Not people. Not… yours.”

“Better they do.”

She looks away again, toward the slowly dimming edge of the sky.

“You ever want it back? What you lost?”

He doesn’t answer right away, “What I lost… was built on what I was ordered to protect. What I believed would never fall.”

“And now?”

“Now I believe in what endures. Even if it’s just a cave and a single hand.”

That makes her smile—small, but not unkind.

“Then maybe you're finally learning.”

"Terrifying thought"

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The fire burns low. Kessa’s curled in her roll with her back to the wind, Arravox’s massive frame just visible at the edge of the herd, luminous scales pulsing faintly in sleep. The night is still, the wind gentle. Dorn lies on his side, cloak pulled over his shoulders, staring into the dying fire. Watching as it crackles, ember-light dancing along the jagged line of his scarred knuckles. He closes his eyes.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dorn stands at the precipice of the Eternity Gate, the last bastion of the Imperium's defense. The gates are buckling under the relentless assault of traitor forces. His armor is scorched, and his once-pristine pauldrons are marred by the marks of battle. He turns to see Sanguinius, his brother, standing beside him. The angelic Primarch's wings are tattered, his face a mask of determination and sorrow.

"Hold the line, Dorn," Sanguinius intones, his voice a blend of command and compassion.

Dorn nods, but before he can respond, the ground trembles violently. The gates shudder and collapse inward, and the traitors flood through, overwhelming the defenders. Amidst the chaos, Dorn fights valiantly, but the tide is unrelenting.

Suddenly, the scene shifts. Dorn finds himself in an endless, sweltering desert. The sun beats down mercilessly, and the air is thick with the scent of decay. Corpses of his sons lie scattered around him, their once-pristine armor now rusted and broken. He kneels beside one, lifting the helm to reveal a face he recognizes—his own. Dead. Eyes open. He gasps—staggers back—and the air around him thickens, heat like a forge against his lungs.

A whisper rides the heat "You let them die."

The voice of Khorne whispers from the shadows “You fought for honor. And lost.”

               "I am the Emperor's shield," he mutters to himself, "I will not fall."

The landscape shifts once more, and Dorn is standing in the Inevitable City, the ruins of the Vengeful Spirit surrounding him. He sees Actae, trapped beneath rubble, her face a mask of fear and pain.

               She reaches for him “You left us.”

               He rushes to her, but as he reaches out, she fades into dust, slipping through his fingers.

"No!" Dorn cries out, but his voice is swallowed by the vast emptiness.

               His voice breaks “I tried—”

               The dream ends with Dorn standing alone in the desolate city, the weight of his failures pressing down upon him. The distant echoes of battle fade into silence, only the sound of his own breathing. And then— a laugh. Cold and wet, echoing.

"You are nothing now. Just a hand lost to time."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

               Dorn awakens with a start, his heart pounding in his chest. Not with a scream, just deep ragged breaths. Eyes wide. Face wet with sweat. He lies still, staring at the stone above him. Reaching for something, an instinctive gesture, old and hardwired— but the left hand is gone. Just the ghost of a limb. His right-hand curls into a fist against his chest. Steadying himself. Breathing. Just a dream. Just the past. Just ghosts. And they do not win. Not while he still breathes. The remnants of the dream linger, a stark reminder of the horrors he's endured.

               He stays awake watching as the sky turns to its usual steel-grey, bruised at the edges with the coming acid haze. The wind’s picked up, brushing dust off the ridge like a whisper. Sitting on a rise just outside the resting circle, cloak wrapped tight, watching the horizon with his back straight and his jaw set. There's tension in the line of his shoulders, but not fresh pain—residue, the kind dreams leave behind. He doesn’t turn when Kessa approaches. Doesn’t need to.

“You sleep?” she asks simply.

“Enough.”

She nods, not pushing. Not asking what the dream was, even though she can see it etched in the tired cast of his eyes. The way his breath holds just a fraction too long between words. She kneels to start breaking down their minimal camp.

“We’ll take a slower pace today. The herd’s settled, and so are the clouds.”

“That for their sake, or mine?” he asks, voice dry.

“Yes.”

He almost smiles. Almost. Rising to help her anyway—quiet, focused, methodical. No complaint. No dramatics. Just the way he’s always done things. As they start moving gear back to the sleds, Kessa watches him out of the corner of her eye. She doesn’t say what she’s thinking. Doesn’t mention how he reached for something that wasn’t there when he woke. How his jaw was clenched, his brow damp. But she sees it. She sees the man shaped by war, walking beside her through silence, through ruin, through survival. She lets him be, because he’s still choosing to walk.

The terrain dips and narrows into a pass—walls of scorched basalt rising on either side, the sky thinned to a strip of dull, flickering light. The herd moves slowly here, uneasy. Even Arravox keeps his hum low, close to the bones of silence. That’s when they see it.

Jagged metal, half-sunken in the cliffside—the corpse of an Imperial ship, shattered into three long segments, each one torn like meat by the impact. Its hull plating is faded bone-white under layers of soot and lichen, the remnants of a long-dead aquila still etched into a fractured panel.

Dorn dismounts without a word. Stepping forward slowly, eyes scanning every wound in the wreck. He knows this class. Colossus-pattern void-hauler, early Crusade era, refitted for supply and reinforcement drops. Not a warship—but it carried war in its gut. The edges of his memory catch flame.

“It fell before the storms fully closed,” he murmurs. “I remember the call sign.”

“You knew this ship?” she asks, voice lower now.

“It brought the Templar auxiliaries to the Ghoul Stars. I oversaw its retrofitting at Mars.”

A pause before he says in almost a whisper “I never knew what happened to it.”

They leave the mounts to watch the herd, the beasts refuse to come closer anyway. Kessa lights a hand-flare. They pick their way through the torn corridor that remains—bulkheads rusted and partially melted; inert cogitators draped with fungal vines. Inside, it smells of ash, time, and oil-blood.

“Looks like it crashed during the first wave of warp surges,” Kessa says, inspecting a cracked stasis rack. “No survivors. No one ever found it before?”

“Or no one returned from it.”

Dorn runs his fingers across a wall of etched names—crew manifest, barely readable now. His thumb hesitates on one name. It doesn’t matter which. It’s all ghosts. He turns into one of the holds and stops short.

Inside: a shattered display of armor fragments. Not Astartes—but auxiliary armor, black with a white cross. Sigils of the Imperial Fists’ extended hand scoured half-clean by fire.

He swallows “These were… my doing.”

Kessa looks at him “They chose to follow.”

“Because I told them to.”

“And you carried them further than most leaders ever could.”

He doesn’t respond. Just steps forward and kneels in the silence, hand resting against a warped cuirass as if in benediction. The moment stretches. Dorn remains kneeling beside the broken armor. The light from Kessa’s flare flickers off the curled edges of metal and half-melted sigils. One helm lies turned to the side; the lens shattered. Another bears a faint inscription, just visible beneath soot and time: “For the shield eternal.”

His breath catches, for a second. Leaning forward slightly, resting his one hand on the floor to steady himself—but it’s not just balance that slips. Bowing his head, shoulders tense. Not shaking. Not openly grieving but breaking in the quietest way possible. His jaw locks. Teeth grind together. He doesn’t sob—but his chest rises with short, shallow breaths, like a man trying to stay underwater too long. Kessa watches from the corridor entrance. She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t step closer. Just watches. Waits. Then finally—

“They were mine,” Dorn whispers, so low it barely reaches her. “They died in my name.”

He clenches his hand so tight it trembles against the deck “I told them we would rebuild a better galaxy.”

Kessa steps in then, only far enough to set the flare down so he’s not alone in the dark.

“Maybe they believed you. Maybe that was enough.”

Dorn doesn’t answer. Just stays there a moment longer—until he exhales, slow, like dragging breath through stone. And rises again. It’s not strength. It’s decision. He turns from the armor, not cleansed of the weight—but carrying it better than before. As they step out into the light, he says nothing more. When Kessa glances back— she sees him wipe a single streak of ash from his cheek. Not tears, but close enough. They don’t take anything, only memories. When they leave, Dorn looks back only once.

“Still think we forgot the Imperium?” he asks her.

“No,” she replies. “I think we buried it so deep, we didn’t know what the bones were anymore.”

The wind shifts as they continue, slow and steady, following the herd as it winds down the valley floor. The pass behind them is silent—shipwreck and ghosts now left to rust and forget. Dorn walks beside Kessa without speaking. He doesn’t offer to take the lead, doesn’t break the silence. It’s not silence that closes him off. It’s one that holds something. A silence that’s thinking.

They stop early that day. The herd’s slowed from the rocky terrain, and Kessa doesn’t push them harder than they need. The animals settle. Arravox curls into rest near the edge of the ledge, letting out a low, thrumming sound—somewhere between song and breath. Kessa pulls rations from the pack, wincing slightly as she bends. She coughs once—dry, tight—but doesn’t comment. Glances over her shoulder. Dorn’s sitting by the ridge, cloak around his shoulders, eyes on the sky.

“You good?” she asks.

“No,” he says quietly. “But I’m here.”

She nods, offering him a strip of dried root meat. Her fingers tremble faintly as she passes it. He takes it, saying nothing—but his eyes linger a moment longer.

“I failed them,” he says after a long pause.

Kessa doesn’t answer right away.

“You’ll fail again.”

He looks at her, expression unreadable, “That’s not reassurance.”

“It’s truth,” she says. “The kind that makes you choose. Either break under it—or carry it.”

“You carried me,” Dorn murmurs. “When I couldn’t.”

She raises an eyebrow. “That your way of saying thank you?”

“It’s my way of remembering it mattered.”

They eat in silence a while longer.

Before he speaks again, softer this time “Tell me something.”

“What?”

“Something about you. From before.”

She pauses—considers.

With a shrug, she tells him “I used to race death-wasps through the ravines when I was twelve. One stung my leg, and I couldn’t walk for a week. Thought I was tough.”

“Were you?”

“I’m still alive. So, yeah.”

She cracks a dry smile. He almost does, too. And just like that—the quiet shifts. It’s no longer the silence of grief. It’s companionship. Earned. Uneasy. Real.

[revelboo]

PLEASEE I NEED MORE IDW MEGATRON

Guessing you mean exhausted leader of a bunch of backstabbing, barely competent, chaos children Megatron not exhausted co-captain of the Lost Light Megatron?

Skin and Bones Pt 5

IDW Megatron x Reader

• Scrolling through reports, he’s aware of you wandering around on his desk. Peering down at the Cybertronian glyphs on his keyboard. Almost absently, he nudges you away when you get too close to the edge of the desk then goes back to his report. Ignoring the bemused look you shoot him. Then you’re laying your little hands on the back of his hand to lean across and look at his datapad. Venting sharply, he freezes at that unexpectedly soft touch. “What are you doing, little one?”

• You glance up at the warlord, trying to decide if that slight frown means he’s annoyed or just exasperated and trying ignore the fact that when he calls you little it doesn’t sound condescending. It’s almost cute and better than some of the nicknames a few of the Decepticons have saddled you with. Like squishy or meat bag. “How hard is your language to learn?” You ask because you’re honestly curious and it sounds better than that you’re just bored out of your mind and want something to do.

• Shifting his hand, he rumbles in surprise as you go sprawling across the back of his hand on your belly. Before you can scramble away, he’s reaching over with the other hand, curling his servos around your little body to move you onto the desk between him and the datapad. Clearing the screen, he sketches a character and taps it. Makes a rasping noise that ends on a click. Another glyph, this one vocalized as a whirring sound and you stare up at him. There’s no learning this. You can’t even make those sounds.

• He’s already on the seventh glyph before he looks down and sees the look on your little face. It’s almost the same expression some of his younger soldiers had worn the first time they went into battle. Overwhelmed and terrified. Venting softly to stir your hair, he goes back to the first one. Enunciating carefully, he makes the sound. You look up at him and then make a noise. Mangling it far beyond recognition, but you’re trying. Again he makes the correct pronunciation and then waits. Face reddening, you try again. Still very wrong, but closer. “I can’t make those sounds.”

• “Not yet,” he replies, reaching out to gently use the tip of his servo to turn your face back to the datapad. “Can you draw the glyph?” Blowing out a breath, you lean over the datapad, laying a hand on the screen to copy his glyph. Well, that you’re good at. He runs a knuckle along your spine, feeling you lean into that stroke like you enjoy it. “Very good, little one,” he growls in Cybertronian, smiling indulgently as you peer up at him in confusion. Cautiously you offer him a smile that does strange things to his spark. Makes him uncertain how to feel, because he’s not sure he deserves anything soft or gentle after the things he’s done. Had to do. Certainly doesn’t deserve your trust. Shaking himself, he taps the second one and watches you sketch it out.

Previous Next

[satanslovergirl]

┌───── ∘°❉°∘ ─────┐

T H E L I B R A R Y C A R D R U L E

└───── ∘°❉°∘ ─────┘

❝ I lie... all the time. That’s kind of my thing. But I’m not lying now. ❞

— Sam Winchester (Season 7, Episode 8)

---

Pairing: Sam Winchester x Reader (She/Her)

Word Count: 4,210

Tone: Cozy Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Accidental Truth Spell

Rating: T (Soft romantic dialogue, fluff, light cursing, established relationship)

Written by: Little Devil ♡

Based On: Mid-Late Seasons (Season 9–10 Bunker Era)

---

Synopsis:

What starts as a quiet evening cataloging the Men of Letters’ lesser-known arcane texts turns into something far more revealing when a truth spell is accidentally triggered. For the next 24 hours, neither Sam nor Y/N can lie—not even a little. Sam’s determined to stay composed, but Y/N’s teasing questions and curious heart start tugging at secrets he’s never quite been brave enough to say aloud. In the warm silence of the bunker’s library, truth becomes the safest place of all.

───────────── 〔❉〕 ─────────────

The library always smelled like cedar and something old—like time itself had soaked into the spine of every book.

She loved that.

Even after living in the bunker for nearly a year—having long passed the "guest hunter" phase and become something of a second shadow beside Sam—there was something sacred about the library that never lost its magic. Especially at night. Especially when it was just the two of them.

The warm lamplight glowed over rows of dusty tomes, the air hushed except for the soft rustle of pages turning. Somewhere above them, a pipe ticked as the bunker settled into the quiet hours. She sat cross-legged at the end of the long oak table, a pile of uncategorized books to her left and her fourth cup of tea to her right.

Sam was across from her, leaning back slightly in his chair, sleeves rolled up, the veins in his forearms catching shadows as he jotted notes into a leather-bound ledger.

“Found another one with Enochian scribbles,” she mumbled, nudging a faded brown volume toward him.

Sam took it with a small smile. “Keep this up and we’ll actually make a dent in this section before the end of the decade.”

She grinned. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

He chuckled softly, and it hit her again—how easy things had become with him. They didn’t need to talk much. They didn’t need to explain themselves. When Sam passed her his mug because he knew she liked the last sip of coffee, or when she handed him the last ginger snap without making it a thing—those moments had built something steady. Something simple. Something that felt, on her better days, a lot like home.

But tonight?

Tonight was going to be different.

───────────── 〔❉〕 ─────────────

The book had no title. Just a mottled emerald cover, bound in soft leather and etched with an unfamiliar sigil across the front.

“Found this wedged behind the radiator,” she said, handing it to Sam. “Thought it might be cursed. Smells like cinnamon and despair.”

He chuckled but took it with cautious fingers. “Latin, mostly… though this symbol looks like an old Babylonian glyph. Might be early Mesopotamian cross-translation magic.”

“Of course you’d know that.”

“I’m a nerd.”

“You’re my nerd.”

Sam’s eyes flicked up. He tried to suppress the smile, but failed.

She stretched out in her seat, arms high over her head, and cracked her spine. “I vote we call it a night in fifteen. I can feel my frontal lobe rebelling.”

“Just let me finish skimming this—” Sam paused. His brow furrowed. “Huh.”

“What?”

“I think this is a truth spell.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “As in ‘can’t lie’?”

“Yeah. This passage talks about invoking Veritas Lux—‘truth light’—to strip deception from conversation.”

“Well, that’s unsettling.”

Sam frowned. “I don’t think it’s active or anything. It would need to be triggered.”

At that moment, a strange pulse rolled through the table—a faint hum, like something catching on a string inside her chest. The lights flickered, once. The air shifted.

She blinked. “...Sam?”

He looked up slowly. “I didn’t touch anything. I swear.”

“You so touched something.”

“No. I swear on Dean’s favorite leather jacket.”

“Oh no.”

“What?”

“That definitely means you’re telling the truth.”

───────────── 〔❉〕 ─────────────

The first fifteen minutes weren’t so bad.

They tested the spell by asking stupid things like, “Is Dean your favorite brother?” and “Have you ever seen me trip over that rug in the war room?”

(Answers: “I plead the fifth” and “Twice. You tried to pretend it was a dance move.”)

The real problems started when they forgot not to banter.

“So,” she said, propping her chin on her hand, “hypothetically, if I asked something… more personal. Would you be forced to answer?”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Define personal.”

“I don’t know.” She twirled her pen. “Like, have you ever thought about kissing me in the stacks?”

He froze.

His mouth opened, then closed.

Her grin widened.

“Sam?”

He exhaled. “Yes.”

She blinked. “Really?”

“I think about it a lot.”

Oh.

Oh no.

Her stomach flipped in a way that made her feel about seventeen. She felt the heat rising in her cheeks and tried to hide it behind mock surprise.

“Well. Guess that settles that theory.”

“What theory?”

“That you might be too respectful to ever make a move.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s not wrong.”

Sam looked at her then—really looked—and there was something in his expression that made her want to shrink and reach for him all at once.

“I didn’t say anything,” he murmured, “because I didn’t want to screw this up.”

Her voice was quiet. “You think you could?”

He swallowed. “I know I could. But right now, thanks to this damn spell, I’m dangerously close to telling you that I—”

He stopped.

“Sam?”

He scrubbed a hand down his face. “This is such a bad idea.”

She reached across the table, her fingers grazing his.

“But you do feel something.”

His thumb brushed over hers, soft and nervous. “More than I’ve let myself admit.”

“Then let it.”

───────────── 〔❉〕 ─────────────

They didn’t leave the library.

Not for hours.

Sam had tugged her closer, sitting side by side on the old velvet couch that creaked under their weight. The silence between them wasn’t tense—it was warm. Comforting. Full of unspoken years.

She rested her head on his shoulder, and he sighed into her hair.

“Okay,” she said quietly. “Next truth.”

He smiled against her temple. “Bring it.”

“What’s something about me you’ve never said out loud?”

Sam was quiet for a moment. Then:

“I notice when you wear your hair different. I pretend I don’t. But I do.”

She smiled.

“Sometimes, I check your coffee cup when you’re done just to see how much sugar you used. I like knowing little things about you.”

Her heart did a slow, warm flip.

“I keep hoping you’ll never leave,” he whispered. “Even when the case is done.”

She lifted her head, meeting his eyes.

“I don’t plan to.”

Sam reached up, brushing a thumb across her cheek.

“I love you,” he said. Quiet. Honest. Unshaken.

The truth spell hummed between them.

She leaned in. “Say it again.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

And this time, it wasn’t a confession forced by magic. It was just real.

───────────── 〔❉〕 ─────────────

They woke tangled on the couch the next morning, the spell long since faded, the book closed between two forgotten stacks.

Dean found them hours later, groaning about “library makeout sessions” and “using coasters, damn it.”

But Sam didn’t move.

He just pulled her closer and whispered into her hair, “No more spells required.”

She smiled against his chest.

“No more hiding.”

┌───── ∘°❉°∘ ─────┐

E N D

└───── ∘°❉°∘ ─────┘

[hero21us]

Chav Tech Unleashed

Trey, full-blown chav and loyal member of the Golden Army, strutted through an alley behind a derelict electronics shop in East London. He wasn’t looking for treasure—just a spot to vape and blast grime from his cracked speaker. But fate had other plans. Half-buried under old cables and rusted consoles was a strange, gold-plated wristband. Trey snatched it up, turning it over. It hummed with an odd warmth and pulsed with faint light.

“Mad, this is,” Trey muttered, slipping it on. Instantly, a sleek interface hovered in the air—coded glyphs flickering, a joystick of control panels appearing like a game HUD.

"Target: Acquired. Nearest alpha male profile—locked."

Confused but intrigued, Trey looked around.

At the far end of the alley, a shirtless gym bro jogged past, earbuds in, veins popping. Trey tapped the display.

The jogger stopped mid-stride, blinked twice, then turned back toward Trey, walking with a slouch, swaying to unheard bass, and calling out, “Oi bruv, you seen my vape?”

Trey’s eyes widened. He smirked. “This thing’s proper mental!”

Over the next few hours, Trey tested the device with gleeful chaos. He turned a squad of shirtless CrossFit bros in the park into tracksuit-wearing, chain-flashing chavs who started a spontaneous dance-off under a motorway bridge.

He convinced two smug personal trainers to abandon their routines and instead stage a grime cypher near a kebab shop.

But by sundown, Trey knew this power needed supervision—or at least someone with even more swagger. He swaggered into the Golden Estate, straight to the gym where Chav Herc, the mountain of muscle and gold himself, was benching impossible weights while two drones shined his trainers.

Trey dropped the wristband on a bench beside him. “Bruv. You gotta see what this bit o’ kit does. Had gym lads skankin’ like it’s Carnival.”

Herc raised an eyebrow, slipped on the device, and nodded slowly as the interface booted up. “Golden tech, innit? Looks ancient. But proper weapon.”

Within days, Chav Herc had implemented the tech into training the Golden Army football squad. Before, they were elite—fast, powerful, relentless. Now, with the device broadcasting its influence across the training grounds, the players underwent subtle, then rapid transformations.

Their kicks became sharper, their tackles more aggressive. But their behavior on the pitch… shifted.

Gone were the clean-cut, focused professionals.

Now they rolled into matches in gold-trimmed tracksuits, chains bouncing, chewing gum with arrogant grins. They played with swagger—taunting, jeering, celebrating every goal with street-style dance routines. They didn't just win. They humiliated.

Commentators were baffled.

“The Golden Army are simply unplayable… but what’s with the attitude change?”

“They’ve turned into... well, East End bad boys with perfect footwork!”

Off-pitch, the squad still held their edge, but during every match, the chav energy surged. It became their brand—loud, gold, dominant. Fans loved it. Opponents feared it.

In the locker room after crushing their rivals 6-0, Herc leaned back on the bench, grinning at Trey. “Told you this tech's a game-changer, bruv.”

Trey chuckled, flipping a gold coin. “Next time I nick some alien gadget, remind me to bosh it on the ref, yeah? Make 'im proper skank about like a muppet.”

“Oi, not before we test it on the entire Premier League,” Herc smirked. “Golden Army’s goin’ global.”

And as the wristband pulsed with deeper gold light, neither noticed the final message blinking beneath the interface:

“Phase 2: Chav Dominion—Preparing for Global Sync.”

______________________________

Do you want to join? Contact our recruiters: @brodygold , @goldenherc9 or @polo-drone-001.

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