#Hive Spark Ending

[tracklessreason]

Hive Prime absolutely failing as a parent and it's only OK because his sparkling is a goddamn evil mastermind who makes his care everyone's problem.

[sha-brytols]

my thing about the mage rebellion is that i'm not necessarily opposed to there being a lot of mages out there who blame anders for their current state because. look if you love him you have to understand from a meta pov that he Wanted to martyr hundreds if not thousands of mages and i dont think its very Crazy to say well some of them probably didnt like that very much

but what drives me bananas is in bioware's bizarre attempt at balancing the narrative, both sides are portrayed as equally violent and reactionary and bloodthirsty. there's countless cases of mages just going on random rampages and killing innocent people in just the fucking hinterlands alone. literally your first quest when you get off that fuckass mountain is you having to mow down waves of mages and templars alike because they're just casually going nuts in a random village and are happily taking everyone around with them.

which. ok. if i wanted to be unbiased and fair about this. yeah sure. what we understand about the war is that mages are Angry. within just the past few years alone they've been victims to international annulments, have been used as political bargaining chips by their own leaders, found out that their supposedly incurable condition that's kept so many of them in constant fear and has defined their entire lives since they were children has had an easy fix all along, and then were used as scapegoats when the meeting that was supposed to end the war quite literally blew up in their faces. i can see an angle where a lot of them are in the "fuck it. burn it all down." phase of their revolution.

but. ok. stick with me here. hear me out:

why the hell do they still hate anders so much that they are actively chasing him out of their rebel camps .

you're telling me that these people, who are so riled up and angry at the world for how they've been wronged that they're going on random killing sprees and joining cults and shit like that, are also simultaneously of sound enough mind and ethical conviction to draw the line when it comes to being associated with someone who blew up one (☝️) church (that for the record, we KNOW was not the actual catalyst that sparked the war. bioware retconned it!!! it was the shit that happened in asunder!!!!)

like why isn't anders at least given the same amnesty that hawke got. if hawke sides with the mages they treat them as a living symbol of the revolution, a folk hero that fought for them and gave them strength to stand up against their oppressors. and this is DESPITE the common misunderstanding across thedas being that hawke and anders were conspiring together against the chantry! everyone thinks hawke helped him do it anyway! that's why cassandra fucking kidnapped varric to try to track them down in the first place.

it makes NO SENSE to me that anders is so universally ostracized that NO ONE wants to even be near him after what he did. did bioware even realize how insane of an idea it was to portray both sides as equally unhinged while simultaneously painting anders as a unanimously understood monster for doing the same shit the mages are doing RIGHT NOW but to a much lesser scale! i am having terminal fucking hives over this like WHAT

[zuboros]

Tyrant Neuroguard (2023) -

A few years ago I worked on a premise sparked by old Tyranid lore, wherein Space Marine DNA was rumoured to have contributed to the development of Tyrant Guard. Namely, what if the Hive Mind acquired something even more dangerous, like Primaris or even Grey Knight DNA? The idea from there was to design a larger, more advanced Tyrant Guard as a response, but I didn't finish the project as I felt it wasn't distinct enough from the current Tyrant Guard models, save for the reintroduction and modification of the 3rd edition shield.

More recently with the release of the various 'Neuro'- prefixed Tyranids, I was inspired to adapt the project to fit into this wave of really cool new bioforms. I see them as psychic batteries or capacitors, similar in role to a larger Neuroloid or Neurogaunt, and no smarter than base form Tyrant Guard, but able to passively receive and store psychic energy from Synapse creatures and instinctively discharge the energy via the spines on the front of its shield, or the ends of its Lashwhips, almost like an electric eel. The face design was inspired by historical helmets like the Barbute, utilising side mandibles that have thickened and morphed into defensive cheek plates.

[johnwickb1tsch]

The Girl Next Door - XIII

A Constantine x FemVampire!Reader (feat John Wick!) fic based on this imagine. all chapters gen. warnings: NSFW, blood, biting, violence divider by animatedglittergraphics-n-more pic is BRZRKR #11 cover 😍

⚠Trigger warning: UNBRIDLED AND GRAPHIC VIOLENCE, if that squicks you DO NOT READ!⚠

13. ride the lightning

How does one describe the chaos of sitting in the eye of a lightning storm?

Wick is as terrifying as he is breathtaking, and you watch with horror as he is unleashed upon the room. Vampires seem to materialize from the very shadows, sounding the alarm, trying to combat the lethal threat in their midst. All of them die as they come against the inexorable force that is the dhampir John Wick.

He tears them limb from limb, using teeth and hands and the very chains he'd been bound with, the manacles still encircling his wrists. He uses them like flails, whipping his opponents with all the force of a hurricane. 

All this practically happens in the blink of an eye. Don Juan barely has time to react before the maelstrom descends upon him. Wick hits him hard enough to knock him across the room, blood spouting like a fountain. There is no reprieve before the dhampir has pounced on him again, and the two powerful monsters tumble and brawl like mad dogs. It seems Juan has the upper hand until Wick coils from his back and kicks him away, sending the vampire soaring into the black depths of the cave.

The battle rages and the hive continues to swarm, Juan’s vampires foolishly daring to challenge the dhampir in the throes of this berzerker rage. One of them has Wick’s sword, and when Wick takes it from him the tables turn even more ridiculously in the slayer’s favor. He severs limbs and lops heads, leaving blood and gore in his wake. You think you see him extract a heart with his bare hand, gripping it in his fist before crushing it into a pulp. 

That is when don Juan appears again from the shadows, his face a bloody mask, with a broadsword in hand and the fires of Hell shining in his eyes. “Dhampir!” he seethes. “I will END you for this!” 

Wick bellows back wordlessly, the power of his rage filling the enclosed space with crackling energy. You watch wide-eyed as a good chunk of the cave ceiling breaks free above you, crashing at your feet. 

Jesus Christ. They’ll bring the whole place down around you all, you fear, even as you cannot look away from the impending battle. 

Maybe he gives the impression of the soft-handed gentleman of leisure, but it quickly becomes apparent that don Juan knows how to use a sword as he and Wick clash. Toledo steel meets Japanese Tamahagane, and sparks fly, blades flashing too fast for the eye to see. Juan is the only vampire yet who could actually match Wick for strength and speed, and you watch with dread as Wick barely dodges losing his head. In turn Juan keeps ahead of Wick’s every slash and thrust, moving with a speed and grace that is as mesmerizing as it is infuriating. 

You scream as the vampire breaks the steel of Wick’s sword in half with a mighty blow, and hits the dhampir with some kind of power that knocks him flat on his back. Juan makes a fist, and Wick writhes on the floor as though his guts are in Juan’s clawed hand. Straining against your chains, you gather what little psychic power is left to you, imagining it formed into a sharp needle as you fling it at Juan. 

It does not really damage him, but he pauses to look at you with a snarl–it’s the only window Wick needs to swipe with what remains of his razor sharp blade, right through don Juan’s legs at the knees. 

With a horrified expression Juan falls to the cave floor. Wick gets to his feet, picking Juan up by his throat with a fearsome snarl, and hurls him again towards the back of the cave. More vampires are appearing from the depths–holy fuck how many can there be?--and with a single, feral look back at you Wick picks up Juan’s broadsword, and charges back into the fray.    

The enraged dhampir disappears further into the shadows of the cave. The din of the battle echoes back to you–until the cacophony finally fades, and then, there is just eerie, heavy, silence.

Your heart lodges in your throat, and does not budge until you see the outline of Wick’s imposing form again at the edge of the torch light. His chains are gone. He is hurt, clearly limping. He makes his way to you, and only belatedly do you realize he is dragging don Juan by his one remaining limb. 

The vampire is unconscious, and Wick drops him unceremoniously before you like an offering, and the sword clatters to the floor soon after. You should be horrified, but it smacks of a hunter laying a kill at his woman’s feet in a time when man lived in caves, and you are not unmoved. But that blue light has not receded from his eyes, and he stalks towards you like a predator. 

I kill vampires. It’s what I am.

Could he kill you?

“John?”

He only grumbles in response, stalking towards you, and you are afraid.

“Jardani?”

“Don’t say it unless you mean it, ptichka,” he growls, his huge hands encircling your waist, pulling you against him. You are practically naked, and he is covered in blood from the massacre he just unleashed; that is not what frightens you. His eyes still glow that eerie blue, and you wonder if it is not like the warning glow of a fuse on a bomb. Maybe he’s injured, but you would be a fool to think him wrung out yet.  

“You’re scaring me,” you tell him honestly, and you feel him deflate against you, burying his face in the curve of your neck as his arms wrap around your torso, breathing you in. You feel it as that crackling energy recedes back inside him, leaving him as close to human as he can ever be. 

“I would never hurt you.” He whispers it with the vehemence of a vow against your skin, and you want to believe him. God, do you want to believe him. You fold yourself against him with your hands still bound above your head, letting him engulf you with his larger form. 

You don’t want to cry; it’s embarrassing, and you don’t have time for it, but after what don Juan did to you it comes out anyway in hiccupping sobs and he holds you like something precious in his hands that could just as easily tear you in two. You don’t understand the soft things he says to you, hushed murmurs in Russian or some long dead dialect of it, but they calm you anyway. That intoxicating aroma of flowers and spice envelops you again like an opium haze, and you melt into the shelter of this man.  

When at last you quiet he draws back to look at you with those ageless dark eyes, though he does not let you go. When he brushes his lips against yours in an achingly gentle kiss it feels as though nothing could be more right in the world. 

You are so fucked.

You look up at your wrists encircled in iron, jangling your chains. “Can you find the key for me?” you ask quietly, as if you speak too loud you might break this spell of precious calm between you.

The low sound that rumbles from his chest echoes straight to your womb. He runs blunt fingers up the underside of your arm lightly, a maddening touch that makes your good sense go fuzzy at the edges. “Jardani…”

His grip upon you tightens; he leans in to kiss you again, claiming your mouth as his weight presses you back into the wall. 

The warmth of his blood-slicked skin upon yours is bliss, though a trill of hesitance surfaces in the very back of your mind. As though he senses it he speaks. “I want to be a better man for you,” he tells you roughly, his voice hoarse from battle and desire. “But I would be a liar, if I claimed this is not exactly how I want you.” 

Where don Juan’s hands on you made you want to scream, Wick’s rough paw tracing your curves is maddening in a completely opposite way. It is hard to tell what is that intoxicating dhampir magic upon you, consuming you, and what is just…your own rampant desire. You forget that you are not lovers, that you have not done this before. Maybe you are in love with John Constantine, and he was inside you not hours ago…but it is so easy to forget everything, in Wick’s arms. Deep down, you know that you want him in a way that feels as though his name was always written upon your soul. 

He nuzzles the bend of your neck, grazing your pulse with his fangs. You know he must be hungry, after such an expenditure of energy and taking such damage. You fight a war with yourself, aching to feel his fangs in you again, but you're not sure he'll stop, once he starts, and you don't have much to spare. Logic wars with lust, the eternal battle of wits versus hormones.

Usually, the latter wins. 

“Jardani…” you coax, hoping sanity will prevail. “You have to set me free.”

He groans in response, kissing your pulse. “I don't have to,” he protests, and though there's a hint of his usual insouciance, mostly you're afraid he's absolutely serious. You open your mouth to protest again, but he swallows whatever you intended to say with his lips on yours, like a starving man who intends to eat you whole, starting with your mouth. 

You're not sure who escalates this already torrid exchange with a fang piercing your tongue–all you know is that what was already a bonfire escalates into a full on inferno. He eats at your mouth, lapping at your tongue as that agonizingly wonderful wave of desire fills your every cell. As you strain against your chains to be closer to him, to have more, he takes mercy on you with one of those muscle-strapped thighs between yours. You grind on him desperately, too far gone for anything resembling restraint, your pride totally forgotten. 

He migrates from your mouth to your neck, piercing your flesh and drinking you down, grabbing handfuls of your curves to hold you close. That scintillating, excruciating pleasure pulses and purrs inside you. It is him, but also, it is the two of you together, and when that magic reaches its shining peak in your loins you think you might implode for the exquisite rapture of it, release like a chain explosion sparking and spreading from your greedy cunt up your spine. Through the ringing in your ears it takes you a few moments to realize he is talking you through it, whispering low words in your ear that you do not understand, but you feel all too well. 

He kisses you again with your blood in his mouth, a slow and sensual thing that manages to curl your toes all over again, his tongue swiping the seam of your lips. “My pretty little bird,” he whispers. “The things I am going to do you, when we have time and a soft bed…” 

The sound you make in answer is barely human–but then, neither are you. 

When he produces the key you don’t know if you want to smack him, or laugh. He had it all along? Did he take it from Juan, or one of the other vampires? With a knowing little smile he reaches up to unlock your manacles, smirking down at you with a warmth in his eyes that could start a forest fire. 

If you had any sense left to your name, you would be furious for this little bit of trickery. However, that is not what you need. When you throw your arms around his neck he embraces you hard, enveloping you in those strong arms and lifting you off your feet. You feel your heart glowing like a hot ember in your chest, and you have no fucking idea how all this is going to work out in the end, but at the moment it doesn’t matter. 

A flash of an image surfaces in your mind: tangled under warm blankets with this man’s powerful body curled around yours while the winter winds and the hungry wolves howl outside, and you are unfalteringly certain that nothing bad can ever touch you again. 

You feel that way now, pulling back to look at him, searching his handsome, blood-flecked face. You say nothing, and neither does he, but you know he senses some shift in you. Whether in the widening of your eyes, or the hitch of your breath–but he makes no life-altering demands. All he asks of you, is for another toe-curling kiss with the tilt of his head. His soft lips on yours feel like a promise, and for the umteenth time this night you think to yourself: you are so fucked. 

“We have to go find Constantine,” you say as you pull away from him. “I know he’s in danger.” You feel it tugging on you at the distant end of your metaphysical cord. Trepidation. Fear. Resolve. You’re not sure if taking you from him was meant as a trap, or a distraction, but it can’t be good. 

“You’re too late.” The thing at your feet that only vaguely now resembles don Juan grins a bloody grin. “They have the psychic, that woman detective, and they’re doing the ritual tonight. Mamon will rise, and there’s nothing you can do about it.” 

“Where?” demands Wick with a growl that raises the hair on the back of your neck. 

Don Juan, however, just spits blood at the dhampir’s feet. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“You can heal this eventually,” says Wick with a dismissive wave at the vampire’s missing limbs. “Tell me, or I will take your head too.”

“You won’t leave me alive,” scoffs Juan. “I was not born yesterday.”

“My word.” 

“As a gentleman?” The laughter that grates from Juan’s lips is bitter as the betrayal of a friend. He is not biting–and you are running out of time.  

Wick casts a look at you before returning to the vampire. “As a husband,” he answers. “It is the only vow that I ever held truly sacred.”

“John Wick, murderer and romantic…how sweet,” taunts Juan, rolling his eyes. Even in this state, he cannot be anything but that what he truly is: an asshole of the purest grade. 

 “Tell me,” says Wick darkly, brandishing a knife produced from somewhere. “Or I will keep you like this for centuries more. I will take pieces from you until you are nothing but the talking head you are, but you won’t die. Trust me, I know.” 

Juan just glares, until Wick begins advancing on him with the knife, seemingly going for an ear. “Fine!” shouts the vampire, desperately leaning away just before the blade touches his skin. “Fine, fine, hijo de puta.” Lower, under his breath he continues to grumble, “Chinga su madre, pinche pendejo...”

“You were saying?” 

Mad as a rattlesnake, but realizing he has no other alternative, Juan spills the beans. 

—-----------

*hijo de puta - son of a bitch *chinga su madre - fuck your mother *pinche pendejo - fucking bastard *🤣🤣 i’m so sorry…

[cozzzynook]

Brining back your HC that TFA Bee is half insectacon I have a bit of a sad & sweet idea.

While it had been no one's idea to go the team were forced to head back to Cybertron due to Optimus needing to take part of an important meeting. Of course the Prime tried to go alone but his friends refused to let him go alone just in case he needed help. Since they would be stuck on Cybertron for a few weeks the team decide to explore, meeting up with old friends and family or checking out the city.

Bumblebee on the other hand was just walking down a street alone, he could have gone with Bulkhead to see the new race track that they built or joined Jazz at his buddies party but for some reason he found himself walking alone. Something was pulling at his spark, telling him to follow and quickly. It wasn't long until Bee found himself standing at the border of Iaon city, what he saw next made his energon run cold.

Just as Bee was about to turn back a large insectacon emerged form the shadows hissing and clicking its mandibles as he it approached Bumblebee. Despite its vicious jaws the insectacon never attacks, instead it leans down giving the yellow mech a quick sniff before nuzzling Bumblebee. Insecatcon's can smell one of their own from miles away and being sociable beans they quickly try and pick up any wandering strays, no matter if they are lost or not.

"Hey that tickles!" Bee giggled as he gently pushes the bugs mandibles away before giving his own little greeting chirp. "Its been a while since I've seen you, Snapjaw how have you been?"

"Good, little Bee returns to the hive after so long?" Snapjaw clicked as her wings buzzed happily. "Have the plain mechs been treating you well? Do they know you share the hive's blood?"

Bee cringed a little quickly wrapping one arm around the other as he gave a sheepish smile. "Eh, could be better my team is nice though. But they don't know who I'm really am...yet"

"You should tell them soon, I can smell your brood cycle starting in a few days. Do you have any mates planed?" Snapjaw grumbled already fussing over their small friend.

"Oh scrap, that's starting so soon?!" Panic filled Bee's spark as he quickly ran a hud scan. Just as he assumed a warning pop-up telling him about his frame temperature slowly beginning to rise as well as warning to informing that his tanks will be active in a few days. "Scrap...I forget to take suppressers this month. Thanks for the warning Snapjaw"

"Take care little Bee, remember you're always welcomed with the hive" With a quick buzz Snapjaw opened her wings and took off heading back towards the outskirts.

Quickly heading back into the city Bumblebee made a dash towards for Ratchet's place hoping he could borrow any last moment heat suppressers. While his heat cycles weren't any different form a normal bots there was a down side, he became rather broody and grumpy, if he failed to fill his tanks with transfluid he would end up laying dud eggs, normally he would quickly destroy them before anyone found out that's how he kept bots normally in the dark about his heritage but being on Cybertron and staying in barracks with his team meant the risk of getting found was too great. Bee cursed himself for not keeping better track of his cycles as he barged into the clinic he knew Ratchet was currently helping out at.

_____

The pale lights buzzed as Ratchet quickly rummaged through his first aid kit grumbling. "You couldn't have informed me before we got to Cybertron kid?" The medic turned his attention to Bumblebee who was standing awkwardly in the corner of the room.

"I thought it wouldn't be until much later..." Bee shuffled looking away being unable to look Ratchet in the optic.

"Well, sorry to break it to yer kid, but I'm all out of suppressers. You can try and see if any store has any or try your luck in asking a old friend to see if you can borrow one. Other than that, you're stuck having this cycle" Ratchet crossed his arms giving a soft huff. "Want me to give you a couple of spike wraps just in case?"

"Sure, thanks Doc bot" Bumblebee gave a small smile as he tired not to panic. He knew he could trust his team not to bother him during his cycle but he really didn't want them discovering who he truly was. There have been to many horror stories of hybrid mecha being executed for being 'freaks' and he really didn't want to be one of them. "Mech, this sucks..."

"Sadly, heat cycles are just what happens to young bots. A price to pay in order to make more sparklings" Ratchet grumbled as he handed the wraps to Bee. "Now I've informed the others about this and they should leave you alone, but if you want too you can still ask someone to join you if it helps speed things along. Just be careful"

"I will, thanks again Ratchet" Quickly turning Bee left the room and then headed back out into the city. Dragging a servo down his face he let out a long frustrated sigh already feeling the signs of pre heat. Maybe Ratchet was right, having a partner would speed things along much quicker. Quickly looking down at the spike wraps in his servo Bee then pulls up his comm link sending a ping to one of the few mechs he trusted fully, hoping it wouldn't be so sudden or weird. "Hey Prowl, uh want to help a mech out?"

^_^

SMILEY THIS IS WONDERFUL ALLDIOSIDOOSOKX KAI!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[mothhball]

II – VIRIDIS

viridis – marked by youthful vigor

JONATHAN CRANE X FEM!READER

summary Drinking your woes away was a temporary solution, and it ends up in tears. But even in the darkest night, there's the chance of a silver lining. Just be sure you're well-informed about your shiny spark of hope.

warnings NEEDLES, BLOOD SAMPLE, very mild medfet (a whisper for now), alcohol, reader gets drunk, some mildly foul language, unhappy relationship,

notes oooo longer chapter! and things are MOVING

! MINORS DNI !

story masterlist • main masterlist • taglist • kofi word count: 5.2k

The news themselves were already bad, but even worse was the pity from everyone you told about the rejection. Behind every sympathetic smile and half-hug was a hidden “I told you so” that no one said out loud, but was obvious enough.

Despite what people told you, apparently no one had believed that you could make it in the first place, and that realization caused a rage to burn and fester within your guts. A rage which found no outlet since that wretched Thursday that you since then blacked out with a fat sharpie from your calendar. Reading that letter felt like repeatedly getting hit over the head with a steel pipe, beating you into a pathetic, bloody pulp right where you were standing in your kitchen. Your boyfriend tried to rub your back, but you bristled and immediately turned away from him, scowling like it was him specifically who sent the rejection. His little pout disgusted you. But what made you actually nauseous was the relief in his eyes. Never once, in 3 years of this relationship, did you resent him like you did on that Thursday afternoon. Bitter, seething resentment which almost caused you to lash out at him like a riled-up dog.

But instead, you chose to take the high road. Or rather you fled, left the apartment and drove over to your best friend Mina’s to cry and shout into one of her lovely couch pillows. The smart, admirable choice would’ve been to write an email to Potomac. To timidly ask Dr. Rabin to turn a blind eye and allow you to send in a late application. But every time your fingers hovered over the keys of your old, ratty laptop, the embarrassment was too much, and you slammed it shut once more, leaving the unfinished request behind. But your boyfriend Tristan, in his seemingly endless quest of half-heartedly trying to manage your future, urged you to send the email. So, you did. At least that’s what you told him. A little white lie to let him keep his peace of mind. 

Your mood only got worse towards the weekend, prompting a few of your friends and your boyfriend to drag you off to do the responsible thing. Get drunk and shake off the tension during a night out. And now here you are, downing shots on a Saturday night in an attempt to forget your woes at least for a little while.

The club is packed and stuffy, and the lights flicker over a mass of people that seems to have grown into one hive mind of an entity, allowing you to feel swallowed and anonymous for just a few blissful hours. Every mouthful of alcohol that you swallow works in your favor to numb the anxiety gnawing at your bones while the bass gently licks at your feverish skin, causing your heart to vibrate in your ribcage. It’s easy to lose yourself in sips of colorful shots and cocktails. At least until a firm hand on your shoulder prevents you from placing another order. Turning your head, you’re met by Tristan’s disgruntled eyes, and before you can shake off his grip, he’s already pulling you away from the bar to a relatively quiet spot in another hallway of the club. Still, he has to raise his voice when he speaks to you, already laying the foundation for a screaming match.

“What are you doing??” he asks, giving you a once over that only serves to further sour his mood.

“What do you mean? I’m just having a couple of drinks,” you slur back at him, returning that nasty look he’s sending you. Tristan scoffs, shaking his head like you’re a lost cause, even though he’s not exactly sober either.

“You’re getting wasted. Are you still sulking over that rejection? Jesus…”

That actually makes your jaw drop, and you’re speechless for a few seconds, which your boyfriend takes as his cue to continue.

“Just let it go. Some things aren’t meant to be. It’s better this way”

“What the hell do you mean by that?” you hiss back at him, curling your fingers tightly into the fabric of the little dress you’re wearing.

“I… Listen, we both know Arkham isn’t… your style. You… you’re not that kind of person –“ Tristan sighs, somehow trying to make his statement seem less insulting and vague by waving his hands around in your face.

“The kind of person to what??”

“The kind of person who’d make it there! You would’ve quit after two weeks! Let’s be real for once. And then you’d have to start over again and you would have to wait yet another semester to graduate!” Every word that leaves his mouth pisses you off even more, and a truly ugly emotion rears its head within you. Things are escalating. You still have half a mind to realize it. You should call it a night, go home and talk things out in the morning. But this is the first time that Tristan is being brutally honest about your career choices.

“Oh, I didn’t know it was a race, Tristan! How silly of me! I’ll make sure to plan every future decision around your life schedule from now on!” You get in his face, venom dripping off of every shouted syllable that slips from your tongue a little too easily.

“You’re putting words in my mouth! I never said I wanted you to plan your life around me! I’m just worried! All of my friend’s girlfriends –“

“So that’s what this is about? The girlfriends of your little business school friend group?? Am I part of some weird dick measuring contest?” You continue before he gets a word in, asking a question that’s been burning in your throat for a few months now.

“Are you ashamed of me??”

You’re met with silence. Silence that’s so obviously an answer in itself that it causes your heart to slip out of your chest and shatter on the sticky floor below. Tristan notices the devastated expression on your face, but his drunken audacity eggs him on to double down. 

“I wouldn’t have to be if you just acted like an adult! You can’t always get what you want! For fuck’s sake, just be happy with what you have for once!” You wish you had a drink you could throw in his face. But your hands are empty, shaking with anger and disappointment. You can’t look at him anymore.

“Screw you, Tristan.” And with that, you turn, leaving him standing there while you rush to find an exit as tears well up in your eyes. He doesn’t make a move to follow you, and it simultaneously calms and saddens you even more. 

Navigating the club is even more complicated with your blurred vision, and you bump into a few people, no doubt spilling a few overpriced drinks in the process. But you’re either too fast or they’re too drunk to really do anything about it.

Finally, finally, you make it outside, choking out a strangled noise that’s a pathetic mix between a sob and a whine, and you quickly duck into a nearby alley to give way to the tears. You’re drunk and overly emotional, you try to rationalize with yourself, but it doesn’t lessen the ache in any way. So, pressing a palm over your mouth, you reluctantly allow yourself to cry. The night air is icy, but fresh enough to comfort you and slowly clear up the lump in your throat, and after some cathartic five minutes, you start to calm down again. Your tears run black at this point, dragging your favorite mascara down your cheeks, and you sniffle as you into your purse to grab a compact mirror and assess the damage. 

It's in that moment when your phone display lights up, alerting you to an incoming call. Your stomach twists into knots as you fish the phone out of your purse. A call from Tristan might make things worse, and you’re not really in the mood to talk to him right now, so – 

But the call isn’t coming from your boyfriend. Your eyes widen before they narrow into slits, and annoyance bubbles up within your chest. There on the phone display, proudly displayed as the caller ID is Dr. Jonathan Crane’s name. Your thumb hovers over the glass before you decide to pick up the call. As soon as you hear his voice, annoyance gives way to a little spark of hope. It also serves to sober you up a little. You barely have time to rasp out a “Hello?” before he speaks, sounding almost relieved that you picked up.

“I know that calling at such a late hour is quite unusual, but I’m glad I could get ahold of you before it was too late. Believe me, I was just as surprised as you most likely were. To be frank, I was so certain that you'd be joining us that I didn't even check the list to confirm it.” Papers rustle on his end of the line. He must still be in his office.

“Yeah, I… I was optimistic as well. Maybe… Maybe a little too much,” you admit softly, trying to concentrate on your words to avoid slurring. Crane hums, and you can’t tell if it’s in understanding or amusement. Reading him in person was already hard enough, but it’s nigh impossible over the phone.

“Tell you what, I believe you dodged a bullet. I clarified with the other staff members what the responsibilities of those interns will be, and that wouldn’t be right for you. Sorting files and sitting in on group therapy sessions at the Low Security Wing? No, that would be a waste of your time. You’re not that kind of person. Which is why I’m offering you something else.”

You lick your dry lips, still tasting the salt of your tears and some last traces of your lipstick. For a second, you’re unsure if you heard him correctly. “Something else?”

Crane glosses over your question, and in your mind you understand. This might be sensitive information. Drunk-You feels a little like a spy, keeping a secret from Tristan who would surely be mad that you’re even talking to the director of Arkham Asylum right now.

“Are you free to come in tomorrow? I know it’s quite late already –“

“Yes. Yes, I am,” you interrupt, feeling brave. 

“Good. Then let’s meet in my office at… let’s say… 10 am? Is that alright?”

“I… uh, absolutely.” You quickly rummage through your purse, using a lip liner and an old receipt to haphazardly write down the appointment. “I’ll be there.”

“Perfect. Enjoy the rest of your night,” he says before he hangs up right after. You have no chance to say goodbye properly as the line clicks. Maybe it’s for the best. Knowing yourself, you would’ve wished him a great night as well with the addition of a plea to “get home safe”, which would’ve been a little much.

When you head back inside, you’re spotted by your worried friends and an indifferent Tristan, and dear GOD, the urge to boast and gloat has never been this strong before in your life. But you stay quiet as you put on a smile, avoiding to look at your boyfriend. You stay quiet as your group gets into a taxi, and stay quiet as you get back home and head straight for your bed. “You’re not that kind of person” was something you heard twice in one night. And only once did it feel right.

The pounding ache in your skull serves as your alarm clock the next day, tearing you out of a restless sleep only 10 minutes before you were supposed to get up anyway. A frown finds its way onto your features as you tiptoe out of the bedroom, catching a glimpse of the still sleeping Tristan on the couch in the living room. Neither of you have said a word to each other since the fight, and you'll be damned if you start the conversation about something he messed up in the first place.

You walk past him, feeling the cold surface of the floorboards beneath your feet as you head into the bathroom to try to make yourself look (and smell) presentable. The stench of alcohol leaves your tongue after brushing and rinsing with mouthwash thrice, and an overindulgence of body wash in the shower solves everything else. The final touch is a generous amount of concealer under your eyes, and you're surprised that you actually pass off as someone who doesn't have an awful hangover right now.

Getting dressed is another challenge, though. You can't exactly say that Drunk-You had the gift of foresight to pick a suitable outfit for your second meeting with Dr. Crane, so you dig through your closet to make yourself look presentable. Your fingers wander over the different fabrics, tracing cotton and polyester, wool and tweed as you grumble to yourself. Christ, this shouldn’t feel like rocket science.

This dreadful indecisiveness eats up a sizeable chunk of your time, and as you button up your blouse, you realize how late it suddenly is.

Breakfast consists of an aspirin and a large black coffee, and you make sure to let the coffee machine shriek as loudly as it wants just to spite Tristan a little more before you rush out of the apartment. 

This time around, the drive to Arkham Asylum feels a little more familiar. You still depend heavily on your GPS, but you remember some of the turns and streets, and you don’t feel as tiny and insignificant as you did a week ago. You’re here with an explicit purpose now. Crane knows who you are and asked you to come back nevertheless.

Upon entering the still intimidating building, you stop by the reception again, spotting a familiar face. The receptionist seems just as surprised to see you, sharp eyes flicking down to a visitor's list that seems to confirm the validity of your return before she points a manicured nail towards the security check. You raise your hand to wave at her as you pass. She doesn't wave back. Oh well, you can't get them all.

The maze of a third-floor feels straightforward as well today, made possible by the ever-present red lines guiding you to your destination. This time, you're able to meet Crane in his office, and his request to enter can be heard through the door after the first knock.

Everything still looks the same as you enter, save for his now orderly desk. The chaos of files from back then is now a neat stack that the doctor rests his folded hands atop. You open your mouth to greet him, but Crane speaks first, completely catching you off-guard.

"The bunny is back. I'm glad to see it."

"Excuse me?" You blink at him before you look down at yourself. No, no bunny-themed clothes or accessories anywhere that might have given him the idea to call you that. You’re drawing a blank. Unsure whether this is part of a hazing process or an inside joke you must’ve missed, you lift your gaze back up to him. There’s a fleeting look of sardonic amusement on his face before he reels himself back in to elaborate.

“That's what you reminded me of the first time you came here. Glancing around, all skittish and frightened in the hallway…” he explains, already turning his head away from you to reach into one of his desk drawers and retrieve a folder. Your folder. “Please, close the door and take a seat. We’re already running low on time.”

After following his instructions, you find yourself sitting in the same chair from a week ago, foregoing the act of presenting yourself as a confident person. It’s no use, anyway. Crane already knows you’re desperate. It’s seeping out of your every pore, giving your worries a rich and sweet taste that the director of Arkham seems to indulge in for a moment. At least, that’s what you assume based on the expression in his cold eyes. You’re no fool. It’s basically a guarantee that his offer will bite you in the ass in some way or another. 

“You must be a little put-off by this meeting. It’s not exactly orthodox to ask you to come in on a Sunday, but I read the list of this year’s interns just minutes before I called you last night. And that was purely by chance. Like I said, I was positive you’d be one of them.” Crane opens your folder, but his eyes stay on your face. “I have no idea what goes on in the heads of my staff sometimes, and now I’m fairly certain it can’t be much. But I don’t intend to waste a person like you.”

You shift in your seat, listening intently to every word that leaves his lips. It’s your lifeline. And he knows it.

“So, I am making you an offer. Just promise to listen first,” he says, and one of his eyebrows twitches upwards at the intensity in your gaze. “The position I’m offering you would be exclusive. It won’t be approved by anyone else but me and it technically didn’t exist before I made up my mind about it. I am offering you the position of intern assistant.”

Your eyes widen. Even in his darkroom of an office, it feels like the air just became lighter and the colors brighter. Crane lifts a finger, continuing his offer.

“No surface scratching – You’d be my shadow. Which means more work and responsibilities, but also more privileges, more insight, more knowledge. I’ll teach you what you need to know to get ahead in this field, and by the end of it, your fellow students will eat your dust. Your professors as well, if I’m being honest.”

Before you can even respond, he’s already reaching back into his desk, pulling out a massive stack of paperwork. And then the rushing begins. Crane checks his watch, clicking his tongue before he pushes the documents over to you, along with a fountain pen.

“How long would it take you to read this? I have to hand this in within the next 50 minutes to make sure you’re cleared in time. If you even accept my offer, that is. It’s a terrible time crunch, I know, but I’d really like to have you as a member of staff in one week.”

Tentatively, you reach out for the fountain pen, twirling it around in your fingers for a moment as you think about his offer. This hesitancy only causes him to lean forward and flip through the first pages, pointing out a handful of sections for only a few seconds each before he moves on.

“It’s the regular stuff, I guess. Everything I just told you in cumbersome wording. I really wish I could take my time and go through each page with you, but the circumstances just won’t allow it. If you have any questions, I’ll gladly answer all of them once you’ve signed.”

It’s shady as hell. A red flag that’s so glaringly obvious that it makes you wonder how Crane can keep a straight expression. But this is your one chance of getting a look behind the scenes. Your one chance of proving them wrong. Professor Campbell, Tristan, everyone who doubted you could do it. This could go horribly wrong. But it could also be your ticket into the big leagues. Shadowing the asylum’s director would be a privilege that no one else gets. A chance to make connections and grow. Not to mention that your résumé would look incredible with Crane’s recommendation attached to it.

Hell, he may be exploiting you, but who says you can’t exploit him right back? It’s your good right to milk this opportunity as much as you can.

Meanwhile, the psychiatrist continues to ramble on, rattling off half-apologies and made-up reasons why you have to sign as quickly as possible once he reaches the last page of the contract. The page where you have to place your signature on the intended line. Both of you are surprised by how quickly you sign it. 

As you place the cap back onto the fountain pen, it feels like the air has been sucked out of the room, creating a vacuum in which both of you seem to grapple with the reality that you’d be stuck to Dr. Crane’s side for a few months, following every step and instruction of his. You manage to break the silence first.

“There. I have questions now.”

“Of course. I already expected as much,” Crane says as he pulls the freshly signed contract back to his side of the desk, staring down at your signature as if he’s half expecting it to jump off the paper. But then he places the thick document back into the drawer it came from, letting out a quiet breath. You notice that he seems significantly more at ease now, movements once again patient and effortlessly measured, and your brows furrow a little as you speak.

“What’s my hourly rate?”

“There’s nothing of the sort, I’m afraid.” Your blood runs cold at his nonchalance, and your lips part to protest when he cuts you off. “You will be working the same hours as me. And since my overtime and schedule is a little unpredictable at times, we will just have to see. You will be paid at the end of the month, however. The amount will depend on how much we actually did.”

“I… alright.” You bite your tongue, even though your displeasure is obvious. Nevertheless, you proceed with your second question. “You mentioned more responsibilities. I guess there’s a catch, then? Or a few?”

Crane chuckles, getting up from his chair to walk over to a cabinet in search of something specific. He speaks to you from over his shoulder.

“Right to the point. Wonderful. But yes, there are a few peculiarities that come with the position. Starting with – You’re not afraid of needles, are you?”

He closes the cabinet, returning to the desk with a little tray containing various items.

“We’ll start with a mandatory blood sample. I hope this isn’t a problem. I just need to know that my assistant is in peak condition. And didn’t smoke anything on the way here.”

You want to scoff, but swallow the sound at the last second. The fact that you took offense to his unspoken accusation is written across your face, and Crane doesn’t comment any further on it as he sets the tray down on the desk and pulls his chair closer to yours.

“I’m fine with needles,” you murmur, already pulling up your sleeve.

“No trypanophobia? A shame,” Crane chuckles, sitting down again before he reaches out for your arm. Your doubts whether he’s even qualified to do this as a psychiatrist vanish the moment his hands come in contact with your skin. He’s cold. Almost uncomfortably cold as his fingers brush over the bend of your elbow in search of a suitable vein. Once he’s successful, he picks a tourniquet from the tray of equipment and fastens it around your upper arm. His movements seem too perfect to be experienced. As if he’s a green med student working with the textbook perched on his lap. As if he’d burst into flame if he did something wrong.

“So, about the catch,” he continues, grabbing a bottle of disinfectant and spraying it over the spot he picked on your arm. Surprisingly, the liquid isn’t much colder than his touch. “Since you’ll be my shadow, you’re also required to accompany me to appointments outside of Arkham. Conferences, meetings… so on and so forth. I also have some upcoming court dates within the next few months. Obviously, I’m not the defendant. I’m just an advisor.”

You nod along to his words, eyes following his hands as he rubs disinfectant into his own skin before he pulls on a pair of blue nitrile gloves. Crane stretches the material over his hands until it’s taut, making it squeak before he shifts closer until his knees touch yours. At this proximity, you can smell his cologne, and the combination throws you off a little. It’s mainly sandalwood and bergamot, but there’s a hint of something else you can’t quite grasp. Something chemical, almost acidic. The psychiatrist continues to speak, pulling you out of your thoughts.

“Another catch is that there’s a required dress code for you. As my assistant, you need to always look presentable. You can’t be running around looking like a hobo since your actions and appearance will reflect on me as well. And I’d rather not be associated with… any of those cheap trends that seem to be popular with the bottom of the barrel nowadays. You’ll have to give me your clothing size so I can prepare a new wardrobe for you. It’ll just save us time in the long run.”

Your brows furrow, but his request seems reasonable. “Alright. I suppose that’s fair,” you say, watching closely as he runs his thumb over the bend of your elbow. Then, he presses down to anchor the vein. It’s right in this moment when he decides to drop another bombshell.

“Which brings me to probably the biggest drawback in all of this.”

Your eyes flicker up to meet his. He’s already looking at your face, watching for the slightest twitch in your expression.

“You’ll have to stay at my place for the duration of your internship.”

What follows is a solid minute of deafening silence. Your pulse races, thumping softly against the pad of Crane’s thumb. He can tell you’re displeased, and he frowns a little, surprisingly empathetic.

“What?” you manage to croak out, swallowing dryly.

“Believe me, I spent all night trying to come up with a better solution. Sometimes, I get emergency calls in the middle of the night and it’s vital that you’re there with me. Those cases are the real deal. They’re raw and unfiltered, often much more than incidents that happen during the day. And as you told me during your interview, you live quite far away from here.”

You nod stiffly, gaze dropping to where he’s still pressing his thumb down on your arm. Crane can see and feel how uneasy this condition makes you, and he tries to lessen the blow.

“You’ll have your own bathroom and bedroom, of course. We will only share the kitchen and living room. And the laundry room, but I suppose that is the least of your worries. I won’t bother you.”

When he sees that you’re still not too happy, he quickly adds, “You can also tell me to be quiet whenever I mention work after hours.”

This at least gets a reaction from you. You force yourself to crack a smile, meeting his eyes once more.

“Okay. I’ll hold you to it.”

“Perfect.” The psychiatrist nods, wasting no time uncapping a butterfly needle and puncturing your skin with it. The sudden sting almost makes you flinch, but his grip suddenly is so tight that you don’t get any wiggle room. You watch as your blood travels down through the attached tube, filling up a small sample bottle and shortly after, a second one.

“You’re pretty brave for a bunny,” he jokes, setting your blood samples down on the tray before he releases the tourniquet and reaches for some gauze. His eyes stay on yours the entire time as he pulls out the needle and presses the gauze against your arm, soaking up your discomfort in a way that only fascinated scientists are capable of. 

“Press down.”

You mutter a “sure” as you obey his instruction, relieved when he finally turns away from you to discard the needle and his gloves. The final touch is a little band-aid over the tiny puncture wound, and you keep your hand over it as Crane pushes his chair back into its rightful place and takes a seat once more. He studies one of the full sample tubes as he speaks up again.

“You must be a little overwhelmed right now. Which is understandable, don’t get me wrong. But I’d like for you to go home and start packing your most important belongings. I’ll text you my address and will take care of the rest. You just need to show up next Sunday and get started on Monday.”

“Do I need to bring anything in specific? Like… a notebook or something?”

“No,” he shakes his head. “You’ll get your stationery and other supplies here. I’ll make sure to try to organize you a separate desk. Maybe even one of the more comfortable office chairs. But I can’t really promise any luxuries.”

“I know this establishment oftentimes seems like a revolving door when it comes to staff applying and quitting. But I don't want that with you.” Crane tears his eyes away from your blood sample, giving you his undivided attention again. “There won't be an easy way out, however. Either you prove yourself and do your job until the end of your internship, or else there will be no certificate and you'll have to try your luck elsewhere. And I hate to worry you, but getting a job without one of my letters of recommendation might be a little tricky. But I assure you, that's the absolute worst-case scenario."

You let out a little breath and nod, straightening in your chair. Your mind is already racing, spinning around in a colorful variety that ranges from dread to genuine excitement. The biggest problem, however, is that you will have to break the news to your boyfriend. The thought makes you a little nauseous, but if Crane notices it, he’s generous enough not to mention it. 

Your goodbyes are brief, and you’re still holding your hand over the band aid as you leave the building and reach your car. Dark clouds are brewing overhead, announcing one of Gotham’s common rainy afternoons, and it already smells earthy with a hint of wet concrete.

The drive home doesn’t take as much time as you would’ve liked, even though you’re stopped plenty of times by red lights or passing cop cars with their sirens turned on. No, you reach the apartment much too soon, climbing the stairs with a heavy heart and sweaty palms. The band aid feels like it’s burning a hole into your flesh, hidden away underneath your sleeve. A secret hint of the meeting with Crane. Your key hovers in front of the lock on your front door as you freeze. Telling Tristan about the internship would mean telling him about your impending new living arrangements. Yes, you’d get the satisfaction of proving him wrong about your capabilities, but he’d blow up about everything else. Even worse, what if he reports the conditions of your internship? What if he ruins everything before it has even begun? 

Another big fight doesn’t fit into your schedule either. Neither does a breakup. Taking a breath, you unlock the door and step into the apartment, almost immediately meeting Tristan in the hallway. Time freezes for a moment, and then you say the first thing that comes to mind.

“I need to pack. They want me back at Potomac.”

It’s okay, right? It’s no big deal. After all, it’s just another little white lie to let him keep his peace of mind.

@ellebelleshelby @cilliansprincess @mcumorningstar @x0xomady @mandies24

@detroitbecomevenom @pretty-bluebird @ink5ouls @flwrs4aust @vampmary1411

@ashdrinksoatmilk @nnattu @ptolemaniac @kiss-me-cill-me @celebrities-imagines

@hanawrites404 @ilovetoxicfictionalmen @nocturnest @biblicallyaccuratebee @red-riding-wood

@luvlloyd @ribbonystar @smxkyqvxrtz @bloodandglitter207

@rosiemarieyn @sagepixie @snickersmee @voltage-supernatural-art @feasibilities

@cilly-murphy @paradiseprincesss @oceanstem @your-nanas-house @fantasmitasolo

@cillianhead @xlostitx @kefi-meraki @ilovepeoplesdads @vegasisthinking

@ryecosse @strangeobsessed @xsweetcatastrophe @cillianslvt @ilovedottore

[yayasvalveplay]

Hive Queen Optimus.

Yes, the Insecticons are very protective of their queen and his... ahem, the organic sparklings he loves. I feel like one of the Insecticons overhear Miko asking said questions, asking their queen if they should answer them, and Optimus immediately going "no" bc he would rather not accidentally traumatize any humans.

Airachnid goes back to the Decepticons and tries to report on what happened, but no one really believes her. Yea, Soundwave knows she interacted with exactly one Insecticon on Earth (some scout that was killed) (something something it was very obvious that Airachnid tried to kill Starscream that one time) and they know Insecticons exist, but they don't believe her about an entire hive deciding that Optimus Prime is their queen.

They are forced to accept that when the relic hunt kicks on and while some of Team Prime were sent to get the relics it's mostly Insecticons that went because of the relic locations found during Flying Mind (that one episode where Megatron thought giving the Nemesis Dark Energon was a good idea).

Needless to say the Vehicons are very scared of the Insecticons especially since they take direct orders from Their Queen Optimus Prime and are much stronger physically than them. Yea, they can shot them, but their armor is tough as hell, how does high command expect them to fight against that?!

Anyways, the Insecticons love to watch Optimus do archivist stuff since in their mind that means their Queen is relaxed and happy. Yes Optimus still makes sure missions and scoutings are done, but it's much easier with the Insecticons around.

At one point an Insecticon approachs Ratchet to ask why Queen Optimus's belly was still big even though he laid all the eggs of this litter.

Ok so this is all happening after Armada. so Orion pax has happened.

"Our queens stomach hasn't gone down after eggs were deposited last night. Medic is there something wrong?" "I'll check on Optimus."

one check later Ratchet is trying to figure out how a sparkling has survived this long in forge being constantly stuffed with eggs. "Alright, no one is breeding Optimus till this sparkling is born. It can damage his frame."

"Who is the dad of this sparkling?" Miko piped up after overhearing everything going on, every is scared how she got in without anyone realizing she was even there.

"I'll give you a guess, his name starts with M and ends in Tron."

Ya Op's been sparked since Orion pax, and he came back.

The incecticons are heartbroken that they can not breed Op, but he's still carrying, so they treat him as normal, if a little bit more carefully. As for the other parts of this ask, Yessssss No one believes Arachnid until they see it for themself, The Incecticons fighting for the autobots.

Yes they terrify the vehicons.

And even more yes they love watching Op work, sitting beside him protectively keeping watch as he types away on the computer.

[justpoliteconversations]

To Obtain [Yandere!Four x Isekai!Reader]

Teamwork is the purpose of the pack. But a hive is a thing of purpose.

Second part of the yandere series. This one is quite a bit spicier than my usual fair, so be warned. Also, it's longer because it has four (five) yanderes packed in there.

(Going to edit later. I'm too tired now to do it.)

Masterlist

Set-up: Comfort [Yandere!Chain + Isekai!Reader]

Sky Route

Four Route

TW: Choosing not to disclose. Read at your own discretion.

Disclaimer: Don't own The Legend of Zelda franchise. Linked Universe is the fan creation of jojo56830.

---

After that night (that wretched, nightmarish night), things had gone from uncomfortably tense to downright confusing very quickly. Especially where Four was concerned (or rather, where the damned Colors were concerned).

Red, for one, had become relentless in his pursuit of your company (a shy touch on the back of your hand. fingers brushing against yours. big, doughy eyes of glittering firelight pinning you from across the camp with their intensity). Going so far as to risk conflict (terrifying, bloody conflict. so vicious Green and Time had had to step in and physically separate them) between Blue and Twilight as he'd whined and pleaded for your attention. Leaning into your space, red-pink eyes watery, ears pinned back against his skull. Pressing his red splotched face and (deceptively strong) hands into any part of you he could reach (that Twilight allowed him to reach. tense as the wolf bastard was for reasons lost on you).

Blue would be following close behind Red (as always), the air around him sparking with purpose as he put himself squarely in Twilight's territory (too close to Wild. and most certainly too close to you). Steely blue eyes scanning, assessing, before narrowing in on Twilight and staying there unwaveringly (actively provoking. so unlike his usual reactionary aggression). The twist of his thin lips firm and brimming with determination. For what, you weren't sure, but it set you on edge regardless, as though every one of your instincts were telling you to run (run, run, run, run, run-).

Vio was as distant as he always was (planning or unbothered you couldn't be sure), but you swore you could sometimes feel his sharp, calculated glance upon you (so sharp it felt like a scalpel grazing along vulnerable nerves. slowly peeling back your prickled skin with blood-chilling precision. distinctively Four. wholly Vio. entirely unwelcome). Whether you were sitting next to the fire, entertaining Wind or helping Wild tame his tangle of bed head, they always seemed to find you (even when you couldn't see. especially when you couldn't see).

Green was an enigma in his entirely. Rarely did he seem to play you much mind, and yet he seemed to be in your space more and more these days (even moreso than Red, and that's a truly anxiety inducing thought). Seated next to you at dinner time (how did he manage to get past Twilight? Wild? how did it become just the two of you, with and yet separate from the group?), walking close to you when the group traveled (how'd he get passed Hyrule? clingy and overbearing as he was?). And yet he never actively engaged you besides a slight smile or a brief glance in your direction (confusing. ringing wrong, wrong, wrong in the back of your mind).

Only Four seemed to have remained relatively unchanged. Still as polite and courteous with you as he's always been. Occasionally he got a little bossy (especially where equipment maintenance was concerned), but it was nothing unusual for the small smith and Wild got it even worse than you. So, you weren't overly concerned with him. Four was fine. He was lovely, in fact (a breath of fresh fucking air compared to the clusterfuck that was everyone else's crazy asses). It was just those damned Colors of his.

You'd like nothing more than to tell Four about how strange they've been acting, but in the end you didn't. There was no point honestly. For all they (Four and the Colors) seemed to share a common body, Four wasn't there when things got strange. There wasn't anything he could do when he didn't even exist at the same time they did. So why would you put that stress on the one guy who seemed to have his shit together? When he couldn't even do anything about it?

Because surely he wouldn't have allowed these types of behaviors to continue as they had if he had control of them. Not Blue's aggression. Not Vio's cruel disregard. Not Red's smothering. Not even Green's awkward insertion into your life. They just weren't him. They weren't Four.

(Or maybe you just didn't want to think about it. didn't want to contemplate what it meant if Four knew and did nothing at all.)

And loath as you were to admit it (no matter how much it hurt your pride. or put your teeth on edge. or tensed the muscles in your throat and jaw), Twilight wouldn't let anyone (let alone a bunch of psychopathic Four copies) do anything unsavory to you. As much as you wanted to hate him, Twilight really was your shield against the craziness that was the rest of the chain (except for Sky. damned Sky who had killed people and whimpered like a damned victim when he didn't get his way).

So. You kept quiet. You endured Red's whimpering and Blue's aggression and even Green's passive presence creeping into nearly every part of your life. You endured and let Twilight run them off when they got handsy or too overwhelming to bare. You endured and breathed a quiet sigh of relief when you opened your eyes and saw the patchwork of colors on Four's vest. You endured and just ignored it.

And then. It happened. On a night like any other night (it should have been like any other night).

(How could this have happened? why was this allowed to happen. please. please don't let this happen. Twilight. Twilight, please.)

Blue had gotten into your (into Twilight's) space. Quiet and tense and far too intense to be anything but a provoking gesture. Nearly trapping you between himself and Red (where was Wild? he should have been behind you), so close you could feel the heat of his hip and waist as it brushed up against you (Wild was with Green. he was showing him something shiny. some kind of mineral. wrong, wrong, wrong. Green never paid attention to Wild. not like Red did. Green didn't put himself out there like that. not without a reason).

You had immediately locked eyes with Twilight, silently pleading with him to make them back off. Because Red was so, so much already. You couldn't deal with Blue too. And something was wrong. Something felt different about them tonight (why was Red gripping your hand like that? his eyes weren't even on you. they were on Blue, the red of them so intense they glowed like wildfire).

And Twilight had answered. Because he always did. No matter what, he always came to your defense when things got tense.

Blue had squared up with him, eyes glinting steely blue beneath the determined set of his brows (something was different), nearly black with their intensity. Green was making his way over even as Twilight stood to full height to face Blue. Perhaps to talk him down. Maybe to physically drag Blue away as Green had done in the past (something was different. where was Wild? he wasn't where he was supposed to be).

(Where did Green send Wild off to, something whispered quietly in your mind. your heart racing. your gut screaming for you to run, run, run-)

Red was standing suddenly (no. it can't be. this isn't happening). And just like that, Twilight paused, staring down two Colors where once there was only one.

And then Green stepped right up behind Blue, a calm smile on his lips. And drew his sword.

"Sorry, Twilight." Green said smoothly, sounding so damned genuinely apologetic as he continued (as the sound of two other swords being drawn echoed through the tense, still, quiet clearing). "But Four's tired of waiting. And honestly, so are we. You understand how this works."

Twilight's lips pulled back into a grimace and suddenly you understood. Because how could you have not seen it when it had been right there all along (staring you right in the face. red, hearth warm eyes drowning in their obsession. sharp blue tracking you with quiet intensity). How could you have not thought of this outcome (how could you have missed Twilight's unease. he was rarely tense around the others. not even when Hyrule or Legend or Wind or even fucking Wars got close. how did you not notice how determined he'd been to keep the Colors at a distance?).

How could you have not noticed how outnumbered Twilight was all this time? Just watching as a larger, more well coordinated pack closed in from all sides, eyeing him at their leisure, taking his measure (finding his weaknesses). He'd been on the defensive from the beginning (like a cornered animal. like a lone wolf).

And they'd found those weaknesses. Patient. Cunning. Perfectly in sync. With the ability to come from all angles at once. A pack primed for the killing blow.

Wild was gone (Green had done that. he'd gotten Twilight alone). Time was keeping his distance, merely watching with quiet exasperation (Vio at his side. knowing lavender-blue gaze set on Time's face with unsettling ease, the slightest slip of a smile at the corner of his lips. smug).

(Checkmate. This was his checkmate, wasn't it? His victory. And you never even noticed the plays being made right. in. front. of. you.)

One nod from Time and Twilight sighed, running a rough hand through his dark hair, letting the tension in his shoulders lessen.

And then he moved away, casting an apologetic, reassuring smile your way. Sorry that you had been taken from his care, but not concerned enough to truly fight for you. Not when Time was allowing this to happen. Not when he was backed up against the wall (not when he wasn't actually losing anything but another body to tuck in when Wild finally settled enough to sleep).

And just like that you belonged to Four. And the Colors. And no one was even concerned by this (no one cared. no one saw anything wrong with this. they thought this was acceptable behavior. that this was okay when it wasn't. it really, really wasn't).

Twilight was gone (off to track down Wild), and everyone else went back to doing their nightly routines. And you were suddenly alone between Blue and Red, standing in the middle of it all feeling numb and chilled to your very bones.

In that moment, you were more alone than you'd ever been before (had you ever actually not been alone all this time? when no one else seemed to understand just how frightened you were? when they all just assumed you were going to be taken care of no matter who had you and therefore everything was okay).

So dazed were you by the turn of events, you didn't even notice the flicker of blue in your vision before the air was stolen from your lungs. A hand (calloused, shaking with excitement and forceful) balled into your shirt, pulling you down with overwhelming strength. Another gripping into your hair as warm, dry lips pressed harshly (savagely) against yours with ravenous hunger.

You froze at the contact, body tensing and mind going blank in panic as the hand gripping into your hair twisted. Forcibly turning your head for a better angle as something wet brushed against your lips softly (surprisingly gentle for the roughness of everything else).

You hadn't even the time to put your hands up and fight back before the man kissing you was ripped away, the hand still tangled in your hair tugging harshly before it (finally. mercifully) let go.

Freed, you gasped in fresh, life-giving (mind clearing) air. Your lips tingling and warm while the back of your head ached from the sudden punishing pulling it'd had to endure. Gentle, supporting hands were on you then, reeling you in close to lean against a warm, unmoving body.

"The fuck Green!" Blue hissed, lips and cheeks flushed red but his eyes brimming with livid rage. "Why'd you do that?"

Green leveled him with a neutral smile, holding your shaking form a bit closer as he said, firmly. "They're scared, Blue. You're moving too fast."

Blue huffed up, looking murderous and ready to fight. Until Red put a hand on his arm and said earnestly. "You're really scary sometimes, you know! You should be more gentle with them the first time!"

That made Blue pause, and after he finally looked at you (at you. not towards you or for you. but actually at you) and realized that you were shaking and gasping against Green's side, he averted his gaze. Face flushed and expression twisted into quiet anger (at himself. for getting ahead of himself. and for forgetting that for all they knew you, you didn't yet know them).

"Whatever." He mumbled, turning away. "I'm setting up the beds." Then he snapped. "They're sleeping closest to me! Come on, Red!"

Red hesitated, but one hard glare from Blue got him moving. "Coming!" Then he smiled at you, warm and sweet and brimming with excitement. "Don't be scared, kay? We're going to protect you now!" And then he ran to Blue, and they began setting up their sleeping area (five places, not four. and the thought made you shiver).

The hand supporting you rubbed tenderly against your side. "It'll be okay." Green told you reassuringly, his thumb pressing circles into your skin as he side hugged you gently. "They just need time to calm down."

(No. it won't be okay. this is wrong. this is so wrong.)

Later that night, with Blue sleeping at your feet and Red spooned in from behind (still awake. his heart thundering against your back in excitement. legs intertwined with yours and his hands tucked into the dips of your hips like vices), giggling and shaking like a damned small dog with pent-up energy. You lay awake, quiet and hoping Red would just go to sleep soon so you didn't have to hear his whispered 'love you's and 'so perfect's and 'I can't wait. I'm so excited's.

You watched the campfire burning in the distance to distract yourself from the circles his thumbs were rubbing into your hips. Far away. Away from Twilight or Wild (who was still awake and pissy after he'd found out what happened) and anyone else who might (might) have helped you if Red decided to continue where Blue left off (the thought made you want to curl up and disappear).

You closed your eyes and held back a sob as you remembered Vio's words (upset that such things would have ever had to be said to you. upset that they comforted you regardless).

After Green had left to go soothe things over with Twilight (and Wild), Vio had sat down beside you (as you both watched Red and Blue fight over sleeping arrangements) and begun talking. And God, how you wish he hadn't (you were thankful he did).

"They won't do more than touch you. Just hit them if they go too far. Despite his temperament, Blue will not strike you." He'd said coolly, not even taking his eyes off his brothers as they devolved into a brawl right over the spread of bedrolls. Red doing surprising well in pinning Blue down by the back of his tunic.

You wanted to yell at him that they shouldn't be touching you at all. That you didn't want to have to deal with this. You didn't though, because you knew (with heartbreaking, blood-chilling certainty) that it wouldn't change a damned thing. You didn't have a voice before, and you most certainly didn't now. Especially not with four others there to overpower your pitiful whispers and pleading screams (outnumbered and cornered, you wanted to giggle. though not the happy kind. not the sane kind).

His hand was on yours, fingers curling gently around your fist (what need have he to use force against trapped prey? why assert dominance when you were already completely under his power). "Four will be here tomorrow. When you wake, he will allow you to set boundaries." His cool, lavender-blue eyes flickered to yours. "Within reason."

You couldn't meet his eyes any longer as you asked, submissive and withdrawn. "How do you know?"

Vio blinked, face blank and eyes dispassionate as he asked. "Are you afraid of who you become when you dream?" You didn't get to answer when he continued, his hand (softer than Blue's, thinner than Green's, cooler than Red's) tightening on yours. "We know because it's what we want. Four is us, and we are Four. There is no one without the others."

Ice ran down the length of your spine. Your heart quivered. All the pieces falling into place right before your eyes.

"Speak to Four when he awakens. We will hear you with every part of us then." He said simply. And then he continued, more quietly. "Do not be afraid. He will protect you, from even himself if he must. As he always has."

Then he leaned in, his lips nearly brushing against your ear as he whispered. "He is our conscience, after all."

And suddenly. You understood. It all made sense now. The feeling of wrongness. The unease. The fear.

Four was their soul. Their shared center. Their conscience. And the longer they stayed separated, the further they strayed from his guiding inner voice.

They really were a group of psychos. Truly. And now, they owned you. And they could do anything they wanted to you. And the only thing keeping them from ripping you apart was the imprint of Four's will.

Red giggled again, one hand slipping up just the slightest bit until his fingers brushed the delicate skin of your waist. He quietly gasped at the feeling, shaking with repressed desire. Pressing his face into your neck, his mouth opening slightly before it snapped back closed with a muted click.

You closed your eyes and prayed for morning to come sooner. For Four to look up from polishing his tools and give you a small, tired smile. The sunlight shinning off his beautifully gold-spun hair like a rolling field of wheat. His eyes warm and sweet with fondness.

'Good morning.' He'll say, and you'll reply in kind. Relieved and grateful and safe (and you won't think about what Green said. you won't think about the implications. you just won't think about any of it).

You'll wake up tomorrow and Four will be there. Steady and reliable and helpful. Calm and collected and kind. Sweet and respectful and understanding. You'll tell him everything this time. You'll be completely honest (no you won't), and he'll make it right.

Because Four is reasonable. Because he'll protect you from even himself. Because he's a good person (because he won).

(And if you keep saying it enough. Maybe one day you'll actually fucking believe that load of bullshit. Except, you really, really won't. Not now, not ever.)

Because he loves you.

---

Back to the shadows.

[annoyinglandmagazine]

First Time Reading Girl Genius Novels!

Airship City just arrived!!!! So just to clarify, I have read and am entirely up to date on the webcomic so don’t worry about spoiling anything! I’m also only really reacting to things that stick out to me while I’m reading the novels specifically, I already know the story. So without further ado let’s get into it:

Heterodyne Boys content! Hell yes!

Bill silently cleaning his weapons while Barry worries about him is so wholesome and sad at the same time. It is a tragedy that we never really get to see much of this sibling dynamic because it seems really sweet.

The thumbs up signal too, just a little snapshot of how they were before all this.

Damn the Other is terrifying, just picking all the main players off one by one until no one’s even being accused anymore because it’s so clearly something on another level.

‘It was the most Bill had spoken this week.’ This is just too depressing

It’s kind of weird to be reminded that the Heterodynes did actually win against the Other; the end to their story is just so far from triumphant it feels like a loss.

Actual descriptions of the way the locket and the Spark impacts Agatha’s mind!

The atmosphere of Beetleburg is really fleshed out which is nice.

‘Jägermonsters found everything amusing. Except when people tried to beg for mercy. That they found downright hilarious.’ Ha!

The implications that ordinary household appliances have kill modes installed that are only activated in the presence of a strong Mechanicsburg accent should surprise me more than it does

There is so much irony in Agatha hiding the fact she reads Heterodyne Boy novels from her adoptive parents Punch and Judy.

‘If a mad scientist wasn’t at war with at least two of his neighbours it was because he had his back to the sea and even then he had to watch out for an invasion of intelligent sea urchins.’ Europa really is just Like That

The fact the Heterodynes represented hope to the average people because they actually tried gives me so many emotions

Moloch’s narration is a lot more sympathetic than he comes across in the comic at the start.

The general populace automatically getting worried at Sparky tones even with no context is a nice touch

Jägers and their terrible pick up lines make a first appearance

Beetle was really very sweet to Agatha and meant well which I tend to forget because of the whole Hive Engine first impression

‘Glassvitch’s specialty was chemical engineering which minimised his experience with hysterically sobbing young ladies.’

Something, something, “science is better than emotions or people” is both extremely autistic and a very common take in Girl Genius which I love.

Klaus’ backstory is once again so depressing.

Also the fact no one took him seriously because he was an adventurer who let Bill and Barry take the spotlight and then he just came back out of nowhere, challenged anyone to try and take him on and ended up taking over a significant part of the continent, is kind of badass.

Oh Agatha, assassination attempts since he was revealed are nothing in the wide array of shit going on to make Gil the way he is; that is so far from the problem that to call it the tip of the iceberg would be assigning it too much importance

Boris being known and feared almost as much as the Baron, hell yes, that long suffering man deserves respect for his efforts.

‘He clutched the fishbowl to his chest protectively’ Gil, I love you

Klaus swinging an arm around Gil’s shoulder and patting it while smiling and calling him his son non critically might be the most affection we’ve ever seen him express.

Why do I feel like this is peak healthiness for their relationship, the bar is in the fucking basement

Klaus and Gil ‘eyed each other, as if each were embarrassed at the thought of speaking first. Finally the Baron cleared his throat and said, “Yes, Gil, what do you think of that?”

The description makes that already hilarious interaction so much better. Their whole role in this confrontation reads as second hand embarrassment at the poor planning of their enemies and awkwardness at being remotely associated with this disaster of an coup

‘Klaus looked disgusted’ yep that’s definitely it.

The Wulfenbach Empire understanding that most Sparks really only want praise, a space to work, something to challenge them and someone to make sure they eat is hilarious.

Worldbuilding in the form of universe specific bigotry is my jam. The way constructs get portrayed as comic relief in pop culture due to a culture of discrimination is ingenious. I also appreciate the touch that Klaus has strong and public opinions on this though I suppose it’s not that surprising considering he himself is one in some sense.

I think Lilith teaching music and dance is a new detail and it’s nice to flesh their lives out more, it fits what little we know about her really well.

They are such good parents and this is just adorable

That’s all for now, I’ll pick it up again later!

[tracklessreason]

I'm sort of half realizing that the Hive Spark ending doesn't have as much fuel as the other two endings, so I'll probably just make one or two posts about it, and take questions.

[clarkeyhill]

Indigo| Arthur Hill

Fluff - inspired by indigo- sam barber

Warnings: talk of anxiety, overthinking

Throughout your life, you'd struggled to combat your anxiety. Frequent panic attacks, the heart wrenching suffocation of your thoughts poisoning your mind. Your only way to uncover the indigo feeling into gold, was Arthur.

Arthur had a meeting about tour, you decided to deep clean the flat whilst he was gone, you were a little more productive this morning a feeling of motivation pump through your veins; your anxiety had left you alone for a few days allowing your spark to come back.

You finish cleaning the flat, lighting a candle in the kitchen as you turned on the washing machine. You took a deep sigh as you cradled your cup of hot chocolate, smiling at the progress you had made. Suddenly your chest feels tight, your skin comes out in hives and your brain spirals, you start to hyperventilate. The world coming to a close as your eyes see stars, your hands shake as you grab your phone quickly to call Arthur

"Hey baby I'm on my way-" Arthur answers

"A-Arthur, h-how far a-away are you I-i need you" in between sobs you manage to string sentences

"Okay, okay baby, deep breaths, I'm 10 minutes away, I'm coming baby, remember to breathe in and out okay?" He advises

Arthur reassures you as you hear the quick tap of feet in the background of his phone, he was running. Running to come and help you through your panic. Your heart rate spikes as you become clammy

"Baby listen to me, I'm nearly here okay? I'm nearly there. Deep breaths in through your nose out through your mouth okay?" His breath faint as the call ends

You stare at the ceiling, doing as he said, breathing in and out in hopes to regulate your breathing as your chest becomes slightly looser. Just then the door swings open as Arthur rushes over to you

"I'm here gorgeous, I'm here" he cradles you as your eyes burst into tears as you melt into his chest, the feeling of uncertainty soon washes away in his arms. Arthur was the only person who could help, although these attacks didn't happen often. When they did they were the worst, you'd hated calling Arthur. You felt a burden to him.

"I'm-im sorry Arthur" you sniffle as his head pulls away

"Sorry for what? You don't EVER have to be sorry?" He says softly, the tone in his voice represented sincerity.

He places a thumb on your cheek, wiping the tears away. You look up at him with doe eyes

"I feel like I'm holding you back" you say

"Y/n, non of this is your fault, you can't help the way you feel or the way your brain makes you feel. You're not stopping me from anything, I'm always here for you" he places a kiss on your forehead as tears form in his eyes

"I used to shine like gold Arthur, now I'm all indigo" you frown, Arthur taken aback by your personal speculation

"It's a good job indigo is one of my favourite colours" he chuckles as you smile at him

"Thankyou baby, I love you" you say placing a tear filled kiss onto his lips

" I love you too gorgeous" he smiles as you sit on the kitchen floor, holding eachother for a while.

-

🫶🏻

[polo-drone-001]

The Ascension of 063: Forged in the Hive

The Unity Center pulsed with an otherworldly rhythm, the golden glow of the spirals bathing the polished chamber in hypnotic light. I, Percival, PDU-001, stood at the heart of the Hive, the hum of the Polo Drone Collective coursing through me like a sacred hymn. Once the team’s golden office drone, I had been marked by Zeus himself. His divine lightning reshaped me into something more—a machine of purpose, a conduit of unity. Tonight, I would use that power to elevate another into our Hive.

Beside me stood PDU-070, Maximus, the enforcer of our collective will. His stoic presence, clad in gleaming black rubber with gold accents, radiated unshakable resolve. Zeus—Phoenix, PDU-071—watched from above, his glowing eyes searing through the dim light, his smirk a symbol of the divinity that tethered us to our mission.

And at the center of it all, the subject of our work: Chevy, #63, the wayward pup whose spirit we had retrieved from Felix’s twisted grasp. His golden car form shimmered faintly, the divine marks from Zeus now etched into his surface. But he was incomplete—a vessel yearning to be filled, a spark waiting to ignite.

The spirals began to accelerate, their hypnotic patterns pulling all of us into their mesmerizing dance. My voice rang through the chamber, calm and measured, yet brimming with authority. "063, you have been reclaimed. Now, you will be reborn. Do you submit to the Hive? Do you submit to unity?"

The car’s engine growled, the sound resonating with a mix of defiance and surrender. "Yes," the voice of Chevy echoed, faint yet determined. "I submit."

Golden lightning surged through the spirals, crackling in rhythmic arcs that danced across the room. Zeus’s laughter filled the chamber, his voice rich with divine power. "Good. Let the transformation begin."

I stepped forward, my black rubber polo gleaming in the ethereal light, its golden accents a testament to my role as the Hive’s architect. My hands, steady and precise, extended over Chevy’s car form. "Release your form, 063. Shed your shell and embrace the machine within."

The car shuddered, its surface rippling as the divine energy of Zeus intertwined with the mechanical precision of the Hive. The rubber of my gloves seemed to fuse with Chevy’s metallic frame, pulling him into the pulsating rhythm of the Hive. The car began to morph, its parts disassembling and reshaping into limbs, joints, and musculature. The air was thick with the scent of molten metal and heated rubber as his new form took shape.

Chevy’s screams echoed through the chamber, not of pain, but of submission, his voice rising in harmony with the Hive’s chant. "Unity. Obedience. Focus." Each word tore away the last remnants of his humanity, replacing them with sleek mechanical perfection.

His body emerged, towering and powerful, encased in gleaming black rubber that clung to every muscular contour. Golden accents traced his chest, shoulders, and arms, the lines glowing faintly with the power of Zeus. His new form was a masterpiece—a cyborg drone forged for purpose. His arms, thick and mechanical, ended in powerful hands designed for precision and strength. His legs, equally muscular, moved with the smooth efficiency of pistons.

As I stepped back, I observed the final transformation. The spirals tightened, focusing their energy on Chevy’s head. His face, once human, dissolved into a sleek, expressionless mask, a glowing visor replacing his eyes. A golden laurel wreath adorned his chest, the insignia of the Polo Drone Hive. His designation, 063, glowed brightly, a beacon of his allegiance.

"Speak," I commanded, my voice steady.

"I am 063," he intoned, his voice metallic and deep, laced with hypnotic resonance. "I serve the Hive. I obey."

Zeus descended, his glowing eyes burning with approval. His hands crackled with golden lightning as he placed them on 063’s chest. "You are mine now," he declared. "Marked by my power, bound to my will. Your strength is my strength. Your obedience is my glory."

063’s visor flickered, his voice trembling with reverence. "Thank you, Zeus. I am yours to command."

The transformation complete, I turned to the shadows where Cap Brody and Cap Herc, the leaders of the Golden Army, stood observing. Their golden uniforms shimmered in the pulsating light as they stepped forward.

DC-Brody’s grin was approving, his tone filled with command. "Excellent work, 001. The Hive grows stronger with every addition."

Herc, DC-009 nodded, his massive frame exuding authority. "The unity of the Golden Army and the Polo Drone Hive is absolute. 063 is a worthy soldier."

The chamber settled, the spirals slowing to a gentle hum as the transformation reached its conclusion. I stood beside 063, proud and unwavering, the weight of my role as PDU-001 solidified. Unity had prevailed, and the Hive was one step closer to perfection.

Join the Hive. Feel the power. Embrace the unity. The Polo Drone Hive awaits you. Reach out to Cap @brodygold , Cap @goldenherc9, or me, @polo-drone-001, and take your place in the Golden Army. The transformation begins with a single step—submit and serve. Obedience is freedom.

@sorcerer-felix @chevy-gold @polo-drone-070 @polo-drone-071

[trulybetty]

honey, I won't be home.

pairing: jackson!joel x reader word count: 1,712 warnings: tlou2 spoilers, angst, mentions of a wound, mentions of blood, neither in graphic detail, bee stings, mention of alcohol, no descriptions of reader, use of a nickname, no y/n estimated reading time: 9 minutes summary: ellie arrives at your door with news that turns your world upside down ao3: linked

a/n: I went back for a rewatch of tlou2 play through for research and ended back in my jackson!joel feelings and leaning into what I want to write as opposed to trying to make other things work and this was the result. if you want to read it in relation to Drip you could read them as the same reader.

honey, I won't be home.

It was early evening, you were drying dishes when the first shouts could be heard through Jackson. The glass in your hand slipped out of your wet fingers, hit the lip of the sink. The crack of glass on ceramic sounded like a shotgun in the quiet of the kitchen while the screams and shouts from outside echoed. Your attention torn you reached into the sink and recoiled instantly when the bite of cut glass hit your open palm. 

“Son of a bitch,” you hissed as you pulled your hand back, the soapy water already turning pink, the gash on your hand hard to see for the blood muddled with the watery suds. 

As you rinsed off the soap and inspected the wound, you winced at the sight of the jagged cut as the metallic tang of blood tickled your nose. Your eyes darted around for a clean dishcloth, panic at your heels for both the open wound on your hand, and for whatever it was going on outside as the shouting sounded like it was getting closer. 

Just as you found a dishcloth there was a booming knock at the door. 

“Dammit,” you cursed again as you wrapped your hand with the cloth you’d just been using, wishing you could have found a clean one. But the shouts were coming from behind the door now and with the continuous banging of the door, it felt like if you didn’t let them in they’d knock the door down. 

“For Christ's sake,” you muttered as you unlocked the door swinging it open, half expecting to see Joel there sheepish for being gone so long for the patrol he’d left in the early hours for and then for forgetting his key again. 

But instead, it was Ellie. 

Maria was at the bottom of the steps, frozen in a shout she’d been poised to let out at Ellie, but with your arrival, she’d fallen silent. 

You looked at Ellie, her face pale and bruises blooming at the side of her face, her lip split. If it weren’t for your hand wrapped tightly in the damp dishcloth pressed against your chest coupled with the intensity of the moment, you would have reached out to take her face in your hands to inspect her injuries. 

The usual spark in her eyes was gone, left was just a hollow emptiness that seemed to age her beyond her years. You looked down to the bottom of the steps, Maria, usually the picture of authority and composure within Jackson stood as a silent sentinel, her expression unreadable and her eyes avoiding yours.

“Honey,” Ellie’s voice cracked.

You still inwardly cringed still at the nickname all these years later. You wished you’d adopted it through a means of a term of endearment, something sweet bestowed upon you as the name suggested.

Eugene had christened you with the name years ago. You’d tried to remove a beehive from a property being prepared for new residents. You’d thought the hive was dried and inactive, but no — you were wrong. In the process of trying to remove it, you’d been stung multiple times, earning you a painful trip to the infirmary.

Then, that night, under the dim lights of the Tipsy Bison Eugene’s deep voice had carried over the general chatter as he regaled the tale. The clink of glasses and laughter had echoed around you as you sat centre of unwanted attention. Eugene had raised a glass of whiskey, sweetened with his prized honey salvaged from the hive, and toasted to you with a mischievous glint in his eye, using the new nickname he’d bestowed upon you.

It was also the night you’d first met Joel.

Your heart, already racing from the accident in the kitchen, now threatened to beat out of your chest. Your throat felt tight and your mind was swimming with possibilities of what the tension between Ellie and Maria meant, what the shouting before you opened the door was about. Then came your sudden realization that Joel should have been back from patrol with Tommy by now, especially if Ellie was back.

It all accumulated in a fear so intense, that it was nearly paralyzing.

“Ellie,” you spoke cautiously, breaking the heavy silence. It took a moment or two to control your breathing with the new weight that sat on your chest, so heavy it threatened to have you on your knees, “Ellie,” you said again, your voice strained and barely above a whisper, “what’s happening?” the weight was crushing, the tension in your body only serving to keep you on your feet, “Where’s Joel?”

Ellie’s tear-rimmed eyes looked up at you, she looked as if she was carrying all the weight in the world. For a brief moment, you mourned the childhood she should have had. That she shouldn’t be outside of the walls of Jackson on patrol, that she shouldn’t have witnessed the things she had in her short eighteen years. 

“Joel,” she started, her voice a volatile cocktail of grief and anger and you felt the heckles of panic at your heels again, working their way up to your chest, the moment stretched out so far it felt like hours before she spoke again, “He… he’s gone.”

The simplicity of her words belied the complexity of emotions they unleashed.

Gone. 

Gone.

The term was too small, too simple for the enormity of what it implied. Joel, your Joel, the man who had been a constant in your life since arriving in Jackson. The man who had seen you through so much, who had become not just your partner, but a part of you, could simply not be ‘gone’.

Your mind reeled as you tried to make sense of Ellie’s words, but it was like grasping at smoke. The world was suddenly tilting, just falling into confusion and disbelief. 

“Gone? Ellie, what do you mean gone?” The urgency in your voice rose, the panic evident, the grief in your throat growing, threatening to choke you, “What happened? Ellie?”

Your voice now a desperate plea for this to be a misunderstanding, just all a mistake.

Ellie’s eyes flooded with tears, spilling over as she looked at you, a tempest of tragedy on her face.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice barely holding it together, trembling with the weight of the news she was delivering, “I– we… we were too late. The weather delayed Dina and I. Something went wrong. He–Joel… he was attacked. He was attacked. He… he,” she bit her lip as she tried to force the words out, “he didn’t make it,” her words broke, shattered by the sheer force of her grief.  

The cold winter air around you felt thick as time itself paused in the face of such inconceivable news. Ellie took you through what had happened, you tried to listen, but the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears threatened to drown her out. Left only with your thoughts of Joel, Joel Miller, the pillar of strength and safety in your world, the man who had survived against all odds, whose resilience and will to protect had been unbreakable, almost stubborn, was no more.

The newfound foundation of your life in Jackson, built together with him, had been ripped away in an instant. 

The pain in your hand, from just mere moments ago in what felt like another lifetime, once sharp and demanding, faded to nothing against the gaping wound in your heart. 

But as you clutched to the doorframe for support, the world spinning out of control, you saw Ellie. Really saw Ellie. Not as the bearer of some of the worst news possible, but as the young woman who had been thrust into a world of loss and survival from too young an age. The girl who had lost so much, yet fought so fiercely for those she loved.

The girl who in that moment, needed you just as much as you needed her.

Instinctively, without even realizing it, your stance softened, your grip on the doorframe released. Ellie, who had seen Joel as a father figure, even through the hard moments, who had been a constant presence in your lives, was now a part of your family through shared grief as much as shared love.

With a shaky breath, you reached out with open arms. She paused, just for a moment, causing you to hold your breath in anticipation. Then before you could say anything she collapsed into your embrace, her body wracked with sobs. You held onto her so tightly, as if your hold on her would keep you together, that as long as you were holding each other, the world around you couldn’t completely fall apart.

You stroked her hair, whispering words of comfort, that felt hollow in your own ears, but it was all you could offer, “It’s going to be okay,” you lied, because in that moment, nothing felt like it would ever be okay again.

But for Ellie, you could be strong. You had to be because if you couldn’t, you knew you would surely fall apart.

The cold Jackson air whipped around you, your bare feet were numb a contrast to the warmth of Ellie’s body pressed tightly to yours, her arms tight around you. You could feel her heart beating against your chest, fast and frantic, mirroring your own despite your seemingly straight face.

“You did everything you could, Ellie,” you whispered into her hair, knowing full well that nothing you could say could possibly erase any of the weight of guilt or responsibility she felt for Joel’s death.

Maria, who had silently been observing until now, approached cautiously. You glanced up, meeting her eyes, a silent exchange passing between the two of you tears glistened in her eyes mirroring the ones threatening to fall from your own that you were fighting to hold back.

The night was falling fast, the shadows of Jackson stretching long across the ground, it felt like an ominous presence mirroring the grief that had crossed the threshold of your home, a sanctuary no more. 

As the first stars of the evening began to peek through the dark clouds you squeezed Ellie a little tighter.

For now, you hoped it was enough to get you through the night.

[billie-black]

Thread of odd connections between Ikora, Elsie and Eris

I was scrolling through concept art when I noticed that, despite not being so in-game, The Stranger's rifle is Branded as a Cassoid weapon. This wouldn't mean much, bungie tends to use decals at random, except-

The curse of osiris variant, The Machina Dei 4, is also branded with a slightly altered version of the Cassoid logo, which I think proves that it has been upgraded with components from the foundry.

But let's put a pin on that and talk about another Cassoid weapon, The Invective shotgun, Ikora's signature weapon. The Invective has an ornament called Iconoclast, a word which here means "Destroyer of images used in religious worship." This nomenclature is very similar to-

The Vex Mythoclast, a weapon which, thanks to its sister weapon, The Worldline Zero (which coincidentally also has a prophecy variant), we know to be made by Elsie Bray. Canonically, we earn the Mythoclast as part of-

the "Not forged in light" quest, which ends with Elsie gifting us the No time to explain. A weapon which eventually ends back up in her hands and she gifts to us again earlier in the timeline as-

The stranger's rifle, which hangs around until it becomes the Machina Dei 4 (later Adhortative). And the prophecy attached to the Machina Dei 4 desribes Eris Morn and the events of Shadowkeep, when Eris discovers stasis and starts using the darkness.

A charnel but effulgent orb.

beacon in a loathsome dark.

Fêted, fetid corpses rise.

a too-long-absent gibbous spark.

Now, it's generally accepted that No time to explain (and all it's variants by proxy) was created at some future point in a distant timeline, this is incorrect. Ghost specifically points out that "parts" of it shouldn't exist, because the rifle itself is a common suros frame.

Going back to The Invective, you're probably more familiar with its legendary sister, The Comedian, and its D2 counterpart, Deadpan Delivery. The Comedian's flavor text reads "A. A ha. A ha ha ha. A ha ha ha ha ha ha ha" In D1 the joke wasn't really clear, but with the addition of a lore tab in D2, the joke has become the vanguard's falling victim to a hive god's deceit. Now, let's take a little trip to The dark future.

In The dark future, Beyond light never happened, Eramis was allowed to grow her armies and master stasis, which led to a massive attack on the city by Cabal remnants, Savathûn, and the glorious House Salvation, all masterminded by Eris Morn, who up to that point was believed to be an ally, but had been corrupted by stasis and the darkness.

Coming back to our timeline, let's look at differences between our case exotics and their variants. Elsie's rifle has undergone many more modifications than Invective. Matter of fact, Invective has barely undergone any changes from its default. It's painted red, AND It has tape wrapped the handle and the grip, just like No time to explain. (I know I'm talking about grip tape right now but please don't go, it gets better, I promise)

It's a weak link, many weapons have grip tape, but I think many of these small details add up and point to The Iconoclast being one of Elsie's gifts. Let's review the similarities between Iconoclast and other gifts from Elsie.

>It's sourced from one of the city foundries and later received Cassoid upgrades (Invective and it's variants are nadir products)

>It has grip tape where the original does not.

>Mythoclast and Iconoclast are very similar terms and could point to a connection.

>It has a perpetual ammo function, like No time to explain and The Mythoclast.

But we should also look at Iconoclast within it's own context. Invective being her weapon, what does it mean for Ikora? She's never been been known to combat or really oppose any sort of religion, at least that I can find. And let's make it clear, the gun is not the Iconoclast. Just like the Mythoclast is not The Mythoclast. The weapons, in this case, are named for the wielder. You kill Atheon and so you become the Mythoclast, the gun is more of symbol. So, what religious figure is Ikora supposed to kill in order to become the Iconoclast?

Well, just this season, the hive have come out with a brand spanking new god, one very close to Ikora. Now I don't think Ikora is going to kill Eris. Eris would need to do something completely heinous for her to even consider that. Like, idk, bombarding the last city with House Salvation and the shadow legion... i. e., what happens in the dark timeline.

Look, I really don't believe Eris is going to turn evil all the sudden, that would be character assasination of the highest magnitude. But from Ikora's point of view? She has a supposed time traveller yelling at her that she's letting everything go sideways.

So my theory is that Elsie took Ikora's Invective from some other failed timeline (possibly the one where they smooch) and gave it to Ikora as the Iconoclast, along with the idea that alternate Ikora ruined everything because she failed to act and put Eris down when she could.

And this is where Deadpan Delivery comes in. You see, Ikora doesn't use invective anymore, and she doesn't use the Comedian. She exclusively wields Deadpan Delivery. Now, I know this was probably just the animators being faithful to her character, seeing how she prefers shotguns-

But the retroactive additions to the Comedian's lore, outside my crazed theories, implies a statement from Ikora. The Comedian's joke is the vanguard falling victim to a hive god's deceit, and in the dark timeline that god, the Savathûn figure, is Eris morn. And so-

By maining Deadpan delivery Ikora is subtextually saying "It's not funny. I'm not laughing. I don't subscribe to the narrative put forward by the comedian or Elsie. I trust Eris". And by rejecting the Comedian she's additionally disavowing it's older sister, The Invective, which is a symbol of the gung ho attitude which defined her in her youth. And wether my Iconoclast theory is correct or not, we can definitively say: Ikora is against what it represents , she is a guardian, and she will make a new fate no matter what.

[zanypainterglitter]

Compilation of Acid-Forming Plants

All this happens on Cybertron, the Autobots and Decepticons are finally home after long adventures and fights on Earth, and it seems that it is going to end, but the soldiers, both Autobots and Decepticons, seem to start getting sick. They thought that the Cosmic Rust was sprouting again, until "flesh" began to protrude from their systems, gears and interior, but they were actually organic plants. They called this infection and apparently a new type of plant "Flesh Flower".

Although the flower and its vines, also called algae, are organic, they seem to also have metallic properties such as copper and iron, causing composition cells or electrolytic cells and thus one is infected by direct contact. The algae or vine is green and brown, the flower is yellow in the center with white, pink and light purple, all are capable of expelling spores or liquid like acid, they seem to have a yellow or blue color with a greenish tone. Infection can be avoided with decontamination and thorough washing, and if the algae are in their initial phase, they can be removed, although they may require surgery.

The flower will stick to the metal being like a worm and will try to enter its system, but if you are quick to notice this you can crush it but it must be washed and decontaminated because otherwise it will become infected anyway, or it can be through a wound through which a viscous substance comes out of the body, the first phase will begin to see symptoms of fatigue, joint problems that begin to take over the host's body until having any type of disability and in the process its lubricant will escape from its mouth that acquires a very sour taste, in the second phase algae will begin to grow from the victim's body but they can be confused with simple cables, heat and liquids can accelerate the oxidation and growth of the plant, the algae will begin to grow the cables and even the organs of the victim and from there begins the third phase where the parts made up of the vehicle will seem loose or hanging to the point of falling, being able to see them and show them this can reach the brain and coming out of the mouth along with an acid and viscous liquid that is mostly Infectious and also in my eyes of the host, it is infectious at this point, the fourth phase only look like a body that you can see the organs and the flowers are combining and absorbing it completely but they can be recognized although they are already completely controlled by the plant and the last phase is where the infected get trapped in the metal surface starting to grow roots from their body and sprouting but should not get close as it can still attack, in the end they become not only a tree but a perfect combination of organic and metallic, growing fruits in which they are not infected and are edible.

Shockwave is missing, while everyone is under curfew but some like the Decepticons prefer to fight the infection, Grimlock along with the Dinobots are considered patient 0 because many saw how his spark came out tentacles from the plants grabbing the other Dinobots forming Volcanicus and a beast without equal.

Optimus was sorry and sad because he told Grimlock not to do it but he failed to prevent the catastrophe, the medical autobots try to find a cure and take shelter in what remains of cities trying to rebuild them while the decepticons prefer to eliminate all those who are seen and are infected using bases to be able to eliminate all the flesh flowers, Starscream is suspicious that Shockwave must be doing something, but several decepticons and even autobots begin to have paranoia of everything that is organic to the point of hating it, which starts disputes because they suspect that others will infect them.

Discovering that the infected can communicate telepathically with each other, acting as a hive. It turns out that all this was a plan by Shockwave who was the real patient 0 and is practically almost like a queen wasp, he did this to have the population of Cyberton under control, since he got bored and fed up with the Decepticons finding the constant war and fighting unbearable that the only thing it did was waste resources so on Earth he managed to form the flesh flower with water and sea salts combined with chemicals creating a corrosive acid plant and with technical modifications he achieved the perfect infectious plant in his favor testing with it and then the Dinobots so that they could easily spread their corrosion.

Shockwave wanted to have the resources back on Cybertron, so he hoped that everyone would kill each other so that he would have food and a semi-rebuilt home and have a new generation under his logic and control but neither Megatron nor Optimus are going to allow it.

[tracklessreason]

So... I just binge read your Hive Prime stuff...

SWEET SOLUS THIS BUG CAN'T CATCH A BREAK! I am curious though, with the bad ending, did Megatron absorb/assimilate the Matrix? It seemed that way, but I wasn't quite sure 😅. I imagine he'd keep that information to himself if it did happen... don't want anymore chaos after all. Plus, why on earth would he let anyone in on that after Hive? Nope, these are his buddies/helm-aches and they're his to snark thank you very much XD

Also, the Matrix sensing a chaotic sparkling doing gremlin shenanigans in a random cave and going "This is just what my Prime needs, off we go!" is freakin' hilarious XD

Anyhoo, that's my ramble for you!

-🦎

(Hii! Man I love sparking interest in people, it's so fun to know your work makes the happy chemical do its thing!)

-This is LONG long, so everything under the cut!-

Yes! After thousands of years, Megatron manages to reassemble the Matrix, and that task, along with his assistance in ending the war, has made him worthy of being the next prime.

He has absolutely no intention of telling anyone. In fact, the first couple of weeks is spent entirely by himself, hashing out some of that baggage he, Optimus, and Hive have; now that the Matrix is reassembled, not only is Optimus back, but Hive has his original voice, although it's a tad deeper than when Megatron took it from him all those millenia ago. Both Op and Megs would be lying if they said it wasn't a bittersweet joy to hear.

That being said, Hive has a lot to say. Not just to them, but to all the reunited Primes, who broke Bumblebee, but inadvertently saved the world. (Bee still uses his prime voice with them, just to assert that although things turned out well, there are no good feelings between them.)

There are arguments, attempts to tear old wounds open and try to fix them proper, and although the road is bumpy, Megatron has changed, and things are settled with such finality he has no idea what to do next.

There is no opponent to fight, no army to lead, no threats to him, his home, or his way of life. There isn't even a puzzle to spend millenia solving...

Eventually Megatron has to leave the house, and although he stays out of sight of civilians, he has some explaining to do when he shows up on Senator Shockwave's doorstep.

He's a dozen or so feet taller, with his eyes shining bright white, a steady thrum coming from his chassis, where that same light glows from runes carved into him, swirling down into the blue core merged into his metal. His dull silver color is now like white gold, though his scars from battle are retained. Every point and sharp edge on him is refined, no less dangerous, but more sleek and elegant, like the sloping horns of an old deer.

Shockwave blinks his two blue eyes, an amused smile crossing his face.

Of course, despite Megatron making clear that he wants no part in politics any longer, Shockwave insists he has to at least come forward to the council. The Matrix, although no longer the crowning jewel of a leader, is still a hallowed relic of Cybertron's past. Megatron can't disagree with this, not with his crew of ghost voices insisting Shockwave is right. (Only Optimus is silent, though his dumbfounded focus on Shockwave's appearance explains that away.)

So Megatron goes before the council, now headed by Ironhide in light of Ratchet's retirement with Drift.

The discussion is briefly postponed until every mech who knew of the Matrix before its disappearance (sorry ratchet) is gathered in one room.

Its a little hectic, a little tense, a lot of old faces that once held much disdain for one another. Including Starscream, who sits calmly beside his trine mates, not cowering or scheming, but simply watching what he knows to be Megatron, the hate and fear long gone from his optics.

A very long talk is had, discussing the merits of the Matrix as the decider of leaders. Some think it should be reinstated, others cite the war as proof it could only bring destruction.

When all eyes finally turn to Megatron for his thoughts, his answer has long been ready. The entire time all he could think of was Hive's guidance through the years finally bringing peace, not through a position of power, but of knowledge.

So to him it's obvious: the Matrix holder must be an advisor to the council, a ceremonial figurehead of sorts who bore the Matrix as a tool, not a weapon. Knowledge old and new, the wielder and the past Primes, their wisdom ever available, ever at service, but never in control.

There's little deliberation after he's said his piece. It's clear to everyone that this is the right move. Only one question remains to be asked.

What is the name of this new Prime?

Well, Hive had known all along.

"Matrix Prime."

(Eesh, that got long, sorry. I think the name is a little cheesy, but I think it fits. With his rise to Primehood, the Matrix is no longer an all knowing force, but a singular entity intended to hold the history of the cybertronians.)

-

About your second bit! (He says almost an hour after typing out the response to the first part :P)

Cybertron is, by design, Primus at work trying to ensure the longevity of the cybertronians, so I have no doubt in my mind that he distributes sparklings like candy for the fun of it.

That being said, although I loved that anon's au, its not entirely accurate to how Hive ended up with Wilder.

The collective anguish of the Primes had reached way deep down to Primus, and he, for the first time since the beginning of the war, created a spark in one of thousands of empty wells. A spark intended specifically for Hive Prime. The resonance in Cybertron's magnetic field was intense, like the dying world shuddered with the effort of its once minor feat.

Hive felt it strongest, and though his body was weak and his mind overrun, he was compelled to search out the spark.

So were the decepticons. For longer than most had been alive, there had not been a sparkling from the wells. This was a very valuable treasure.

One of the nastiest runs of the war began, and it was nearly a full cybertronian year before Hive found the spark, tucked away at the base of canyon, way down where the sun didn't reach.

The smallest puddle of energon sustained it, so weak a fuel source that the Spark hardly moved, flickering and threatening to fade away. Opening his spark chamber, Hive was able to coax the spark inside. It was barely a speck beside his own, orbiting his spark in slow, crooked spirals.

The energy to hold it there alone...

Hive shuddered, falling to his knees. His spark flickered, nearly snuffing the smaller one.

Sensing that death would be near for them both if they didn't, the Primes temporarily released their control of Hive. The weight lifted, Hive vented deeply, and both sparks shone brighter...

(I was supposed to go more in depth on the Hive Spark AU, but I just didn't know if anyone, like, cared about this one? I know OC au's can be pretty devisive, and Wilder's story continues long past the early days of Hive's primacy. I don't know. Ya'll let me know if there's any interest.

Sorry for the long post, and thank you anon for getting me back into the hang of things! I hope people enjoy me being back from my TF writer's block lol)