#e: in bloom

[kboyspace]

( ̳• ·̫• ̳) ♡° wallpaper: zb1 ≈ ✰ ;♡ ೃ ✩ › ʳᵉᵇˡᵒᵍ ᵒʳ ˡᶦᵏᵉ ᶦᶠ ʸᵒᵘ ˢᵃᵛᵉ!

[askhivebusterbloom]

Have they all gone mad? Killing ponies is eliminating their food source.

If they kill you then they too will starve and die.

My condolences for the loss of your family, Bloom.

"Well... thanks fer the kind words. Appreciate 'em."

[official-wonho]

Wonho @ 'WELCOME BACK, WENEE' Fan Meetup in Los Angeles via: asiablooming.com

[anon-e-miss]

The Desert Blooms - 11

If they thought a priest they could make of him, they were particularly hopeless fools. Praxus believed their emperor blessed by the gods. Camshaft put no stock in the wisdom of the divine. What sort of god would bless Windbreaker? Certainly none Camshaft thought worthy of psalms. He walked the abbey’s maze while the priests and acolytes were in prayers. Walls surrounded the temple complex and though they raised his hackles, Camshaft ignored them for now. He ran his digits along a quartz hedge. Fine dust fell from his palm. Elsewhere, the fine dust, really seeds, he had sown before was taking root, hidden beneath the maze’s manicured hedges. In time they would grow and in time he would harvest, all Camshaft had to do was wait. Impatience bred error and Camshaft could not afford mistakes.

In the private chapel attached to his apartments, Camshaft prepared a workshop. He hid his tools, a mortar and pestle and beakers to begin, all pilfered from the abbey’s kitchen, underneath scrolls stored in the padded bench. Within the cupboard, he tried crystals he had picked from the abbey’s sprawling garden. A piece of resin burned in a hanging incense burner, it suitably masked the scent of his work. A single scroll was open on the altar, selection of offerings, crystals he had preserved sat alongside it. It was enough of a show to keep the priests from digging any further into his affairs. A pair had been assigned watch of him and Camshaft made certain to be an utmost boring charge. It would not be long before they grew tired of this task and Camshaft could go about his business with less supervision.

He did not light a lantern or even his headlights when he slipped from his apartments late in the dark-cycle. By chance, Camshaft had observed what looked like marcacite growing among a cluster of galena at the base of the abbot’s dovecote and he had waited for the double full moons to investigate. Moving silently, the prince slipped into the abbot’s garden. His steps were silent, and his paint flat and unremarkable, along him to disappear into the shadows of the night. Camshaft had mastered this as a youngling. In the emperor’s palace, to be seen was to be an open target. His originator had called it cowardice. They were all cowards, Camshaft thought, Windbreaker still had eight creations living. Zeta had been the boldest and quickest to die though Polyhex had been blamed for his assassination. For all Camshaft knew, that was true, he had not shot the aft, in any case. Though his brothers and sister carried blades when they were gathered, none had drawn one in vorns. It was all too easy to have the blade turned on its holder; this lesson was one Camshaft would take credit for teaching.

Though he had not been in the habit of carrying a knife, Camshaft wished for one now but his originator had ordered him to be tonsured unarmed. Did he hope one of Camshaft’s siblings would take advantage of his confines to strike at him. It was unlikely, they were not bold mechanisms. He spotted the marcacite, blooming now in the light of the twin moons. Marcacite only bloomed when both moons were full. Quickly, Camshaft plucked the blooms, using his claws, now painted black, to cut them from the galena they grew from. It was almost as clean as using cutters. Once they had grown more, they would be just as lethal as a blade. Windbreaker thought he had rendered Camshaft helpless, he was wrong. Camshaft would never be helpless. As he made his way back to his apartments, Camshaft saw spindly blooms growing in a mass of leafy gneiss. It was so similar in appearance to the Queen Munitia’s Lace it grew amongst, Camshaft almost missed the zoisite. The barest of smiles crossed Camshaft’s face as he harvested the poisonous blooms. It was no longer a matter of just waiting for the spores and seeds he had sown to grow, now Camshaft had something he could work with now.

It loathed him to smile as Crosscut, the damnable mech, removed his cloak. Calor was only just fading into Imber. There was no cause for a cloak but it was a fine piece of clothing and Crosscut never failed to showcase his wealth at every possible opportunity. Did he think wealth could ever impress Camshaft? Whatever small token the emperor bequeathed a favourite, as a prince, Camshaft had seen and spent so much more. Richest were nothing to him and never had been, though he could admit he missed the power he had wielded as Duke. These priests did not obey him as his servants had. No, Camshaft had no authority over them, his originator would not want to make life easy for his most hated creation.

The new Duke of Petrex smiled his politician’s smile as his footmecha, a femme called Road Rage took his cloak. He was too pleased with himself. Though it would have suited Camshaft to drag his claws across his face, such naked violence would not serve his purposes. This mech had been gifted Camshaft’s hereditary title as a reward for telling Windbreaker of the mutilation Camshaft’s natural and adoptive creations had endured. Though Camshaft had been relieved at first to hear his creations had escaped death and were to both be bonded to the heirs of Amalgamous, once he had read what the Tough of Adaptus meant, he had been devastated. He had no more tears to cry with the news, and the knowledge that his originator celebrated the shameful mutilation done to his grandcreations. All Camshaft had now was rage.

“Amber?” The acolyte attending them cut the jade tart and served it.

“Of course,” Crosscut said. “More high grade! Didn’t you notice the prince’s goblet is empty?”

“Yes, my lord.”

It was true, Camshaft’s goblet was empty, the high grade taken from the abbot’s personal reserve was watering the quartz Crosscut had presented him. No one had seen Camshaft pour it out. Crosscut’s goblet had been refilled several times already. The scoundrel was fond of engex, overfond really. What the acolyte, the fourth or fifth creation of a noble clan, had imagined his duties would be when he had sworn his spark to the gods, serving as waiter to a lecherous social climber was unlikely to be it. He did not mask his derision well but Crosscut was already too deep in the bottle to notice, that or he just saw the acolyte as beneath him.

“Thank you,” Camshaft said. He took a sip as he watch Crosscut pour a thick layer of amber syrup on his tart. Camshaft’s already glistened with it. He took a bite and inclined his helm, dismissing the acolyte.

“I hope you’ve considered my offer since our last dinner together,” Crosscut said, as soon as the acolyte was out of the room.

“I have,” Camshaft replied. His claws glistened with a rich black polish, the blue accents, his chevron and his arms and legs had been polished to a shine. He looked effortless rich and refined, and he knew Crosscut was salivating.

“And?” Crosscut asked. “Will you accept my proposal, be Consort of Petrex?”

“I cannot possibly accept,” Camshaft replied, demurring. “The emperor would be furious. He would send you to the gallows for certain.”

“And if the emperor agreed?” Crosscut asked.

“Then how could I refused?”

“Ahem,” the acolyte appeared at the door. “It’s time for prayers. All guests must leave the abbey.”

Camshaft leaned back against his chair, sipping his engex, as the acolyte cleared the table. The young mech was scowling. The new Duke Petrex had been deep in his cups before he had left and had broken not just his goblet but the amber pot and his dessert plate. Old wealth rarely cared for the new and Crosscut had not made a good impression. Did Crosscut really believe he could convince the emperor to allow him to wed a prince, even his most hated one? The mech had a very high opinion of himself, there was no doubt of that. The nearest village was only a short drive. By now, Crosscut would be celebrating his imagined victory at the pub, making an even greater spectacle of himself than he had already, from the gossip Camshaft had heard.

“Shall I draw you a bath, Your Highness?” The acolyte asked.

“Please.”

“And more high grade?”

“No thank you,” Camshaft replied. “I prefer to keep my helm.”

He stripped himself of his armour and climbed into the hot oil bath the acolyte had prepared. Camshaft sighed and leaned his helm back against the ledge. Things had gone far more smoothly than he could have hoped. If need be, he had been prepared to bed the damnable mech, but Crosscut’s fondness for engex and the acolyte’s chaperonage had saved him that indignity. By mid-cycle the tradesmech that worked for the abbey would be in a tither about the ignoble death of the Duke of Petrex. To die of intoxication was quite unbecoming. The emperor would be quite annoyed that yet another favourite he had elevated had died in this way. It was the very same way Camshaft’s consort had died. Camshaft took a sip of engex. Well, not quite the same way. For Garboil, he had mixed the poison into his Tetahexian brandy, for Crosscut, he had mixed it into the amber syrup he so favoured. It was a shame he would not know that Camshaft had done him in, but Camshaft knew and that was enough. For now.

[neonhellscape]

dissassembly

[thranduilofsmirkwood]

[andy-clutterbuck]

Penguin Bloom (2021)

[snarky-art]

The boisssss

Finally

Plus them with their assigned original winx member for some height comparison stuff:)

Tumblr is being weird with formatting so here’s the full lineup for ya down here!

[screechingfromthevoid]

the thing is that Dorian told Orym that he didn't have to save everyone. But it was too little too late, now wasn't it? (I'm not blaming Dorian for that. I'm just saying)

By the time Dorian tells him that he has already sold his future. He's already thought extensively how to kill his entire family if he has to. He's tied in so many knots.

Then he keeps getting hit by these freak outs. Chetney gave him a scar across his face. Letters went after him first. Laudna attacked him then proceeded to gaslight the absolute shit out of him for defending himself.

He sold away his future for these people and they couldn't be bothered to ask him about the deal he made with Nana Morri. Ashton stood between Laudna and Orym. Defending Laudna. And no one stood beside Orym. No one got in between them in defense of Orym.

They hovered. Dorian said Orym should keep the sword. Chetney told Laudna that Orym lost more than the rest. But when Orym started back tracking. When he started to second guess himself. NO ONE fought for what he wanted. NO ONE told him it was okay to want to keep the sword and that he should if it was important to him.

Orym is constantly bending. He is constantly being the bigger person. He has forgiven so much and the poor thing is falling apart at the seams about it. It just isn't fair. He is getting the brunt of the damage because he's a tiny tank. He's constantly goading enemies to attack him and not anyone else.

And idk whens the last time he breathed. The last time he relaxed. When's the last time he felt truly safe with the people around him? Because he was sleeping in an inn surrounded by the people closest to him and he felt his life force being sucked away from him

IDK I just think orym deserves a nap and another spa day. I JUST THINK ORYM DESERVES EVERYONE GATHERING AROUND AND SAYING EXACTLY WHAT THEY LOVE ABOUT HIM AND HOW HE MEANS SO MUCH TO THEM AND THE GROUP

[illmamnim]

You're gonna look at me and tell me that I'm wrong?

Honorable mentions

Why are most of them blond

I don't wanna tag spam, so if you wonder who each character is just ask and I'll reply :)

[sarahcorvinusdelmondoantico]

Love this. Clap Clap to me

[edwardian-girl-next-door]

Haddon Hall, Derbyshire, UK

cr: happiness_behind_the_lens

[chussyracing]

What is love to you?

[anon-e-miss]

The Desert Blooms - 8

Ricochet had not really had any expectations of what they would return home to. He knew giving them the order to harvest the Hand of Adaptus had been violating to their originator. Even though its use was the only means Punch had to ensure the Praxians’ survival, being a party to it at all had made him visible ill. The very act of picking it had made Ricochet’s twin roll. Jazz would have picked one of the hated fruit for him but it that was Jazz, ready to carry the burden all on his own. As his twin, Ricochet saw it as his duty to take on his fair share. Having seen the welts and sores on Ori on rare occasions he had been able to take a break from wearing armour, Jazz was under no illusions in regards to the burden and the suffering taking the Touch meant. He believed the Praxian Prince and his hot-helmed brother undeserving of this martyrdom. They did not deserve to be martyrs to either Praxus or Polyhex but Ricochet knew the tempers of his kinsmech and there was no reasoning with them. Not a one of the council had been spared loss and among the Lesser and the Least, Ricochet had heard so many tales of sufferings whether at the servos of Straxis or a Praxian general. Though Jazz was charming, Ricochet did not believe even Jazz had charm enough to assuage their energon lust without a visible, brutal sacrifice. He had wept over the remains of his allies, tortured beyond recognition before their murders. He had seen innocent younglings mutilated. There was no charm strong enough to sooth their anger and Ricochet could not blame them; he shared a lot of that anger.. His only comfort was that theyhad not only burnt every Hand of Adaptus they had found in the Wastes, they had salted the earth they had grown in. The next time someone searched for this plant to impart the god’s blessing, their searches would be fruitless.

Because they had been satisfied with nothing but the extinction of the crystal, Ricochet and Jazz had stayed away longer than they might have. Still, so much had been done in their absence that it seemed like they had to have been gone considerably longer than a couple of orns. The damage from the rioting had been cleared away and rebuilding was already underway in spot. Darkmount had continued, with considerable more earnest in their absence. From the way Jazz was looking around, Ricochet thought he was similarly surprised. They were not splitsparks but they still had a bond closer than mere siblings. Ricochet knew without asking that Jazz’s first stop now that they were home was seeing Ori. It was his first stop as well. Though there was so much going on around Darkmount, in theory Punch could be anywhere but Jazz nodded up to the palace and the garden at its top and Ricochet nodded his agreement. That was where their originator would be.

Punch did not trust the council. They had been uneasy allies for a long time. Ricochet had no doubt that any one of them would try of his originator, if they caught a moment of weakness, to claim him for their concubine. Ori would slit his own throat before he surrendered to such a fate. Ricochet had promised himself long ago that they would never get the chance and if anyone were to try he would rend them into little pieces with Jazz at his side.. He knew his and his twin’s presence was a large deterrence but even as the war chiefs longed for the trophy Punch, not just Touched but creation to Amalgamous, would be, they were rightly terrified of him. To be unmeched by a Touched was the greatest humiliation to mecha like them and they knew it was a risk, given Punch had done it before. They had not left Ori unguarded by leaving Darkmount, because he did not really need a guard but both his and Jazz’s sparks slowed when they stepped into the Prince’s little garden and saw their originator.

Ricochet was sure Jazz’s optics reset at the same time as his own did. Ori was taking tea with the Praxians as he had many time before, that was not what had shocked their systems. He was wearing silks. It had been so long since Jazz had seen his originator without armour, he almost did not recognize him. The burden of the Touch was visible on his shoulders. The thin fabric did not hide the welts the armour had left on them. Punch had not trusted anyone enough, save for his twin creations, to go unarmour in all of Ricochet’s memory but he trusted these two Praxians. Ricochet stared, the similar thoughts all but certainly circling in his helm. He looked away and found Downshift on his usual perch, reading a datapad without a visible care in the world. Having known Downshift just about all his life, Ricochet and Jazz both knew the ennui was a front. Though Downshift did not speak with his doorwings they way proper Praxians did, he saw with them just fine.He had caught them out on plenty of sparkling mischief.

“When?” Jazz asked. Ricochet watched their originator and the Praxian laugh warmly together as his twin got them caught up.

“Couple o’ mega-cycles,” Downshift replied. “Punch decided to show that firebrand what takin’ the Touch means. Barricade doctored’m wit a salve Prowl makes with the crystals he grows. His Ori’s recipe, apparently. Whate’er it is, it’s workin’. He ain’t been near as miserable since he started using it.”

“He trusts ‘em,” Jazz said. Ricochet made a face

“He does,” Downshift agreed. “Did ya think he’d bond ya off to’em if he didn’t?”

“I suppose I figured he knows we can handle ourselves,” Jazz said. Downshift made a sound and both jazz and Ricochet followed his optics. The Prince, Prowl poured tea as his brother Barricade ran a cloth over something in his servos. On the table was a platter of fruit, a knife sat next to Predacon fruit, glistening with the fruit’s juices. Ricochet’s spark flared.

“Touch don’t stop a mech from holdin’ a knife or brewin’ a poison,” Downshift replied. “Yer Ori knows it only makes ya helpless if ya let it.”

“Ya trust’em too,” Jazz guessed.

“I do,” Downshift replied.

“Chiefs try any slag while we were gone?” Jazz asked.

“No,” Downshift replied. “Don’t mean one or two o’ them won’t in time. The Lesser ‘n the Least are already celebratin’ the return o’ Amalgamous’ line to the throne. Sure, he had bolts for processors but he had a good council, yer Ori among’em, that kept the worst o’ his excesses from public knowledge. They got no idea he all but sold Polyhex to Praxus wit the debts he piled up as Prime.”

“Praxus ain’t done wit us,” Jazz said. “Did we win the war or just the battle?”

“Too early to say, but if that Prince tells ya not to send troops through Amalgamous’ Pass, listen to ‘m,” Downshift replied.

“I’ll keep that in processor,” Jazz said.

“Isn’t that sweet,” Ori’s voice drew Ricochet away from Jazz and he made his way to the table, his twin following quickly at his heels.

“I don’t suppose ya got another pot o’ that salve,” Punch said as he looked his creations over. “Ratchet’’ll give’em Pit if he see’em.”

“We’re fine, Ori,” Jazz assured his originator. He gently cupped Punch’s shoulders and leaned over to kiss his cheekplate. “What’s so sweet?”

“Cade made a rattle for Bluestreak,” Punch explained and he showed it to his creations.

“It is sweet,” Jazz agreed. Ricochet nodded. Carved from a smooth piece of moonstone, the rattle’s handle was inlaid with garnet cut in the shapes of mechanimals. It was not the grand carving Ricochet himself did when he had the chance but it the detail was fine and perfectly done. Ricochet looked at the Praxian style table and chairs the three were taking tea at and wondered if they were not the hot-helm’s work.. “Bluestreak?”

“Prowl finally settled on a designation for the bitlet,” Punch said. “Only right he designate’m since the bitlet imprinted on’m.”

“It’s a good designation,” Jazz declared. Prowl gave him the barest of nodes, a hint of a blush on his cheekplates. The cheery bitlet he bounced in his arms cooed. It all seemed genuine and somehow that annoyed Ricochet.

“Well sweetlin’ let’s see how ya like yer present,” Punch declared. He gave the rattle back to Barricade who gave it to the bitlet. The little one took the rattle and upon hearing the noise it made, shook it quickly. He grinned a denta-less smile as the adults around him winced at the noise.

“I think that’s a hit,” Jazz declared.

“Unfortunately,” Ricochet lamented.

[foxsoulcourt]

snapshots from northern hemisphere winter days

[aquaramelia]