atlas-ordained

[atlas-ordained]

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[atlas-ordained]

Optimus knows the devastating force of Megatron's mace well, but also that such a weapon is most effective at a medium distance where momentum is its stalwart ally. If he can get in close, then, he is paradoxically safer. He supposes there is some bitter poetry in that, a mockery of their past relationship. What he would give to restore that past... to guide his once and still dear friend back from the darkness. For all the atrocities, he saw potential in him once, and surely it must still lie somewhere, buried....

Alas, he cannot deny his desire to save him is a selfish one in the scheme of all his responsibilities. Paired against his own nature, Megatron's actions do not leave him the luxury of choice. And so here he stands, blades drawn——

But he is one who responds. In nearly all of his life he has been this way, particularly in areas as counter to his personality as violence. His offensives are usually too little too late; he rises to meet his nemesis only because experience has trained him to do so. Megatron initiates; Megatron attacks. Optimus only counterattacks.

So when Megatron stops?

When Megatron lifts his hands as though through a gel bath, with movements that hold no malice?

When Megatron leaves himself wide open and vulnerable?

He cannot fight him.

The Prime stands immobilized as his greatest enemy's servos cup his face with such painful tenderness, as though— though he cared for him still, as though Optimus were not the only one between them to still hold this sort of tender feeling, to miss their friendship. Hope blooms knifelike in his spark, piercing the bonds he keeps around that idea of fixing things, ending the war peacefully....

... How he felt back then?

Optimus can only stare in helpless confusion, every word playing in rapid repeat in his processor. He didn't feel the same. Did he? How did... does.... Why is he saying this?

The pain on Megatron's face cuts through where words spin out—through his denial. Megatron wanted something more from him. The thought sinks like a rock in his fuel tank, new interpretations of their past interactions fractaling outward. Does Megatron feel scorned? Is that why he will no longer hear his words? All their time together, and he never thought to consider that his friend's sentiments might take such a form....

He finds himself wanting to reach out, wanting to... comfort him, but his frame won't let him move. They've fought for so long...

If he had known, if he had... reciprocated, could that have altered this outcome? Or was that fate set in stone by their natures? He cannot say which is more painful.

For so long Megatron has given a cold shoulder against his sympathy. And now he has... still only that to offer. He cannot give him what he truly wants. He will never be enough. For his friend. To end the war peacefully. His spark aches to try, and yet that inevitability wraps its cruel thorns around him.

Will his actions mean anything?

Only when those hands drop does he regain the ability of movement, and he immediately misses—not the touch itself, but the softer side of the now-tyrant.

"Megatron..."

His mask retracts after he speaks. If he can take away the barriers between them, reach an understanding——

He reaches after him, but it is too little too late. Megatron is gone. His servo drops to his side and his pauldrons sag, all fight leaving him.

"I cannot allow..." something makes Optimus's words die as he sees his nemesis closer; something seems... off. Still, he does not let his guard down; his blades remain drawn, stance ready to spring him back into action.

— @atlas-ordained

01/19/2025 - 01/23/2025 ⋆ Honesty M!A Jan 2025 no longer accepting — just answering late

Megatron wasn't quite sure what compelled him to join the battle this time, even despite knowing he was compromised. It was foolish and maybe a little reckless, to think that perhaps he could quietly watch it all unfold in front of him without him feeling compelled to step into the fray when inevitably his incompetent lackeys crumbled like so much dust before the Autobot's advances.

He was cursing himself now, as he strode into the midst of the turmoil, his fusion canon blazing as he fired weak blasts at all who dared approach him too closely, doing much to keep them at a safe distance and defend himself from revealing more than he ever intended. But Optimus is a different beast entirely, and no weak blast had ever deterred him the way it would deter others. Megatron leveled his canon with the Prime's faceplate — but Optimus was already charging towards him with his blade drawn, intending for hand to hand combat. Seemingly seeing through Megatron's plan to stay sniping at them all from afar.

Reflexively, Megatron drew his Energon mace in the place of his left servo, already cocking his shoulder back to swing it as hard as he could into the other's frame. A good swing would demolish most anything, and rend a smoking hole in even the most resilient armor. For most mecha, the mere threat of such certain destruction would be enough. But he's misjudged the speed with which he could swing the mace, and the distance between them is closed way, way too fast.

With Optimus this close, Megatron slowly lowers his swing before it could even begin, and he moves for him as a mech possessed — slowly and methodically, like a zombie. Though his every wire is screaming in protest, and his processor was working as fast as it could to think of something — anything! — to say that wouldn't be too revealing, he sees himself reaching for his face with both hands. He's holding his breath as his fingers brush across the other's protoform just as they had in years long past, feeling rushing away from his touch as he began to panic in earnest.

This isn't his Optimus. He knows that. But even still, a long-held truth tumbles from his dermas anyway.

"I never told you how I felt back then. But I wonder now how much it would've even changed. I... I know you don't feel the same, and never have. No matter how I wish... differently..."

The look in his optics is agonized, as if the words stabbed through his very Spark; and perhaps they did, because this was something he had never ever intended to say. And to have the words forced out of him in this context —

He ripped his hands away from Optimus when the spell was broken and he'd regained control of his faculties. One last terrified look at him, wildly searching the Prime's face for some derision or disgust that he knew he'd certainly see in light of this unwilling admission, but he doesn't linger long. He's gritting his jaw hard, his every strut tense with humiliation and self-disgust as he turned from him.

Then he's transforming into his jet alt. and thundering off at full speed, the resultant thunderclap of the sound barrier being broken the only indication Megatron had ever even been there.

[atlas-ordained]

                                   ind. selective tfp oc by storm

                                   another place, another time                      another hand to touch, another sun to shine   

                                 ⋆ home ⋆ about ⋆ rules ⋆ hub ⋆

[atlas-ordained]

Optimus, how would you describe your perfect kiss? (Do you initiate it, or do they? What does it taste like? Feel like? Where does it take place? What time of day is it? What is the weather? What emotions are involved in that moment? What is the reason for it happening? etc.)

He can picture it vividly, as much as it shames him to do so.

Ratchet. What matters most is that it's Ratchet. Ratchet loves him. He might... hold Optimus's face, brush a thumb lightly across his intake, leaving him unable to fully suppress a shiver. Then he kisses him... lightly, perhaps? Hesitantly? How it begins is not the most important factor; what matters is that after Optimus melts into it it deepens in intensity and goes on, on, on... perhaps with brief pauses before Ratchet captures him in it again, gentle but brimming with barely restrained hunger, like Ratchet is the one who cannot get enough of him... like his own feelings are mirrored such that his shame is allowed to melt away. Like he is exactly what Ratchet needs, just as he is, without trying.

The image is in his processor for only an instant before he banishes it back to the depths of his psyche. He doesn't particularly want to answer the question aloud....

[atlas-ordained]

[ @suckmybearings ] The Wrecker was practically sauntering up to Optimus, refreshed and ready for their early morning patrol together. With a light smirk, he drawled, “Are you a blueprint, sir? 'Cause I’ve been drawin' up plans to make y'a mine today.”

A stare. A blink.

He thought Wheeljack believed he should pursue Ratchet. Had that changed?

No, this was certainly a joke.

The Prime's utterly bemused look lingered until he shifted into alt mode to drive out through the bridge, giving no other acknowledgement of the flirtation.

[atlas-ordained]

✨🌙 💫 for @atlas-ordained

Send a ✨ (sparkle) for Starburst to rate your muse based on aesthetic and visual design! (Scale of 1-10)

Ah! It’s her Dad. Starburst nodded her helm, curious to know if today was a good day or bad day. She hoped it was a good one… He always looked so sad. Regardless, she circles around Optimus and inspects him, tail hanging low.

“You are pretty. No bot can deny it.” She admitted, before nodding again. “I think a 8.8/10 is a good score.”

Send a 🌙 (crescent moon) for Starburst to rate your muse based on how bite-able they are! (Scale of 1-10)

Now for the biting. Immediately, she hones in on the tires that are at a PERFECT biting height!! She purrs and gnaws at the wheels, clearly distracted. Realizing she has to give a rating, she lets go, leaving them covered in coolant saliva.

“Um. 7/10.” The rest of him doesn’t seem too biteable- these are definitely helping.”

Send a 💫 (dizzy star) for Starburst to rate your muse based on their scent! (Scale of 1-10)

Ah, her dad has a nice scent. She doesn’t even need to take another whiff, letting her snout nuzzle up against his servo, if he would allow. “I like your smells… Let me smell them more often, okay? Um.. 9.3/10.”

[atlas-ordained]

What color does your love feel like?

deep staining red

Ripped out confessions, warm velvety whispers and a heart like an open wound. Your love flows out like dripping blood, beautiful, flawed and twisted. It's gut wrenching, the type of painfully dramatic feeling that makes you clutch your chest, picturing dramatic monologues about love and loving and big screen over the top scenes of sobbing into your pillow until you fall asleep. It rips out of you, clawing it's way up your throat more so than tumbling out. Sticky words that just need to be let out, feelings so big they don't fit inside you.

Your love isn't easy, it's a true bloody mess, dripping and staining everything it touches in a desperate attempt to be seen, to be felt, to be loved back. And you, you love so hard, so deeply, so much for someone who carries all that pain.

Atlas holding up the world, how are you? Is your love still flowing? Is your heart still open? Still pumping and bleeding and dripping with blood and tears? Still painting your beautiful pictures and writing your love letters in deeply personal red ink?

Because I see them, I read them, I love them and you, you, you, you. Clench your chest, scream your love, cry it out. Spill your words of loving, keep your heart beating, keep your love coming and paint the entire world red with it. Make it in your image, keep going, it's okay. Maybe one day the whole world can be red and loved and beautiful just like you.

[atlas-ordained]

🌟 Little Eensy Teensy Starburst is not alone! Her friends are here!💫

☾ @stellarcuriosity ✧ @spilled-energon ✦ @wcrkerbee ☽ ☾ @suckmybearings ✦ @atlas-ordained ✧ @autobotmedic ☽

I drew some of my favs. Mwah. 💖 Enjoy your homonculi!!! 💞

[atlas-ordained]

[M!A] Happy Maid Day! To show solidarity to this underappreciated sector of the servant class, you are shrouded in a delicate maid outfit for 24hrs. Is the design modest, practical? Perhaps the skirt is scandalous in length? Or maybe it is precious in excess knitted lace and frilly bows! Be aware that the outfit cannot be removed, destroyed, or soiled for the duration of the spell! (And, in order to ward off unwanted attention from those like Wheeljack, you are granted a little bit of magic of your own to deal with them how you see fit.)

Well. He cannot begrudge class solidarity....

This is an... interesting experience. It does not feel very Primely, but he supposes that is somewhat the point.

[atlas-ordained]

Despite the urgings of the magic in his processor, Optimus cannot bring himself to overstep the uncertain boundaries between Starburst and himself. Perhaps... head scritches will suffice.

While she was pondering who to go kiss, she's suddenly approached by... Optimus? She tenses up a smidge, tail flicking in a nervous manner. However, things seem to be.... fine? As gentle digits carefully scritch at her helm.

"Ah." Is all she can say, whirring quietly and closing her optics. The magic, however, compels her. She clicks her jaws together, teetering as she stands on her backpedes, her front talons grabbing onto Optimus for support. She didn't want to climb onto him without asking, that would be rude. So awkwardly standing on her hindpedes will have to do...!

She leans her long neck up and gives a tiny little Predacon peck on Optimus's cheek, followed by the tiniest helm-nudge.

"Thank you for the scritches, you should do it more often."

[atlas-ordained]

An affectionate field ripple serves as a slight warning to Ratchet... before Optimus bends down and places a small kiss on the top of his helm.

@atlas-ordained

The medic acknowledged him with a fond pulse of his own, but the soft pressure against his helm caused him to pause, then turn. While Optimus was in easy reach, Ratchet gently rested his hand behind his helm, then placed a kiss against the edge of his silver vent.

Afterward, he blinked up at him, then smiled faintly.

"It appears we were both selected for the latest affliction, but at least it isn't such a challenging one."

[atlas-ordained]

[M!A] There are individuals within your circle of contacts who are in need of a kiss, my dear. Seek out a few the ones you are most comfortable with and give them that much needed affection.

"...." This feels different from typical grayface mischief, almost like a suggestion rather than a compulsion or physical effect. Still, it is 'magic' nonetheless, and he can feel it prodding gently in the back of his processor. Perhaps he need not fight it entirely....

[atlas-ordained]

FMK Starscream, Megatron, Unicron

frag, marry, kiss

This... this one broke him. He is staring dead-eyed into space. Help.

He vents deeply. "It seems I must interface with Starscream, unfortunately."

He takes a moment before continuing, "... There is a concept known as... 'political marriage' in some cultures. If such would end the war, I would be willing to give up my personal happiness.

"... And kiss Unicron."

[atlas-ordained]

"It is a strange thought exercise that one must not take overly literally. I would not have joined had I not been specifically invited.... But it is a form of social bonding, and has value for that reason."

... He pauses, then adds with a note of flustered humor, "I hope you did not mind my two instances of 'marrying' you."

Obviously those choices were due to him being the most comfortable option for spending time with long term. Definitely no other reason.

He is of the opinion most of you are very foolish for even agreeing to entertain this prompt. What a loaded game, bound to backfire in unimaginable ways.

[atlas-ordained]

"Hmm... Ratchet, Predaking, and Wheeljack!" This is a light amount of mischief and tomfoolery to think about.

frag, marry, kiss

Starburst gets a Look™. How she is tormenting him. Obviously he must marry Ratchet, which means he must choose between the other two to (theoretically) "frag"....

He is tempted to rub his helm. Predaking is a formidable opponent, as Optimus knows uncomfortably well. The idea of interfacing with him, frankly, intimidates him, even if he were to use his bipedal mode. There are too many uncertain factors, including the simple issue of potential roughness. Not to mention that Predaking was technically only very recently created....

Wheeljack, at least, has shown a form of respect for boundaries.

Optimus keeps his tone and expression neutral as he gives Starburst her answer, "Interface with Wheeljack, marry Ratchet, kiss Predaking."

[atlas-ordained]

FMK Bulkhead, Bumblebee, Smokescreen

frag, marry, kiss

.... Hm. He does not like this one.

"Bulkhead is the most mature of the three, for... intimate activities." He refuses to even theoretically think of the other two in such a manner.

But there is still 'marriage'. He exvents. "... Smokescreen, Bumblebee." The Matrix of Leadership has shown some affinity towards Smokescreen, which will have to be... good enough as justification. Bumblebee gets a kiss on the helm.

[atlas-ordained]

FMK Starscream, Knock Out, Airachnid

frag, marry, kiss

Ah. A set of three Decepticons, two of whom are certainly distasteful. The idea of spending his life with either makes him shudder, and interfacing is nearly as unpleasant a prospect....

He does not want to be speculating what they're like in the berth. Would they take advantage of vulnerability to try to kill him? Airachnid seems particularly dangerous... but somehow he finds himself stuck on the fact that Starscream would likely never let him live it down, and that his position as the Decepticon second in command makes continued contact unavoidable.

There's a frown on his faceplate and deep reluctance in his voice as he finally answers, "... Airachnid, Knock Out, Starscream."