#fic: reforged

[vikingsong]

Reforged (excerpt)

Fill for my Merlin Bingo 2024 adopted square “Aliens” 😉

Hello! For context (if you haven’t already heard me ramble about this WIP in one Discord server or another), this is the first half of Chapter 1 of a loooong and not remotely complete WIP, hence sharing it here rather than AO3 or FFN. It’s a modern-with-magic reincarnation fic.

(TW: graphic violence)

Fic summary:

Arthur Rhydderch had spent years trying to ‘find his calling,’ as his thesis advisor described it. This wasn’t quite what I had in mind, the reincarnated Once and Future King thought as he gave his sword a twirl and launched himself at the alien before it could breathe another blistering spurt of flames.

Up-and-coming paleontologist Dr. Merlin Emrys had thought he was adulting quite well; most days, he even managed to avoid getting yelled at by his landlady. Then secrets from his past life resurfaced, and everything fell apart. Facing an impossible choice, Merlin must come to terms with who he was, who he is, and—most importantly—who he wants to become.

Or:

When Albion’s greatest need arrives in the form of an alien invasion, the reincarnated figures of legend must deal with the consequences of their shared past even as they fight for humanity’s future.

Chapter 1 (excerpt):

Arthur was in the library when the world ended. It was barely 10:00 AM on a Tuesday, and it was shaping up to be one of the worst days of his life even before the sky rained fire.

Six hours ago, Arthur had shaken off the claws of a nightmare for the third night in barely a week. Running, always running, with watering eyes and screaming lungs as the soot threatened to choke him. Four hours ago, he’d paused in the middle of his training run through the city to sit on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and watch with bleary eyes as the pale dawn crept up from the horizon, silhouetting Capitol Hill against the clear autumn sky. His t-shirt stuck to his skin as his sweat cooled. Blood and sweat mingling, trickling down his back as he twisted away from vicious claws that slashed his shoulder from behind. The fresh air hadn’t banished the phantom tang of acrid smoke, so he’d dragged himself home and attempted to drown the taste with a fourth cup of caustically strong coffee, nearly scalding his tongue in his haste. Burns blistering on his forearms as he gripped the sword hilt with white knuckles while hissing creatures stalked him from the shadows. The shifting shadows had still dogged his thoughts as he’d headed to an early one-to-one meeting with the head coach of his college soccer team.

Three hours ago, his coach had informed him, not unkindly, that he wouldn’t be nominating Arthur for the pro soccer draft at the end of the semester, despite Arthur being co-captain and the best on the team. Arthur understood his coach’s reasoning, but it did nothing to ease the sting. The prevailing industry view was that most players peaked in their mid-twenties, and Arthur was already twenty-six. His American uni scholarship had already been his fallback option, a new route to the same professional goal after he’d aged out of Manchester United’s football training academy without a pro contract at twenty-three. Now, the coveted draft slot would go to a younger player—a domestic player who wouldn’t have to deal with visa complexities—and Arthur would simply have to find another calling.

Two hours ago, Arthur’s thesis advisor—never particularly interested in Arthur’s athletic goals—had inadvertently poured salt in that raw wound by asking, as he did at least once a semester, if Arthur had “found his calling” yet.

Arthur’s self-control had slipped, and he’d answered bluntly, “If it’s a calling, then it needs to make itself heard.”

Dr. Taliesin had simply sighed and said, “Someday you will know your destiny.” Then he’d asked to see the latest draft of Arthur’s senior thesis and proceeded to spend the remaining twenty minutes of their meeting eviscerating it.

One hour ago, Arthur had clocked in for his work-study shift at the campus library. The students who’d pulled all-nighters on midterm assignments had all gone to bed or to class by the time Arthur arrived, and it hadn’t taken him long to reshelve the trail of reference texts they’d left in their wake.

Thirty minutes ago, he’d settled at the circulation desk with a stack of books which Dr. Taliesin had just recommended. Arthur had tried—and failed—to concentrate on his thesis research instead of his imploded career plan, even as he’d tried—and failed—to ignore how the silence amplified the harrowing echoes of his nightmares.

Fifteen minutes ago, Arthur had scrubbed a hand over his itchy stubble, regretting that he’d forgotten to shave in his distracted state that morning. His neck had popped audibly in the quiet lobby as he’d stretched and had given up on his thesis research for the moment. Having concluded that he needed to distract himself from anything having to do with his future, he’d pushed aside the heavy books and pulled out the latest reading assignment for his Medieval Lit elective.

One minute ago, Arthur had realized that he’d been staring blankly at the same Middle English paragraph for several minutes. He’d given up on studying altogether and gathered up his reference books to shelve. When he’d stood, his rolling chair had skittered sideways out of his reach. He’d been ready to chalk it up to caffeine tremors and jittery nerves when he’d heard the lobby’s floor-to-ceiling windows rattle.

That was when he’d glanced up and discovered that the world was ending.

He blinked—once, twice—and craned his neck to get a better look. Well, his tired brain amended as it struggled to process the latest milestone in his terrible day, perhaps ‘ending’ is too strong a word. Maybe just the ‘start’ of the apocalypse?

Semantics aside, the sky was raining fire.

The ground shook as each flaming meteorite crashed, one after another after another. One hurtled toward the window, and the prospect of his impending fiery death finally jolted Arthur into action. He dropped the books and dove behind the circulation desk, throwing up an arm to shield his face as the glass shattered and the fireball barreled through.

Over the greedy crackle of flames as a row of study cubicles caught fire, Arthur heard an unnatural hissing. It grated across his nerves like nails on a chalkboard. He peeked around the edge of the circulation desk and froze.

Am I dreaming?

From within the smoldering wreckage of the thing that hadn’t been a meteorite, a creature emerged—a creature unlike anything Arthur had ever seen. The firelight glinted off its burnished scales as it unfurled leathery wings like a monstrous bird hatching from a cursed egg, like a cassowary made of fire and brimstone. The creature fixed its glowing red eyes on him and uttered a shrieking hiss.

Arthur knew that sound.

So that’s what they look like, he thought, half-hysterical. He ducked back behind the desk, even though he knew it was too late to hide. The beast had seen him, and just like he knew that horrible cry, he knew that thing would hunt him down. He heard the creature flap once, and then a spurt of flames shot past the edge of the circulation desk where his face had been moments before. The industrial carpet melted.

Arthur’s instincts took over. One. There was no hope of getting out through the burning front entrance, so he scrambled away from the flames and ran the length of the circulation desk, staying low as another fiery blast raced over his head and immolated an oil painting on the wall above him. Two. Just like in his nightmares, he counted, and just like in his nightmares, he had no idea why. He reached the end of the circulation desk and made a run for it across an exposed stretch of the lobby, dodging more fireballs—Three. Four.—as the creature chased him toward the winding, windowless corridors that formed the only route to the back exit.

He skidded into the corridor and ricocheted off the wall as he took the first turn at full speed. Another volley of flames hit the wall just after he’d turned the corner; he felt the heat at his back as he continued his flight. Five. The fire alarm kicked in, and the reverberating noise in the corridors nearly drowned out the creature’s shrieks and hisses. After several more turns and another near miss with a fireball—Six.—that left one sleeve of his red hoodie singed, Arthur hit a dead end.

He cursed colorfully under his breath as he realized he’d taken a wrong turn on autopilot; he’d been so focused on dodging fireballs that he’d turned left instead of right at the special collections display case. He’d reached the central elevator’s windowless alcove rather than the exit. The elevator was out of service, he’d already passed the nearest stairwell, and he didn’t have time to retrace his steps to the turn he’d missed. He heard a crash followed by scuffling as the creature—the alien, his brain so helpfully supplied—slammed into the display case before approaching the final turn. I’ve got thirty seconds at best. Arthur backed away from the sound, wracking his brain for any remaining options. His shoulder bumped into something sharp; he glanced back and saw it was the corner of a wall-mounted display case containing a medieval-style sword from the university’s eclectic collection of artifacts. On the lower right corner of the plate glass front, a snarky student had added a sticky note that read:

In case of emergency, break glass :)

What have I got to lose? he thought, glancing around. There were no fire extinguishers—Ironic, he lamented—nor any other heavy objects in the alcove to break the glass. Out of time and options, he raised his hood for protection like a knight’s coif and shielded his face with his right arm before slamming his left elbow into the glass as hard as he could. It cracked but didn’t shatter.

The hissing grew louder. Ignoring the pain in his arm, Arthur struck the case a second time, and then a third.

Razor-sharp shards grazed Arthur’s hoodie as the glass shattered and spilled out onto the floor. As the security alarm blared in concert with the fire alarm, he reached into the case and drew out the sword.

It felt strangely comfortable in his hand. Not quite like the sword in his dreams, but familiar all the same. He gave it a quick twirl with his wrist, then faced the hallway just as the alien appeared.

It stalked toward him on all fours with its folded, bat-like wings curving up from its clawed forefeet; the barbed tips met in a sharp arch over its back like crossed lance poles. Its glowing red eyes were nearly level with Arthur’s as it paused, tilting its large, draconic head side to side on its long neck as though sizing up the sword in Arthur’s hand.

Arthur stood his ground. Not like I have anywhere left to run, he thought as he tightened his grip on the sword. Might as well go out fighting.

The alien hissed, and smoke curled out through its nostrils. It opened its jaw wide and coughed out a sulfurous black cloud. Arthur gagged as his eyes watered. The alien hacked again like a chain smoker, but no flames burst forth.

Arthur saw his window and took it. Just like on the footie pitch, he feinted left, then spun to the right. With a screech, the alien fell for the trick and lunged, leaving its neck vulnerable to Arthur’s attack. Arthur used the momentum of his spin to throw his full weight into his one shot at survival, bringing the blade down squarely on the creature’s neck.

The steel sliced clean through sinew and bone, and the creature’s head hit the ground mid-snarl. Arthur dodged the body’s writhing death throes and vaulted over the convulsing tail as he raced back down the corridor toward the exit. He slipped more than once on the wet linoleum—the emergency sprinklers had finally activated—before he stumbled out through the back exit into the deserted alley, soaked and bleeding, still clutching the sword.

[transingthoseformers]

One of the things i love about bayverse fics and Earthspark fics is that they seem to be bolder about human & transformer interaction, I know it's a whole ✨thing✨ about how much focus is often put on the human characters in the shows but I adore it when we get to see a human plopped in the middle of the cybertronians' metaphorical world even if they're on our literal world

This is based on that physical affection ask making me remember some of my favorite bayverse fics and just. Loving humans living amongst transformers in general.

[heliopauseentertainments]

New Holidays

Continuity: IDW1

Rating: General

Relationship: Background Megatron/Rodimus Characters: Megatron, Nautica, Velocity

Summary: In which Nautica and Velocity forcibly invite Megatron into partaking in an annual festival.

Takes place after the events of Reforged. A not-quite Hanukkah fic

Crossposting: AO3 | Dreamwidth

Fic below cut.

Velocity deposited a tray full of small, blue pucks smothered in some kind of pale frosting and presumably flavored shavings on his desk, an absolutely gleeful grin on her face. Nautica stood at her side, also beaming.

It had been a long time since Megatron had felt so threatened.

“What’s the meaning of this?” he asked, giving the colorful pucks a skeptical squint.

These looked… festive.

But why?

He knew that the Way of Flame had a minor festival this time of year, paradoxically celebrating the rare corrosive, midwinter rains on the arid moon (even when it was only winter in one hemisphere); he had read extensively about the religious calendar to be sure that he wouldn’t be caught being inappropriately impious whenever they were on Caminus. The last thing they needed was to lose their one safe harbor.

However, he hadn’t really expected to be confronted with religious holidays while they were away on the Lost Light. There were only two Camiens aboard and neither Nautica nor Velocity had shown much interest in openly celebrating any cultural or religious events. At least, not that Megatron was aware of.

Now, though, as opposed to the last time this festival would have rolled around during the ship’s adventures, one thing was markedly different: Megatron was now, nominally, an adherent to the same faith.

Belief or lack thereof aside, the red paint under his eyes spoke to a level of socio-cultural belonging. He was one of them whether he liked it or not.

“These are Imbrix cookies.”

Velocity’s grin could have been classified as a weapon capable of city-level destruction. No medic should have that level of cheer, not on a ship full of idiots who were prone to hurting themselves at the slightest provocation.

“See?” She pointed to the little blue sprinkles; they twinkled in the light, probably containing some manner of glitter. “These symbolize rain drops.”

Not terribly subtle symbolism, but he supposed subtlety was far from the point.

It was evident that Nautica and Velocity had gone to an awful lot of trouble to make these… cookies. Preparing Camien cuisine looked to be fairly time intensive compared to the Cybertronian preference for the occasional candy or overly complicated beverage.

The two crew members were practically vibrating where they stood while Megatron struggled with determining how to best respond to being so unavoidably confronted with the cultural implications of his gallows choices. He, frankly, hadn’t expected to live long enough to experience consequences.

Maybe if he ate one of the cookies…. Just one. That ought to satisfy their desire for religious solidarity and togetherness.

Megatron reached out and cautiously picked up one of the decorated cookies, holding it delicately like it might explode.

Maybe Rodimus would want one too. Was he allowed to save one for him? The Way of Flame didn’t have any particulars about food handling, having developed on a world of such scant resources, but Spectralism did… when it was convenient for Rodimus to get out of eating something he didn’t want.

Anything that could be interpreted as a treat was generally acceptable, even if it had been handled by non-Spectralists. Given that there were barely any more Spectralists aboard than the three adherents to the Way of Flame, Rodimus and his co-religionists had long ago had to accept some concessions for practicality.

Though, he doubted Rodimus would turn down a cookie, of all things.

Meanwhile, Nautica and Velocity were still aggressively beaming at him while he sat there, cookie in hand like a fool.

If it was going to explode, it would have by now. And taken his hand with it.

Might as well.

He popped it in his mouth.

“We’re having a brook building party later—We got you a kit to make it easy since it’s your first one.”

He nearly choked on the cookie.

--

The door slid shut as Nautica and Velocity left the captains’ quarters, well into the evening.

Water babbled in the artificial Imbrix “brook” Nautica and Velocity had forced him to assemble. A gift, they had called it when they had presented it to him at the “party” that they had decided would be in the captains’ quarters.

They had “forgotten” to take the speakers playing seasonally appropriate music with them. A calm voice extolling the virtues of getting caught in the frigid monsoon and letting their plating corrode in places as thanks for the moon’s natural cycles powering their way of life.

Streamers and bunting festooned the walls, the ceiling… all in colorful bursts of blue, green, and purple. Confetti littered the floor from where Velocity had thrown it into the air. The confetti had been the compromise to splashing him with a cup of water, a popular seasonal prank that had been deemed inappropriate to spring on someone who couldn’t be expecting it.

 At least Rodimus had been on the bridge for the duration so he hadn’t been made to witness and enjoy Megatron’s discomfort.

Unfortunately, he would return home at any moment to partake in the aftermath.

Maybe Megatron could pacify his partner’s inevitable mockery with the tray of cookies that Nautica had decided to bake in the quarters’ small refinery. The sweet silvery smell of the precious metals used in the frosting still clung to the otherwise stale spaceship air.

At least they hadn’t brought over any engex, a courtesy to Megatron’s long-standing refusal to consume it.

The “brook” was a fountain, of sorts, meant to simulate a natural waterway filling a lake or reservoir slowly filling up over the course of ten days. Almost all the waterways on Caminus were seasonal: dry for the vast bulk of the year but annually filling to bursting when the torrential rains arrived. The month ahead of the festivities was used by engineers installing temporary hydrodynamic power equipment along these waterways to harness the energy. The month afterward was spent collecting the water for use in industrial applications.

Nautica and Velocity had gotten him a small one, the size to comfortably be set on a table for the duration of the holiday, rather than larger ones meant for public display. These were usually assembled by hand, but this had been a kit meant for new-builds learning how to celebrate for the first time, with the complicated pumps and fiddly components already prepared for installation.

After the whirlwind of “festivities” forced upon his living space by community-seeking crew members, Megatron found himself standing dumbly in front of the table that had been dragged to the center of the living area, watching the low level of water go about its short but elaborately turning course as the presently unfamiliar music echoed in the room.

He was to add a specified amount of water to its reserves each morning—at “sunrise”—of the festival, reciting a blessing each time. By the tenth morning, the reservoir from which the brook cycled would be completely full.

And the celebration would be complete.

On Caminus, it would be topped off by a festive communal feast, bracketed by songs and prayers of thanksgiving and mechs jumping into the seasonal lakes despite the risk of rust. The hydrobots would enjoy it, he thought.

Aboard the Lost Light, however, Nautica and Velocity had decided to simply include Megatron in their celebratory morning fueling, giving him an invitation to meet with them and recite the appropriate blessing in ten days. They couldn’t promise that he wouldn’t be splashed since he had now been warned.

Behind his back, the door to the hallway slid open.

“Whoa, babe, you had a party in here?”

A crime Megatron had never once before been accused of: throwing a house party. Today was full of all manner of new experiences.

He had even enjoyed most of them, but an entirely new holiday was a lot to take in all at once, especially with such an… enthusiastic community to welcome him into it.

Rather than explain why their shared quarters were covered in cheap, festive decorations or why he was standing in front of a display of domesticated hydro-engineering, Megatron merely sighed and pointed despondently towards the refinery.

“There are cookies.”

And he knew that in the morning, just as surely as he would correct the red paint under his optics, he would add water to the brook, say the blessing, and introspect.

[amysnotdeadyet]

Fix Me Right Up

This was written for the @reforgedzine and is finally being released into the wild!

I think this story falls under the heading of "more cake" because it's me doing like 3 tropes I've already done but all together.

WinterIron pre-slash, G-rated, solarpunk, meet cute, you know the drill. Steve & Bucky friendship, Tony competence, all that good stuff.

After a century, Bucky's arm is wearing out to the point he can no longer fix it. He goes looking for an expert in pre-magic tech known as The Mechanic, and flirting ensues.

[jezzibee]

I JUST realized I hadn't shared my recent chapter on here. Lol. This one is WAY shorter than the last one. Enjoy!!! :)

[tanoraqui]

optimal Fëanor reembodiment shenanigans, pt. ? of ?:

Fëanor: [generally trying to be Good(TM), but nonetheless throwing a minor hissy fit over how the jewelsmiths and related crafters of the Noldor have rallied around Celebrimbor as their leader and have no interest whatsoever in changing]

someone: I’m sorry, but did anything YOU ever made singlehandedly—okay, three-handedly—preserve the power and safety of Elves in Middle Earth for an Age and a half of the world, and play a major role in the salvation of the world from evil in general?

Fëanor: [points angrily and exemplifyingly up at the Star of Eärendil sailing by] YES!

someone else, swiftly: Oh, so you agree that Eärendil’s continued holding and keeping of the Silmaril is essential for the good of all Arda and should not be disrupted for any reason?

[aeoix]

Since the last time I posted the link, two chapters have been added! Feel free to give them a look and let me know what you think! I'm still trying to figure out how to write each turtle and the more I write the easier it gets! Already up to 7k words, crazy. I will be starting on Donnie's reference this week, so more art to come soon!

[psalacanthea]

Reforged in Dragon’s Fire- 17

A short, silly chapter while I’m in brain overdrive recovery.  Of the Howe x Cousland DA: Awakening fic.   Chaos in the Blackmarsh.  Thanks for reading.

...

“Do you think Anders is all right?”  Sigrun interrupted the burgeoning spat.

“I’m certain his Circle didn’t at all terrify and torment its mages with fears of the Fade.”  Velanna said, and then clarified brusquely.  “That was sarcasm, Nathaniel.”

“Thank you for informing me, my lady,” he said.

She glared at him.

And here he hadn’t even been trying to pick on her.

“Are elves different?”  Sigrun asked innocently.  Not at all suspicious, her innocence.  Much like Nathaniel, he was coming to find as he relaxed around her, Sigrun was just a very curious person.  Something they had in common.

Granted, he felt like his curiosity was less…enthusiastic than hers.

Velanna looked briefly flustered.  “Well, it is dangerous.  So, it should be feared.  Just not their way.”

A brief whistle drew their attention.

Phoebe gestured as they looked in her direction, and they all fell in, avoiding the corpses of the grub-like Darkspawn.  Filthy little creatures.  Nathaniel had never been so grateful that he’d learned to fight at a distance.

“So, welcome to the Fade,” Phoebe said mildly, her bloody, ichor-slick axe head thudding into the dirt.  “Being that the Blackmarsh is a place marked by death, terror, and suffering, please expect plenty of shades and demons.  That being said, don’t attack anything that doesn’t attack you.  There’s no reason to antagonize a friendly spirit…if there even are any in a place like this.”

Nathaniel stared at her, not quite sure what to think of that.  Instinct told him to contradict her, that the very idea of a friendly spirit was some sort of heathen nonsense, but…well, he’d already put his foot into it once, hadn’t he?  She obviously knew what she was talking about.  And he did not.

Holding his tongue rarely led him wrong, Nathaniel had found, when it came to opinions.  It just seemed his mind ignored that when it came to Phoebe and he’d stick his nose in anyways.  His mind ignored a lot of things when it came to Phoebe.

Things it should tell to the rest of his body before it went and did something stupid like kissing her.

Why was she anathema to his self-control?

[sawyingthroughthewasteland]

wake up besties, my Maxson fic finally dropped

Hi! Remember that fic I talked about like months ago about? Maxson redemption and all with the Warwick family and the Mechanist? Anyways its here! Happy holidays yall, hope you enjoy! 

Steel Reforged - Chapter 1 - HawkoftheSky - Fallout (Video Games) [Archive of Our Own]

Chapters: 7/? Fandom: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4 Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Arthur Maxson/Liberty Prime, June Warwick/Roger Warwick Characters: Arthur Maxson, Liberty Prime (Fallout), Roger Warwick, June Warwick, The Mechanist | Isabel Cruz, Zeke (Fallout), Warwick family, mentioned OC, Brotherhood of Steel Character(s) Mentioned

Additional Tags: Other Additional Tags to Be Added, rating will change later, Whump, Recovery, Warwick Family as found family, Mechanist is given some well-deserved love, Post-Fallout 4, Railroad Ending (Fallout 4), My OC is mentioned but not a main character just standing in the background menacingly, Liberty Prime kinda developing a personality, exploration of Maxson and Liberty Prime's relationship, might turn to lovers who knows, Maxson severely injured and disfigured, Burns, Blood and Gore, Redemption, ss2 nightingales mentioned, original Roger was abusive, synth roger is baby, Medical Inaccuracies, Loss of Limbs, eventual cyborg Maxson and healing of inner child, Mechanist is Ace, Slow To Update, Slow Burn

Summary:

Longfic exploring Arthur Maxson and Liberty Prime's relationship, Maxson's healing post RR ending, and eventual coming to terms with his new cyborg body, stance on technology and healing of his inner child with the help of the Warwick family and a Mechanist set on redeeming herself as well.

Also! This comic by @homokommari inspired certain aspects of the Warwick family! That shit might be,,, canon I forgor but this inspired the setting in the first place so~ Feel free to go give the artist some love :)

[maymai-art]

bit of a cover for my fic Reforged in Beloved Gold

[vikingsong]

oh is the aliens and swords one the one that you were asking about museum practice a while back? I want to hear more about that 👀

@sydneysageivashkov Yes, it is! 🥳

(Thank you again for answering my museum questions a while back! I have even more museum questions now if you’re amenable sometime!)

This is the elevator pitch:

Arthur Rhydderch had spent years trying to ‘find his calling,’ as his thesis advisor described it. This wasn’t quite what I had in mind, the reincarnated Once and Future King thought as he gave his sword a twirl and launched himself at the alien before it could breathe another blistering spurt of flames.

Up-and-coming paleontologist Dr. Myrddin “Merlin” Emrys had thought he was adulting quite well; most days, he even managed to avoid getting yelled at by his landlady. Then secrets from his past life resurfaced, and everything fell apart. Facing an impossible choice, Merlin must come to terms with who he was, who he is, and—most importantly—who he wants to become.

Or: When Albion’s greatest need arrives in the form of an alien invasion, the reincarnated figures of legend must deal with the consequences of their shared past even as they fight for humanity’s future.

Arthur is cornered during the initial invasion in a building that has a collection of artifacts displayed in wall cases, so he breaks the glass (not security glass! just regular plate glass! There’s a joke about it later in the story) and pulls out a medieval sword in a ‘might as well go out fighting’ mindset, then ends up successfully killing the alien that cornered him.

It quickly becomes apparent that conventional modern weaponry is useless against the aliens. Only authentic medieval swords can kill them.

Arthur finds out that he’s the new King of England, despite having been 28th in line and having always held generally anti-monarchist views. He has to learn on the job how to actually lead/govern because Parliament and the rest of the upper levels of government have been obliterated, too, so all the ministers’ authority has temporarily reverted back to the Crown. He ends up working closely with the staff of an eclectic and widely respected (fictional) museum in London to try to figure out what it is about the swords that makes them effective. If they can figure it out, then everyone will have a better idea of how to fight the aliens effectively. (Spoiler: aliens = pterosaurs = dragons, and their only weakness is steel that is forged in dragonfire.)

Gwen is an expert on medieval weaponry. Elyan doesn’t work for the museum, but he’s roped in because his specialty is chemistry/materials science. Paleontologist Merlin joins the party because the aliens bear a striking resemblance to Cretaceous pterosaurs. Freya, the museum staff member responsible for sourcing items for collections (I have questions about this job!), fulfills her Lady of the Lake role by sourcing and distributing swords to the knights. 😉 Many other canon characters pop up along the way. (You may also remember a snippet about an OC named Mrs. Nettleburn? She’s Merlin’s landlady who wears a violently floral housecoat and wields a frying pan during suspected break-ins. 🍳)

Meanwhile, the characters start getting their first-life memories back sporadically throughout the story, and they have to separate the truth of their incomplete memories from the distortions of the literary legends. Merlin ends up betraying everyone by siding with the dragons based on his distorted interpretation of those incomplete memories. Arthur refuses to give up on the friend he remembers, and Merlin gets an intensive redemption arc.

The story began as a crack prompt, but it has evolved into a crack-treated-very-seriously novel. 😂 I have about 60k written so far…

[bg3ficreviews]

Thunder reforged: Rolan x Dammon - #BG3 FanFic Review

Review by Aivu (@aivuthedragon)

Happy timezone, dear readers! Today I'm happy to bring you this incredible series of works by velocitross on AO3. What's hotter than a tiefling wizard with a knack for a well-timed thunderwave? Said tiefling wizard having a rendezvous with his tiefling blacksmith paramour, of course.

A note from the BG3FicReviews team: The entire BG3 community was been rocked by the recent controversy surrounding Dammon's VA, including the various fanwork creators who've fallen in love with Dammon, included him in their work, and are part of the LGBTQAI+ community themselves. We want to express our support and love to Dammon fans, Dammon fan work creators, the LGBTQAI+ community generally and all those adversely affected by what's happened. As such, we have decided to feature such works in our reviews this week. Make your love louder than the hate. 💜

As always, mind the tags! Our review is continued below the fold due to the NSFW nature of the content in these works.

This incredible artwork by @arczism was inspired by velocitross's Rolan x Dammon fic Working Steel, which is included in today's review.

Working Steel, the first of velocitross’ three works that include this rare pair, is a masterwork in character portrayal. The author adeptly captures the at-a-glance somewhat incompatible personalities of the two tiefling refugees who fled Elturel together and now reside in Baldur’s Gate. In this work, the relationship between Rolan, the ever-surly wizard and the newly ‘appointed’ master of Ramazith Tower, and Dammon, the gentle yet infernally talented blacksmith of the Forge of the Nine, has grown far beyond mere friendship.

Rolan, frustrated by his attempts to catalogue the mindless chaos remaining after the untimely death of the tower’s former owner, approaches Dammon to ask for his help and visits him at his forge. But what could a blacksmith possibly offer a wizard? Well, a good fuck, for one thing. Rolan is pent-up, impatient, and needs a good lay. And, it turns out, so does Dammon. The smut that ensues is not only blazingly hot but also beautifully captures the tender affection between the two tieflings through not only their words, but small, unique gestures of love and care. (Mind the tails. I mean, tags. No, tails.)

In Up in the Tower, it’s Dammon’s turn to visit the wizard’s domain. But the blacksmith receives a less-than-warm welcome, as the ever-grumpy Rolan becomes highly annoyed at having his work interrupted. But considering Rolan is dressed in little more than his underwear and an open robe, I’m more than willing to forgive him for his surliness. Dammon, however, being the sweet, gentle soul that he is, insists on taking care of Rolan beyond his carnal needs alone. In this work, the relationship between the pair deepens, and the author has wonderfully captured the intimacy of the pair. Lastly, we have Within the Storm. This work takes us back to the Shadow-Cursed Lands as the tiefling refugees attempt to cross its desolate lands on their way to Baldur’s Gate. When the Absolute’s forces ambush the group, Rolan expertly wields his magic to stave them off. But when something happens to Zevlor, the battle takes a turn for the worse. In the chaos, Rolan’s siblings, Cal and Lia, are kidnapped and several of his friends and co-travellers are brutally murdered.

Once at Last Light Inn, Rolan is a fucking mess, devastated by his siblings’ capture. Lost in the depths of his despair and way too much drink, the tiefling wizard finds comfort in the arms of a fellow refugee he’d known since childhood - Dammon. And thus the gentlest embers of affection between the pair begin to spark to life. This lovely one-shot serves as a prelude to the author’s much-anticipated long fic about the pair, their growing affection for one another and what looks to be a truly beautiful love story. If you would like to follow velocitross’ incredible work about the love between a tiefling wizard and blacksmith, please be sure to subscribe to the author on AO3 and follow their work and the pending long fic. We have included a snippet of Working Steel below for your enjoyment. As always, please support the writers of our incredible fandom by leaving kudos and comments on their work. 🫶

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Working Steel

By velocitross on AO3

The ring of his hammer fills Dammon’s ears and his attention as he works. A soft frown of focus curves his lips. It’s a simple enough repair—restoring a blade for the halfling woman standing outside the forge watching him work. Still, there’s a satisfaction to it: the rhythm of his strikes, the heat of the day in Baldur’s Gate warming him beneath his layers of apron and clothing. The ordinary busy noise of the city goes on just outside his focus, a subtle, stabilizing comfort even months after the Netherbrain’s defeat.

When he glances up from his work, a distinct figure catches his eye amongst the passersby. Rolan, with his proud bearing and his regal blue and red robes, coming toward the smithy with a tense, bothered scowl and his tail lashing behind him. A smile touches Dammon’s lips. He knows that look.

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” he says as Rolan comes to a stop an awkward few feet from the halfling waiting on her sword.

“Well, don’t take too long,” Rolan snaps, and then reddens further when Dammon raises an eyebrow at him. “Sorry. I’ll just—I’ll wait.”

Dammon lifts the blade off his anvil to study it. He smiles at the halfling as he passes her the sword.

“Give that a try. Come back if you need anything else.”

She moves off to the side to examine the blade, allowing Rolan to step up to the forge. He stands, arms crossed, his face flushed as he fixes Dammon with his bright yellow stare.

“Anything I can help you with, Rolan?” the blacksmith prompts.

Rolan sighs. He places his hands carefully on the edge of the anvil, glances again toward the halfling woman, and leans in toward Dammon.

“I need . . . Steel.”

Dammon breathes a good-natured chuckle.

“Come on,” he says, nodding over his shoulder toward the building. “I could use a break, anyway.”

[heliopauseentertainments]

Reforged

Continuity: IDW1 Rating: Teen

Relationship: Megatron/Rodimus

Characters: Megatron, Rodimus, Prowl, Mistress of Flame, Minimus Ambus, Ultra Magnus, Torchbearers, the Lost Light crew

Warnings: Suggestive themes, occasional depictions of trauma, alcohol & drug use, some gore, canon divergence and canon blending. Slow burn. Incredibly slow burn. Please see AO3 entry for full applicable tags.

AO3 Summary: In which Rodimus is "mistaken" as the reincarnation of Solus Prime. A 217k word fanfic novel with themes of romance, xenoreligion, reincarnation, the role of fate, and religious political conspiracies, Reforged expands on the moon colony of Caminus, its dominant culture, and what myth means to a recalcitrant "former" Prime on "vacation" to forestall fate, a condemned war criminal living on borrowed time, and an obsessed investigator fixated on discovering a dangerous hidden agenda. First chapter under cut, AO3 has the rest. Also crossposted to DreamWidth.

The supposed “lap of honor,” to which Rodimus had “convinced” Prowl to reluctantly allow, was intended to be a sort of… last hurrah for the crew and the Lost Light itself before it would be decommissioned, Megatron would surrender to custody pending litigation, and everyone else would go their separate ways. A happy ending. For most involved anyway. In his own way, he saw impending judgment as his own happy ending. He was tired and ready to put the last of his unconquered demons to bed. The sense of finality was… comforting somehow.

Although, one last trip wouldn’t hurt. A chance to make a few more good memories with friends and colleagues who had made commanding—“co-commanding” his own thoughts interrupted.

Great. Now he was doing it too.

They all had made co-commanding this flying madhouse so fulfilling, a pack of wild misfits that fit in together. Various destinations were chosen for sightseeing, but one stuck out as particularly interesting, one they were rapidly approaching. Velocity and Nautica had suggested it, in fact, thinking the crew would enjoy seeing their homeworld. Funny, that they had submitted their suggestions separately but with almost identical wording. Rodimus had declared that the two were in “cahoots” before proudly stamping an approval on the destination without waiting for Megatron’s input.

The view from the bridge was rapidly filling with the image of a large, metallic moon. It twinkled in the combined light glinting off the metallic structures spider-webbing across the surface. The scene was backlit by the cool white dwarf sun of this system, and, of course, the moon’s host, a green-gold gas giant swirling with ancient storms. Crackles of lightning arced across the spiral vortices at the storms’ calm eyes. Spinning auroras flashed at the poles like a pair of glittering crowns. The moon was large enough to be a planet in its own right had it not been caught in the gravity well of the gas giant.

To think that this was home to entire culture… civilization of Cybertronians untouched by the war that had consumed their own motherland, the war he had started. Megatron hadn’t even needed to go to another universe to find them this time.

Despite having spent countless months staring out of this huge window into the universe, Megatron had rarely taken the opportunity to simply enjoy that view. There had always been more pressing matters to attend to. Now, however, seated comfortably in the captain’s chair, with only perfunctory duties remaining to him, he could relax and merely take it all in for the sheer pleasure of it. A rare luxury at any point in his long life. From the mines, to the extralegal arena, to what he had thought was championing the cause of the downtrodden. Time for recreation had been practically nonexistent.

Or… he would have allowed himself to absorb the picturesque scene, had he not caught sight of something ludicrously red flash and dash out of the corner of his left optic.

Ah.

Of course.

Rodimus was, unsurprisingly, excited to see this planet—moon. It was technically a moon. He could practically hear Ultra Magnus—Minimus—preparing a pedantic presentation, along with an introduction to local cultural mores, to ensure they were all prepared for their vacation. Yet Megatron still felt a strange, warm fondness at the thought of the predictable behavior, just as he felt it knowing that Rodimus was gleefully prancing about just outside of his vision like he did whenever something really caught his interest. For all of his nuisance, Megatron’s co-captain possessed a gift to summon joy and sunshine simply by being. It was… heartening to see him so happy, especially about the little things in life like a beautiful planet. Moon. Dammit.

“Alright, everybody! Welcome to Caminus! Former lost Cybertronian titan-based colony facing perpetual resource shortages, now founding member of self-styled Emperor Starscream’s book club for slimy politicians that calls itself the Council of Worlds.” There was a pause, like Rodimus had second thoughts about wording his supposedly inspiring sales pitch that way.

Megatron turned to look at him and, sure enough, the speedster was holding his chin in thought.

“Okay, so maybe that’s not the best way to sell it to Lost Light tourists. Let’s try that again.” He clapped his hands together as though he could erase his first not-quite-ready-for-a-brochure slogan.

Megatron rolled his eyes and heaved a tired, amused sigh. A regular occurrence on this silly ship, especially when both captains were in the same room for any length of time. Meanwhile Rodimus cleared his vocalizer with a cough before pointing proudly at the viewscreen, now showing a much closer image of the populated moon. Moon! Not planet.

“Take two! Welcome to Caminus! Home of Camiens, a funky fire religion, swords for days, avant-garde art, other super awesome stuff, and us for the next few days.”

Well, it was better, but still not good exactly…. Certainly a solid attempt, though “funky fire faith” would have been a more satisfying alliteration. It was good enough. 

Something felt strange about Megatron’s face, he noticed as he sat there. Relaxed and pulled in an odd direction—Smiling? Why was he smiling? Giving his head a good shake, he forced a bemused expression to return, taking the smile’s place, while he watched Rodimus wrestle with remembering how to actually make port now that they had arrived.

“Slag, we still need landing permissions.” A golden palm slapped a handsome—this was an objective fact, not his personal opinion—white faceplate, perhaps a bit harder than necessary, in irritation at having forgotten something so basic. Sometimes Rodimus was too hard on himself. It was a trivial protocol matter after all and easy enough to forget in the excitement of a final trip.

Final. Hm.

Yet, of course, Rodimus would solve the issue on his own as he usually did these days, the brief moment of embarrassment quickly shoved under the proverbial rug. He could handle things like this without assistance. Megatron wasn’t quite sure why Rodimus insisted that he needed the old poet around to help.

“Crankcase, could you hail them, buddy?” See? Problem solved.

[runawaymun]

Ask me about my not-yet-written-fics from this list

@linesofreturninggeese

Okay, so this is something I was talking over with @metatomatoes because I wanted Celebrimbor to survive so badly but like, I just could not see how it was possible, and then we got to talking and fucking around with Elvish biology and I think I can make it work.

this is all based on the foundation that Elrond and Celebrimbor were very close in the second age, and/or it piggybacks on the To Partake universe. Either way, they have an Osanwe bond. Not quite a marriage bond. It's a bit weaker than that, but a bond nonetheless.

there are human burn victims who have lost a tremendous amount of skin with medical care and survived, right?

and obviously the greatest risks here are blood loss, infection, and hypothermia

It's reasonable to me to assume that elves have pretty good blood clotting.

We also know from canon that they're better at regulating their temp than we are

If elves are pretty much immune to infection, we can knock that out.

With some sketchy research the general consensus is that a human IRL could, after being flayed, last 36 hours, or perhaps up to a week (if given fluids and semi cared for).

Reasonable to me to assume because Sauron is Sauron that he might continue to toy with Celebrimbor post-flaying, which means he has a vested interest in keeping him alive a bit longer.

Also reasonable to assume that elvish bodies can withstand quite a lot, considering Maedhros survived torture and being hung off a mountainside for a really long time while captured by Morgoth.

So, the final kicker here IIRC was @metatomatoes' idea - which is, what if elves are essentially able to drop into a stasis state? Like where everything slowly shuts down to minimal functions in order to survive extreme conditions? Explains a lot of things, really.

With that, what if rather than dying, Celebrimbor drops into stasis.

Stasis is no fun for Sauron :( Celebrimbor's not making fun noises anymore when he gets hurt.

So at this point Sauron has him shot full of arrows (assuming that he'll be dead soon) and hangs him up to taunt Elrond and Gil-Galad, per the canon events.

Everyone at this point is pretty confident that Celebrimbor is dead as a doornail,

EXCEPT ELROND.

Because he can absolutely feel through their Osanwe bond that there's something left there, and post-siege of Eregion when they finally recapture everything and pull Celebrimbor down, everyone is like "Elrond he's dead, we promise he's dead" and Elrond is like "I promise he's not!!!!!!!!! he's in stasis!!!!!!!!!!!!"

And Elrond by now has Vilya, which enhances his already incredibly strong healing.

Also I have already established within my own universe that Elrond is a bit of a necromancer, so long as someone is only mostly dead (re Princess Bride hehe).

SO, he manages to bring Celebrimbor back from the grave.

And granted, Celebrimbor is like, severely fucked up and perhaps does not even want to continue living, but Elrond is determined.

Once Celebrimbor has recovered (it is a long, slow road) he winds up just living with Elrond in Rivendell, possibly under an alias idk. But hey everyone talks about that weirdly good smith in Rivendell. Like uncannily good smith.

I like to imagine that he's the one who reforged Anduril :3

[jezzibee]

Chapters: 50/? I keep meaning to post the sequel to my story on here, so I am doing it now before I forget. THIS is Reforged and Strengthened, an on going sequel to Reforged separated into ACTS filled with romance, drama, comedy, horror, and so much more. If you, like me, did not cope well with how the Hobbit movies (and technically book) ended, here is a fix it for you to enjoy...which is still going.(It is nearly 620,000 words...just the sequel, lol.) 

I hope you enjoy this ongoing idea of my brains little version of a life among the sons of Durin, Tauriel, and Dis. 

[viennacherries]

First of all I love your work!! I keep rereading kiss the cook. I have a request God! Gale/Tav. A spicy fic about Tav and God Gale’s first time since he’s turned into a god.

anon. anon im so sorry. this turned into angst. please forgive me <3

NSFW

read it on ao3

~~~

Tav hasn't seen Gale since he left in search of the crown, promising to find her and bring her with him to Elysium. She'd believed him, but she thought he'd have come to her by now.

It's been 6 months. She's starting to lose faith.

She isn't completely convinced that he's going to come to the party. Withers insists he sent Gale an invite, but she's trying not to hold her breath. 'Trying' being the key-word here.

The truth is, she's desperate to see him again. She aches for him. He completes a part of her that she didn't even know was missing. He's soft and gentle with her in a way no one ever has been before, he's all light touches and tender caresses. He smells like old books and cinnamon, and he brings her more comfort than anything else could. She'll do anything for him. She just wants him back.

Withers is encouraging everyone to raise their glasses, finishing his toast, and her heart sinks at the realisation that Gale won't be turning up.

She wishes he would turn up.

Shadowheart is midway through saying something to her, clearly trying to take her mind off of him despite it being a fruitless cause, when a blinding beam of light flashes down from the sky.

It's like a bolt of lighting, the speed at which it descends, and there's a long pause where the light persists as if frozen in time, before it slowly fades away. Gale stands in its place and she runs to him, ecstatic, before her footfalls slow as she takes him in.

He did it. He found the crown. He became a God.

He looks so different. His whole body shimmers chrome, catching the light like an errant jewel in a necklace. His hair, once soft and flowing, seems sculpted to his head and body like a statue, every hint of his natural colour replaced with the same otherworldly silver as the rest of him. His eyes are glowing pits, no longer the soft warm brown she so loved looking into. They seem to create their own light, which wisps and curls around his eyebrows like ink through water. He looks glorious.

He looks new.

He spots her, smiles, and crosses the remaining distance. He stops a foot away.

"I had hoped I'd see you here." He says, and his voice. It's so different now. It echoes and reverberates as though he's stood in a vast cave, it screams of power and strength. It's his voice, still, but it doesn't sound like him anymore. There's something missing from behind his words that makes them feel slightly empty.

"I..." She feels shellshocked, "I was starting to think you'd forgotten about me."

"Forget you? Never." His words make her heart sing, but his tone is all wrong. She knows he means it, but it just sounds so... lifeless.

He keeps talking, "I'm afraid time works quite differently in Elysium. I didn't realise how long I'd been gone, until I received Withers' summon."

All the time she spent, the months dragging on, missing and longing for him, had felt like mere moments to him. It makes her feel a little bitter, but she pushes the feeling down.

He's still talking. Something about 'the finer points of divine ascension' and how 'mortal comprehension' isn't enough to fully understand. He found the crown, he reforged it, he took control of it. The Karsite Weave has become the Galarian Weave. He commands it.

Tav swallows around the lump in her throat, "well, I'm ready to come with you."

His face twists into some sort of amusement, as if he finds her eagerness endearing. When he speaks, his tone is that of a teasing reprimand. "I see you won't be claiming the dominion of 'patience' in the heavens. All in good time, my love. For now, mortality has one more night of enjoyment in store..."

He takes her hand in his, and her skin tingles where they make contact, as though molten electricity courses through his veins. He leads her away from the party, and she hears the woops and catcalls of the rest of her friends as they fade away from view.

When he presses his lips to hers, it feels like static shock. When he runs his hands down her arms, it feels like the air right before lighting strikes. When he slowly undresses her, ready to worship her body as if she's the immortal being, not him, her skull tingles and her eyes water. It's so intense. He's barely even touched her and it's so, so intense.

He strips her slowly. Reverently. He has nothing but time. He has no need to rush, no need to worry. Everything is so different now. There's no hiding in tents trying to be private, there's no sneaking off in the night and tucking themselves back into their clothes before they get caught, there's no stolen kisses when everyone's looking away. He has eternity. They have eternity.

When she's laid on the ground, stripped bare for him, he lifts her legs over his shoulders and descends on her core with his mouth. He moves his lips like he's sending a prayer through her body, like she's the conduit to his devotion. His tongue ghosts over her nerves and she feels like a lighting rod the way his energy travels through her, as though seeking to ground itself through her fingertips as she digs them into the dirt.

And when he lays his body across hers, enters her with one smooth thrust, it's blinding pleasure. Every stroke he takes has lights blinking behind her eyes, every thrust like a jolt of power travelling up to her throat. When she finds her release it crackles through her like an exposed wire touching water, and when his follows shortly after her vision goes white with ecstasy at the feeling, as though his very essence is spreading through her marrow.

They lay together for a while, staring at the stars. He tells her of Elysium, of the endless ocean of constellations and the rivers of pure light. He speaks about his domain, how the Crown of Karus is kept safe at the centre of it, how he protects it with his immense newfound power. He waxes poetic about the shrines that have already been erected in his honour; several in Thay, and a grand temple under construction in Amn.

It dawns on her, all at once, that he hasn't asked how she's been.

She feels a pit open up in her stomach.

He tells her about the fathomless power at his disposal. He tells her about dragging the crown from the Chinonthar. He tells her about his disagreement with Mystra, when she learnt of his ascension, and his plans to challenge her further in time.

He doesn't ask about his mother. He doesn't ask about Tara. He doesn't ask about her.

It feels like she's ripping in half.

All too soon they're standing at the edge of the river.

"So, it's time for me to return to the heavens. The question is - do you wish to join me? To become a God at my side?"

Her stomach lurches.

She wants to. She wants to remain at his side, for all of eternity. She wants to go with him and build a home with him in the sky, a domain of magic of their own creation.

But she also wanted to create a home with him in Waterdeep. She wanted nights together curled up next to the fireplace, while he played piano with his magic and read arcane books to her. She wanted to sit on his balcony with him, watching the water, holding his hand in the evening breeze. She wanted the date night he promised, with his homemade hundur sauce. She wanted to meet his mother, have tea with her, call her 'mother-in-law'. She wanted to marry him.

And as she stands with him, as he is now, she takes him in. His eyes are luminous trenches, no longer a warm chocolate brown. His skin, once tanned and soft, is cold and silver. He doesn't smell of old books, or cinnamon; he smells like petrichor - like earth soaked in thunder and rain.

She stands with him, hand in hand. But he doesn't feel like home anymore. It feels like he's a million miles away. Like he's already gone back to the heavens.

"I can't"

When he leaves, she wishes she went with him. Then she wishes he'd stayed. Then she wishes he'd never found the crown.

She wishes he'd chosen her.

She sits, knees clutched to her chest, and she sobs.

A small ball of fur and feathers curls into her side. A tressym.

They mourn together.