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my-writings-and-musings · 4 years

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Could you do TFP bots (or just a few of them if you have charcater limit or just don't feel like doing them all, as long as Wheeljack is ingluded I'm good) with a human they just recued and they're like "I'm gonna call my dad hold on" and if they protest they're like "nah you'll like him I promise, just give him a minute" and her dads their old bot friend who went MIA (you can decide who the dad is, or go with Ironhide if you're as indeciceve as me lol)

I miiiiight just have to do this as a short story I hope that's okay! Got my Wrecker boys Wheeljack, Bulkhead, Smokescreen and Ultra Magnus.

Dust was still settling as you realized the threat was over, the collection of vehicons having scattered long before the cave had finished it's partial collapse and leaving you under the gathered team of bots who'd come together to shield you from falling debris. Rubbing off the powdered rocks covering your face, as well as coughing up the taste of dirt, you took a moment to gather yourself as your new giant allies did the same. It wasn't worth thinking about what would have happened if they hadn't come along when they had... In your defense, that ambush had come out of nowhere.

"You okay there?" A deep voice above you rumbled with concern, encouraging you to tilt your head upwards at the big green bot looking down at you. His optics were friendly, and despite his absolutely massive size and hands that transformed into wrecking balls, you immediately trusted him.

"Yeah, I'm okay. Thanks to you guys." You said gratefully, looking to each of the gathered team as they brushed the dust off themselves.

"Protecting organic life is the primary responsibility of Autobots, think nothing of it." The largest of them said, somewhat gruff as he meticulously picked off the worst of the rubble that had showered down upon them. Immediately, you knew he was the one in charge. Towering above the others and with shoulder pauldrons thicker than two of you, he gave off the energy of someone who took no nonsense and had the firepower to back up his authority, yet his gaze was mostly just annoyed as he looked down to you again. "Our second responsibility, however, is remaining hidden from the denizens of this planet. Saving you required us to break cover."

"Give the kid a break, sir. They managed to escape a whole squadron by themselves before running into us. I think we can cut them some slack." A far gruffer voice said, cutting in as the battle scarred mech in question took a protective step your way. Quite immediately the colors on his unique build were familiar to you, but you decided to stay quiet on that fact, reaching for the cellphone thankfully still secure in your pocket. While you hadn't found what you'd been looking for in this mine, at least you had something far more interesting to report.

The big blue bot looked to the other with an impressive frown, unintentionally cementing your thesis as to the scarred mech's identity. The back and forth continued more or less without an acknowledgement of your presence. "They've been seen in our company, Wheeljack. By the procedure Optimus established, we must now secure their wellbeing, and that will be quite the undertaking."

The only one who had not yet spoken, a smaller but solidly built blue bot who seemed the youngest of the group, chose that moment to jump in with a quip. "Doubt docbot will be too happy about another human in the bunker."

"He's all talk. Ratchet wants these little guys as safe as the big guy does, he won't put up a fight." The gruff one, who you were starting to like more by the moment, said with an amused but reassuring smile in your direction. Unable to help smiling back, you suddenly felt that this turn of events might have been more than you could have ever hoped for. If only you could get a word in edgewise...

"You're purposefully missing the point, soldier. We-"

"If it's gonna be such a hassle for you, I'll take 'em myself."

"Jackie..." Once more, the gentle green giant spoke up, looking quite concerned at his friend's purposeful egging on of the bot in charge. You got the sense that this kind of thing happened often by his tone, but personally, you were getting a little tired of being ignored. None of what they were discussing was necessary, and if anyone would have bothered to ask you they'd know that? Finally fed up, you took a breath and raised your arms to draw attention to your tiny self.

"Um, hello? Excuse me!" You shouted, mercifully ending the bickering and securing four pairs of optics on yourself. Relieved for the silence, you pulled out your phone and held it up, projecting your voice to ensure you were heard. The shocked expressions didn't cease when you started to explain, but you didn't let that stop you. Sorting this out would make everything easier for everyone. "I think there's a bit more going on than any of you know. Let me call my dad really quick, he'll set this straight."

The first to reply was the one you knew had to be the rookie of the group, who awkwardly cleared his vents and broke the silence only hesitantly. "Uh, bringing more humans into this really isn't our goal-"

"Who said anything about him being human?" You cut in, grinning from ear to ear at the looks they all gave you. Now that you had their unbroken attention, it was only a matter of summoning your dad and waiting for him to arrive. Dialing his frequency into your phone, you prepared to share just as much information as it took to get him here fastest, wanting to see the look on his face when he arrived and saw who you'd found. This was going to be fun...

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

The roar of a familiar engine had thankfully silenced the second round of bickering to break out amongst the two argumentative bots, who had gone back and forth between listening to you and calling for their superior. It had been entertaining at first, but by the time that roar had echoed down the tunnel you'd been relieved to hear it, and had hopped to your feet from your seat on a convenient rock. The bots had reflexively drawn their weapons, but there hadn't even been any need for you to stop them. A worn red paint job skidding around the corner had made them all hold fire.

In a rush, you'd run out to greet the massive off road vehicle just as it began to transform, and in moments had been embracing the offered hand of a hulking bot who kneeled before you with an expression of happy relief.

"Ironhide!"

"Wheeljack!" Your adopted dad cried out in absolute joy, letting you move safely to the side before approaching the bot who's identity you'd properly guessed. Ironhide had told you so many stories about the Wrecker, it made sense that you'd been able to tell who he was by appearance and mannerisms despite having never met. The two bots greeted one another with an earth trembling chest bump, after which your beaming father turned to the green bot with just as much enthusiasm, shaking hands and crashing their fists together with overwhelming power. "Bulkhead too? Where have you guys been?"

"We might ask you the same thing, soldier." The big blue bot said, cutting in with the same serious look that appeared to be his only expression. On a closer inspection, however, you could see a certain light in his optics. He wasn't altogether displeased to see a new arrival. Standing somewhat awkwardly to the side, the young blue bot appeared delighted if not quite confused.

"Uh, long story, Ultra Magnus sir. I've been on this planet for some time. Found this little troublemaker when they were half their current size, and I've been raising 'em to help with our cause." Ironhide said affectionately, stepping back and dropping to one knee to be more on your level. Before you could puff up proudly at the praise, a single digit tussled your hair as he often did to tease, and you sputtered before playfully pushing him away and undoing the damage. Chuckling, he turned back to his comrades. "Never figured I'd bump into you all here! Jackie, Bulk, and uh..."

The attention turned to the young bot, who only smiled with a wave and a not offended clarification on his name.

"Smokescreen."

Wheeljack gave your dad a playful punch, still buzzing at seeing his old friend alive. The friendship you'd so frequently heard about was clear as day before you. "Glad to see you in one piece, old Rusthide."

"We've been here for years, Ironhide. How come we didn't detect you?" Bulkhead said, looking just as happy but burdened by the question at hand. Ironhide tapped his audial with a somewhat glum smile.

"Communicator's been busted for ages, all I've got is an earth link for cellphones." He said, recalling an injury he'd endured long before meeting you. The line he'd built relied on earth technology, and you still remembered how many tries it had taken to get it right. It was impossible to imagine a whole other team of beings like himself had been out there the whole time... Yet he didn't look at all regretful as he glanced down at you. "If I'd known I wasn't alone, I would have introduced myself and the kid ages ago. Looks like we've got my little one to thank for bringing us together."

You pouted and crossed your arms at the comment. "I'm not little anymore, dad."

"They did alright in a scrap, but how about we get you two back to base? I'm sure the other's will want to hear the story." Wheeljack said, easing your damaged pride with the compliment. You had indeed evaded those Vehicons for a good long while before being rescued... speaking of which, you could use a bit of rest somewhere secure.

Once more, Ultra Magnus stepped in to halt the festivities. "First; I shall communicate with Optimus and let him know what has transpired. He will likely want to meet you in person before we make any rash decisions."

"Seriously? Come on, Mags! Let's get this bot in an actual base!" Wheeljack replied in a huff, bringing back the arguing from before as if it had never stopped. Looking quite amused, Ironhide merely chuckled and offered you his hand, allowing you to get a lift onto his shoulders as was your custom. Clearly not phased by what he was seeing, the only parent you'd ever known let you get comfortable before following the group out of the partially collapsed cave. Who could have thought your simple little scouting mission would end like this?

"Come on kiddo." He said softly, watching the bickering with an expression of nostalgia. "I have a feeling things are about to get pretty interesting."

#transformers #maccadam #transformers prime #tfp #tf:p #prime #bulkhead #wheeljack #smokescreen #ultra magnus #ironhide #my writing #my asks #anon #human reader #self insert #requests

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elindae-writes · 3 years

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I must ask- did you have any plans for how Optimus would behave if he HAD consumed the Synth-en? I really liked the way the other Autobots acted, and definitely found it interesting, so I'd love to hear your thoughts. Other than that, as always, have a wonderful day!

He was going to begin acting like the old Starscream.

I had to stop and think about what deep fear the synth-en would unbury in Optimus. I considered making his worst fear being just like Megatron and therefore having him act like Megatron. But I decided against that because that’s just too much Megatron already and also because I think that would’ve just traumatized Optimus way too much.

So I thought, okay, what if his fear isn’t being like Megatron, what if his fear is being like old evil Starscream?

Megatron always accuses Optimus of being this liar and manipulator who broke his promises and who schemed to “steal” the Matrix all along. After thousands of years of having these accusations flung at him I figured that maybe Optimus would’ve believed them after a while, at the very least maybe on a subconscious level.

Optimus has always preferred using his words and being diplomatic over being physically violent, something he has in common with Starscream. I think that the reason Megatronus was drawn to Orion was because Orion didn’t prefer violence first and foremost like Megatronus did, so Megatronus when he was still a good guy was just like “aha! what a perfect friend to have! such a perfect foil who can balance me on my glorious quest to bring peace!”

They befriended each other because of the opposite’s attract rule and it’s sad how their differences that made their friendship so strong ended up being the thing that tore them apart later on.

Orion ignored the red flags and kept reassuring himself and Megatronus that everything was A-okay. When Orion left him it came out of the blue because his departure from Megatronus’ side came after years of building him up and reassuring him it was all good and everything was fine.

Orion was there.

Then he just wasn’t.

Orion was in deep denial over his friend’s worsening morals and thought confronting Megatronus on it was too painful. In Orion’s attempt to cause less pain he just ended up causing more later down the road.

Ratchet also dissects Optimus and accuses him of only wanting to redeem Starscream as his way of making up for failing to redeem Megatron. Bringing somebody else in in order to have them act as a replacement for a lost friend is the exact kind of behavior Megatron exhibits in chapter 11 when it’s pointed out that he brought Star in to replace Orion. That placed the seeds of doubt in Optimus’s mind and made him wonder, “oh, I am manipulative, aren’t I?”

Synthed-up Optimus was going to become more manipulative. Optimus picked Starscream apart like an open book in the earlier chapters, so he was going to do that again but kind of in a much more rude and blunt sort of way. I thought about having a scene in which Optimus just kind of snaps and goes on and on about how being a liar and betraying others is so so wrong and it’s not right and it’s bad, and at first the characters think Optimus is criticizing Starscream, but then they realize, no, he’s criticizing himself because he thinks he unknowingly manipulated Megatronus!!

I didn’t scrap this storyline. I just moved it and had Optimus stay behind for four reasons:

1. Star needed his own moment to shine without Primely assistance. Even if Optimus was acting completely unlike himself his presence alone would’ve made Starscream less stressed.

2. The bridge. Somebody needed to stay behind and man it. I considered having Fowler do that but I saw problems with that. I wondered, “wait, can the old human-sized controls at the base even operate the bridge?? do they do that in the show?” If the smaller controls can control the bridge then I’d need to explain why in the world the Autobots linked the human control systems up to the groundbridge even though they have a child on hand who is very infamous for dangerously flinging herself through them at every given opportunity. So I was like, okay, some specific event needs to happen in order to explain why the ‘Bots felt the need to link the human controls to the groundbridge, and I realized that the event that compels the ‘Bots to put in this link needs to happen earlier on in the story so that it doesn’t feel too easy. Like if I just had Ratchet offhandedly mention, “ohhh, Fowler can control the bridge, we set it up for him ;)” out of the blue I thought people would look at that and be like “howwww convenientttt :/” (Also we can now have a storyline about Fowler working together with the ‘Bots later on that’s more in-depth about them trusting him with the bridge!)

3. Optimus could stand there at base and freak out over the team’s wellbeing.

4. This is the biggest reason. The Orion Pax arc. That one is going to be a mess. Optimus has so many issues that just giving him one scene in which we see them rise up and then another scene in which Starscream fixes them just felt... sparse. I decided, “okay, the Pax arc is the arc that will address all of Optimus’s many fears and insecurities” becuse Optimus is the most important character after Star and he deserves his own multi-chapter arc devoted to him alone.

I still wanted him to have his own moment in which he needed Starscream’s help because it felt wrong to close off the Stronger, Faster arc without addressing Optimus though, so that’s how we got chapter 25.

#unburied #fanfiction #optimus prime #starscream #ask #headcanons #synth-en #transformers #transformers: prime

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primergon · 3 years

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I’ve been reading your work and they’re just *chefs kiss*. You’re wonderful!!!

If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, could I get an IDW matchup?

I’m female, INFP-T enneagram 5w4, bisexual. I’m on the shorter side, dark hair and eyes, usually dressed in muted colours. I gravitate towards long skirts, flowy pants and blouses when it comes to fashion style and I like functionality and comfort, along with just a touch of eccentricity in the details.

I’m reserved around others and tend to seem aloof. My head is usually in the clouds and I tend to just.. zone out when I’m thinking or daydreaming. I’m not particularly shy, and will reciprocate interactions though I don’t often initiate them. I tend to do better with one-on-one interactions rather than socialising in a group, and I find absolute delight in listening to people’s stories/experiences/thoughts. Other personality traits of mine are that I’m impulsive and a serial perfectionist about the things I care about. I might wander off to explore places sometimes. I’m a little contradictory as I enjoy both pure-hearted and incredibly dark subject matter.

I have trouble expressing my feelings (especially negative ones) to others, so I bottle them up and then self-isolate to bear the brunt of those emotions and attempt to rationalise them. I also get easily embarrassed and awkward when faced head-on with affection, but I do my best to return it/express my mutual feelings. I’m more subtle about my own sentimental gestures, dancing around my emotions instead of confronting outright. I show my care for others through gift giving, acts of service and physical touch.

My life’s passion is art and I aspire to become a professional artist someday. I would like to tell my own story too, since I’ve always loved literature. My hobbies include drawing, watching movies/shows (historical-fiction, comedy-dramas and horror are among my favourites), reading, writing, air rifling, trying food, exploring new places and learning about literally anything under the sun. I also have a deep interest in philosophy.

A/N : Hi, anon! I'm so so sorry this took so long, I've been busy and I hope I'm not too late in assigning you a matchup <3 I think I'll match you up with our resident doctor Velocity!

IDW Velocity

01| The first time Velocity saw you, she had complimented you on the blouse you wore, seemingly fascinated by the way your long skirt glides above your ankles. She had accidentally called you cute out loud, earning a look of amusement from both First Aid and Ratchet. Afterward, she had volunteered to give you a tour around the ship, ignoring the way Skids was holding back Nautica from cheering.

02| Defenders such as Velocity are true altruists, meeting kindness with kindness-in-excess and engaging the work and people they believe in with enthusiasm and generosity. This makes her extremely attentive, and so if you ever have trouble expressing your feelings, Velocity is more than ready to guide you. She's a good listener, patient, and understanding. When you're overwhelmed, Velocity is there with that smile of hers. It warms her heart to know that you trust her enough to share about what's been bothering you. You can't help but notice that the entire time Velocity has her hand out for you to hold.

03| Velocity is drawn to your curiosity. She doesn't mind that you daydream a lot, if anything it gives her a reason to admire you from afar. Looking up from her patients now and then to smile at you gazing out the window, eyes glued to the stars.

04| Both your basic desires is to feel helpful and able. You and Velocity express this by passionately pursuing knowledge and understanding of the world. Which would lead to a lot of insightful discussions. Velocity engages your inquisitive nature with equal interests, making conversations almost endless. She's open to any type of discussion, just as long as you were both having a good time. Although, she understands that you sometimes need to withdraw and have time for yourself. As a fellow introvert, she has no issue with this, and would even offer to sometimes company you in silence while you rest and recharge.

05| Although you enjoy listening to Swerve and his adventures, sometimes it can get a bit overwhelming to be surrounded by so many people at once. Especially when Whirl starts getting tipsy. Thankfully Velocity is always ready to rescue you, sliding past the crow to guide you away and into the same space of her arms. Velocity has even rescued you from getting lost around the ship, always ready to pick you up when Red Alert tells her you're in wandering near the oil reservoir again. The height difference makes it easy for Velocity to bend down and kiss your forehead before letting your hand reach for hers.

06| At times you worry about your subtle way of affection, yet when it comes to Velocity, it was rarely difficult to communicate. There have been a few disagreements here and there, couple quarrels stemmed from your sudden distancing and Velocity's difficulty in expressing her emotions. But misunderstandings are always solved quickly, the two of you are more than happy to learn from one another to grow.

07| The good doctor understands that just because you don't make a big show out of your love doesn't mean you love her any less. It makes things more meaningful for Velocity, considering that she burst out crying when you got her a handmade gift for your anniversary.

08| In short Velocity loves spending time with you. She loves watching you paint and listening to your writing. One of the highlights of her day is finally getting to settle down in your shared habe-suite to watch some movies with you ( she's particularly big on historical fiction and comedy. She can't stomach horror well but she puts on a brave face for you.)

09| Whenever there's an opportunity for shore leave on a foreign planet, Velocity is always taking you to try the local markets. It will always end with the two of you under the stars, deep in discussion and laughter. She would look at you lovingly before kissing the back of your palm, knowing that she is one lucky bot to have you in her life.

I hope you enjoy this anon ! xx

#velocity #velocity idw #matchup #transformers matchup #transformers reader insert #reader inserts #idw #mtmte #headcanons #mtmte velocity #tf imagines #idw imagine #idw imagines #idw headcanons #matchups

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jingabitch · 4 years

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Armed to the Fangs ch.9

SUMMARY: you grew up in the hunter’s guild, understanding that it is your sacred duty as a hunter to protect humanity from the vampires that lurk in the dark, draining the life from anyone unlucky enough to be caught. while making the rounds one night, you encounter taehyung, a fabled born vampire - not that you know that when he tries to entice you into a dark alley. next thing you know, you’re kidnapped and taken to their home, where you realise that all of them somehow crave your blood and seem to know more about your past than you do. finding out about where you came from might be the key to setting humanity free.

PAIRING: eventual ot7 x reader

WARNINGS: some description of violence, angst, pining, maybe eventual smut but not for a looooong time, slow burn (really the slowest of burns), there is violence in this chapter, tense confrontation

RATING: T

WORD COUNT: 4k

A/N: yay action! thank you @pasteljeon and @jminacious for looking over this for me.

series index

Jungkook was the one who noticed it first.

His appetite started waning, and truth be told he hadn’t noticed it much at first. As the youngest of his brothers, he’d always had the greatest appetite of his brothers, always hungry. They’d promised that as he grew older, this would fade and he would no longer be so controlled by his bloodlust, but it hadn’t shown any promise so far. When he noticed that he was snacking less throughout the day, he chalked it up to that at first. Blood didn’t smell or taste as good anymore, but that was normal, right?

Besides, he had so much more to occupy his time now that you were around. He’d read that hunger was tied to boredom, and while life around the manor had been kind of mundane before, there was never a dull moment these days. Between spending time with you and your cat or listening to the stories of his brothers doing the same, there was so much more life in the manor now.

Really, it was no wonder that there was less time in his day (night?) for him to constantly be going down to the fridge now. And just like that, he managed to convince himself that a vampire losing his appetite for blood wasn’t really a problem.

Still, even the eternally optimistic and sunny baby boy of the manor could not ignore the fact that when the new delivery of blood arrived and he went to put them in the fridge, there wasn’t any space because it was still packed with the blood bags from last month.

“That’s weird,” he muttered to himself as he perused the contents of the fridge. He knew he hadn’t been drinking as much, but the others hadn’t said they were limiting their consumption either. And yet, based on how many packs were piled on top of each other, it looked like hardly any of them had been taking any at all.

It wasn’t the only strange thing that was happening around here, he thought as he remembered his strange visit with Hoseok a couple of days ago. He’d kept quiet about it out of respect to his hyung, recalling how desperately the older vampire had begged him to keep it a secret. Against his better judgement, he had, though in the back of his mind he still worried.

He was still standing in front of the fridge, frowning at the neat piles of blood bags, when you ran down the stairs. He truly didn’t know how you’d been a hunter when you were so goddamn loud all the time. It sounded like you were stomping through the hallways every day.

“Y/n,” he greeted as you darted past him.

“Oh, hey!” You paused to greet him. You were dressed in the same black jacket and trousers you’d been in when Taehyung first brought you to the manor, with your gun strapped to your hip and – he was sure – knives in your boots. Thankfully, as you’d eased up around them, you stopped carrying around the machine gun on your back, but you still felt vulnerable and naked being unarmed. Old habits die hard, after all.

“Where are you rushing to?” he asked, observing your jittery and anxious demeanor. Your eyes were constantly flicking towards the hallway that led to the front door and you couldn’t stop shifting your weight from one foot to another.

“Oh, Jennie-unnie said she was going to come visit today, so…” You trailed off.

“Right, okay.” He smiled at you to hide his unease. One hunter in their midst had been nerve-wracking enough at first, and you were his mate. He knew you were best friends with Jennie, though, so he tried to keep an open mind about her.

You didn’t notice his hesitance, so excited about finally seeing Jennie again. Since you’d been living at the manor, you hadn’t been able to meet any of your old hunter friends, and as much as you were starting to enjoy living here, you did miss them. Jennie had just texted you to let you know that she was almost here, so you were on your way to greet her.

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

Jennie stood in front of the manor, staring up at the massive, imposing building. Her fingers were loosely curled around the barrel of her shotgun as she remembered the task from the Head.

“You have to get rid of her,” he said impassively.

Jennie’s eyes widened. This wasn’t what she’d expected. “But sir,” she started to protest. “I’m sure there are other options we can explore first – recalling her, training her again…” Her eyes searched Master Bang’s expression for any sign of sadness or regret at having to issue such an order for you, the hunter he had practically raised.

“You know there is no other option for a vampire sympathizer,” he cut her off.

“Sir, please,” she begged, tears falling down her face. She didn’t want to have to do this. You’d just been misled by the vampires you were living with, that was all. This was an unprecedented situation, wasn’t it? Did he have to be so cruel?

“You have your orders.” His tone was firm and brooked no opposition. She’d been a hunter long enough to know what that meant.

“Yes, sir,” she muttered in defeat, before turning to leave. Her shoulders slumped and her head bowed as she shut the door behind her.

One would think, probably, that she would be more of a mess. Crying, maybe, from the stress of having such a mission placed upon her. But Jennie was, first and foremost, a hunter, and she would carry out her orders no matter how much she didn’t want to. Her eyes were dry and focused, her hands steady. The last thing she could do for you was to make it a clean shot, so you felt no pain.

Still, she swore, she would avenge you. After carrying out your execution, she would make it her life’s mission to hunt down and kill all the bloodsuckers who’d made you like this. Who’d pretended to be civilized and kind, intentionally misleading you and tempting you from the path of austerity that hunters committed to. How dare they, she thought, her fingers tightening around the handle of her gun. When she finally got her hands on them, it wouldn’t be a clean, pretty shot like she was going to give you. She was going to make them suffer for what they’d done to you.

“Unnie!” you called out, opening one side of the double doors. You waved at her cheerily as you skipped down the steps to the driveway where she was standing.

“L/n Y/n,” she said emotionlessly, raising her gun to your face. You stopped short at the unexpected sight.

“Unnie, what’s going on?” you asked, eyes darting to her weapon as you raised your hands in the air. Your training kicked in automatically - don’t say or do anything that might startle the person holding a weapon at you, of course, and always follow every instruction they give you. Still, as composed as you looked on the outside, you were a mess inside. Thankfully Jennie wasn’t a vampire, because she would have been able to hear your heart rate ratcheting up. Hell, you could hear it pounding away in your ears.

“Drop your gun on the floor,” she instructed, her eyes flicking down your body. She knew you definitely had them on you. The months you’d spent here couldn’t break the habits of a lifetime.

“Okay,” you said slowly, keeping your left hand in the air as you slowly reached down with your right, shifting the lapel of your jacket aside so she could see the holster strapped to your hip. “I’m going to take my gun out, okay?” When she nodded, you took the gun out and bent down to put it on the ground.

Meanwhile, Jungkook heard the conversation from the kitchen and ran out. You’d never closed the door, and he was standing behind you, in the door frame. “Jungkook,” you cautioned, hearing his footsteps, “You should go back in.”

“Y/n, what’s going on?”

“Jungkook, this is hunter business. You need to go inside.” You didn’t know why you were trying to protect Jungkook when Jennie had never even faltered in her aim, clearly uncaring that he was there. He might be a vampire, but to you he seemed so young and innocent, and you didn’t want him to have you watch you get your brains blown out.

“Y/n, come back in!” His raised voice drew the attention of his brothers, who all dropped what they were doing to come see what was going on.

Hoseok, still in his room, pulled back the drawn curtains slightly to check out the commotion. He gasped when he saw the hunter standing in the driveway, her gun pointed straight at you.

“Unnie,” you ignored Jungkook to address Jennie, “why are you doing this?” Your voice didn’t tremble, even though you were staring down the barrel of her gun. Jennie wasn’t crazy, you knew, and she had to have a good reason for showing up here all of a sudden to murder you.

“Master Bang…” In the face of your calmness, her voice unexpectedly trembled. She swallowed hard, then tried again. “You’ve changed, Y/n. You’re sympathizing with vampires now, and there’s no place for that in our organization, you know that.”

“Jennie-unnie…” you pleaded. “Don’t do this, please.”

“I have to,” she whispered, the sound of her voice barely carrying in the wind. “Goodbye, Y/n.”

In the second before she pulled the trigger, there was a giant crash from upstairs and glass and plaster rained down on them. Jennie, who was standing exposed, screamed and threw her hands up over her head to protect her face, and without looking up to see what had caused the commotion, you dropped to the ground and rolled, picking up your gun as you went.

When you looked back up, in a different position now, you saw Jennie lowering her arms – and, nearby, Hoseok, who’d apparently flung himself out the window and was lying on the gravel now, groaning in pain. “Shit!” he hissed. His body, which was already weak from starvation, had not been in any position for what he’d just put it through.

Your eyes flicked towards him, ascertaining that he was alive, before returning to Jennie. You needed to help Hoseok, but before that, you really needed to get rid of your friend – former friend? – and fellow hunter.

“Unnie, you need to leave,” you said firmly, pointing the gun at her.

“No,” she insisted, aiming at you again.

You flicked the safety off with your thumb. It was a bluff, of course – you could never actually shoot her – but she didn’t need to know that. “I’m going to count to ten, and if you’re not back in your car by the time I’m done, I’m going to start shooting.”

Jennie’s lips flattened into a line, but she knew that you were a crack shot. You’d started learning how to shoot a gun when you were six, after all. As good as her aim was, yours was better. She had no chance against you.

“Ten…” You started counting. Jennie started backing away, though she held her gun up to you the entire time.

“Nine… eight…” She rounded the car, sliding into the driver’s seat. It was only when she was in that the gun aimed at you was put away, although you didn’t lower your weapon as the car started.

“Seven… six…” You continued counting until she drove away, then hastily stuffed your gun back in its holster. As you ran over to the man who was still lying prone, you heard the six other vampires in the house burst through the door to get to their fallen brother.

You reached first and fell to your knees next to him. “Hey… you okay?” you asked, touching his face gently. To your shock, he jerked away from you with more force than you would have thought him capable of, given how weak and in pain he looked earlier.

“Get away from me,” he snarled.

“Hey, I just want to help, it’s okay, I won’t hurt you,” you rushed to soothe him, thinking that he was reacting to a hunter coming close. He was the one you’d interacted with the least, after all, so it wasn’t a stretch of the imagination to think that he didn’t trust you because you were – had been? – a hunter.

Instead of being comforted by your words, however, he just bared his fangs at you again. By this point, the others had reached you, and Jungkook, who recognized the expression on Hoseok’s face as ravenous hunger, quickly got between the two of you.

“Wha—hey!” you protested as you were shoved aside. “What are you doing?”

“Sorry, Y/n,” Jimin said apologetically as Namjoon knelt on the ground next to Hoseok. You couldn’t hear what they were saying or see what was going on through their legs.

“Yeah, he’s in pretty bad shape and it’s dangerous for you to be around him,” Taehyung added. You stood up and brushed the dirt off your clothes. What was he talking about? You tried to peer over their shoulders at Hoseok, who was now being lifted by Jungkook and Jin, but they closed ranks around him so that you couldn’t see him.

“We’ll just put him back in his room, okay? Why don’t you go get some rest, you look pretty shaken up.” Jimin came close to try and hug you, then seemed to hesitate at the last moment, his arms awkwardly stretched out. He didn’t actually know how you would react to a hug, since all of them had made sure to keep a respectful distance from you.

To extricate you both from the uncomfortable position, you took a step back and his hands fell to his sides. “Right, well…” you said, looking away. “I’ll see you later, then. Feel better soon, Hoseok-ssi.” Then you turned and walked away, heading back to your room.

Yoongi sighed as they watched you leave. “She’s going to have a hard time later,” Yoongi predicted, and the others nodded, a few murmuring in assent. They would need to see if she was all right, but later. First, their brother demanded their attention.

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

It felt like your body and your mind were on autopilot as you walked back to your room, retracing the path you’d taken earlier this evening, when you’d been so excited to see Jennie. So much had changed in the few minutes that she’d been here, and you could hardly process it.

The room you returned to seemed different, somehow, even though you knew it was objectively the same. Injeolmi came to greet you, chattering softly as he wove around your ankles, and you bent down to pick him up, rubbing your face in his fur for comfort. This room, once your prison and workplace, was now the only place you had to call your own. For now, anyway – you didn’t know if the boys would even want you to remain here now that you weren’t playing a diplomatic role. You didn’t need anyone to tell you that you were no longer a part of the Guild, not after a hunter had been dispatched to kill you.

Almost robotically, you walked over to the drawer where you kept your weapons, putting your gun away and hanging up your holster. You toed off your boots, keeping the knives you kept in them, then fell onto your bed face-down with a groan. Injeolmi hopped onto the covers next to you, looking concerned as he sniffed at your hair.

Even though you wanted to, you couldn’t cry, the tears refusing to come. Instead, you just lay there, not even attempting to process your emotions. What was there to think about? You’d been cast out of the Guild, the only home you’d ever known. Worse, you’d been sentenced to death. Even if Jennie hadn’t succeeded in carrying out her orders, it was only a matter of time before other hunters showed up to finish what she’d started. Your days were numbered.

Thankfully, your whole body was still numb from the shock, and every emotion was dulled. While adrenaline had allowed you to act quickly, picking up your gun when you saw the opportunity, now that it was fading, so, it felt, were you.

Closing your eyes, you ignored the plaintive meows of your cat as you tried to block the world out. As the energy drained from your body, all that was left was an overwhelming exhaustion that you allowed to steal your consciousness.

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

“Hobi, what’s going on with you?” Yoongi fussed over his brother. Since there was now a giant hole in the window in his own bedroom, Hoseok had been brought to Yoongi’s, the older vampire gladly giving up his bed for his brother. This was the first time that most of them had seen him in weeks, and they were shocked by how weak and sickly he looked – even accounting for the fact that he’d thrown himself out a window.

“Nothing,” Hoseok groaned, even though they could all clearly see that it was a lie. His colour was off, and his jawline and cheekbones were more sharply defined than before. He curled up in bed, clearly still in pain, which meant his healing abilities had been affected too.

Namjoon sat down on the bed next to him, patting his face with some concern. Vampires were made of hardy stuff, and there were few things that could cause something like this. “How long has this been going on?” he asked.

“Couple weeks,” Hoseok gritted out, turning his face away from his brothers. He just wanted to go to sleep, and they kept bothering him.

Namjoon’s gasp made him turn his head back to his brother, and the shocked expression on his face made him kick himself inside. Of course Namjoon would be able to put two and two together.

“It’s her, isn’t it?” Namjoon asked. Resigned, Hoseok nodded slightly.

“Hobi…”

“Stop,” he groaned. “I can’t deal with this all over again.”

“Well, it doesn’t appear like you have a choice, does it?” Jin cut in. “Or did you just happen to fall out of your window just in time to save her?”

“Hyung…”

Seeing his obvious pain and misery, Jin relented. “Fine, you should get some rest. But we’re talking about this later.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything else.” Despite his current state, Hoseok never missed a chance to mouth off to Jin.

“All right, everybody clear out,” Jin ordered. As all of them filed out, he turned back to take one last look at his brother, who’d turned onto his side and pressed his face into the pillow.

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

There was a minor scuffle among the remaining boys over who would get to see how you were doing – one that Yoongi, surprisingly, won. He claimed that he was bored because he’d had to give up his room to Hoseok while the window in the latter’s room was fixed, but his brothers knew better than that.

As he walked down the hallway to your room, Yoongi straightened his clothes. He really should remember not to get into physical altercations with his brothers, especially that muscle pig Jungkook, he thought to himself. Not that the younger really had a chance against him, but it was usually annoying.

Standing outside the door to your rooms, Yoongi hesitated before knocking. He remembered the shell-shocked expression on your face earlier and knew that you’d be dealing with some pretty intense shit right now. You might not want any company, but he figured it couldn’t hurt to let you know that you weren’t alone.

With that in mind, he rapped his knuckles against the solid wood of the door, then waited. There was no response, and he tried again. When he heard only silence through the door, he grew concerned.

His hand hovered over the doorknob as he debated over whether or not to enter without permission. He didn’t want to interrupt you or invade your privacy, but at the same time, he was worried – you hadn’t even spoken to tell him to go away. In the end, his curiosity about what you were up to won out over his prudence, and he opened the door, promising himself that he would only check to see if you were safe before leaving if you wanted him to.

It was cool and dark in your rooms, and Yoongi didn’t see you at first. “Y/n?” he called quietly. You didn’t respond, but Injeolmi woke up and leapt off the bed, padding quietly over to Yoongi.

“Hello,” he greeted the cat. He wasn’t as fond of Injeolmi as Jimin was, but even he had to admit that Injeolmi was an exceptionally good-looking and well-behaved feline, a fine companion for their mate. Injeolmi blinked at him, then went into his litter box.

“That’s nice,” he said with a slight grimace before continuing into the bedroom. There he found you, still dressed and wearing your socks, lying face down on the bed. Your legs dangled off the mattress and your arms were laying by your sides, looking for all the world like you’d just collapsed out of exhaustion, which was basically what had happened.

He knew that he should leave now that he’d ascertained that you were fine, but seeing you look so defeated, he couldn’t help but feel a tug in his chest, compelling him to go to your aid.

Gingerly, he sat on the edge of the mattress next to you, raised a hand to place it on your back, then thought better of it.

“Y/n?” he said again. This time, you stirred slightly. Emboldened, he repeated your name.

As you woke up, you became aware that you were lying face down in a puddle of your own drool, and you pulled your face away from your bedspread with a grimace. “Ugh,” you groaned, wiping at your cheeks and chin with the long sleeve of your shirt. Yoongi looked at you with fond amusement, as you suddenly became aware that he was there and lowered your arm to the bed sheepishly.

“What are you doing here?” you asked with a cute little scowl. He noted that your reflexes had slipped from when you’d first arrived, although he wasn’t sure if you’d eased up because you trusted them more now or if it was a result of your emotional state.

“I just wanted to check up on you,” Yoongi said simply with a little shrug.

“I’m fine,” you grouched, even though you really weren’t.

“I know,” Yoongi accepted, instead of calling you out on your lie. “Just… I had to give Hobi my room, so is it okay if I chill out here for a little while?”

You knew what he was doing, and you appreciated it more than you could say. “Sure, you can stay,” you allowed, striving for nonchalance. From the small smile he gave you, though, you knew that you’d missed the mark. Still, he didn’t call you out on it, instead crawling onto the bed so that he was reclining against the pillows you’d stacked against the headboard.

You followed suit, snuggling close to him and throwing an arm over his middle. Your forehead pressed against his side, and you closed your eyes. You knew that you definitely wouldn’t have done something like this if you were in your right mind, but you’d never felt so alone and helpless in your life and here Yoongi was, offering his own quiet, subtle brand of comfort that you couldn’t help but take greedily.

Yoongi draped an arm around you, rubbing his thumb against your back, and stayed there with you, letting you know without words that you hadn’t been completely abandoned. No matter what, you had him in your corner.

#ficswithluv #bangtanarmynet #ot7 #ot7 x reader #ot7 fanfiction #ot7 fic #bts ot7 #bts fanfiction #bts fic #bts x reader

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paperstarwriters · 4 years

Text

My Spark For You.

This is a kinda prequel to Multiverse Martyr on Ao3 (link provided) Can be looked at as Ratchet/Optimus or Ratchet & Optimus (for those who don’t know “/” is romantic “&” is platonic)

The fic is based off of two ideas: one, Every time Optimus dies he resets (main plot of Multiverse Martyr) and two, Ratchet starves himself of energon. If anyone has the link to the post discussing those details feel free to stick it down in a reblog or something, I’m too lazy to do it right now.

Update: found the link here

Ratchet was always there for him. It was a universal constant. Every time he died, every time he started again, Ratchet would be there for him. Ratchet would be there to support him. To help. To heal. That wasn't his only job of course, Ratchet couldn't spend every waking moment worrying about him. Ratchet had his own problems he would have to deal with, and he would never wish to burden his old friend with something so heavy that he may not even remember. Something that could be forgotten if he died. If his spark extinguished again, if Megatron or some other Decepticon, killed him again, he could start all over. Go back to the beginning and try again. Go back to the beginning and find Ratchet again. Like a metal drawn to a magnet the injured always went to Ratchet. It wasn't surprising then that Ratchet knew he was injured.

"Is everything alright Optimus?"

He asked him every timeline. Every timeline he would reply in honest.

"No."

Lying to ratchet was no easy feat at first, but after so many deaths, Optimus forced himself to learn. Yet that simple question that he asked at the beginning of the war, he could never bring himself to lie. He always hoped that maybe once, once Ratchet would look at him and say,

"I'm here for you Optimus."

He stared at him for a second trying to confirm that he heard ratchet say the exact words from his processer. It wasn't the usual "Whatever it is, I know you can do it," or "Do you need some time alone?" that was the last thing he needed-- more reason to try and haul all these problems by himself.

"Thank you old friend. Thank you... I needed that."

He flashed him a grin, a rarity hidden under his usual grumpy nature, yet something he did every time. Something, Optimus would like to argue, that was for him alone. So was it foolish to want to protect that smile? Was it foolish to do anything to protect those precious to you?

No. He liked to believe that even Megatron thought that still, just as the three of them did long ago.

If it was an attack. Some great bomb or Megatron threatening to stab his sword into Ratchet's spark, then maybe it would be easier. Optimus could rush in and save him. He could plan some sort of escape, or worst comes to worse sacrifice himself and start all over again. What made that so difficult, was that it was his fault it had happened. Rushing into danger all the time even if they didn't have the energon needed. Staying so focused on Megatron and protecting humans that he didn't even have the time to notice Ratchet until it was far too late.

He skipped out on his energon meals. While the rest of the team kept themselves steadily full, and took extra when they got injured, Ratchet starved himself in order to let them keep fighting. What hurt the most was that his reasoning made sense. If not for Optimus' place as leader and constantly jumping into battle, he would most eagerly do the same. Starve himself for the others-- for Ratchet to remain healthy and well. He loathed how he would do that, and he loathed that he HAD done that. Sacrifice himself for others and leaving them with this pain that he felt.

He wondered how many times Ratchet wept after he died. How many times Ratchet ran into the face of danger to attempt to save him. How many times did Ratchet end up worse for wear after he died? Starving himself of energon to try and feed some back into his dead frame.

Only now Optimus held his dead frame.

It hurt. As a mech who died so many times trying to save others, as a mech who had their frame rearranged upon taking up the accursed matrix, this hurt the most. Watching others die, and being helpless to do anything. Except he wasn't helpless, was he?

The rest of the Autobots mourned with him heads lowered as he continued to cradle Ratchet's frame in his arms. They found him in the main base, during a time where they had a lack of energon. They thought they would be able to last at least a while longer. They didn’t know about Ratchet. Not until it was too late.

But nothing was ever too late for Optimus. The team mourned. They wouldn't show it now, but Optimus knew they were going to cry their optics out later. In private. Just as he did. They buried their sorrows, following him and his example, not knowing how much he hated to do it. How deep would they bury their sorrow after if he died? They would undoubtedly suffer, just as he would for the others. Yet he couldn’t help it. He was greedy. Selfish. Unbefitting as a leader.

"Forgive me," he whispered.

It took the Autobots a moment to realize that Optimus wasn't talking to Ratchet, just the amount of time it took Optimus to open his chest plating and rip out his spark. It was the first time he took his own life, by his own hand at least, and it was shoddily done. He was alive for much more longer than he intended. Long enough to see them all scream and cry and beg for him to come back. Beg someone to go fix him, only who could they ask? Their medic was dead. Cliffjumper tried to shake him, to place his spark back into his chest, but even with the fading strength, Optimus wouldn't dare let him even try. He crushed his spark in his own servo, knowing he was crushing the others' as well.

They wouldn't remember though. They wouldn’t remember, and as long as they didn’t know, he was fine to carry their sorrows on his own.

Optimus awoke on the battlefield on Cybertron. Pain etched itself into every inch of his newly rearranged frame, but this time, he didn't scream. He didn’t scream like he did all those runs beforehand. He was far too tired. He blocked every con blow they tried to hit him with, memorizing their movements from the many times he's done this before. Duck here, slice there, fire over there and ignore Megatron's irritating yelling, muttering every line he yelled in perfect harmony with him. The battle couldn't have ended sooner, but it was a practiced dance that assured the safety of the other Autobots, including Ratchet. As soon as he left the battle, he revved up his engines and traveled to get to Ratchet. It took him a few days, not one of his faster runs, but not the longest either.

Ratchet was cornered by a bunch of cons, a set, Optimus effortlessly took care of, a momentary redemption for not saving Ratchet before. It hurt to see that stare though. The stare of confusion and slight fear as Ratchet stared at a bot he didn’t know, or at least didn't recognize, but a a mere pinprick to the sight he died to.

"Ah, thank you…"

"It is good to see you again my old friend, I apologize for not coming sooner." He never knew what linked that line back to him, he never knew how Ratchet could connect it to his old name, but every time, without fail, he did.

"Orion…?"

And every time, he smiled.

#optimus prime #tfp #tfp ratchet #tfp optimus prime #Multiverse Martyr #transformers fanfiction #Optimus x Ratchet #Platonic #or romantic #fluff #angst #cross posted on ao3 #or it will be at least #eventually #Transformers

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dirtyhelen · 4 years

Text

mess me up (yeah, no one does it better)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader Rating: Explicit (18+) Featuring: Smut; Established Relationship; Daddy Kink; Dirty Talk; Pet Names; Briefly Implied Past Rape/Non-Con (Not of Reader)*, Blowjob; Cock Slapping (As In Slapping Your Face); Grinding; Facial; Vaginal Fingering; Vaginal Sex; Creampie; Aftercare Words: 6249 Summary: This is why you love this particular game. It’s Bucky’s ability to clear your mind of everything – anxiety and insecurity and shame – until all that’s left is him. Until all you want, all you need, is to please him. When you’re overwhelmed with the stress of just existing – all the choices, all the consequences – he makes it simple. A/N: Please mind the tags, and see the end-note for a more detailed warning of the Past Rape/Non-Con tag if you would like to know before reading... “Is the smut sexy or just long and extremely vulgar?” A question I asked myself often while writing this, that you may also be asking yourself while reading. If you find the answer, feel free to let me know ‘cause I’m still not sure! Title from Make Me Feel by Janelle Monae. ________________________________________________________________

“On your knees, bunny,” Bucky orders, his voice soft. You sink obediently down to the pillow laid out for you on the floor, resting your hands on your thighs as you look up at him expectantly.

Bucky looms over you, knows just how to use his size to his advantage, seeming to fill every inch of the room until he’s all you can see. He stands tall, fully clothed still, and you feel vulnerable kneeling naked at his feet. Entirely at his mercy. With your eyes locked on his, neck craning at the angle required, you hear more than see his hands go to his belt buckle. There’s metal on metal as the clasp is undone, then the slide of leather through denim belt loops, then the thwack as it’s tossed to the floor, just outside your periphery. Next you hear the release of a button and the achingly slow drag of a zipper being undone until finally, it’s skin on skin. Your mouth waters and your breathing quickens in anticipation of what’s to come. You’re dying to look down where you know Bucky will have drawn his cock out of his jeans, no underwear on a night like this, but you know better than to look away with his eyes still on yours. You’re rewarded for your obedience with a smile, soft and genuine, sending a rush of warmth through your body and a flood of slick to your cunt. God, he hasn’t even done anything yet and you’re already desperate. For his approval, for his touch, for his attention. Anything he’s willing to give you. You’re already sinking into that place where nothing matters except him, except pleasing him. Stepping forward, Bucky gives you a nod, signaling it’s okay for you to drop his gaze and immediately your eyes fall to look at his right hand gripping his cock, stroking it lightly just inches from your face. You watch him reverently, mouth opening almost reflexively. Bucky angles his cock toward you, tracing the head along your lips, pre-cum smearing over your mouth like lipgloss. You can’t help but reach out your tongue for a taste but you realize your error when Bucky pulls away, followed by the swift, sharp strike of his cock against your cheek. You gasp at the shock of it, but slick seeps from your opening at the same time. Bucky tuts at you, eyebrow raised. “Did I give you permission to lick my cock?” he asks, holding his length firmly against the side of your face. You feel the hard, heavy weight of it, feel it pulse in time with Bucky’s heartbeat, a steady throb against your cheek. Your own heart starts to race, and you shake your head. “No, daddy, you didn’t give me permission.” “That’s right, bunny.” Bucky repeats the move, slapping his cock against your cheeks in fast, firm smacks. “Good girls are patient. Good girls wait for permission before opening their pretty little mouths for cock.” He punctuates each sentence with another slap. By the time he’s finished your cheeks are slick with trails of pre-cum, glistening in the low light of the room. Bucky smears it around, rubbing it into your skin with the tip of his cock before he tucks himself back into his jeans. It’s vulgar. It’s degrading. You love it. But it’s supposed to be a punishment so you try to look contrite. “I’m sorry, daddy. I’m a good girl, I promise,” you apologize, voice pitched breathy and eyes wide and innocent. You clasp your hands primly in your lap as though you’re not kneeling naked on the floor with your pussy soaking wet. “Sorry, huh?” You nod. “You’re a good girl?” You nod again, almost frantically this time. Bucky pauses and you watch as his expression hardens. He lets the silence hang heavy in the air for a moment or two, leaving you off-kilter and scrambling a little. Letting suspense build until it’s almost fear before he speaks again. “Then why’re squirming around like that?” He nods down at your thighs and you hadn’t realized you’ve been clenching them together and rocking just a little in a sloppy rhythm – trying to get some pressure against your aching clit. You hadn’t realized, but Bucky had. Nothing happens here that he doesn’t notice. You might feel selfish for it. For putting all the power and responsibility in Bucky’s hands so you can just let go. But it works exactly because it’s not all about you. Bucky needs this just as much, probably even more. Hydra took his agency away from him. Took everything from him, body and mind, made him a weapon to be used and a toy to be played with without ever giving him a say in the matter. But here, he gets to set the rules. Gets to decide what happens to his body: what it does, when it’s touched, and how. And here, there are consequences when those rules are broken. He would never, never hurt you the way Hydra hurt him, but this game – and that’s what this is, a game you play together, where everyone knows the rules and agrees to them, where you can stop anytime – allows him to take ownership of his body in a way he never could with them, allows him to reclaim his body. It’s the ultimate expression of trust for you both. You trust each other to set boundaries and keep to them; you trust each other enough to lay bare the most vulnerable parts of yourselves, knowing the end result is so, so worth it. Bucky lets your heartrate ratchet up for another few seconds then kneels down so you’re face-to-face, leaning in close. “You don’t look very sorry. Not much like a good girl at all.” He shakes his head, the picture of authoritative disappointment. “No, bunny. You look like a slut.” He says it so easy, voice soft and low like he’s casually telling you good morning or asking how your day was. It sends a shiver running down your spine and you can’t help the whimper that rises up from your throat. Bucky’s eyes flash before his expression shifts from cultivated blankness into a mockery of your own, exaggerated pout and furrowed brows. “Aw, poor little bunny,” he coos, sticky sweet. “Just can’t help it can you? So desperate for daddy’s cock – in your mouth, in your cunt.” You nod eagerly. “Can’t help sneaking a taste, can’t help wiggling around like a whore. That right?” Your throat is dry and it feels like there’s not enough air in your lungs but you manage to gasp out a response. “Yes, daddy. Want it so bad, please.” Bucky hums thoughtfully, like he’s considering something. He lifts a hand to cup your cheek and you lean into his touch. “We both want the same thing, sweetheart. You want my cock and I wanna give it to you. Wanna fuck your pretty mouth before I fuck your pretty pussy.” His thump strokes over your bottom lip and you let out a quiet moan. Bucky lets his hand drop, standing up and looming over you once more as he tucks himself back into his jeans. “But daddy wants all his baby’s attention when she’s sucking his cock. And I’m not gonna get that if you’re too busy thinking about that drippy little hole between your legs am I, bunny?” You’re so desperate to take his cock – anywhere he wants to put it – that you almost protest, insist you can ignore the heat in your core and focus only on him, but you know he’s right so you settle on a resigned, “No, daddy,” instead, not sure where this is leading. Bucky’s face softens and you know you’ve chosen the correct response. “That’s right, baby. So daddy’s gonna be real sweet and let you get yourself off before he lets you suck his cock.” Almost instantly your hand is falling to your folds, fingers ready to start circling your clit. You’re so worked up it’ll only take a few minutes and then you’ll get to take Bucky’s cock in your mouth, make him feel good. Get to hear all those deep moans and breathy sighs. Feel his cock pulse on your tongue as he comes, bitter and hot down your throat. You’re stopped in your tracks, fingers just brushing through the hair framing your cunt, by the cool grip of Bucky’s metal hand, curled around your jaw and squeezing just a little. You look up to see his eyes, cool and unimpressed, on yours. “Uh-uh-uh. I wasn’t finished. So impatient tonight, bunny. I should take you over my knee for that. I will, if you move again without my permission,” he warns. “Do you understand?” You do your best to nod with his hand still gripping your jaw. “I said you could get off. I didn’t say you could use your hands.” You frown, confused, and let out a quizzical little whine. Bucky chuckles, metal thumb stroking your cheek before he moves to sit on the bed, settling himself against the headboard and leaving you kneeling on the floor facing him. He spreads his legs, patting the space between them with a smile and you stand, ready to settle yourself between his legs, but still unsure what he wants. His next order, spoken as you’re about to lift one knee onto the bed, makes that clear. “Don’t forget the pillow.” Your mouth drops open as your face fills with heat at the implication. You’ve touched yourself in front of Bucky before – with fingers and toys alike – so many times you feel no shame in it anymore. But this is different. Obscene in a way riding a toy designed for the purpose somehow isn’t. Embarrassing. Like you’re so desperate you’ll grind against anything, even the same pillow you rest your head on at night. You know that’s why Bucky’s chosen this particular method. That’s the whole point of this game for you, really. To take you to a place where shame and self-consciousness cease to exist. Where all that’s left is pleasure, yours and his, and you’d do anything to get it. And he’s so good at getting you there. Breaking you down with filthy words and calculated demands. Getting you so needy that you can finally let go and just obey because you know – because you trust – that Bucky will only lead you to pleasure. Feeling a fresh rush of slick coating your folds, you grab the pillow and settle yourself in the space Bucky’s left between his legs, facing him. You fold the pillow between your thighs, gripping one end in your hands, the other between your feet, holding it taut so there’s some tension to grind down against. But you don’t make contact yet. Bucky notices your hesitation and urges you on. “Come on, bunny. Daddy wants to see you hop.” His voice is gentle but stern and you know an order when you hear one. Face hot and heart pounding, you spread your thighs, lowering yourself until there’s no space between your cunt and the pillow, soft cotton pressed tight against your slick, heated flesh. It’s so soft, barely any real pressure at all, but after all the buildup and with Bucky’s undivided attention on you, the friction on your clit is almost intoxicating and you start a slow, stuttering grind, eyes slipping shut. “Good girl,” he tells you, voice rough, as you fall into a long, dragging rhythm. You open your eyes to find his gaze fixed between your legs, his cheeks flushed pink. Your own face burns from the praise, and the motion of your hips increases until you’re grinding in short thrusts, as fast as your body will allow. “That’s it, bunny. Fuck, look at you. Fucking desperate, huh?” His hand squeezes over the bulge in his jeans and you moan at the sight but can’t summon the energy to respond to his question, all your efforts tied up in the relentless grind of your clit against the pillow. He’s right though, you are desperate, or getting there at least. You’re so close, so wet the pillowcase must be soaked through, but it’s not enough. Not enough friction to really get you off. Just enough to frustrate, to tease at the possibility of an orgasm. You want it – need it – so badly, not just for you but for Bucky. He told you to come like this and you want nothing more than to do what he says but you can’t. Your thighs are getting tired and it feels like you’ve reached a plateau of sensation, somehow under and overstimulated at once. Your legs will give out before you ever get close enough to come. The frustration of it all, worse – the idea of disappointing Bucky – has tears gathering in your eyes and you let out a keening whine you know must sound utterly pathetic as your movement stutters to a stop. “I can’t. Daddy, I can’t,” you whimper, tears spilling over as you admit defeat. “I’m sorry. I’m so close, but I can’t.” Bucky’s face softens immediately, genuine this time, not mocking. He’s an expert at this by now, knows the difference between tears of pleasure and tears of frustration. Knows when to be push and when to be gentle, and how to walk the fine line in between. He leans forward, pulling you off the pillow and into his arms. “Hush, baby, it’s okay. Don’t gotta apologize,” he soothes, pressing kisses to your cheeks and stroking his hands over your sides as you sniffle and curl into his embrace. He kisses his way to your mouth, chaste and tender as you calm down. When you’re limp and pliant in his lap he deepens the kiss, tongue forcing your mouth open and slipping inside. His hands start to move higher with each upstroke on your sides until he’s cupping your breasts, fingers pinching and pulling at your nipples. He works you up again until your hips are shifting, rocking down on nothing. Bucky breaks the kiss, leaning back to look at your face, your lips swollen and pupils blown wide. “Ready to try again?” he asks, knowing what the answer will be. “Yes please, daddy.” “I’ll help you this time, then. No shame in needing daddy’s help to get off, is there, bunny?” You shake your head in agreement, mind running wild with possibilities. Bucky tugs off his shirt then gestures for you to move back as he stands up to take off his jeans as well. When he’s completely nude he sits back down on his heels, knees spread, and pats his thigh the same way he’d patted the bed earlier, gesturing you to climb on. “That pillow wasn’t enough was it, baby? Nah, you need something harder to rub that soft little pussy against.” He pats his thigh again and you shift to straddle it. his hands clamp around your waist and he tugs you down until the slick, swollen folds of your cunt are pressed directly against the bare skin of his thigh. He groans, deep and low. “Fucking dripping, bunny. Fuck. Come on, make a mess on daddy’s leg,” he coaxes, tensing his muscles, really giving you something firm to grind down on. You start rocking your hips again and it’s so much better this time. Less friction now it’s skin on skin with your slick easing the way, but more pressure. Bucky grips your hips, taking some of your weight and helping you move and it’s intense. Your own hands are wrapped around his neck, head tossed back as you gasp and moan. His thigh is hot between yours and the drag of your clit against firm muscle has you quickly hurtling toward a mind-blowing orgasm. Bucky mouths at your neck, licking and sucking at the tender skin. You start grinding faster and your face heats at the filthy wet noise of it, slick and obscene, but it spurs you on as much as it embarrasses you. “That’s it, baby,” Bucky encourages and you can feel his cock, hard against your thigh. “Doing so good, so fucking good for daddy. Got me so hard, bunny. Can’t wait for you to come so I can fuck your pretty little mouth.” Bucky keeps talking, mouth running with every dirty thought that pops into his head, pushing you closer and closer to coming until you’re nearly there. You can tell he knows you’re about to come when you go silent, breath caught in your throat as though your body suddenly can’t perform its most basic functions until it’s given some release. His fingers dig deeper into your skin, hard enough to bruise as he drags you faster over his thigh. “Come on, that’s it. Wanna see you come all over me, bunny. Come for me. Come for daddy,” he orders and you’re helpless to obey. The breath you’ve been holding leaves you in a broken moan as your hips buck uncontrollably, cunt clenching on nothing. Bucky holds you through it, loosening his grip on your hips as you pant into his neck, but he shifts you off his lap before you can come down completely, just rough enough to startle you back to attention. He presses you back into the bed and licks into your mouth, dirty and deep, grinding his erection into your thigh and you’re reminded that he hasn’t come yet. You suck on his tongue a little, a sloppy approximation of what you’re going to do to his cock and he moans into your mouth before pulling away. “Fucking insatiable. My leg’s still wet from your cunt but you’re already begging for my cock in your mouth. Don’t worry, bunny, you’re gonna get it.” Bucky gets off the bed, moving to stand at the foot. You turn around until you face him, on elbows and knees. Bucky gives you a nod. “Go on, get started.” Permission granted you finally get your mouth on his cock. He lets you take it slow at first, keeps his hands at his sides as you lick up his length and around the head, dipping down occasionally to mouth at his balls. His deep, heavy breaths and rasping groans when you do something particularly good are all the encouragement you need, sending little shocks of pleasure through you with each new sound you pull from him. When you’re ready you take him into your mouth, working up into a careful rhythm and gliding a hand over what you can’t fit inside. Bucky holds your face in his hand, thumb pressing in just a little to feel his cock through your cheek every now and then. You can tell he’s had enough of the slow and steady when his hands move up into your hair. He pulls you off his cock and before he can ask if you’re ready your mouth is open wide, tongue held out and head angled for entry. You feel his fingers clench in your hair, just this side of painful. The metal hand moves to grip his cock and he slaps it against your tongue a couple times – you’re reminded of how that felt against your face and you’re tempted to disobey so you can feel it again – before guiding it into your mouth. Then he’s fucking into you, hands in your hair, moving your head back and forth along his cock like a toy as his hips thrust in time. “You were made for this, bunny. Made to take my cock like this. So good for me.” You moan at the praise, at the heat it sends to your core, and Bucky thrusts harder in response to the vibration. Rough as he is, and moving faster and faster as he nears orgasm, he’s careful to only give you what you can take, never going too far and forcing you to gag or choke. The pleasure is in your submission, not your discomfort, and he never forgets it. You know he’s close when he’s moaning on nearly every stroke and his rhythm starts to stutter. You double your efforts, hollowing your cheeks and licking around his length, eager for a mouthful of cum, for the physical evidence that you’ve succeeded in pleasing him, but Bucky tugs you off his cock before you can get what you want. Confused, you look up at his face to see him breathing heavy, bringing himself back under control and steeling his expression into something stern, even with his lips bitten red and his cheeks flushed. He squeezes at the base of his cock as he stares down at you. “Not gonna come in your mouth tonight, sweetheart, so don’t bother pouting about it. Lie down on your back,” he orders and you’re quick to comply, rolling over and shuffling back until your head is propped up on the pillows against the headboard. Bucky follows, kneeling over your body, straddling your chest with his cock angled toward your mouth. You spread your lips, presenting your mouth to be fucked but Bucky doesn’t press in, stroking himself instead. “I’m gonna come all over your face,” he says. “And you’re gonna thank me for it like a good girl, isn’t that right?” The thought of it, the idea of Bucky marking you that way, dirty and wrong and everything you’re not supposed to want – everything you only want with him – it sends a jolt of heat all through your body to settle in your clit with a throb. Has you garbling out some unintelligible whimper in response as your eyes stay glued to the way his hand moves in practiced motions around his length. Bucky chuckles above you and you manage to tear your eyes away from his cock to catch the look of dark amusement on his face. “What was that, baby? Gotta speak up. Or is my little bunny too cock-drunk to think straight?” “I want it,” you manage to gasp out. Your face burns with humiliation that only serves to make you more desperate as you plead. “Please, daddy, want you to come on my face. Mark me up, make me yours.” You see the effect your unusually bold words have on Bucky in the brief flash of heated shock on his face and the way his hand falters in its movement over his cock before picking up again faster. He leans in over you, metal hand gripping the headboard so hard you’re sure you can hear it creaking, right hand working his cock, fast and firm as he races toward orgasm. You feel utterly surrounded by him, thick thighs pressed in against your sides, torso curved over you. He’s all you can see, all you can hear – the wet sound of his hand on his spit-slicked cock, the panting breaths and uttered curses. Then he’s coming with a long, low moan and you feel it, hitting your face in hot, wet spurts. You gasp at the sensation and another thick rope lands across your lips, dripping into your mouth all salty and bitter as you swallow it down. Bucky strokes himself through his orgasm until every last drop is squeezed out of his cock and onto your face, until you feel truly covered in it, marked up just like you asked for. Spent, for the moment at least, Bucky slides down your body until he’s straddling your hips instead of your sides and takes a good, long look at his work. Your face is striped white with cum, all over your cheeks and chin. You make a little show of licking your lips, gathering up the drops there and swallowing with a smile. “Thank you, daddy.” “We’re not done yet, bunny. You wanted daddy to make a mess on your face, now you gotta clean it up,” Bucky says, and you whimper as he drags two fingers through the mess on your cheek, scooping cum onto his fingers and pushing them past your lips. You suck on his fingers instinctively, working your tongue around and between them, licking up every drop. He repeats the process, fucking your mouth with his fingers, pressing his cum into your tongue, until your face is nearly clean again. You smile around your last mouthful, opening wide to show Bucky there’s nothing left. He grins, filthy and sharp, then leans in and spits into your open mouth. You swallow that too and then he kisses you, dirty and deep, tasting himself on your tongue. “Good girl,” he whispers against your lips. He pulls back, shifting to lie between your thighs, and presses his lips to yours again, breaking off to kiss along your neck and shoulder, licking into the hollow of your throat and feeling your pulse flutter against his tongue. Before you know it you’re rolling your hips up against Bucky’s, your body remembering his promise to fuck your cunt once he’d finished fucking your face (you send up a silent thanks for supersoldier stamina). You feel him smirk against your mouth, grinding down against you a couple times, letting you feel his cock getting hard against your thigh. “Feeling neglected, baby? Messy little cunt getting lonely, all wet and warm with nothing to fill it, huh?” You nod with a needy hum and Bucky’s sitting up, hand sliding down your belly and combing through wiry hair to cup the whole of your pussy in his palm. You keen, rocking up against him as he shushes you, pushing two thick fingers into you at once. Immediately you’re grinding down on them with a moan, trying to coax him to move inside you, curl his fingers into your g-spot, something, anything. But quick as that his fingers are gone and you feel the sharp shock of a warning slap on the inside of your thigh. Once again, Bucky’s metal hand grips your chin, keeping your eyes on his face as his right hand moves back to your cunt. “Who does this belong to?” he asks, voice glacially cold, tapping his fingers against your opening but not pressing inside. “You, daddy. It belongs to you,” you manage, though his hand keeps its hold on your jaw. “That’s right, bunny. Daddy owns this sloppy little hole.” His fingers start to move in circles, smearing slick around your hole with soft, wet noises. “Daddy decides when it gets fucked—” He pushes in just the tips of his fingers. “—and filled.” He slides in hard, immediately finding your g-spot and rubbing against it roughly. “And little bunnies,” he says over the rising sounds of your gasps and moans, “take what they’re given and say thank you.” He punctuates the last two words with particularly firm thrusts against your g-spot and you cry out, high and breathless. “Th-thank you,” you gasp and he adds a third finger, scissoring them inside you, opening you up for his cock. His fingers move at a relentless pace, pounding into your g-spot, ratcheting you higher and higher. But he purposely avoids even the slightest touch to your clit, keeping your orgasm maddeningly just out of reach. He keeps at it until you’re writhing in his grip, wordless pleas falling from your lips with every breath, so close it’s almost too much. And then it’s nothing at all, sensation gone as Bucky’s fingers pull out in a swift drag, replaced by the wide head of his cock. His metal hand falls from your face and he shifts, using it to hold himself up as he leans in over you again, right hand guiding his tip to rest just inside your cunt. Bucky catches your eye, holding your gaze as he enters you in a single, long thrust. Even with the work of his fingers to open you up you can feel the stretch of his cock, thick and long, filling you up until you’re certain you can feel him in your belly. He holds still, giving you time to adjust. Or maybe – if the expression on his face is anything to go by – trying to hold off coming too quickly himself. “Fuck,” he groans. “So tight. Should keep you on my cock all day, bunny. Just a wet hole to come in whenever I want.” You whimper at the thought and Bucky takes up a steady pace with long, deep thrusts. “Sounds good, huh? You want that? Wanna sit on daddy’s cock all day, keep it nice and warm in your little pussy?” “Oh, God,” you moan, picturing it – sitting on his lap with his cock buried deep in your pussy while he goes about his day. Maybe filling out a mission report or just reading a book. Ignoring you completely, treating you like an object, a sentient fuckdoll just there to keep his cock warm and catch his cum when he feels like getting off. “Yes, daddy, please. Whatever you want.” “That’s right, baby, whatever I want. And if I wanna bounce you on my cock like a fucking toy – just a fleshlight with tits – until I come in that tight cunt that’s what I’ll do.” His hips pick up speed as he pounds into you, angling to hit against your g-spot on every thrust. “Should fill you up and make you walk around with a pussy full of cum. Stuff you so full it drips down your legs for everyone to see, show ‘em just who you belong to.” Bucky’s hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding their way to your clit and rubbing in tight, firm circles. It’s exactly what you need, what you’ve been dying for, and with his cock hammering against your g-spot it only takes a few moments and you’re coming hard, white hot heat exploding through your body as you clench down on Bucky’s cock in pulses. “That’s it,” he encourages. “Good girl. Feels so good, bunny, fuck. Squeezing me so tight.” His fingers stop circling your clit but he keeps up the pounding rhythm of his cock, slowing down only enough so you’re not too oversensitive. You’re so wet you can hear it with each sharp thrust, feel it dripping down your ass and surely making a mess of the bedsheets. As you come down from your orgasm Bucky’s pace picks up again, fucking you into the mattress brutally hard as he chases his own pleasure. It has you getting close again, though you really don’t think you can handle another orgasm. As if reading your thoughts Bucky starts touching your clit again, light and unhurried. “Want you to come on my cock again, sweetheart.” You whine, a weak protest. “I can’t, I c—” you begin but it’s cut off by a moan when Bucky’s fingers press firmer against you. “Yes you can, bunny. One more time. Just one more for daddy. You’ve got one more in you, I know you do.” You can feel tears gathering in your eyes again from the onslaught of sensation. You’re still sensitive from your first orgasm and Bucky’s fingers on your clit, his cock battering your g-spot – it’s overwhelming, too much – but he pushes you forward and you give in. To Bucky, to the feelings coursing through your body. You let your mind shut off, let your trust in him take over. If Bucky says you have another one in you then you do, you must, because Bucky would never lie to you, would never lead you astray. It’s that – love and trust and submission to Bucky’s higher power – just as much as his hands on your body that triggers one final, all-consuming orgasm. It breaks over you like a wave, something more than just pleasure, sweeping you away from your body, from the bed, into a place where it’s all sensation, leaving you hazy and raw, splayed-open. You can hear Bucky’s voice close to your ear, dragging you back to him with broken utterances of fuck and good girl and your name, over and over. You come back to the world just as his rhythm begins to falter. A handful of thrusts later and he’s coming, pulling one last aftershock of pleasure from you at the feeling of his cock pulsing as he fills you up with cum, shooting deep into your cunt. After, he nearly collapses on top of you, settling his weight over your body as he pants into the curve between your neck and shoulder, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your skin, whispering sweet nothings. All good girl and did so well for me and I love you. You bask in the afterglow for a while – in the comforting weight of Bucky’s body and the warm affection in every word he breathes against your skin – until you become too aware of the tenderness between your thighs and the stickiness of sweat cooling on your body. You start to squirm and Bucky lets up gradually, giving you space but keeping you close enough you don’t feel abandoned. He strokes over your skin, pressing his lips to your face in increasingly wet, smacking kisses until you’re giggling and shoving him away. He sits up, flashing you a cheeky grin, and begins his process of surveying your body, checking carefully for any bruises or abrasions, and kneading at tense muscles. You don’t always feel like you need this part – it’s rare that Bucky allows himself to lose control enough to leave marks – but it’s nice, relaxing after the high energy of this kind of sex. And more importantly in your opinion, though you know Bucky would argue, Bucky needs it. Just as he needs to be in control and take charge, he also needs to know he can be soft and tender afterward, something Hydra never allowed him to be, and certainly never showed him. By the time he’s finished you feel boneless and sleepy, finding it harder and harder to open your eyes after blinking. Bucky chuckles, warm and fond. “Not yet, bunny. Want you to use the bathroom first and drink a glass of water for me.” You wave a hand vaguely in his direction – a silent yeah, yeah, yeah. You can’t see him, having given in to the weight dragging your eyelids down, but you can practically feel his eyeroll. You can definitely hear the scoff he lets out. “You wanna get a UTI be my guest, but you’re drinking the god damn water.” You feel him kiss your forehead then the mattress shifts as he gets off the bed. You relax into the space, stretching out your arms and legs and listening to Bucky move around your apartment – a cupboard door opening then the tap running in the kitchen. Distantly you can tell he’s come back to the room and set a glass down on the bedside table but you’re too lazy to open your eyes or acknowledge him. Then something wet hits you squarely in the face and, with a shout, you’re yanked from your peaceful doze to find Bucky’s just tossed a warm washcloth at you. “What the fuck,” you splutter as he openly laughs at you, the asshole. “Thought this was supposed to be aftercare, you dick.” “It is,” he says, grabbing the washcloth from where it’d fallen next to you. “Now let me wash your face, dummy, you’ve got cum on your chin.” “Yeah, wonder how that got there,” you mutter darkly. Bucky chuckles, giving you a dry look as he softly runs the cloth over your skin. “Seem to recall someone begging for it not too long ago. ‘Mark me up, daddy,’” he imitates in a ridiculous, breathy falsetto and you can’t help but laugh at his – horrible, completely inaccurate (you hope) – imitation, even as your face burns in embarrassment. Finished with your face, Bucky takes another washcloth (one he didn’t hurl at your face) and begins to clean up the rest of your body, running it over your chest and belly, your arms and legs, and finally between your thighs, taking special care to be gentle there. He stands up, collecting the washcloths and heading to the bathroom to do his own cleaning up. “When I get back that water better be gone, bunny.” You roll your eyes at him but pick up the glass all the same and take a showy mouthful, earning yourself a patented Bucky Barnes wink in return. “Good girl.” When Bucky returns the glass is empty and you feel awake enough to drag yourself from the bed and into the bathroom. As you re-enter the room you find Bucky has changed the sheets with his usual military efficiency and neatness and is settled in bed on his side, covers thrown back over yours with your favourite pajamas laid out on top. With a probably grotesquely fond smile in his direction you put on your pajamas and get under the covers, lying on your side and facing him. He pulls you closer, resting one arm over your waist to keep you near as you exchange easy, lazy kisses for a while, drifting off, feeling warm and safe and loved. +++ You’re nearly asleep, in the hazy place where waking thoughts mix with dreams when a thought pops into your head that you can’t help but voice, slurred and sleep-drunk. “I can’t believe you called me a ‘fleshlight with tits’.” Bucky barks out a drowsy laugh. “Too much?” You shrug or try to, at least, though you’re not sure how much your sluggish body actually cooperates. “Nah, I liked it. We’re good.” “Okay, good,” he mumbles around a yawn. “Love you.” “Love you too.” A/N: *It’s briefly implied that Bucky was sexually abused by Hydra as well as used as an assassin. Nothing is explicitly described, it’s just part of a brief explanation as to why Bucky sometimes likes to take a dominant role during sex. THE END. So… If you have made it this far, thank you for reading! Holy shit this got longer than I thought it’d be and Jesus Christ this is the dirtiest thing I’ve ever written, let alone posted on the internet to be seen by strangers! Feel free to leave like/comment/reblog and let me know what you thought 😊

#bucky barnes x reader #reader insert #mcu #mcu fanfiction #bucky barnes #smut #oneshot

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earthstellar · 4 years

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MTMTE HALLOWEEN 2020 FIC: Costume Party

SUMMARY:

Rodimus sets up an Earth style Halloween costume party at Swerve’s to help boost the crew’s morale. Things get a little... weird, when they start to behave like the creatures their costumes represent.

PAIRINGS:

Rodimus/Megatron and Drift/Ratchet

WARNINGS:

It’s spooky, there is some talk regarding Drift’s traumas, and there is bloodshed/violence in a very creepy way. Please be careful and do not read if you are potentially upset by suggestive violence, blood, etc.

IMPORTANT NOTE:

I was unable to finish or edit this on time for Halloween; I’ll post the final version to AO3 when it’s ready, but for now, here’s what I have! Enjoy the preview!

Rodimus was happy to let Swerve host a Human Halloween event in the bar.

Swerve had wanted to do it for a while, but evidently had to wait for the right Earth season despite the Lost Light being absolutely nowhere near Earth. Rodimus agreed that they could use something fun and distracting to lift the spirits of the crew after a somewhat bad supply pickup had gone south and resulted in a thankfully brief dry spell as they'd had to go without their usual ship wide energon supply, resulting in the bar being shuttered for the duration until they were able to stop at Hedra Nine for a full restocking.

Ultra Magnus had been the only one pleased at the brief closure of Swerve's bar, as it certainly cut down on his workload, but it was unfortunately Ultra Magnus that had to be convinced of the idea. Hence the emergency command meeting currently underway.

"So explain to me again the purpose of this holiday." Delivered in a flat tone, Ultra Magnus never failed to intimidate.

As usual, Ultra Magnus loomed over the relatively small table positioned in the centre of the room, where Rodimus, Drift, and Megatron sat with some research in hand on various data pads, as well as some footage from Rewind and Swerve's collection of human media.

Rodimus, undaunted, continued his pitch.

"It originally started as a folk religious practice around appeasing the spirits of the dead and keeping ghosts, the spirits of deceased humans, from haunting homes and towns. Essentially. But in modern Earth context, it's all about having fun, dressing up as scary or silly characters and getting to relax a bit during a time of year that Earth people relate with darkness, bad weather, that kind of thing. It makes people happy during what were traditionally difficult times. I think we could use something interesting and fun to get the crew back into better spirits after that mess we had to deal with in the Astreus System. See? Fun can have a logical purpose: To improve crew morale. It’s… fun, Mags. People tend to enjoy it. I think it'll be fine."

Rodimus leaned back in his chair and grinned, sure that he had made a strong case. Megatron was absorbed in a data pad featuring a collection of human myths and tales about the holiday, centred around the origins of the modern practice as it was the most relevant information, although he was interested in the older history of the celebration and where such practices may have come from.

Megatron was surprised by the depth and complexity of the human holiday. He was still getting over some of his lingering prejudice towards organics; Reading up on their cultures and history was one way to root out what was left of his more harmful mindset. The best cure for ignorance was often simple research, after all… Orion Pax would be proud. He nearly laughed at the thought.

But he found himself looking forward to Swerve’s little seasonal party, even if there were no seasons per se to celebrate out in open space. Rodimus had made a good point; The crew could certainly use the distraction, and Rung had advised him to try new things that had no associations with any past memories or experiences as part of something they were trying in therapy. He wasn’t exactly excited for it, but it could tolerate it. Especially with Rodimus also in attendance; Undoubtedly most of the attention would be drawn away from him, at least.

Ultra Magnus was completely still, a telltale sign that he was considering something, running through his extensive memory storage of ship protocols and broader applicable legislation in the hopes of finding something that could possibly mitigate any poor outcomes— Rodimus had won, it would certainly help crew morale and such intentions were covered by rules regarding health and safety of passengers and crew members. Fair play.

The bulletin from Swerve, once approved, had been sent out to everyone on board. The event was fairly simple, a marathon of various Halloween themed human movies, followed by a costume party at the bar. Teams of three were allowed to submit group costumes for judgement by a panel led by Ultra Magnus, partially because it was the only way to get him to participate and partially because it was the only way to have a judged competition without anyone complaining of unfairness.

The mood had immediately improved, with the Lost Light buzzing about costume design ideas and speculating on who was joining whose team and what the chances of winning might be.

Rodimus beamed, happy for all the chatter and gossip. His crew was happy, so he was happy. And Megatron was invested as well, glad to go along with it, enjoying the literature about it. He couldn't be more excited for the event; He trusted Swerve to make it as extravagant as possible, despite the limitations of their supplies on board and what little in the way of textile fabrics they could find and pick up from smaller stop-overs at various stations operated by organics along the way prior to the day.

Rodimus had been concerned about the cost, but Drift was enamoured with the spiritual background of the holiday, and seemed all too willing to provide the spare shanix for anything they could find for the crew.

So far, it had been going incredibly well. Rodimus was excited himself, as he couldn't wait to see everyone's final costumes, but the idea of Megatron getting a break to genuinely enjoy something with him brought warmth to his spark, making it spin even faster in its casing.

"Okay, everybody! We had a lot of interest in the costume aspect of this whole thing, but it seems only three teams actually came together to participate in the judged competition. However, most of you have turned up in costume anyway, so it all works out! The judging will go faster and you can all guzzle down some of the special drinks on the menu for tonight only. Welcome to Swerve's, and Happy Human Halloween!"

Leave it to Swerve to kick off the night in style; The doors were thrown open and bots rushed in, claiming booths and seats at the bar, some mild squabbling already starting but quickly dialled back under the watchful eye of Ultra Magnus, who had refused to wear a costume and was fully on duty as usual from his judge's perch near a makeshift stage Perceptor and Brainstorm had thrown together from spare lab materials.

Nobody had seen anyone's costumes prior to the night, so there was a significant amount of ooing and ahhing over the most successful looks, providing a great distraction for the costume contest participants to slip mostly unnoticed behind the stage setup, preparing for the reveal to the judging panel: Ultra Magnus, Chromedome, and Cyclonus.

As the bar continued to fill up and the noise levels increased, Swerve put on a specially composed mix tape for the ambient music that his extensive research had stated was sure to be a success:

Something called the "Munsters Theme" kicked off the night, and things still appeared to be moving ahead as planned, all in attendance having a good night, and the Lost Light hummed with friendly chatter.

The three costume competition teams ended up being

There was the Command Coven, consisting of Rodimus, Megatron, and Drift with witch themed costumes. Drift was more than happy to provide crystal necklaces and little wands for each of them, each designed to replicate gemstones found on Earth, with Megatron's being amethyst, Rodimus adorned in carnelian, and Drift himself wearing amazonite.

He had chosen the colours and designs in accordance with his Spectralist beliefs, as well as something Swerve had shown him called "mood boards" from Earth social data nets, which had kept him up well past his usual recharging hours. It seemed to not have impacted him at all for how thrilled he was at the excuse to dive into human spiritual practices, although he faltered somewhat at the sight of the next team's arrival...

The Medbay had submitted a team, largely thanks to Drift constantly bothering Ratchet about it, with Ratchet himself as well as First Aid and Velocity appearing in vampire themed costumes. They had no team name because Ratchet couldn't be bothered, and was more concerned about the medbay being largely unattended during the event... Although begrudgingly, he did admit to Drift that having the central medical staff immediately on hand in the bar probably wasn't all that bad of an idea.

And the final team, the Minibot Monsters, consisted of Tailgate as a swamp monster, Rewind as a mummy, and Swerve himself, wearing the world's least convincing werewolf costume.

Swerve was the only person with two costumes, so as not to reveal his "true" costume too early in the night; What he was wearing while manning the bar and letting people in was something inspired by Gomez from the Addams Family, although nobody else on board got the reference save for Rewind, who was suddenly upset they hadn't picked that as their group theme. Tailgate was just thrilled to have shiny scales temporarily detailed over his paint job, lending a shimmering effect to his every move.

Back stage, the teams began to intermingle a bit, although mindful of not violating any of Ultra Magnus' rules about potentially spoiling the integrity of the judging process by helping other teams with costumes and so on for about fifty pages.

Drift took in Ratchet's costume, approaching a bit too tenderly for it to be the effect of any engex he may have consumed before hand. It set off Ratchet's diagnostics coding, returning a reading of increased anxiety indicated by signs of ever so slightly rising energon consumption levels as Drift's fuel pump started to rev at a slightly elevated rate, as well as a touch of fatigue from Drift's lack of recharge time beforehand.

"What's wrong? Are you afraid of losing?" Ratchet teased him, but only gently, probing to see where Drift was mentally at the moment. Did dressing up have bad connotations on Rodion? Was Drift relating this to some disguise or situation from his past that was potentially upsetting? Ratchet was ready to leave at any time, stress over an unmanned medbay lingering in the back of his processor; He'd be happy to grab Drift and go if need be.

"I uh, you just did a really good job with your costumes is all. I mean I expected the cloaks and all that stuff, it looks good on you by the way! But the denta..."

Ah.

Ratchet shuffled a bit. "Yes, apparently Velocity found in her preparatory reading that human vampire lore emphasises pointed denta. They--"

Drift interrupted, looking at the ground, looking anywhere but Ratchet's face. "They siphon their energon, or whatever human stuff, blood, from living people. They're siphonists. Like I used to be, way back, when I needed to get fuel, and... And they're evil."

Immediately, Ratchet realised that of course, Drift would associate the vampire fangs with so much suffering from his own past, with cruel comments and judgements forced on him by bots who had no idea what it was like to starve or have to turn to any viable alternative to survive, including taking energon directly from the fuel lines of others.

He raised up his hands towards Drift, testing to see if he'd be welcome for a hug. Drift looked up a bit and smiled, stepping into Ratchet's arms and accepting a brief embrace before Ratchet pulled back to look him in the eyes, hands still lingering on his upper arms.

"Listen, Drift. If this is too much for you, we can go. I can go, you don't have to miss anything. I can take this all off and it's an easy fix; It's a minor procedure to numb and file them back down, and of course we were going to do it afterwards anyway. Velocity thought it would be more realistic if we just went ahead and altered our denta for the sake of it, but I should have thought more about how that might affect you. I--"

Drift leaned up to quickly kiss Ratchet, immediately jerking his head back with eyes wide, seemingly having not fully registered the fangs that met his until they physically pressed against one another, before giving a shakey smile.

"No, it's okay. I just wasn't ready for it. The thought of you having to resort to... Anything like that, it makes my spark hurt. It reminds me of a lot of things I don't like about how I had to get through some hard times, you know? But I don't want you to go. I want you here. Plus... Now we match, right?"

Leave it to Drift to try to power through something so significantly distressing to him. Ratchet appreciated the effort, but saw right through it.

"I mean it, if this bothers you, I'm ready to get back to the medbay, undo it, and we can hit the bar again together later once things have eased up a bit, no problem. The humans might think vampires are evil, and a lot of bots might think siphonists are... Frightening, but I need you to know that they're not the same thing. People are often wrong about what they don't understand, and you only did what you had to in order to survive. And I'm glad you did it. If you hadn't, you wouldn't be here. With me, at a party that will be fun if you still want to go through with all this."

Drift optics gradually returned to their usual brightness, his signs of anxiety slowly disappearing on Ratchet's constant scans, putting him at ease as well.

"Thank you, Ratchet. I'll be okay once the shock wears off. I think it's a good costume choice, and you really do look good in the cloak. The black makes your white paint look brighter! And it's fun to think of all the spooky human stories... And some of our own too, I guess. Imagine, a siphonst medic! You would't have any patients, that's for sure." Drift smiled, making a point to flash his own fangs. Clearly he'd recovered from the initial shock, although Ratchet decided he might try to talk it out with him at some point when they weren’t caught up in all this. He didn't want Drift to suffer any blows to his self-esteem, or fall back into a trauma related depression, even a relatively minor one. He was glad Rung had a positive policy for booking short notice sessions, which reassured him a bit. Any problems, they could all work it out together.

"Well, I think anyone who needs a doctor badly enough is willing to go to whatever doctor happens to be around, in my experience. Siphonist or not. And are you calling my paint job dull? I'll have you know I polished my armour for this. Or First Aid did, at least. He was insistent that we represent the medical team as best as possible."

"Seems like he's learning some things from you about professionalism, Mister No Crystals in the Medbay."

"Hey, Ultra Magnus agreed with me. It violates... Some rule."

"Sure it does."

It was finally time for the costume contest, and

"What happened? What happened? Hey! Someone else get up already!" Rodimus wasn't one to panic, but he was maybe actually slightly panicking. A little bit.

After the Great Sword had reacted to Drift's incantation, everyone had experienced simultaneous processor reset from the energy surge, and it was taking some time for people to come around from the harsh and unexpected reboot.

It seemed everyone in the bar had been affected by the wave, not dissimilar to an electromagnetic pulse, with bots slumped over their tables, a few leaning precariously over the bar, and others laying on top of each other where there had been only standing room left.

Rodimus had been the first to wake, having fallen into a draped position half over Megatron and half pressed into the makeshift stage curtain, briefly tangled in his distress over waking up and feeling... Odd.

He felt like his spark was super charged, like he had ingested far too much high grade energon and was borderline frying his own circuits. It was like his fuses had been blown, but a quick self-diagnostic came back completely normal, nothing out of the ordinary, everything working fine.

His sensory input felt magnified somehow, like he was feeling the EM fields of everyone in the bar at a hundred fold.

It wasn't bad. Just very, very odd. Which was never a good indicator of anything, the way things tended to go on the Lost Light.

He briefly considered paging the medbay, when he caught the passed out shaped of Ratchet and Drift together in the centre of the stage; Ratchet must have picked up on whatever was happening and had made a dive for Drift, resulting in both of them clattering to the ground on top of each other.

Everyone he would turn to for help had also been affected; There was no

"Megatron, wake up!"

—-

"Ratchet, oh Primus, please, are you okay?" Drift had finally woken up, exhausted by his lack of recharge on top of the huge surge of energy that had burst forth from the Great Sword, which was connected somehow to his spark energy... He was drained, but determined to get a response out of Ratchet before he could even consider his own wellbeing.

"Ratchet! Get up! Something's happened with the sword, and it's my fault, and I don't know what happened!" Genuine fear started to seep into his vocaliser, which was likely what finally jarred Ratchet back into awareness.

"...Drift? Are you alright?" Ratchet's voice was low and rough, still drowsy from the forced reboot. Drift knelt further down to help get a grip under Ratchet's shoulders to keep him from slumping over again, being careful of anywhere that may have been injured as he collapsed.

"My scans are showing me you’re fine, but I think I need to run a diagnostic on myself... I feel like I haven't refuelled in Primus knows how long. My fuel tank was reasonably topped up before this, is anyone else experiencing similar symptoms...?" Ratchet was slowly regaining his bearings, relying less on Drift for balance once being sat upright, although they both remained seated with their legs tucked under them in the middle of the stage. Drift felt he could relax ever so slightly now that Ratchet was responsive enough to be engaging his medical protocols.

"We all feel a bit strange. Me and Roddy feel overcharged almost, like having two sparks in one frame. It’s… intense, but manageable. Megatron is still out, and Roddy seems to be more charged up than I am. It might be a Matrix thing with him, we don't know. My fuel levels are good, feeling the opposite of drained right now. Our internal diagnostics are coming back normal, but that's clearly wrong. Any ideas?"

Ratchet was slow to reply. He was never slow to reply, not when it came to medical matters.

"Ratchet?" Drift grabbed Ratchet's shoulders, preparing to brace him and lay him out gently in case he lost consciousness again.

"Drift, I need you to listen to me carefully. I don't know what happened. I don't know what's happening now. I can't identify any apparent problems in my own self-diagnostics, aside from the erroneous fuel tank level discrepancy. I'm not leaking fuel from anywhere, I'm not burning it off any faster than usual. I'd need access to the medbay for more in-depth scans, but I don't think it's a good idea to be wandering the halls right now. We should keep this contained to the incident area as much as we can..." As he continued to speak, Ratchet looked more and more stressed, more concerned. And that concerned Drift.

"What are you getting at, why are the halls unsafe? Do you think this is some kind of attack? It originated from my Great Sword, it was... I think it was the incantation. It had to be. Ultra Magnus made sure the threat level was at a minimum--"

"No. I think that if we went out there, we'd be making the halls dangerous ourselves. Don't you feel that?"

Drift felt his spark grind to a halt.

"What are you talking about? I feel fine, I feel suspiciously better than fine. Are you okay? Are you dizzy?"

"...No. I'm energy depleted. I need fuel." Ratchet leaned forward until they were pressed flush against each other, their knees touching in their kneeled position on the stage, chests touching right over their spark chambers. Drift kept his hands rested on Ratchet's shoulders, grip light, unsure of what to do.

When suddenly, and with all the strength of a field medic frame, Ratchet leaned in and closed the rest of the distance, pushing Drift backwards to the floor so his knees lifted from their bent position and his legs splayed out under Ratchet, who was now so close to laying across the top of him that it nearly took Drift's breath away.

Ratchet whispered directly against Drift's neck cables, close enough to his audials that it made Drift's spinal strut shiver and lock up. "I need warm fuel. I need your fuel.”

Drift immediately froze. This didn't sound like Ratchet. This couldn't be Ratchet. Because Ratchet would never make him feel this vulnerable, he would never do this. Ratchet isn't a siphonist...

...Or he wasn't before whatever just happened, happened.

"Don't do this!" Drift had intended to scream it, but it came out as a whimper that only Ratchet could hear as his breath was taken away by the pointed denta scrapping gently along the central fuel lines in the side of his neck, just above his collar plating and below the corner of his tilted helm, as Ratchet’s glossa searched for the most medically sound place to puncture the lines and begin to siphon fuel.

Imagining Ratchet's mouth full of his energon, still hot from being cycled through his systems, Ratchet’s face swirling the fuel around his fangs and smiling at him in sick contentment the way Drift knew he himself had done to others in his past filled him with a level of dread and distress that he didn't know he was still capable of feeling.

He tried to roll to knock Ratchet off balance, but he was now pinned beneath the medic, whose wider frame was made for detaining unruly patients and built to cope with such resistance. The moment had only caused Ratchet to get a better glimpse at his central fuel lines, Drift's neck having flexed in the process, encouraging a small thrilled hum from Ratchet that terrified Drift straight to the spark.

He couldn't let Ratchet do this. He wouldn't let him become a siphonist. Ratchet is a good mech, a kind-hearted mech, and Drift refused to imagine what would happen if Ratchet drained him of fuel and snapped out of whatever this was and hated himself the way Drift had hated himself...

...But at the same time, they were in a room full of vulnerable and disoriented bots. Many of whom had still not fully rebooted and had no chance of putting up any defence at all. If Ratchet was under some spell, or whatever was happening, then there was no guarantee that he would be able to be restrained, or that he could restrain himself, from simply going after someone else.

Drift realised in horror that if Ratchet didn't get his fuel fix from him, right now, he would likely just hurt someone else while in this trance-like state, focused solely on satisfying a feral hunger... Drift could at least relate, and was awake enough to consent as much as possible under the circumstances, and it didn't take all that much effort for Drift to talk himself into going limp.

As he rested back flat against the stage floor, Ratchet briefly froze, giving Drift a flash of hope that he was coming to his senses, that his medical protocols were overriding whatever this was and that he would immediately jump off and apologise and demand another systems check before they started working out whatever was going on.

But instead, Ratchet made some awful little low trilling noise, lowering more of the weight of his frame against Drift's chest, and whispered into his neck: "Your vents are spewing out so much heat. Your fuel will be so warm in my mouth. Listen to my voice, Drift. You know how much you mean to me. I won't hurt you, I'll never hurt you. I'm a medic. I want you to feel good, be healthy. Forever. I want you to feel the way I do."

Drift was caught between old traumas and the trauma currently unfolding. He had no response, cleansing fluid building up behind his optics, threatening to cloud his vision and steam up his lenses from the inside from all the heat his rapidly spinning spark was generating throughout his systems.

He vaguely became aware of some almighty commotion happening somewhere in the bar, but he didn't dare attempt to move. He couldn't have even if he tried. It was painful hearing Ratchet like this, the kind voice worn by age that he was familiar with tainted by something rough and sinister, for all the friendliness it still contained.

"Did you read all the human myths, or just about the crystals? It seems the Earth vampires can turn another human into one by sharing blood, their energon. After I take a sip from you, would you bite into me? Or would you prefer if I clean cut one of my fuel lines for you to suck on? Would you do that for me? We match, after all.” Drift could feel Ratchet flash a wide smile into the side of his neck.

Ratchet's voice was starting to have some kind of cognitive effect on Drift's processor, numbing him to the waves of anxiety and making the noises in the bar seem even further away, sinking him into Ratchet's grip, making it impossible to activate his own vocaliser.

"We could be together forever, Drift. No more flitting in and out of each others lives. Security. Safety. Stability."

With Drift completely flattened beneath him, helm lolled to the side and central fuel line finally exposing the medically ideal spot to place a bite, Ratchet was satisfied. He leaned in and sunk his pointed denta into the perfect centre of the line, immediately creating a suction and drawing a swift stream of warm energon into his mouth, a deep moan from Drift weakly rising from beneath his grasp--

--And at that moment, Rodimus with immense precision drew down a bar stool leg directly into Ratchet's helm, the metallic clang echoing through the room as Ratchet’s head was forced away from Drift’s neck, a pool of energon steaming up from the tear in the central fuel line, ripped open further by Ratchet’s pointed denta never having had the chance to loosen the bite first.

Rodimus quickly put himself between Drift and Ratchet, kicking Ratchet in the shoulder to create more distance while avoiding harming him as much as possible before turning to face Drift.

“Primus, Drift, we shouldn’t have left you two alone, some of the others started waking up and Megatron’s still struggling a little with the hard reboot, are you okay? Drift?”

Drift barely registered what Rodimus was panicking about as he was only gradually coming out of whatever state Ratchet had put him in. He felt like his temperature regulator has to be malfunctioning now, or perhaps he had just lost too much heat from pushing himself too hard and venting off too much of the heated air that speedster frames tended to build up.

Setting himself upright, he relied on Rodimus for support, immediately showing the tear in his fuel line, optics slightly foggy and looking off to the side. “I need to wrap this up… It’s not as bad as it could be, but it really is, isn’t it? What’s wrong with Ratchet, Roddy?” It was hard to hear Drift’s voice, usually so lively and firm, take a low and demure tone made rough by the damage to his neck.

They both looked over to where Ratchet had been unceremoniously kicked on his back, Rodimus continuing to stay tensed and alert in front of Drift in case Ratchet tried to make another move.

Cautiously, Rodimus spoke up as his right hand helped Drift hold the fuel line edges together; Rodimus winced at how much it must hurt, but Drift was making no complaints as it was slowly and carefully wrapped by some previously subspaced tape. In fact, Drift seemed… Sad, more than scared. He was being too quiet, moving too little even considering his injury, and his EM field was full of exhaustion and distress.

“What the hell happened? Ratchet, you… I didn’t hit you that hard, did I? Can you answer me? What were you doing?” He wanted to ask why, but one thing at a time. He suspected that Ratchet didn’t know the answer to that last one, and Rodimus didn’t want to press someone who was potentially unstable and clearly dangerous at the moment. He pressed his back closer to Drift, fully ready to defend him if needed.

Rodimus took in Ratchet’s crumpled pose, still laid out where he had been kicked back, a look of absolute shock and strain on his face as his fists curled tightly against the stage floor, steaming energon dipping from around his slightly open mouth in small pools as he ex-vented heavily.

As Ratchet shook his helm a bit, he replied with an absolutely wrecked voice, as if it had been his vocaliser nearly ripped out instead of Drift’s. “I, Rodimus, I don’t know how long I’ll be lucid for. My fuel tank levels are registering within perfectly normal levels, but it feels like I’m being constantly drained, like I’m losing fuel from a leak that doesn’t exist—“

“So you put a leak in Drift?” Rodimus knew he shouldn’t have said anything as Ratchet’s head whipped up and stared him directly in the optics, the shattered look on his face so unfamiliar on Ratchet’s features that it startled Rodimus to see it.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me. My scans are coming back fine, all of them, I can’t find what’s wrong.” Real panic was seeping into Ratchet’s vocaliser, a bizarre and awful contrast to his usual calm steadiness even in the worst of situations. “You don’t understand, Rodimus, whatever energy the Great Sword released has altered my systems, perhaps everyone’s systems… Drift said you both felt overcharged, but I feel energy depleted, and it’s doing something to my processor. I feel so strange and— And Drift.”

The entire time he spoke, without his knowledge, his glossa lightly flicked out here and there to catch some spare flecks of Drift’s energon that had settled around his mouth. It set off a sick feeling in Rodimus’ spark, as it was clear Ratchet genuinely couldn’t help it, as if his coding had gone severely wrong somewhere. It reminded him of a cyberfox licking its paws after a hunt. It was too unrefined and subtly animalistic for a bot like Ratchet. It looked wrong, it felt wrong, and he could feel a surge of concerned sadness burst forth from Drift’s EM field behind him. Evidently he’d finished wrapping his fuel line and was now focused on Ratchet.

Ratchet noticed and finally moved, only slightly to avoid startling Rodimus into unnecessary action, as he picked up on Drift’s distressed EM signals.

“Drift, Primus, are—“ Ratchet’s optics went wide and he jerked back oddly, not moving from his place lest Rodimus make a move, but as though he were torn so completely that he couldn’t move. “—My medical protocols demand your neck be examined. If I do it, I don’t know what I’ll do. Where’s Velocity and First Aid?”

—-

Megatron bellowed across the bar, “They’re behaving oddly, get ready to fight them off!”

—-

"Drift, we're medics. We know where to bite to take the most energon straight from the central fuel line the fastest. I just did it to you, and being ripped free like that can rip the cable lining and weaken the integrity of the fuel line under pressure. It ruptures and causes a major bleed. It can kill someone. It will kill someone. If at any point we start failing to restrain ourselves, you have to incapacitate us. Tie us up. Do whatever. We are officially dangerous until this is resolved. I can't say my behaviour will be predictable, or sensible."

He then turned abruptly to Rodimus and Megatron, Ultra Magnus off to his opposite side, ready to intervene if needed.

"One of you, or both of you, I am asking you to do whatever you need to do if I go after Drift again. If I go for his central fuel lines again, he's already damaged. Another bite will weaken the line structure, its integrity will fail, and he will lose too much energon to be within safe levels. His nanites will take far too long to repair a gash that size. Please."

Ratchet hung his head, avoiding everyone's optics.

"I am a medic. I heal bots. I don't kill them.

---

AND THAT’S AS FAR AS I GOT, I hope to finish this up and edit it for AO3 soon, Happy Halloween!

#Halloween #MTMTE #transformers fic #ll #maccadam #maccadams #dratchet #megarod

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polyhexian-nightchicken · 4 years

Text

Angsty Drabble for Whirl: (long post)

He's not sure when or how it happened, but a few days after one rather hefty fight, his surroundings had started to overwhelm Whirl.

Left to his own devices after giving needed care to ensure his survival, he'd realised just how boring his hab was. At least, when he was the only one present. Which was more often than not, in fact, company in his room was so rare it felt odd when it happened. Once he'd healed up enough to finally walk to Swerve's bar he decided enough was enough, he needed to see others. If they weren't coming to him, he'd get to them.

A problem he hadn't anticipated however was that the sounds of everything around him had begun to be just a tad too loud. Every step, every move of his joint was far louder than before. His room had been amazingly quiet, but outside everything was somehow different.

Maybe something in his audials hadn't healed properly, he'd never know.

As soon as he'd entered Swerve's, the pressure of all the voices gathered into a tight space, engex cubes getting passed around hit him like a punch to his helm. He staggered in place, holding himself upright with his claw as he tried to reballibrate.

Louder voices came over, sneers had entered now since his arrival was never ignored, partially for his size, and mostly for his reputation.

"Oh god the cyclops psycho is back again."

"Someone ping Ultra Magnus, he must be back to finish the job from before-"

"...Think he'll be sent to confinement this time if we tussle him up a bit? Might give a bit of peace and quiet for once h-"

With a grunt, Whirl pushed himself forward, his already sour mood turned spoiled. Usually he'd be in a much better and more intoxicated state to be able to take these comments. But today, they were drilling in his processor like knives.

Trying to keep his grace, he stepped towards the bar in an attempt to just get there and take what he needed. Somehow, the sounds were even worse now that he was between other chattering mecha, the pressure in his helm increasing by a tenfold.

He vented in quick succession, trying to relieve the pressure while scrambling to get a pinpoint on some voice. His frame must have been shaking, since out of nowhere the floor beneath his pedes was pulled, and he staggered backwards.

Someone had pushed him.

"Whirl! Cool your anger-....-if you just came-...go!" Some mech he'd already forgotten his name was trying to tell him something, and by the sound of it was rather annoyed with him already. What the hell had he done?! Is breathing not allowed anymore?

"I'm not angry." He snapped back aggressively, shaking off whatever hand was on his shoulder roughly. He could barely respond calm in this situation, he pulled his claws up to his face in an attempt to hold his helm.

"My helm fra-" Another shove before he could finish his explanation, on the outside it had looked like he'd moved his arms up to punch whoever had been standing infront of him. Based on how Whirl usually behaved, it was given that they'd react to it and try to disengage him if a threat was seen. Since Whirl usually escalated small arguments like there was no other option, the patrons of Swerve's had slowly began to grow tired of his constant need for violent, and in turn acted with violence towards him to get him to stop, as asking him to cease his actions never worked.

"The frag is wrong with you?!" Whirl was getting increasingly more agitated, he couldn't even hear the other's voice, too drowned out by everything else going on around him. His own frame was even beginning to be too loud for him, cogs and motors too audialpiercing shrill and he all but wanted everything to shut up.

And since the nearest source was the mech infront of him, Whirl launched himself right at it him with an angry yell, claws shooting forward to get the other frame to be silent.

The erruption of screams and shouts from the ones around him made Whirl flinch and recoil into himself as if he'd been punched from all sides, is only coherent thought was a beg for everything to just shut up. He could feel and hear as others around him tried to grab his limbs and pin him to the ground, the scrapes of metal angering him more and he thrashed wildly, he can't even think and remember where exactly he was, was he at the bar still or not? His optic only gave a blurred feedback of swirling colours of red, green's and blue's, corresponding to the individual mecha infront of Whirl of course, but the information his audials were getting was just too much for him to hanlde right now. He barely even noticed that the amplified sound was also caused by his own screaming.

Some bigger mech, at least he saw big blocks of dark blue coming over his viewfield, managed to get a grip on his limbs and slam him down to the ground, and for a moment all he could focus on was the long piercing ringing sound in his processor, his viewfield clearing up just enough to see a red- was that Ratchet?

The medic's face was set in a grumpy scowl, nothing out of the ordinary, and for a moment he was confused on why he was here, as far as he could tell with a quick glance no energon was drawn.

At least up until he saw a small glimpse of the telltale flash of a sedator when all hell broke loose in Whirl internally. His frame was still in shock, numbess creeping over his plating until it was sharply turned into a burning pain when the adrenaline kicked in.

It didn't matter that he logically knew he was on the Lost Light, as of now, the copter thought he was somehow taken in by the Functionists again, Ratchet's face twisting into the wannabe medic that had done the Empurata Procedure. They were back and they were going to make it even worse, they'd turn him into Shockwave.

"No! Please no, don't- don't! You've already taken everything from me what more do you want?!" His screams had turned frantic, pitch going high with desperation as he struggled against the strong hold pinning him in place. Not-Ratchet's face changed to a worried confused look, and he felt a sharp twinge in the back of his neck cables, his cries turning more and more muffled as the sedation took immeadate effect.

He could only hear his voice now, the room had grown silent as the other's heard genuine fear in Whirl's voice for the first time.

"No... Please, I don't want to be like-" His train of thought and sobs couldn't be finished as his processor booted down, shrouded in darkness and heavenly, heavenly silence.

#mtmte whirl #mtmte ratchet #mtmte ultra magnus #tw aggressive #tw aggression #tw violence #tw sensory overload

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wesleyhill · 4 years

Text

God’s Blood for All Saints

A homily on Revelation 7:9-17, preached at Trinity Cathedral, Pittsburgh, on the Feast of All Saints 2020

I would speak to you in the name of God, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen. It’s impossible to open a news site or paper or magazine without seeing words like “division,” “polarization,” and “disagreement.” (Indeed, it’s nearly become a cliché to mention these things.) A columnist for Time magazine named David French recently wrote this: We [Americans] increasingly loathe our political opponents. The United States is in the grip of a phenomenon called “negative polarization.” In plain English this means that a person belongs to their political party not so much because they like their own party but because they hate and fear the other side. Republicans don’t embrace Republican policies so much as they despise Democrats and Democratic policies. Democrats don’t embrace Democratic policies as much as they vote to defend themselves from Republicans. At this point, huge majorities actively dislike their political opponents and significant minorities see them as possessing subhuman characteristics. I think David French is right about our political divisions, but there are so many more instances of division and hostility we could mention. Our country is rife, it seems, with enmity and hatred. Families are fracturing. Churches are splitting. Black lives are being snuffed out with impunity. It’s no wonder that we are hearing worried chatter about the possibility of “civil war.” The Bible is not naïve about these realities we are currently enduring. It is clear-eyed about hostility and violence between individuals and within societal groups. Barely four chapters in, the Bible tells the story of a brother who murders his brother. And only a few chapters after that, it tells the story of humanity’s arrogant attempt to build a stairway to heaven and God’s resulting judgment: “And the Lord said, ‘Look, they are one people, and they have all one language; and this is only the beginning of what they will do; nothing that they propose to do will now be impossible for them. Come, let us go down, and confuse their language there, so that they will not understand one another’s speech.’ So the Lord scattered them abroad from there over the face of all the earth.” Division is God’s judgment. Enmity between people groups is a tragedy and a curse, as the Bible sees it. The main division, though, that we see in the Bible is the division between God’s chosen people Israel and the rest of the nations. In the New Testament, St. Paul describes this division like this: there is “the dividing wall, that is, the hostility between us.” Jews often despised Gentiles as “sinners,” as “dogs,” as the antithesis of everything they were called to be and to do as God’s special people. And Gentiles returned the favor, disdaining Jews and persecuting them, driving them from their homeland, subjecting them to idolatrous demands. There is no human way of breaching such a division between peoples, no way of overcoming the hostility. That is the reason why our reading this morning from the book of Revelation is so breathtaking. Listen to a portion of it again. John, the seer, who writes down his visions, says this about God’s heavenly throne room: “I looked, and there was a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, robed in white, with palm branches in their hands. They cried out in a loud voice, saying, ‘Salvation belongs to our God who is seated on the throne, and to the Lamb!’” If you know the Bible’s history, its stories of division and hostility and enmity, this is an astonishing passage. Here tribes and people groups that were at war with each other are now joining their voices together to praise God the Father and the Lamb of God, Jesus Christ our Lord. Here are Jews and Gentiles together in the same choir. Here are Persians and Babylonians, Judeans and Samaritans, Romans and barbarians — and, we might add, Hutus and Tutsis, North Koreans and South Koreans, Israelis and Palestinians. They are all equally robed in fine linen, with no one in a better or worse off position than anyone else. And they are giving thanks to God for rescuing them — that’s what “salvation” means. They are united, they are equally sharers in the same salvation, and they are singing the same song. This is a vision of all the saints of God, the holy ones whom God has redeemed, whom we commemorate on this feast of All Saints. It is a picture of our ultimate destiny. We trust that in the end, by God’s mercy and faithfulness, we will be there among the saints before God and his Christ, and we will spend all eternity adoring God and basking in the light of His life and love. But we need to ask a difficult question here. How is all this talk of togetherness not cheap? How is it not just singing Kumbaya and pronouncing “peace, peace” when there is no peace? How is it not whistling a tune while the world burns? In his latest encyclical, Pope Francis poses the question: “Nowadays, what do certain words like democracy, freedom, justice or unity really mean? They have been bent and shaped to serve as tools for domination, as meaningless tags that can be used to justify any action.” How, then, can we “unbend” a word like unity? How can we make sure it isn’t simply a covert tool to preserve the status quo? One of the striking things about our reading this morning is that it refers to Jesus Christ without using His name. It refers to Him four times as “the Lamb.” And one of those four times is in the longer phrase “the blood of the Lamb.” The saints from every tribe and language who gathered around the throne of God are described as the ones “who have come out of the great ordeal; they have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.” Let’s linger over this image for a moment. It’s a picture drawn from the Old Testament and the story of Israel. On the eve of God’s liberation of his people from their slavery in Egypt, God commands the Israelites to kill a lamb and smear its blood on their doorposts and lintels so that they might be spared the judgment of God in the form of the angel of death. The lamb’s shedding its blood, its yielding up of its life, is what protects Israel and delivers them from destruction. What the seer John’s vision says to us is that our Lord Jesus Christ is the ultimate and final Passover lamb. Jesus, the Lamb of God, bore the full weight of all the guilt and injustice and sorrow and hatred and immorality that we perpetuate. Jesus is the Lamb of God who shed His blood to bring it all to an end, so that we might be forgiven and set free from sin and death and changed into agents of justice and mercy and healing and virtue. God does not wink at our grievances against one another. God does not tell us all simply to “get along,” sweeping our divisions under the cosmic rug. God does not offer us a cheap “reconciliation” that is built on ignoring the real issues at hand. What God does instead, we might say, is ratchet up the stakes. God tells us through His holy law that the main division, the primary hostility in the world, is not between Jew and Gentile or Black and white or rich and poor or Republican and Democrat. No, the chief division, the tallest and thickest wall of hostility, is between a sinful, angry, rebellious humanity and a righteous, holy, and loving God. St. Paul goes so far as to call us — all of us, every single human being — “God-haters.” We have all turned aside from God’s ways; we have all strayed like lost sheep. And the wonder of God’s good news is this: rather than disown us as hopeless sinners, God agrees to pay Himself the price of our enmity. God endures our hatred and murderous divisions at the cost of His own blood. God overcomes the great division in the universe — the division between God and humanity — at the price of His own death. The great Karl Barth describes this “wondrous exchange” in such powerful terms I feel I must quote him: If we would know what it was that God chose for Himself when He chose fellowship with humanity, then we can answer only that God chose our rejection. He made it His own. He bore it and suffered it with all its most bitter consequences… God chose our suffering (what we as sinners must suffer towards Him and before Him and from Him). God chose it as His own suffering… [God chose] to empty and abase Himself for the sake of [His] chosen ones. Judas who betrays Him He chooses as an apostle. The sentence of Pilate God chooses as a revelation of His judgment on the world. God chooses the cross of Golgotha as His kingly throne. God chooses the tomb in the garden as the scene of His being the living God. That is how God loved the world. That is how from all eternity God’s love was so selfless and genuine… [F]rom all eternity God has determined upon [our] acquittal at His own cost… God has ordained that in [our] place… God Himself should be perishing and abandoned and rejected — the Lamb slain from the foundation of the world. (translation slightly altered) God Himself has paid the price in His Son Jesus Christ to reconcile us to Himself. If this greatest and deepest hostility between God and humanity has been overcome, then the lesser divisions between ourselves have also been overcome. We now, whether Jew or Gentile, Black or white, rich or poor, old or young, are called and empowered to live out the unity we have been given in Jesus Christ. The Christian writer Francis Spufford is right when he says, “This is not very comfortable. Here Christianity overspills the separate categories by which we conventionally understand the world now, insisting to an awkward degree on common ground.” Precisely. This is awkward and challenging and costly in all sorts of ways, and it must involve the telling of hard truths about ongoing injustice and the need for repentance, but just this is what we are called to in Christ. We have common ground with each other: we have all sinned and fallen short of the glory of God. We are all broken and in need. And, at the same time, we have been forgiven and declared righteous in God’s sight through the death and resurrection of Christ. In a few moments, all of us here, who have been washed in the blood of the Lamb, will come forward to eat and drink the Lamb’s body and blood. “Love is that liquor sweet and most divine, / Which my God feels as blood; but I, as wine” (Herbert). The blood of the Lamb that was shed on the cross has become our salvation and sustenance. Hymn #174 in our hymnal is a hymn whose origin dates back to the sixth century. It says much better than I could ever say everything that we are celebrating on this great feast day. As I read its words to you, may they be a preparation and invitation for the feast we are about to share together: At the Lamb’s high feast we sing praise to our victorious King, who has washed us in the tide flowing from his pierced side; praise we him whose love divine gives his sacred blood for wine, gives his body for the feast, Christ the victim, Christ the priest. Where the paschal blood is poured, death’s dark angel sheathes his sword; Israel’s hosts triumphant go through the wave that drowns the foe. Praise we Christ, whose blood was shed, paschal victim, paschal bread; with sincerity and love eat we manna from above. Mighty victim from the sky, Pow’rs of hell beneath thee lie; death is conquered in the fight, thou hast brought us life and light: hymns of glory and of praise, risen Lord, to thee we raise; holy Father, praise to thee, with the Spirit, ever be. Amen.

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sylaesschasewind · 3 years

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All According to Plan

“No--You can’t. They’re in my head, not some fucking evil spell. You can’t dismiss them with incense and nice thoughts.”

She swatted the censer away from her face, albeit not the most vehement move but it ratcheted up her annoyance. The Tidesage frowned. Looming over where the elf sat on the bench. Or at least attempting the air. Sylaess couldn’t give half a shit. Fort Daelin was always under the air of chaos. The sea breeze didn’t do much to move the smoke from the braziers tonight. It hung heavily around the stonework like a greasy fog. Stung the eyes a bit, but that could’ve been the incense as well. Sitting back from the ramshackle barricades by ten feet, she worked the head of an arrow out of the plates on her thigh with that puny little knife she kept up her sleeve. The priest watched with iron eyes. The sounds of battle had ebbed; the naga would be back, but not for the moment.

Sylaess ignored him soundly, for the most part.

“You need to repent. The Ancient one will consume you. Use you to take the rest of us. Let me help you.”

Locked her dark eyes on to his grey ones. He was nice, too nice, in fact. Weathered face, not all that old. Healthy muscle, and yet here he was toting the robe of a tidesage with his incense and iron charms. She would’ve put money on his past being spent in hard labor. Kul Tirans had a knack for that, after all. Sandy brown hair, sun-browned skin, grey eyes. Knuckles too big for a book-keeper’s hands.

Her stare broke his. He glanced at her hands working.

“Tell me you honestly believe it’ll work.” Murmured so softly. Level and calm. “Tell me I’m not wrong in assuming I’m quite fucked at this point.”

The beat of silence was enough of an answer.

“You followed me from Boralus for what? A chance to redeem a fucking Acherian? To slit my throat when I’m not looking, maybe stun me long enough for the naga to finish that charming path?”

A smile tugged at her lips, but it was cool. Empty. “Admirable.”

The Tidesage frowned, steeling himself. She saw it in the way his shoulders tensed. He stared at her this time. There was fury under that practised calm, that priestly visage. She was lucky he didn’t call a guard or smite her where she sat.

“No; you are not beyond saving, you pompous piece of undead filth.” He spoke through gritted teeth. Sonorous tone dropped. “Or I wouldn’t be here.”

She let the silence stretch between them, the awkwardness settling, finally flicking the annoying arrowhead away. It hadn’t gotten her, just screeched awfully when she walked. What a strangely lucky shot. It clattered on the cobbles. The elf rose smoothly, tucking the blade back into her sleeve. Slipped around the man. Wasted enough time on words.

“I will follow you.” “That wouldn’t be intelligent. I’m not as fragile as someone who needs to breathe.” A half-smirk tugged her lips. She didn’t stop her gait.

Heard him cursing her under his breath.

His tenacity was commendable. She had to admit she rather liked it; he held to his word as she stalked out of the fort. Down the sandy path, past the Tortollans. A fast clip, but he didn’t say a word. It had been the better part of a half hour. Sylaess was just as happy to ignore the bastard. If he was going to strike, it would’ve been sooner. Easier.

But he didn’t.

Ankle deep in the salt-water, she stared out at the rocky island. Drawn to it. Consciously or not, she’d have ended up here. Just something she knew. Some unbidden knowledge, a plan that was far beyond her own will. All too familiar feeling. It was just like...

“Would you stop?”

The flash of anger boiled under her skin at the succinct words. It teased and mimicked that dark corruption under her skin. The forbidden runes, the tainted power. It twisted, coiling about in her gut like some animal that wanted to be fed. She had no way of gripping it. Using it. It slithered through her fingers unbidden, a mind of its own.

Time seemed to stand still, or her perception had slipped again. The wind caught in her cloak, the lapping sea foam at her ankles. The tickle of loose hair tugged across her face. All of it meant nothing. Nothing against that rhythmic thrum of power bubbling up through her veins.

Poisonous.

Felt her head roll back slightly. She didn’t feel in control of anything. It was a shaky, flighty experience at best. Distant. Watched the sun-browned Tidesage stiffen in surprise. The light of realization gave his grey eyes an almost childish glint. He felt it too late to react. Her fingers bent in patterns that looked absolutely unnatural. Angles that would break fingers. But they flickered through her hands at her sides.

The familiar pull of magic bled from her. Coiled around the man and drew him through the water better than if she had thrown a rope around him. Water sloshed around his feet leaving little trenches in the sandy mud. He struggled but it wasn’t going to work. Felt her own chest tighten; the knowing was worse.

But she’d been here before.

The deadly coil of magic was strangling him. His mouth flapped voicelessly but she couldn’t quite focus on him. Hands out, grabbed him by the lapels. That jittery feeling resonating up from her bones, that wild power out of her control--the world seemed to shift--

Pulled through a thick barrier. Veil. Whatever it was that separated the realms.

Color bled away to blacks and greys in poor contrast. Shadows pulled at them. Shapes. It was cold. Sylaess moved without thinking, the fuzzy definition of the landscape was all too familiar now. Being pulled into the shadowlands was getting easier. Navigating them had a trick, one she didn’t trust. Walking through the water had no sound. The Tidesage seemed to be no more than a paperweight. It was always much easier to move in this realm of spirits and foul things.

It wasn’t exactly fear, but it came awfully close. Paranoia, maybe. Hypervigilance. The power was fading fast, but no one was ready to get pulled through the shadowlands so quickly. He didn’t fight her. Morrath was stunned to stupidity. Something she was silently grateful for.

Looming shadows circled them. Sylaess forced her eyes away from them. Through them. Don’t stare. Long steady strides brought them past the shoal quickly. Closer to the island. You could almost swear to the sight of other people in those formless shapes but it wasn’t quite right. Divining an answer would test sanity, that she was sure of. She had seen faces she knew, vaguely, but couldn’t recall the names of. Anything from flickers of the past to monstrous creations of darkness chasing after her.

It was over faster than she thought.

The runes flared along her armor unbidden--They dropped heavily onto the damp grass on the crest of the rocky island. The shadowlands spitting them out tersely. Felt it in her gut as much as the mild flex from her knees. Out of the grey lands, back to the dampness of ocean air. He grunted, arms lolling, pinioned up by her grip on his robes.

Fragile moment for reality to settle, the sea breeze tousling the loose hairs about her face. Don’t let it slip, Syl, its delicate. Move. Shook it off. A half-breath and pivot. Launched the man at the strange altar nestled in between the rocks. Heard the breath blast out of his lungs, crushing the shout he’d almost managed into something mangled and weak. It all seemed distant, and yet she couldn’t shake it away. This was her doing. Her plan.

Get over yourself, you idiot, you broke. Said it yourself, Syl. The thought niggled at the back of her mind, teasing. Fraying. Her hands were moving. It just dawned on her.

His hands were flailing at her wrists. Mild confusion furrowed her brow. Or concern? Everything felt far away. As if she were just witnessing this herself, not living it. Doing it.

Hot blood spilled over her hands. A strange relief from the damp coldness of the air. Too intimate, though.

He burbled, strange sounds escaping the hole in his throat. Blood bubbling and frothing in his panicked last breaths. Her shoulders ached. He was stronger than she gave him credit. Holding him was no small effort.

But it faded. Everything faded in time.

The struggle waned to simple pawing at her hand to a muzzy head-turn. Eyes left half open and empty in the dimness. It didn’t feel wrong; she felt dislocated. Unreal.

The sensation was unbidden. Approval. Joy. Sentience beyond comprehension. Welcome.

Sylaess let her hands drop limply to her sides. Sticky blood still making soft impacts on the thick seagrass around the altar. Stared up at the night sky with its striated clouds and million blinking stars. One time, they had meant something else to her. Another, she had learned of other worlds. And now?

A gentle reminder that what she knew was lies, and all things were connected. All powers came from the same source. Elune was a mask, and it was bitter medicine.

The boy. This was an appetizer. It would always be like this. A treat before the main course. But how long could she deflect from being the target, herself?

Big question to ponder. A lot of big questions out there.

#sylaess #sylaess chasewind #a queen of bad decisions

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strawberry-skies-xx · 4 years

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you wingless thing

C H A P T E R O N E

summary: So, Geralt saves the terrorizing for the actual noble lord, and makes himself as unthreatening as possible. Contrary to popular belief, he isn’t a savage, bloodthirsty beast, and he’d rather this boy not be raised under that falsehood - though, it’s likely no matter what Geralt does that he will.

The boy’s voice stutters as he looks up at Geralt, words coming out too fast and heart beating rabbit-fast. “S-sir, Lord Erynd requests your presence.”

Geralt gets a contract in a town called Eristan, but it turns out the only monster there is human.

word count: 26516

tags: rape/non-con, dead dove: do not eat, geralt / jaskier, original female character, original male character, angst with a happy ending, angst, angst and feels, rape, past rape/non-con, implied/referenced rape/non-con, implied/referenced abuse, emotional hurt/comfort, psychological abuse, emotional abuse, emotionally repressed, fae jaskier, fae magic, hurt jaskier, torture, revenge, past torture, hurt/comfort, past abuse, jaskier whump, feral jaskier, creature jaskier, inhuman jaskier, eventual happy ending, love confessions, idiots in love, wing kink, homoerotic wing grooming

author’s note: this fic came to me in a dream and is now 26k so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

and on that note, any weirdness can be blamed on my subconscious, which is very wild and is lucky i can actually make its nonsense coherent enough for a fic.

scheduled monday, wednesday, and friday

main masterlist | story on ao3 | next chapter >>

It’s in the heat of summer that Geralt gets a contract in Eristan, a town buried deep in a forest named after it.

He’s heard rumors about this town - nearly everyone who travels within a two hundred mile radius of it has. The town isn’t small - it has some nobility of its own, and quite a few open fields within it - but the entirety of it is surrounded by a massive forest. Trade there is nearly impossible due to that, and some say that the forest itself is cursed, because it happens far too often that some people don’t make it out. Others say that the town is cursed; the streak of good and bad luck there is too extreme, too spontaneous to be normal.

Geralt doesn’t believe these rumors. Not in the way the townsfolk do, at least. Eristan is not cursed, and neither is Eristan Forest. There is simply a creature there, or a mage, which they have gotten on the bad side of. He doesn’t take it as superstition - for one, because he doesn’t feel any magic in the forest as he travels through it, and for two, he makes it out just fine, emerging on the outskirts of one of the fields on the edge of the town.

He stops at the treeline and scans the town. Short houses are scattered in clumps around larger mansions, supposedly belonging to the nobility, and vast open fields separate the clusters from each other. It’s a bit different than most established towns Geralt has come across, especially the fact that one of the noble mansions is atop a hill, and behind it, a stone spire, twisting up into the sky.

Geralt feels the hum of his medallion against his chest, and almost considers turning back right then and there. There’s no monster in this town; he knows that tower is the source of their troubles, and judging by its proximity to the noble mansion in front of it, he’s guessing the nobles are playing with forces they don’t understand. He wouldn’t be surprised if they managed to piss off some powerful creature, and that’s why the city is so spontaneous and extreme with its luck.

Geralt sighs and begins making camp right there. He really doesn’t feel like traipsing across an entire town with the weight of everyone’s judgmental stares on his back, and then have to deal with entitled nobility. Especially when that nobility probably has even more of a power complex for being able to keep up the illusion of capturing a powerful creature like the one in that tower.

He sleeps under the stars instead, with the fading warmth of the fire next to him and the even more faded warmth of his medallion humming against his chest - and then ends up traipsing across the entire town in the morning, waking up at the early light of dawn and packing up the little things he has.

The first cluster of houses he comes across is just as judgmental as he expected it to be. Geralt doesn’t miss the whispers following him, of Butcher and monster and freak; the names have been following him like a shadow his entire life. The only difference is there’s one more added on. He sighs and keeps riding on Roach, through the second and third cluster of houses.

It’s nearing sunset when he finally makes it to the fourth, just beneath the hill the noble’s mansion is built on, with dust in his clothes and Roach panting beneath him. He dismounts Roach and stables her in an inn that looks only slightly more promising than most of the others, because the stable boys, at least, only look at him with the customary fear of a Witcher, and not the heightened fear of the Butcher.

He swings the inn door open, mentally bracing himself against the onslaught of noise, and walks inside. The inn slowly goes quiet as he does, the sharp scent of fear stinging Geralt’s nose and the quiet hush of whispers reaching his ears as he makes his way to the innkeeper and negotiates for a room.

It takes at least ten minutes, and it’s the smallest room the inn has at too high a price, but Geralt manages to get it and he pays for the room before walking directly upstairs to it. He’s not in the mood for drinking, not when he’s going to be dealing with nobility in the morning, and he doesn’t want to push his luck either. It’s unlikely he’d get a drink in this establishment anyway, when it was as hard as it was to get a room.

He sighs as he sets his swords down and strips off his armor, looking around the room. There isn’t a bath drawn, and Geralt isn’t sure that the inn would provide him one. He figures that it’s just dust anyway, and he’d rather go to bed slightly dusty than get thrown out of the inn or deal with harsh words for wanting a luxury such as bathing. At least he’s not covered in monster guts, though in that memorable occasion, he did get a bath in the end, if only because the innkeeper got too many complaints about the smell.

He falls into the bed in the corner once he finishes and drifts into sleep quickly, ignoring the increased pulsing hum of his medallion against his chest.

Geralt’s eyes snap open just as footsteps stop outside his door and three loud, resounding knocks sound on the wood. He sits up in bed, a quick scent of the air bringing in lavender, exotic spices, and some more expensive smells. There’s no sweat, dirt, or ale on any of Geralt’s sudden company outside his door.

Nobility then. Geralt sighs, mentally lamenting the fact that he hasn’t even had breakfast yet, and stands up, walking to the door and swinging it open with an unimpressed expression on his face.

There’s three of them - one young boy whose fear-scent makes Geralt’s nose burn, and two guards who do better to hide it, but whose heartbeats still ratchet up a notch at the sight of him.

The boy falters at the expression on Geralt’s face, brown eyes wide and terrified, so he softens his face slightly. He isn’t here to terrorize the pager boy this entitled noble lord hired, and it’s not the boy’s fault that they came to get Geralt at the crack of dawn.

So, Geralt saves the terrorizing for the actual noble lord, and makes himself as unthreatening as possible. Contrary to popular belief, he isn’t a savage, bloodthirsty beast, and he’d rather this boy not be raised under that falsehood - though, it’s likely no matter what Geralt does that he will.

The boy’s voice stutters as he looks up at Geralt, words coming out too fast and heart beating rabbit-fast. “S-sir, Lord Erynd requests your presence.”

Geralt sighs and flicks a glance at the guards. It most definitely is not a request, not from nobility, so he has no choice but to accept. Unless he’d rather be drawn into the political mess of a lord’s anger, which, he’d really rather not.

“Ten minutes,” he rumbles, and doesn’t wait for a response before he turns around and goes to get his armor.

The guards don’t look too happy with him when he walks back up to them fully dressed, but he can’t be made to give a fuck. If they want to come get him at the crack of dawn, then they can wait for him to get his shit together.

The walk to the noble’s mansion is quietly entertaining for Geralt, who watches the guards hide their panting and racing heartbeats, while he’s relatively unaffected by the uphill walk. The pager boy walks just ahead of Geralt and the guards, heart still racing and fear still stinging Geralt’s nose.

Of course, he shouldn’t have expected the people at the keep to be any less judgmental than his very unhappy escorts. As he’s led through the gate, he gets barely a nod of acknowledgment from the guards there, and he can feel the curious gazes and hushed whispers of the various landscapers occupying the front courtyard.

The main entryway of the noble’s manor is grand, including a spiral staircase in the center and clean white marble floors, the whole space made airy and open by the soaring ceilings carved with intricate patterns. Servants dressed in plain clothes flit about through doorways, some sparing curious glances at Geralt and some paying him no mind. The pager boy, straightening slightly as he’s in his element now, leads Geralt through one of the doorways to what appears to be a lavish front room, covered in soft, expensive rugs and couches and smelling almost overwhelmingly like flowers.

The floral perfumes almost hide the still-present scent of fear from the pager boy, and the natural scents of the guards. The perfumes are so strong that it puts Geralt on edge, having his sense of smell inhibited like this, but he tries to stay as relaxed and calm as possible in the guards’ presence, and takes a seat on one of the couches at the boy’s request before he hurries away out of sight.

The guards take up position behind him, against the wall - and that sets off more alarm bells in Geralt’s head. His fingers twitch from where they’re hanging between his thighs, and he focuses on the weight of his swords leaning against his calf, and the fainter, natural scents of the guards beneath the perfumes.

He doesn’t have to wait long before there’s the sound of footsteps and the floral scent increases, drifting in from the doorway as a man he can only assume is Lord Erynd enters and sits down on the couch across from Geralt.

Erynd is dressed in an expensive suit, with an overly generous application of that damned floral perfume floating around him in an almost suffocating cloud, and wearing the kind of smug arrogance Geralt only sees on nobles who think they are better and more entitled than everyone and everything around them. He sighs internally, really not up to dealing with nobility, but not exactly having a choice.

“Witcher,” Erynd starts, a note of harshness to his voice that solidifies Geralt’s assumption of this lord’s attitude, “I assume you came because of the contract one of my townspeople posted in a nearby village?”

Geralt nods. “You’ve been having bad luck lately - and really good luck.”

The lord inclines his head in acquiescence, but there’s a strange air of calm about him, as if he doesn’t care. It sets off distant alarm bells in Geralt’s head, but he stays still and quiet and keeps listening. “Yes, but the cause is of no concern to you. Your services are not required in this situation, because I have it more than handled,” Erynd says.

Geralt frowns, suspicion immediately seeping into his tone and his eyes narrowing as he holds Erynd’s eerily calm gaze. “Handled how?”

Erynd gives a small, pleased smile, which only sets Geralt more on edge. At this point, he’s on a hair-trigger, fingers twitching against his thigh and the weight of his swords leaning against his ankle a comfort.

“I would be delighted to show you, Witcher,” he says, all smug arrogance, “I’m sure you will appreciate my mastery of these beasts.” His tone drops lower, almost secretive - and there’s the catch. “I only ask that you keep this between us.”

Geralt pauses, frown still in place, considering his options. It’s very likely that this is a trap - if Erynd has some creature imprisoned in that tower like Geralt thinks he does, he knows he is dangerously close to being a monster himself, and may find himself the next monster in Erynd’s supposed collection.

Or, it’s something entirely different. But either way, it won’t work out well for him to refuse nobility.

Geralt smooths out his frown and schools his expression into something neutral. He can’t find out what Erynd is hiding if he shows displeasure towards it - that can be saved for later, when he dismantles whatever the lord has happening with the monsters, or when he is slashing his way out of being added to the lord’s collection.

“As you wish,” he replies instead, voice steady and neutral, and tries to shove down his uneasiness at the resulting sickly sweet smile on the lord’s face.

next chapter >>

#the witcher netflix #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier

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chucklestheechidona · 4 years

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Freedom Fighters - An Unceremonious Death

For the love of god let them die

Look, I like the Freedom Fighters. More the reboot than the preboot, they have less baggage, but still, I respect what they did. But if you’ve read my other dumb things you also know I think Red Dwarf USA had a real chance of working, so maybe I’m just insane.

Either way, this whole Rally For Sally business has been going around and disturbing the usual culprits from their dens and I feel I should say something.

“The American Canon“

This is a stupid sentence and yet thrown around as you like. There is no American canon, there is just “The Canon” and “Non-canon.” Believe it or not, the people who make the product get to decide what’s done with it and what is canon.

If you made something and then in France they made an entirely different story with concepts and themes you didn’t want to explore, you’d be hesitant about including or acknowledging it. Same with Sega of Japan.

But then why did Sega allow this to be made?

Well, I think this needs a tad bit of history behind it.

We’re going to the 90′s

Denim was in, the future was here, everything in 2000′s would be chrome and the Y2k bug was on the horizon.

Ohno

But Sega of Japan had an issue. Their arcade machines were selling like nobody’s business but they wanted that sweet console piece of the pie, but had no winning mascot. Alex Kidd, unfortunately, wasn’t moving as many consoles as they had hoped, god knows not enough to rival Mario.

They needed something cool, something different, somethi- It’s Sonic. You know it is, I know it is, I ain’t dragging this on.

It did well enough in Japan, but Sega was focusing on international markets with this game. It had a somewhat universal design, helped by the basis being Felix and Mickey Mouse which were popular around the world, with catchy songs based on both Japanese and American releases from the past.

It was going to be a hit.

Or... was it?

Did they need to do more?

Well, Sega doesn’t just have Sega of Japan. It had SOE and SOA as well. Europe and America respectively. Others too I’m sure but my memory’s off.

SoA and SoJ had a somewhat shaky relationship with each other, but then again, so did other companies back then. It was a new foray into public relations. Japan built the consoles that actually sold, America had to sell them, but there was a big gap between the countries, how things were interpreted, different values, and let’s not forget, American pride and greed.

AMERICA in the 90′s

SOJ needed this thing to sell big. Sonic was going to be a global success if they could help it. And let’s be honest, it was.

America had it’s own plans on what Sonic should be, and SOJ actually listened to some of them. Madeline Schroeder, product manager at the time for Sega in the US, actually went to Japan to say what she thought Sonic would be. As of this, they removed Madonna and Sonic’s tie-in with a band, as well as changing certain design traits in the US because “Sonic looked too Japanese.“

And then had the gall to call herself the “Mother Of Sonic”

Again, in a world where shitting on other people’s culture is a big no-no, and for good reason, how that managed to be fine is insane.

It’s a Japanese fucking product, Madeline.

Alongside this, as SOA hadn’t had much access to the Japanese backstories (although, the manuals should have been fine enough), when it came to marketing the games as an ongoing story (and ready in time for the cartoons they wanted to push) SOA made their own Sonic Bible, for use outside of non-Japanese territories.

This would have the seeds of what most people know, Freedom Fighters, Eggman once being good, Sonic being part of the good fight, etc.

[Astoundingly, when they made the cartoons and everything, Fleetway would be the one to actually stick closer to this than Archie/Satam/Underground/Aosth ever did so who’s talking about canon now huh]

Japan didn’t really notice nor take heed. One could make a good case for their complete obliviousness to what SOA was doing. You can tell because absolutely nothing from the bible/comics/magazine ever appeared in a Japanese Sonic game. Spinball was Sega Technical Institute, an American Division. Not Sega of Japan.

On top of this, as I see a bunch of people who go “Sega is disrespecting the American canon”, interesting fact. In Europe and Japan, the manual for Sonic CD clearly states Amy Rose is in the game. Sega of America actually edited this to say Sally, despite not going through and changing the sprites. If that’s not disrespect towards the creators of the games I don’t know what is.

The Canon

The problem I find with this is that, let’s be honest, if we had to look at this from an objective viewpoint:

Japan released a game.

America sought to profit off it, but didn’t like it was very much Japanese, not American.

They changed the story to be more American themed, changed the art design to look more American drawn, and ignored the Japanese additions to the games by editing out the Japanese characters in the manuals.

Because they wanted to profit off a different culture’s work by changing it wholesale so it didn’t resemble the culture it came from.

Nothing about SatAm’s premise or creation says anything about the original material it came from, just heavily adapted without any input from it’s creators to resemble a more American product.

You know how Japan saw Sonic?

This cute lad who acted more like a cartoon Felix the Cat type figure.

Now I get it, especially in the 90′s, everyone was localising. The markets weren’t as much the same, god knows they gave Ratchet attack eyebrows to be appealing etc.

But this was so anti-Japanese that the fact they were profiting at all from a Japanese product is insane.

Adventure

Back in Japan in the 90′s, they didn’t really have much of an idea what they were doing with the canon. They had plans but they seemed to be not as stable as they would have liked. The amount of games they were pumping out with different Eggman attacks and characters and if the GG games fit in with the MD games-

They needed something a bit more stable.

So when it was their time for their biggest game yet, they started to reign things in. In Japan. In Europe.

In America.

Sonic Adventure would be the basis for the stories for the next decade or so, with some revisions on what came before, what was mainline, what have you.

At this point, SOA’s cartoons had all died and the only thing remaining in the Sonic canon from that time was the Archie comic, still ongoing. But yet America still pulled this stuff off.

In the original script, Eggman is still Eggman. None of this “I AM DOCTOR ROBOTNIK, GENIUS OF THE WORLD” schtick.

No changing the manuals this time at least, so they’re getting better.

Over time, the only surviving things to come out of the canon, which Sega was nice enough to do considering, was

- Chilli-dogs - I HATE THAT HEDGEHOG - Robotnik being Maria’s surname

Didn’t you have something to say about the Freedom Fighters?

Why yes I do.

So, the Freedom Fighters for me, as much as I like them as , represent an American centrism. Not only was America not a Sega dominated market, for Nintendo did better and Europe was buying Sega consoles like candy, but the characters and show weren’t that popular outside the country anyway.

Ask someone in Europe in the 90′s who Sally Acorn was and unless they had access to a specific channel they wouldn’t have the first idea. Amy Rose, for sure, she was in the games.

I didn’t know who Sally was until Mega Collection Plus came out, and the UK STILL manages to get Sonic games in the top of the charts when they come out.

Aosth was shown more abroad with more appeal, the comics weren’t sold internationally, let alone in Japan.

To be all “But these characters cemented the Western fanbase” is mental.

The comics sold somewhere in the tens of thousands in their hey-day. At the same time, Sonic games were selling millions. The comic and show are so old that unless you were part of the 20,000 buying the comics recently or pirated them, you don’t even know who they are.

Fleetway was the only Sonic comic we got in the UK, and there’s more fans that have grown up with Sonic Adventure being the basis which had absolutely no inspiration from the Western products.

These characters are relics of America taking the mick out of a Japanese product in order to make more money and produce shows.

To say they’ve made a big impact on Sonic in the world is really stretching it.

F.A.Q

But you said you liked the FF’s!

I do, but in the same way I like AU’s. It was interesting, of it’s time and it said a lot about the culture it was made in. Like, comparable to Tails gets Trolled or Fleetway

B-but I really like the FF’s!

Good for you, don’t let me stop you. Again, I like a bunch of the stories.

Are you a Japanese purist?

Fleetway is cool and I liked the Boom show, and I liked Robotnik better than Eggman as a name.

I heard that some Japanese fans actually liked the FF’s though...

And more power to them. Again, Red Dwarf USA does a lot to shit on what made the UK version so good but I respect what it tried to do. Again, even I like the FF’s to an extent.

Why did you write this all out?

Seeing all this Rally for Sally has brought out all the insane people who shout at SOJ for being gits for not respecting the American canon despite the American canon being born from a disrespect to the Japanese creators.

What about IDW?

Ironically I actually liked Reboot more but also I was younger when I read them.

What do you think of Tangle and Whisper getting in?

I need to read more of IDW but they’re good enough. As for getting in the games, these designs were vetted and passed through SOJ first and the comic is overseen by them. On top of this, T+W don’t come from a place of SOA taking the mick.

But Sega has used these characters before and ESTABLISHED this as canon why are they changing it now-

I see this a lot, usually with certain people. Dobson’s a good example of why this is stupid. When the Japanese revert changes made to characters like Mario/Zelda/Samus by the West, they didn’t radically change their personalities, they just reset them to what Japan intended.

Japan never intended for the FF’s, the three heavily contrasting cartoons and Knuckles is Jesus Christ Superstar.

They just reverted him back to the sole guy on Angel Island.

Do you think Sally should get in to Sonic Dash?

No more than I think Tekno or Sonia does. They’re old, irrelevant, gone. If they do get brought in for a cameo I’d be happy enough, I like dumb nods to non-canon things.

However, there are crazy people out there and you give them an inch and they’ll take a mile. Best to leave it.

Hotel?

#Sonic the hedgehog #Freedom Fighters #Sally Acorn #Rally4Sally #America #Japan #Hotel?#Trivago

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