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snapeaddict · 1 year

Note

Ooh prompts! How about albus handling the post-lily year a bit too heavy-handedly, it goes south, and minerva is LIVID :3

Minerva focused

Loved this prompt, such a thing had been on my mind for quite a while as a continuation of one of my fics - I'll be posting it as the next chapter too. I have just changed the timeline, as I do not imagine Minerva vehemently defending Severus in their first year as colleagues. This is the beginning of his third year. I suppose I could write one where Severus gets furious too, but I am sure this would not work in his first year as a teacher; rather ten years later ahah

Power play

Well, let’s see. There were five essays left to grade, including that one still soaked in black ink – that is unfortunate, she had told Mr Longbourg before picking it up with the tip of her fingers. She lowered her gaze. Bugger. They were still stained.

Then there was patrolling to do for an hour, and some sewing to tackle, because her right sleeve was in dire need of mending – ah, and before that, a short meeting with Albus, to get the updated list of next year’s young recruits. She sighed heavily and turned around, heading towards the headmaster’s office. She hoped that this time, he would be mindful of his handwriting. Albus Dumbledore was a talented wizard, but he wrote as neatly as a muggle doctor when he was in a rush, and she spent enough time already trying to decipher her student’s poor attempts at calligraphy.

“Truffe au chocolat”, she said in a dry voice as soon as she stepped in front of the gargoyle. She felt a tinge of regret at the thought she was the one who had encouraged Albus to go back to Savoie in the Summer when two students behind her glanced over their shoulder, and started sniggering.

She climbed the flight of stairs quickly. The door to the office was opened. She was about to get in when the echo of a voice stopped her in her tracks: it was Albus’.

His voice was cold, almost menacing, unusually low. Her mind, still infatuated with the image of the adorable, foolish old man who had not ceased to speak about Chambéry chocolates since the beginning of the term two days ago, did not quite comprehend how that voice could be emanating from the same person. She froze completely.

“I expected better from you. Do you not see how Mr. and Mrs Sweeney will be valuable assets to us when the time comes, Severus? Is there any need to treat their son this way? Do you take pleasure in belittling children?”

“I don’t understand what you mean, headmaster. I have... told you before that your definition of a “harmless prank” differs from mine. Mr Sweeney deserves the detention, and I stand by my decision.”

“You are hounding the boy.”

“No. He is neither special nor important, and I intend to teach him so. You usually do not meddle with my decisions, headmaster. Am I to understand Mr Sweeney deserves special treatment?”

Minerva raised her head. That is bold of him.

“Mr Sweeney deserves equal treatment, Severus – all Gryffindors do. You will call off this detention at once.”

A pause.

“I cannot do that, headmaster. With all due respect, this would embolden the students to -”

A chair being pushed back.

“This is an order, Severus. I am not leaving you a choice. I am tired of your methods, and tired of the parents’ complaints. You cannot rule by Terror alone.”

“I have no other choice, headmaster”, Severus replied. It was subtle, but even Minerva did not miss it: his voice was trembling slightly.

There was another pause. She thought of clearing her throat, or perhaps turning back – but Albus’ voice rose again.

“You have a choice, Severus. You always do, and yet again you take the easy way out. You do not try. I don’t know what I am to do with you.”

There was no reply.

“Do not forget why I have taken you in, Severus. We are building a network. I will not have you jeopardize the school’s reputation or my plans because of your personal vendettas.”

“Headmaster-”

“Do not disappoint me again, my boy.” A pause, clearly planned. “You owe me as much.”

“What is the meaning of this?”

Both men turned their heads towards the threshold of the office, taken by surprise. Minerva, herself only half-conscious of her movements, made her way towards the desk.

“What, Albus, is the meaning of this?” she repeated, stopping right next to Severus. The young Potion Master was hunched in an armchair, his shoulders down in defeat; the headmaster, standing tall, was on the other side of the desk, his hands clenched on the edge of the wooden surface. He was looking at her with slight confusion.

“Minerva”, he greeted her. He took a step back from the desk. “I apologise; Severus and I had not planned for this meeting to last this long. Please, have a seat.”

The Potion Master immediately rose to his feet, his face a mask of complete indifference.

But his eyes, there was something in his eyes, pain, anger perhaps– Minerva caught his arm.

He froze, his gaze locked on her hand.

“Albus,’ Minerva said slowly, still peering at Severus, “of all the vile things I had to hear in my life, what you have just said to Severus must be one of the worst.”

There was a slight change in the headmaster’s countenance. He frowned, and his face contorted – it was both sudden and disconcerting.

“Minerva, please”, he told her quietly. “This only concerns Severus and I.”

“Severus was right to punish Mr Sweeney”, the deputy headmistress replied, still refusing to let go of Severus’ arm. “And I will make sure his parents pay for the acquisition of his classmate’s new cauldron. I often complain about Severus’ methods, they are rather harsh, I must admit – you have consistently insisted on each teacher’s right to their own modus operandi. You know that I disagree with that.” She paused. “You cannot speak like this.”

“This does not concern you”, the headmaster repeated blankly.

Severus’ face had turned as white as a sheet. He did not dare make eye contact with either of them, and looked obstinately at something in the far distance.

“But it does concern me, Albus”, Minerva replied, thin-lipped.

Her tone was hard to describe, many-layered and, or so it would seem to the careful listener, surprised at itself, respectful still, perfectly certain of its legitimacy.

Albus’ gaze made direct contact with his colleague’s.

“It does”, she went on. “Aren’t you the one who told us last year that the boy’s well-being concerned us? That this whole situation requires collective effort? Or does this only apply to us? Enlighten me.”

The headmaster was looking at her gravely. He had recovered from his surprise, regained his natural charisma: one glance from him and Minerva felt herself wavering, for a second incapable of justifying to herself why, out of the two men present, her enemy wasn’t Severus.

It should have been natural. She and Albus on one side of the office, the boy on the other. It should have been natural.

Was there something new?

“My dear professor, please be mindful of your tone”, Albus told her politely, though his voice was firm and low. “It is my responsibility to keep the staff in line, as you know.”

Minerva pursued her lips.

“I am aware. And does that involve humiliation? Power play? Albus… I have seen you do better.”

He flinched, and once again she felt her assurance falter – but she was right, and she wanted to tell him acidly, to mutter angrily, need I remind you that the boy is fragile?

And there was more. An awful feeling of discomfort, the uncovering of something truly vile that terrified her.

“As my deputy, I ask that you follow my lead, Minerva. I assure you there are no hard feelings between Severus and I.”

As if the mention of his name had broken his trance, the Potion Master finally freed himself from Minerva’s grasp, taking a step back. He cast a defying glance at Dumbledore, he could not help it – the headmaster raised an eyebrow. He lowered his head.

“There is no need for this, profess- Minerva. This is nothing serious”, he told her drily.

For a moment, the deputy headmistress looked as though she was going to burst out. Her jaw contracted painfully as she closed her mouth tightly, at a loss for words. She used a few precious seconds to calm down, careful for her silence to not last too long. She did not want to look upset: it was not the kind of person she was. She was composed, and grave, and rigid, and that was how she would handle the matter.

“Like I said before, Mr Sweeney deserves this detention. As his head of house, I insist on it.”

Dumbledore took a deep breath in. He, on the other hand, did not bother to hide his growing frustration.

“I have already established that this detention is not justified, Minerva. You will handle the matter accordingly.”

A pause.

“No.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You have heard me, Albus.”

A longer pause – one filled with tension, almost electric, terribly heavy. It was the first time Minerva was opposing her superior, her friend, so frontally; never before had any of their many disagreements turned into a violent confrontation.

Under his scrutiny she felt like a little girl, like the young teacher that had cried in his arms after the marriage of Dougal. He had been there too, when Dougal had died. The boundless empathy he had shown, the strong and reassuring hand he had extended to her each time - she had thought, vaguely, foolishly perhaps, that it had been extended to Severus also. Albus had taken in him, had defended him, had nursed him, and this all was genuine, she could swear it.

But there was something foul. A sort of… a repulsive kind of submission that Albus demanded as payment.

He liked the boy. But the boy was complicated: he was defiant, and stubborn. She had thought that, like her, when he showed signs of frustrations, he could simply not understand this behaviour. She had shared his annoyance. She had complained about the Potion Master, confronted him, called him out sometimes even during staff meetings. And this had been carried out, always, on equal footing. There had even been some cup of teas shared afterwards, in her office. But Albus did not expect to argue. He did not expect Severus to yield before reason. He expected him to yield, because he had been brought to the castle under such condition.

Was it servitude? When Severus had lowered his head just a moment ago?

“Severus”, Albus said slowly, “you are excused.”

The Potion Master was looking at Minerva, a strange expression on his face. It seemed as though he was going to say something, his muscles contracted in contradictory ways.

Finally, and not without violent struggle, he seemed to decide against speaking, nodded confusedly, and turned back.

He disappeared in the staircase. Albus’ gaze lingered on the threshold for a moment. When it returned to Minerva, he looked furious; still, when he spoke again, his voice was calm.

“What has gotten into you, Minerva?” he asked simply, his tone exaggeratedly casual.

He was looking at her intensely. She looked back; he held her gaze. For a moment she felt as though he was going through her mind, looking for clues – then, slowly, he sat down.

“Do not patronise me, Albus. This is not about me.”

“Indeed. And yet we have not closed the subject.”

She squinted slightly.

“You gave the boy a second chance. I thought it was generous of you. He does owe you his life. But you, of all people…” she was lost in thought for a second, searching for the right words. “Why do you hold this above his head? Why do you… expect him to bow before you for that reason alone? We have always spoken. Argued, even. You listened. Why do you not extend this favour to Severus?”

Albus smiled.

“I am glad to see that you now care for the boy, Minerva.”

“That is not what this is about!”

She was livid. Albus tilted his head, searching for her gaze once more.

“Answer me”, she said sternly.

He sighed.

“The boy needs to be disciplined, Minerva. For his own good.”

“Perhaps. But even when you disagreed with my choices, even when we held vastly different opinions, Albus; I was never, in all these years, under the impression that I could disappoint you.”

He frowned.

“You could never disappoint me, Minerva”, he replied, and for the first time since they had started talking there was a slight trace of weariness in his voice. “I care about Severus. He is important; more than he knows. I need to bring him in line.”

“You had countless colleagues – employees – that proved to be more or less insubordinate. It never really mattered. But Severus… he is different, is he not?”

The older man did not reply. He handed her a long parchment, which she recognized to be the list of addresses she had come to retrieve. She did not move.

“Indeed, Minerva. He is different.”

She put the parchment under her arm.

“I have disagreed with you countless times tonight, Albus. I have shown myself to be defiant, even insolent at times. You listened to me. You replied. You expected reason, and not mere hierarchy, to settle this matter.”

She glanced at Severus’ empty chair.

“You will extend this courtesy to the boy, Albus.”

It had been both an order and a plea.

Minerva McGonagall held on to a strict, crystal-clear image of Albus Dumbledore, one that comforted her even when her own moral compass wavered. She was brave, intransigent, heroic; but she was not fearless. One thing only could trouble her, and it was the disturbance of her strongest beliefs, of the pillars of her soul. For her sake, Albus Dumbledore needed to conform to the idea she had of him.

Severus had not. Severus had changed everything.

Her mind, her neatly ordered inner-self could not afford to be derailed again.

#pro snape #severus snape #minerva mcgonagall #albus dumbledore #prompt

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flashfuture · 7 months

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I haven't done a character analysis in a hot minute. But I want to do one now because I woke up really early this morning with the thought I should catch up on comics. And I regret reading the Robin comic for the early art alone. Anyways it brought to my attention Bernard and Tim and I have thoughts.

I was actively keeping up when Urban Legends was dropping and was like holy shit is this a date are we doing this?? And we were.

Bernard Dowd first came into the comics in the early 2000s in the Vol 2 Robin run. At a pinnacle point in Tim's life one of lots of upheaval and change. He was starting his junior year of high school. His dad was awake. He has a new step mother. And to top it all off he's about to get forcibly pulled off the after school club of Robinhood by Jack Drake. So Bernard existed in this limbo of Tim trying to find his identity without Robin and to figure out what it meant to be a regular highschooler.

Bernard was there during the a breakup of Tim and Steph not that he really knew the situation. He knew Jack and Dana. His connection to Tim was purely about Tim Drake. Bernard was also a funny character in a pure absurdist way. He decided Tim didn't fit into the stereotypes of high schooler highlighting and could roll with him highlighting how Tim doesn't have an 'identity' beyond being Robin. And then Bernard's silly conspiracy theories about the Batman and Robin situation were really showing how ridiculous a life Tim was living. And was the backdrop to say Tim finding out Steph replaced him as Robin.

Bernard was originally present for an identity crisis of Tim's and faded out of the story when that was done with. It makes a lot of sense why he would be the first boyfriend that Tim would have. During the arc about Tim discovering himself outside of Robin and rethinking who Robin is... Again. The first date I think also missed the opportunity to adjust canonically the ages and call them both 21 and have them drinking but whatever.

What I do think is that Bernard was an absurd character and should be presented that way. For example, introducing him as being in a cult is perfect absurdity. Trying to drag him into painfully boring being gay is hard but also good is scrapping off his character. There is a real legit history to be referenced and built upon. Bernard only showed up for six issues I really think it should not be hard for writers to reference that and give us something more correct.

Even down to the way Bernard dresses idk like he wore baggy clothes and graphic tees. He wore his hair long and sunglasses on his head. Then his parents put him in private school which he didn't like. So why the preppy stuff Now wouldn't it make more sense when he even in modern comics has major altercations with his parents to rebel in that visual way again? Maybe some piercings? That tattoo that was really a cult thing could have been a permanent reminder of why not to join cults.

Biology and physics to be a chef I have no idea what to say about that my cousin just went to culinary school... but with the whole chaos demon thing they could have had Bernard studying metamorphoses and that's why he was wanted. And then they could have people be like Tim is your boyfriend an evil scientist? But that's really neither here nor there just a random plot complaint.

Anyways the point is, I understand using a previously transitional character again as the subject of self discovery. I just think that he should be the same character is all

#dc comics #tim drake #bernard dowd

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babykentthegent · 11 months

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High-Five Months Old

We're rapidly approaching Kent's first half year of life as he continues to grow faster than my morning race to the espresso machine. This last month has included a couple of firsts for little Kent, as his personality continues to blossom. He's truly one of the happiest little babies I've ever known, and that fact has yet to waiver as time marches on.

Kent had his 4-month check up in September where he got a whole cocktail of vaccines, and handled it like a champ. We have a great pediatrician which certainly makes things much easier. She advised that we wait to start feeding Kent solids until ~5 1/2 months. Hard to believe we're now only weeks away from this! When you become a new parent, you get a lot of unsolicited advice from people, so our mantra continues to be "we're just following what his doctor says". It's hard to argue with that.

Rob is now less than two weeks away from going back to work. We're a bit nervous since this means we'll a) be relying on others to care for him during the day and b) have to adjust to yet another major routine change. It's been so nice having them both home, especially since I work from home. Kent will be going to a nanny 3x per week and grandma/grandpa's house 2x per week. It's going to be so quiet here when this does finally happen. This'll be a big step for all of us!

October is one of my favorite months, for several reasons. It's my birthday, for one, but also because of all the fun Fall festivities. We took Kent to his very first pumpkin patch! I think he was more intrigued with the tractor than the pumpkins, but that's neither here nor there. We had fun as a family picking out the perfect pumpkins and the weather couldn't have been any better - a sunny, crisp, Fall day!

We had planned a trip down to my hometown to visit family and decided to make a stop at one of my favorite places - the cider mill. We got to drink fresh apple cider (blackberry apple cider to be exact), ate a fresh apple fritter, and got to show Kent several farm animals including goats, sheep, chickens, guinea pigs, and peacocks. He was extremely interested in the animals, which in turn brought me so much joy. Taking him on adventures, no matter how big or small, is by far one of our favorite things in the world.

While we were on our trip, Kent rolled over for the first time! I started crying, which in hindsight is hilarious. Never did I imagine myself sobbing over something like a baby rolling over, but I was just so grateful to be there to witness one of his firsts. It's been a big worry of mine since going back to work; that I'd miss out on all of his firsts. So this was an absolutely magical birthday gift he gave me.

Visiting with family was really nice. Kent got to see his grandpa, his great-grandma (GG), and his aunt and uncle. We even stopped to see his great aunt and uncle (not pictured) so we certainly got our fill of family time. It was such a nice way to spend my birthday and Kent did so good going along for the ride.

An additional bonus to our trip was visiting one of my dearest friends for her baby shower. Kent was the only boy at the party and boy was he popular! His face says it all...he likes the ladies! All the gals were passing him around the room and he had zero complaints. He never ceases to amaze me. A few days after our trip, Kent had another first and sadly not one we looked forward to. He got sick! Considering all the people we saw, I shouldn't be terribly surprised. I suppose on one hand, it's nice knowing his immune system is kicking into gear and his white blood cells are learning how to battle infections. We knew this day would come eventually and it's been tough to say the least. Seeing him sick is so heartbreaking, but we are managing the best we can and hoping to kick it soon. I type this as I take a sip of Theraflu. Yup - mama got it, too. All things considered, we have no regrets. It was bound to happen eventually.

We are about one week away from our final social worker visit and about one month away from the adoption being finalized. We felt like this day would never come and hope to have more to report in our next month's blog. Kent is by far our biggest joy in life. Being a parent is exhausting, and certainly not all rainbows and unicorns. All that to say, we wouldn't change it for the world! Our son is loved and has such a beautiful life ahead. We can't wait to see what kind of person he grows up to be. I'm betting he'll still be full of smiles 20 years from now and that he'll be a kind, loving, empathetic human. Stay tuned for next month's blog where we'll share our Halloween costumes, some more firsts, and hopefully more news on his adoption finalization. We're enjoying the parenthood ride so far, no matter how bumpy it gets. Happy October and thanks for reading!

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pierrotguru · 1 year

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Title: Baby Firebird

Author: Serpent at Sunset

Rating: T

Fandom: BNHA

Genre: Romance

Pairing: Dabihawks

Word Count: 765

---

Keigo's stomach was so big now. Hawks sighed as he sat down.

Unbelievable, he had a craving for barbecue chips again. Apparently, this kid growing inside him had his appetite.

Finally getting together with Dabi had been unbelievable and getting pregnant just took the cake. Life was just so complicated, but at least it was entertaining. For the most part, he had no complaints.

He supposed that he was destined to be a wild year. Hawks knew that he should look at his Astrology. All he was aware of was that he was a Capricorn with a Virgo ascendant, and Dabi was a Capricorn also with a Scorpio ascendant which wasn't surprising considering his appearance. Scorpios could be considered fearsome. Just like Dabi.

Speaking of which he should look birth chart when he or she was born. Still, Hawks wasn't sure that he believed it.

"I guess the kid will be a Todoroki," said then. "From my side anyway."

Hawks looked down. "I worry if he'll have my wings," he said suddenly.

Dabi was chuckling "Maybe our son will be a badass phoenix bird. He'll have my fire Quirk too." Dabi said.

"Or a daughter would be fine too," Hawks said while rubbing his swollen stomach.

Dabi shrugged. "Well, yeah I agree. Did you pick any name?"

Hawks shook his head. "No, not yet."

But it was all right. They had time. This relationship itself was long continuation. Many ups and downs.

Well, I'll help we can both pick one."

Hawks held a finger up. "But, it has to be distinctive."

"Of course."

Dabi's tone was oddly respectful. Even Dabi could be kind or respectful if one got to know him.

"I still don't know how I got my wings," Hawks said from out of the blue.

Dabi was silent. Sometimes, Hawks hated when that happened. However, he knew that Dabi was still paying attention He was always paying attention

"Neither my father nor my mother have them. I'm an anomaly." Hawks shrugged. "They just appeared one day."

"Why can't we all be so lucky?" Dabi murmured.

The scarred man stared straight ahead

"But then would have thrown me out. My father wanted me to be a proper Todoroki after all."

Then again, if he hadn't been born with a proper fire Quirks, Dabi never would have forgiven himself. He couldn't have. Particularly as a child.

Hawks had never expressed regret for his Quirk. He was grateful for his wings, and they were damned useful out of that environment. Possibly, without them, he wouldn't be here. They were part of the reason now the second hero in Japan. They were probably even part of the reason why he met Dabi. Everyone wanted a government agent that could fly. Hawks was just so useful. Not just useful, but nonchalant and normal too. A bright personality to hide the darkness creeping inside. At times, Hawks just felt so...contrived.

But, apparently something about him attracted Dabi. The real him.

It was too late to ask Hawks if he wanted life to be like this, but in any case, it was too far late to change it. But, honestly, it wasn't that bad in this moment. It was his own decisions that created this life.

It wasn't a surprise when he felt his lips on his own. Immediately, Hawks returned the kiss. Dabi didn't like to be ignored.

...what a nice surprise

How pleasant it would be if everyday would be like this. And, who said that they couldn't be?

"Those chips are good. Really spicy." Dabi licked his lips and it was so...appealing.

Hawks felt a flush of heat rush through him. Distractedly, he bit his lip.

If the urges struck, it was a good thing that he could only get pregnant once. He was feeling too good right now.

But, what remained to be seen was if their child would be a hero or a villain. Only the world knew which father would really take after.

And, in this situation love was the greatest crime.

But in the end, Hawks supposed that they were both villains. With different tactics and histories. So, in other words, the kid would have a lot to deal with.

Their child would need protection and he and Dabi would provide it

In October, their son was born. On Halloween. A precious boy with white blond hair and Dabi's blue eyes.

And a pair of glorious red wings.

They named him Hokuto. "Ho" for flames "ku" for black stone and "to" for flight.

His parents hoped that he would wear the name well.

#dabihawks #bnha #dabihawks fanfiction #dabihawks lovechild

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sarcastic-spoon · 2 years

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Tacenda (Metanoia-P.t 2)

Tacenda

Meaning: Things better left unsaid

~~~

Edaline didn’t know how, but she could tell that today was going to be rough. Her neck was sore from sleeping in the back of the car, and her back was crying in agony. She tried to twist herself around, but there was something wrapped around her stomach, holding her in place. Slowly, she blinked awake, trying to remember where she was.

She could see the hills of sand all around, and in the distance, she could see what looked like storm clouds rolling in. As if the drive here wasn’t bad enough with the dry sand, now they may have to drive in the equivalent of wet cement.

Something behind her shifted, and a huff of warm air grazed her neck. In shock, Edaline twisted around, ignoring the thrum of pain shooting up her neck and spine. Mustang was curled up around her, his arms around her like a vice. His head burrowed its way into her neck, making Edaline squirm.

Mustang let out a slurred complaint, a pout now on his face, and pulled Edaline closer. Edaline was torn between getting up or just staying still. Surprisingly, Mustang was very warm, and not all that uncomfortable. On the other hand, it was Mustang.

Edaline didn’t get a chance to make a choice, as a crack of thunder exploded overhead. The volume caused Edaline to flinch so violently that she hurt herself, and ended up hurtling herself back into Roy, who was not too pleased.

His arms relaxed around her, yet they didn’t move, nor did his head. “Wha’ happen’?” he mumbled into her skin. Edaline felt her body break out in goosebumps, though, she didn’t pay it any attention, as she was currently trying to stop her back from spasming.

As gently as she could, she nudged Roy awake. “C’mon Mustang, we gotta go. Up, up, up.” Finally, he pulled his arms away, and when Edaline could finally turn to get a look at him, she saw him sprawled out in the seat, eyes still closed. Rolling her eyes, she gave one final nudge to him before stepping out of the car.

Once the door opened, a blast of chilly, yet still sticky air hit her. She felt her lungs contract and tried to not cough, unsure if she would be able to stop once she started. Pushing down the rising cough, she began to stretch, and let her eyes wander.

The sky had grown dark, covered in ready-to-open clouds. Suddenly the sky lit up, and Edaline held her breath in anticipation. Silently, she began to count. She barely got to five before the sky roared above. Letting out a huff of breath, Edaline inhaled as much air as possible.

She regretted that. She soon found herself bent over, coughing her lungs out. At least, that’s what it felt like, but since no bloody chunks were marring the golden sand below her feet, she didn’t worry too much.

Underneath all her spluttering, she heard frantic cursing and the slam of the car door. Her legs were shaking from holding herself up, and the rest of her body was shaking from her coughing fit.

“Hey, Edaline. Shit.” Arms wrapped around her, and she whined as the voice in her ears quietly soothed her. Her head felt stuffed with cotton, though the rest of her felt like it had been injected with lead. It felt like she had lead poisoning too. Her head was hammering, and her legs were on fire.

When the coughing stopped, she took it as a win that there was no blood on the ground, yet the metallic taste in her mouth gave the victory a sour aftertaste. As she took a deep breath, she found that she was sitting on the ground. More specifically, Mustang was on the ground with her in his lap and was gently rocking them both.

“You feeling any better?” Mustang's voice was low, the rumbles in his chest soothing Edaline. She let out a half groan, trying to breathe with the blood coating the inside of her mouth. “I’ll tell you what, you’re one hell of an alarm clock. Don’t think I've gotten up that quick since my early army days.” He let out a half laugh at his joke. Seems neither of them were intending on full reactions.

Once Edaline got her shaking under control, she tried to stand up. Mustang only let her get two steps away before scrambling up after her. Not wanting him to see the possible crimson in her mouth, she instead sent a glare his way. She received a smile that practically said, ‘I-know-you-hate-being-coddled-but-I-havent-cared-before-why-would-I-start-now?’. He was lucky she was too tired to argue.

Once they reached the car, she leaned in to grab a water bottle that had been rolling around. She took a sip, swishing it around in her mouth, before letting the pale pink water join the sand on the ground. She took another sip, watching Mustang's face scrunch up in poorly masked disgust. She took great joy in hearing his scream of disgust when she spat too close to his boots.

She rummaged through her bag, looking for her sweets, groaning in defeat when all she could find was an empty wrapper. She then checked her pockets for something to kill the taste of death in her mouth- A strawberry chew, a loose piece of gum, one of those butterscotch suckers that all grannies seem to mysteriously have all the time- yet her search was fruitless.

Turning to Roy, who was currently dancing around with his boot in the air, complaining about how, “If you weren’t on deaths door, I’d kick you so hard right now. Ugh, this is so gross.” She continued to watch him.

Once he noticed that she was staring, he slowly put his foot down, staring back at her in confusion. “Uhh, hello?” He asked.

“Ya’ got any gum or something? My mouth feels like something died in it.”

“Mhm, maybe I do,” he pretended to ponder. “But I don’t think I’d give it to someone who spat on my boots.” Edaline gave him a pout and gave him her best puppy dog eyes. Mustang seemed startled at that, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

Sniffing, she let her eyes begin to water up. “Mustang, please. I’m sorry. I just feel sick right now.” Once the first tear slid down her face, Mustang practically hurled a packet of strawberry chews at her. Popping one in her mouth, she gave a hum of delight. “Thanks, Mustang, you aren’t so bad, no matter what they say.”

“What do the rest of them say?”

“Not important, c’mon,” she turned around to get back in the car. “We gotta head back before the-”

With one final crack of warning, the sky opened up above them. It was like the clouds had just dumped a buck down onto the desert. Edaline sat in the car, staring in shock as a startled Roy got drenched in seconds. He didn’t move until a loud cackle broke free from Edaline.

“Stop with your hyena laugh.” He grumbled as he got into the car. Edaline thought that he looked like a drowned cat, which only started the laughing back up again. Her cackling soon turned into coughing, and she could only barely hear Mustang's cries of “Not in the car. Window. Edaline, window!” before the bitter metal in her throat zapped her tongue.

Panicked, she fumbled with the door handle, feeling the rising urge to cough. Suddenly, the door opened in front of her. Her legs were ripped around, and her head was pushed between her legs. It was like a dame had opened, and a river of scarlet burst free. The gold was tainted with red, a small pool forming between the boots on the ground.

Her body heaved with another retch, her body broke out in shakes, and a layer of sweat covered her body. Briefly, she was aware of clammy hands pulling her hair away from her face, and she attempted to thank the hands, but only got a chance to groan releasing more of her stomach contents.

“This sucks.” She groaned. The hands began to stroke the back of her hair. “I threw up on your boots. Sorry.”

Mustang huffed above her. “It’s… fine.”

“I can hear the disgust in your voice.”

“I have blood on my shoes, Edaline. I am soaked from the rain. Forgive me for not sounding enthusiastic about my situation.”

“I’ll give you a pass, just this once, since I'm feeling so generous.” She took the bottle from Roy and began to swish the water again. She shoved him away before spitting out the water. The back of her head felt soaked with rain, and the chilly air was making her body shake.

Roy soon got back into the car, once again looking like a drenched cat. He reached for the packet of strawberry sweets, shoving one into Edaline’s face. Unobligingly, she opened her mouth, taking a reprieve from the bloody taste.

Leaning back into her seat, she let her eyes close for a moment. The rumbling of the car starting allowed her a moment of peace. God, this was not how she expected this trip to go at all. She was cold, wet, miserable, and had lost what she thought to be half her body's blood supply.

She wasn’t aware of how bad her shivering was until a blanket was draped over her. Opening her eyes, she saw Mustang's jacket draped over her. “Hey, aren’t you going to be cold?” Her voice sounded weak and rough.

Without turning to face her, Mustang focused his attention on the hills of sand that were threatening to suck the car into them. “I’ll be fine. Besides, your teeth are clacking. It’s annoying me.” At that he turned to Edaline, giving her a small smile, and she didn’t care enough to hide her matching one.

“What are you gonna do-” She took a breath in. “Are you going to giv-”

“Of course I’m giving them the book,” Mustang let out a little sigh, his tongue poking out of his mouth for a moment, “I’m gonna get in shit if I don’t. But if I do…” His eyes flitted towards her, and she had never felt so exposed.

“Aww, is Mr. Casanova worried about lil’ ol’ me?” She poured as much sugar into her voice as possible, trying to lighten the mood.

“Yes.”

Edaline’s breath caught in her throat. It wasn’t like she was shocked that he cared, hell, he stood in the pouring rain to make sure she didn’t throw up all over herself. It was how easily he admitted it. She wasn’t going to read too much into it, of course, she wasn’t, since there was nothing to read.

“Oh, I, uhm. Okay.”

Mustang sighed, yet he kept his eyes fixed on the rain-covered windshield. “I’m going to give them the book at some point, I have to. I just think that maybe, if someone were to read it and were to find something,” he looked pointedly at her, “I don’t think they’d know if something was missing.”

There were rumours in the military, unsurprising since soldiers' gossiped more than women. There were whispers of Roy Mustang. Youngest colonel in history. He rose through the ranks like wildfire in the forest. There were bound to be whispers going around. They all said that he had paid his way. ‘It's the only way to explain it’ is what they’d say.

Edaline wasn’t foolish enough to believe those rumours, although she loved to sit back and listen to them. Her favourite one was that Roy was sleeping with some of the Generals and was extorting them with pictures. That one got a laugh out of Al too.

She knew they were all wrong, but she never knew how wrong. Not until now. She saw it now. The purpose in every action, the secrets in his eyes, the pure carnal desire he had for everything. He wasn’t like the other men she was saddled with. They had desires, yes, but not like him. They vaguely knew what they wanted, and they would hurt everyone in their way.

Not Mustang. He had hurt people. Not because he wanted to, but Edaline knew. No matter the reason, the action counted more than people believed. Roy Mustang knew exactly what he wanted, and with every breath, he was one step closer to getting it. Yet Edaline knew, the minute that someone could get hurt, he would step back. He was smart enough to figure out a new plan, and odds are, he had that plan in motion long before it was needed.

“Edaline, are you ok? Please don’t throw up in the car.”

Edaline shook herself out of her daze. Out her window, trees flew by, and the sky was finally brighter. They must have been driving for a while. “Yeah, sorry about that. Was just thinking about some things.”

“I don’t care.” Edaline could tell he did. “Just wanted to make sure we weren’t returning the car with blood in it.”

His hair had dried up a bit, yet the same couldn’t be said about his clothes. The damp spots made his shirt cling to his arms, and Edaline was hit by a wave of… something. Shaking herself, she turned to watch the scenery through the windows.

“How long till we get back to the station?” she asked him.

“Probably got another hour or so till we get anywhere close, why?”

“Might do some reading, keep your eyes on the road.”

Twisting around, Edaline pushed herself onto her knees, before stretching to reach her bag into the back. She heard Mustang inhale sharply behind her, but when she turned to check on him, he was staring straight ahead. Shrugging it off, she turned back for her bag. Once she finally got a grip on it, she peeled it open to grab the book.

She didn’t get a good look at it yesterday, but once it was in her grasp, she couldn’t help but run her fingers over the rough, leather cover. The pages inside were yellowed with age and had clumps of sand clumped to the edges of the pages.

Jumping back into her seat, she squirmed around until she could find a comfortable position. She curled herself up into the seat and pressed her back into the door. Looking up, she realised that Mustang was looking at her questioningly.

“I wanna be comfy,” she shrugged.

“I'm beginning to learn that I should stop asking you questions.” he murmured, finally paying attention to the road.

“And they say you can’t teach a dog new tricks.”

~~~

Edaline got about a fourth of the book read before they pulled up to the station. Mustang went to hand back the car and buy their tickets, while Edaline was in charge of the bags. God, the air felt good after the car ride. Her legs felt like they were going to be permanently squished if she stayed in the car any longer.

Standing beside the bags, she couldn’t help but let her eyes wander. All around her, people were rushing around, trying to make it on the train before they were left behind. Well-dressed men and women were rushing around, and the odd child pulling along an exhausted grownup.

Edaline felt herself smile a little at that. She missed Al so much; she swore the first thing she’d do when she got back was to scoop him up into the biggest hug she could. But that might have to wait until a quick trip to the hospital, but after that, there would be hugs galore.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mustang walking back towards her. She noticed the lack of train tickets in his hands, “What happened? You skint? Need me to lend you some money?”

Rolling his eyes at her, he grabbed his bags from the ground. “I’ll have you know, I have more money than you do. No, I'm not lending you money, Edaline.” She shrugged at that. He continued, “The next train doesn’t leave until tomorrow morning. The woman at the desk said that there was a hotel not too far from here, reasonably priced for a night.”

Edaline could tell from the way that he was wording it, that the woman had implied something else, but she was far too tired to care that much. “Well, lead the way, Mr Big Bucks.”

The walk to the hotel was relatively quiet. Edaline was looking around at all the people and the buildings. Now and again, she’d point something out to Mustang, who would either give a small huff of laughter or add his thoughts to the conversation.

Edaline had to admit that he definitely wasn’t that bad… The military thing was still kind of iffy. When they got to the hotel, Edaline took one look at the woman at the desk and offered to keep watch of the bags again. Before Mustang could get too far, she grabbed him by the elbow. “Make sure you get us a discount on the room would ya?” She kept her voice a whisper, but gave him an exaggerated wink.

Mustang walked away shaking his head, but Edaline watched him as he walked up to the desk. He sprawled himself across the desk, and she could hear little pieces of the conversation he was having with the woman, biting her lip to keep her laughs to herself.

When the conversation was finally over, Edaline watched as the woman handed Mustang the key, and slid a piece of paper across the table. As he turned around to Edaline, he gave her a small smile and a wink. He picked up the bags and directed her to the elevator in the corner.

Giving him a playful curtsy, she stepped into the elevator, waiting until he was in to press a button. “What floor?”

“Floor three.”

As she pressed the button, she couldn’t help but sink back into the wall, letting her eyes shut for a moment. “Oh, I can’t wait to sleep in a bed. I'm telling you, my back aint built for car naps.”

Opening her eyes, she caught Mustang staring at her. The rest of her sentence was lost to her as Mustang's eyes rise to meet hers. She suddenly felt like the elevator was too small, even though she logically knew that it could comfortably fit a family of four.

She watched as Mustang opened his mouth, and she waited for whatever it was he had to say.

Whatever it was would have to wait though, as the elevator doors dinged and rolled open.

Mustang picked up his bags and motioned for Edaline to follow.

Her face felt very warm, and she was very glad to step out of the weird atmosphere of the elevator. She walked behind Mustang down the long hallway, waiting for him to find the room so she could just sleep.

“Here we go.” He stuck the key in the door, and let it swing open.

Before he could get into the room, Edaline asked him, “Which ones mine?”

“Which what?”

“Which room?” she rolled her eyes at him.

“I'm not paying for two rooms Edaline.” It was his turn to roll his eyes before entering the room. “One room will be fine. I’ll even let you pick which-”

Groaning, she picked up her bag before following him in. “Damn right you're letting me pick which… bed?”

Mustang turned towards her, his face kept carefully blank. “Well, guess this makes the choice easier.”

Edaline couldn’t move her eyes away from the bed. Bed, singular.

“I’ll sleep in the bath,” She couldn’t even get her foot off the ground before Mustang grabbed her and pushed her towards the bed.

“No, you're taking the bed. You spent the entire car ride complaining about your back.”

“What about you?” she asked.

“I’ll sleep in the bed also.”

Edaline felt the heat rush back to her face. “With me?!”

“That’s not a problem, is it? We’ll just make a wall of pillows. Or if it will make you more comfortable, I’ll take the bath.”

Edaline huffed, trying to get her flush under control. “You're not sleeping in the bath; you’ll break your old back.” She watched as Roy raised an eyebrow at her before she took a deep breath. “Just. Grab some pillows.”

Roy watched her face for another moment. He must have found what he was looking for, or he didn’t find something, since he turned around to grab his bag. “I’ll grab the first shower if that’s alright with you. I'm pretty sure some blood got into my boot.”

Edaline watched as he disappeared into the bathroom, and she waited until the groan of the old pipes started before standing up. She stood at the foot of the bed, staring up at it. The bed she would have to share. Share with Mustang.

Shit.

She was so screwed.

#royed #roy mustang #edward elric #roy x ed #fem!edwardelric #female edward elric #metanoia #full metal alchemist #full metal alchemist fanfic #fanfic

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tacticalvalor · 2 years

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«────── « HEADCANON » ──────»

At some point later in the plotline, he sends V the following quote from Miyamoto Musashi:

Even should you abandon your body, never abandon your honor. Never stray from the Way.

This quote comes from the book Musashi's Dokkōdō (also known as "The Path of Aloneness", "The Way to Go Forth Alone", or "The Way of Walking Alone"). A bit more about the book, author, and potential interpretations below the cut.

Miyamoto Musashi went by several names (Shinmen Takezō, Miyamoto Bennosuke, or Niten Dōraku; the latter being his Buddhist name), though is most known for having been an expert swordsman, rōnin, and philosopher. Not much is known about his life outside his travels and duels, but his teachings and philosophy are actually fascinating. He created the kenjutsu technique of niten'ichi (also known as nitōichi), or using a large sword alongside a "companion sword". Many attribute his development of the practice to the two-handed movements of Buddhist temple drummers, given he was raised as such by his father and uncle.

Additionally, he's known for developing quite the artistic approach to things later on in his life. He's created several ink paintings and caligraphy pieces, shown below and found on Medium.

Returning the focus back to Dokkōdō, the book itself is actually a series of 21 principles written during the preparations Miyamoto Musashi took prior to his death. The book, too, was allegedly dedicated to his favorite disciple, Terao Magonojō.

This in of itself is actually quite symbolic within its presentation within Cyberpunk, as V's relationship with Takemura is very rooted in the pair constantly learning from one another and their experiences together. Over time, should V work with Takemura and show favorability toward the Arasaka route, Takemura actually grows to appreciate V and enjoy their companionship.

But aside from that, the principles from Dokkōdō itself is just as meaningful:

Accept everything just the way it is. Do not seek pleasure for its own sake. Do not, under any circumstances, depend on a partial feeling. Think lightly of yourself and deeply of the world. Be detached from desire your whole life long. Do not regret what you have done. Never be jealous. Never let yourself be saddened by a separation. Resentment and complaint are appropriate neither for oneself nor others. Do not let yourself be guided by the feeling of lust or love. In all things have no preferences. Be indifferent to where you live. Do not pursue the taste of good food. Do not hold on to possessions you no longer need. Do not act following customary beliefs. Do not collect weapons or practice with weapons beyond what is useful. Do not fear death. Do not seek to possess either goods or fiefs for your old age. Respect Buddha and the gods without counting on their help. You may abandon your own body, but you must preserve your honour. Never stray from the way.

This version was translated, yet an archived version of the original handwriting can be found here for those who are interested.

Just examining Takemura's character, we can see how he aligns himself with this ascetic mentality.

In his upbringing, Takemura never had much and was really taught to be appreciative of what his family did have. Then, being brought into Arasaka, he was taught to show that same sentiment. Arasaka could provide wonders for him, sure, but it was not because they could. It was because he, and other soldiers under their ranks, deserved it. Earned it. Everything he possessed was a result of his work and his loyalty.

Not to mention, Takemura does show admiration for the honor that ancient samurai (and by extension, rōnin such as Miyamoto Musashi) abided by. Such is evidenced in the endings where V does not side with Hanako. His last voicemail to V discusses the jisei, or death poems most prominently written within East Asian cultures, and furthermore how he believed himself to not be "of [the samurai's] number" (hence why he simply closed his voicemail with a wish for V to burn in hell).

Note: Further researching the way Japanese culture creates these death poems, it's found that they have their origins in Zen Buddhism, so it also ties into the greater thematic elements present in Miyamoto Musashi's works.

All in all, I think this is a really neat reference, and it serves its purpose of highlighting the type of relationship that V and Takemura have, as well as illustrating Takemura's frame of mind throughout the main plot events.

#(headcanon)#(m: goro takemura)#(long post)

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spectaculardistractions · 1 year

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From Jean Ferry Paris, 20 February 1956 My dear Buñuel, I have just seen That is the Dawn. I’m enclosing a copy of my letter to Monsieur Ténoudji explaining the reasons why I refuse to appear in the credits. I hope that the film is a great success. With my eternal regrets, Jean Ferry 51 rue Bonaparte Strictly confidential Dear Mr Tenoudji, I have finally, after turning down numerous requests during shooting of the film and after its conclusion, watched That is the Dawn. I hope sincerely that for your sake (and that of for Marchal, who is an admirable man), the film will be a success on all levels, intellectual and financial. It would be quite unjust, however, if any such success were to be associated with my name. I must confess that none of the ideas for the plot and dialogue attributed to me in the credits, with excessive generosity, would ever have occurred to me, and that I was not consulted nor even aware of their existence before the screening. As far as dialogue goes, it is not necessarily so very serious, because anyone of my acquaintance will know I write French with a certain degree of ease. No one would ever associate my name with something that seems to have been written in Swiss or Belgian, or some other language that is truly difficult to define, but is certainly not French. Even someone looking for reasons to attack me would not believe I could plumb such depths of mediocrity, if one may speak of depths, that is, when charting such a vacuum. As for the plot, it was not I who rendered the relationship between Clara and the doctor completely incomprehensible, but a series of mind-boggling cuts. It was not I who had the brilliant idea of indicating the degree of lyrical and ardent passion of the lovers with a heated scene (that I hope will provoke much mirth) where the gentleman takes off his socks and massages his toes, while the woman brings him a fine bowl of steaming soup. I am more than concerned about this, I am beside myself with rage to discover that the wonderful love story between Clara and Valerio we were so deeply moved by has been so crudely dishonoured, sabotaged and ridiculed to the point of ending on the grotesque suggestion of some kind of ménage à trois. That decision, so hostile to love and women, plays no small part in freezing the human warmth that permeates the book* and that has been systematically and mercilessly hounded out here… to be replaced, incidentally, with nothing. Given its theme, this should have been a romantic, even an excessively romantic film. And God only knows what faith I had in Buñuel to achieve this. And yet… It was not I (who had neither voice nor vote, and you may remember my timid complaints in this respect) who decided to place a volume by Claudel on the policeman’s desk (what is achieved by that idiotic provocation?), nor to have him recite parts of Claudel verbatim (my dialogue was stripped right back to nothing because, as far as I can see, there was no space left for it!). It was not I who came up with the nauseatingly vulgar idea of pushing a dying woman on a cart through a village fiesta (and what a fiesta!). Nor of including an incomprehensible cock-fighting sequence, the purpose of which no one could fathom. Unless it was, of course, to replace one of the love scenes I wrote for Clara and Valerio; or, more deplorably, to suppress certain moments of transition so ineptly that at times one struggles to follow the story. It was not I who introduced 750 cats into the film; it was not I who… etc., etc. In short, it is not I who should be applauded if the film is, as I hope and reiterate, a success. Nor should I be criticized by people who share my opinion of it. Those who substituted my work for their own (and I don’t know who they all are, as no one had the courtesy to advise of their participation) should take full responsibility. I am aware that my contract agrees to all possible and imaginable alteration to my work. That clause has been applied above and beyond all possible expectation (and misgiving). I am now simply asking to apply the clause that authorizes me to remove my own name from the credits and all publicity. A scriptwriter is of little account and I hope you will forgive the ridiculous fervour with which I defend myself here, or rather, with which I defend the expectations I had of this film. If I am indifferent to my name being associated with certain projects, by definition less far-reaching, this is not the case with Buñuel, for whom I have always had the highest esteem. With profound regret, I remain at your disposition. [Jean Ferry] PS I am sending a copy of this letter to Mr Jaeger and Mr Buñuel, who have a right to know the reason for my decision, although that said, as far as I am concerned the matter is now closed and you have my word that none of the opinions expressed here to you in confidence, will be communicated by me in public or in private to anyone else. *And if Mr Roblès expresses his satisfaction, all the better, no?

Jo Evans & Breixo Viejo, Luis Buñuel: A Life in Letters

#jo evans #breixo viejo #luis bunuel: a life in letters #luis bunuel #jean ferry #edmond tenoudji #cela s'appelle l'aurore #paul claudel

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evilsexy · 2 years

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Reading about the serialisation on tgcf's post script (skip to the serialisation section ) where mxtx talks about her own disappointments and the conditions she worked in gave me an insight on why it is the way it is. I do have to agree with mxtx's own assessment of tgcf that indeed it is unsatisfying.

Tbh I also found tgcf to be a very enjoyable read but I am disappointed with the fact that it could have been better, I wouldn't care much about this if it was my entry into mxtx's work but it lacks the tight narrative , subversions and commentary that made her work stand out in the first place. MDZS was the first work I was familiar with and I was surprised by how inherently political it was.

Webnovel industry sucks 😕 but I was kind of rooting for her considering how young she was when she wrote everything and despite other complaints I have about her works I consider her a good story teller who is naturally humorous.

Yep, i remember being a little shocked when i first read the postscript when finishing the novel, because i didn't expect so much self-awareness

TGCF is a complete accident, I haven’t matured yet, this took me by surprise... Had I known the content was going to be this huge, I probably would’ve approached the outline much differently. Only a few chapters in of the serialization, and the problems I had long thought of poked their heads out, and persisted until midway, towards the end, and they’re still there even when the story’s concluded

something else that really stuck out to me was

In any case, Hua Hua is a good boi. Whether he’s smiling fakely, or if he’s got a little silver chain on his boots, all of his designs and related decisions came fast and delightfully. My greatest happiness is to change his clothes and give him new appearances, and felt regret that I couldn’t manage to put together ten sets. Hopefully I can work on this during the edit!

It was actually the Shou, Xie Lian, who tortured me for up to half a year’s time. When the novel started serializing, I was still torn over him for a long time... In the past, when I write, even if I’m not familiar with the character at the beginning, I can usually grasp the feeling within three days. But for Xie Lian, I was still struggling even after five, six days, and my heart lurched.

I think the weakness of the central couple is something that MXTX understands, so she leaned heavily into their indulgent aesthetic value instead. I mean, that's what 耽美 is right, "indulging in beauty"? But maybe that isn't for the best. I feel like this is very telling as to why neither HC nor XL really "feel like" real people; I really don't think that MXTX has an idea of who they are, even after all this time. And maybe to fans who want a blank slate couple to project onto and write AUs and other fanworks, this is ideal, but it's bad writing practice. In MDZS and SVSSS, the main couples feel like real people as do the rest of the cast, but in TGCF that privilege is only granted to side characters.

With Wei Wuxian and Shen Yuan, you can immediately get a grasp of who they are as a person, even from the first chapter, and you can relate to their struggle. With Xie Lian, this isn't the case. We find out he's a "failure", but since he doesn't let it get to him, we end up learning almost nothing about his identity. The reader has no real idea of who he is until book 2, and not even really then. If you asked me what Xie Lian's core motivations and fears are at most points in the novel ... I don't really know if I could give a solid answer. He takes every hit with so much grace and magnanimity that it's hard to put yourself in his shoes, this is the opposite of what you want from a protagonist.

This is also another central issue of TGCF: it has no plot. Xie Lian has no major directive, implicit or explicit, after his third ascension, he just goes with the flow. Not every good novel follows a hero's journey style plot, but I think that MXTX understands that her stories work best under that traditional structure. Seriously, please if you think you can give me a coherent plot summary I encourage you to, but I really struggle to briefly sum up what goes on in this book.

Almost all fans can agree that books 2 and 4 are the strongest sections of the novel. They have the most tension, most interesting character dynamics, and are overall the most memorable. By the time Xie Lian ascends for the third time, the events of these books are so long gone that the tension has dissipated. The plot meanders, and then meanders more. It does not feel like a “finished story”, and we can see that MXTX also feels this way from her comments.

Cutting the 800 year timeskip could solve so many of this novel's problems; with all of the emotional wounds fresh, character interactions could have been so much more tense and engaging. In my reading it primarily functions to exaggerate Hua Cheng's absolute perfection as a romantic object, but otherwise, it only serves to degrade the novel. At some level, this book seems to exist to sell the reader on the idea of Hua Cheng as the perfect love interest (and hualian as the perfect couple), and looking at the fanbase for this book I think to that end it succeeds.

So, with all that, what does MXTX think this book is about?

This is a love story. It’s about gentleness, dreams, something never to be given up on, and someone never to be forgotten.

I think this is a perfect summary, it evokes a feeling, but certainly not a story. To many fans, that's fine, they sought this work for the feeling of a beautiful romance. To me though, this was not enough, I am infinitely unsatisfied. I wanted to be pulled into a story and then come away with something like I got with SVSSS and MDZS, but in the end I only came away with disappointment.

#again disclaimer that this is my subjective opinion and i really welcome your response if you have a comment or criticism #anon #asks #mxtx #tgcf #long post

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radioactivepeasant · 3 years

Text

Fic Prompts: Star Wars Wednesday

(This is an excerpt from my unfinished but fully outlined Reign of Vader fic, in which Darth Vader assassinates Palpatine and then finds out that unfortunately this means he actually has to rule. After Luke is captured by the Empire, Vader reveals both his heritage and a desire to fix things in the galaxy. Luke is wary, but it's not like he has anywhere to go)

Darth Vader was not a man of infinite patience, and the Ruling Council was growing ever nearer to discovering the limits of his tolerance.

"Day-to-day procedures are a delicate matter, Majesty," Greejatus was saying, "It would be an unprecedented disaster to force change upon all offices all at once. May I recommend a gradual shift as your reign takes root?"

"Yes yes," Sate Pesage agreed. His eyes glittered out of his gaunt face with ambition. "This proposal to outlaw slavery, for instance-"

"-Is non-negotiable," Vader interrupted. "It was an idiot's decision to legalize it in the first place. My empire will have no need of slave labor."

"Of course!" Pesage bowed. He was beginning to sweat under that ridiculous hat of his. "We are eager to begin this journey into the future your reign promises, Majesty. But the galaxy is vast. Perhaps it is best to...phase the law in slowly? It takes time to bring new ordinances all the way to the Outer Rim."

Vader had heard quite enough for one day.

"Enough. The decree goes into effect tonight."

He stood, and all five members of the Council jumped a little.

"You have until then to review the revised legal codes I have provided for you."

[[MORE]]

With a sardonic lilt to his voice, he added, "The rule of the Grand Vizier through the Moffs has ended, gentlemen. If you do not feel that you are adequately prepared for the task ahead, I will accept your resignation and begin the process of finding your successor."

He waved a hand. "In the next week, we begin hearings for the Alderaanian Massacre. You are dismissed."

There was a certain satisfaction in watching Palpatine's five advisers bowing and trembling on their way out. After decades of putting up with their snide comments and inane commands, it was nice to see the shoe on the other foot for a change.

Of course, they hadn't covered much. Just an overview of what the Imperial Ruling Council actually did. Once Vader mentioned that he intended to sell his secondary residence in the district and distribute the funds as reparations, the meeting had devolved into excuses and protests for the next two hours. Luckily, he was far too stubborn to pay any attention to their complaints.

While he had no strong feelings about most of his actions in the last nineteen years, neither hatred nor regret, he was willing to acknowledge that not all of his targets had been legitimate in a military sense. For Padme's sake, he would make amends if possible.

Naturally, it was uncomfortable to try putting a price on life. But the sale of that ridiculous "castle" Palpatine insisted on him staying in would provide a good starting place.

It took about fifteen minutes of calculating, but ultimately Vader decided there was more than enough in Palpatine's personal accounts to cover about 17,000 wrongful death settlements, with additional funds in the cases of recurring medical bills.

Arranging reparations for Alderaan would take more work. Vader quickly decided he was going to delegate that to the department of finances.

(They...did have a department of finances, didn't they? Surely Sidious hadn't done his own bookkeeping.)

With that settled, Vader's itinerary consisted primarily of a meeting with the Hands to make sure they knew their boundaries. After that, a remote consultation with a newly-renowned surgeon living in one of the lower districts. It would, unfortunately, take up the majority of the day. But for now, at least, he had two hours to himself.

The emperor closed his eyes and stretched out with his senses. It took several seconds before he was able to pinpoint his son's location. Luke's presence was dimmed, slightly. Muffled.

The reason for this became apparent the moment Vader found him.

Inside the library, on the lower level, Luke was sprawled across one of the ridiculous armchairs the nobles had favored. A book lay open on his chest, rising and falling gently. A small stack of texts encompassing everything from speeder repair to adventure novels sat on the floor, just next to where one of Luke's hands dangled off the edge of the arm rest. Clearly, he had been in the library for several hours before falling asleep.

Sleep had softened the boy's features, painting him in a far more vulnerable light. The fear and caution of the previous night had been wiped away, leaving someone who seemed far too young, and far too small. How could he be twenty? How could Padme's baby already be twenty?

It was tempting to leave him there. To let him sleep. But the chair was not the most supportive frame, nor was the library the most secure chamber of the palace. Reluctantly, Vader bent to touch Luke's cheek.

"Luke," he said quietly, "This is hardly an appropriate place to sleep."

Luke's eyelids fluttered, but he did not fully awaken at once. Carefully, ever so carefully, Vader took hold of Luke's shoulders and guided him back into an upright position.

"Your spine will thank me later," he said.

Luke shifted, then opened his eyes with a groan. He didn’t seem to register Vader’s presence at first. One arm stretched up over his head, and the other came up to rub at his eyes.

“What time is it?” he yawned.

“Nearly noon,” answered Vader. The meeting with the Council had taken far longer than he would’ve liked. “Are you hungry?”

With a garbled sound, Luke waved a hand from side to side. “Don’t know yet?” he said in a still sleep-slurred voice.

After a few more seconds, he finally noticed just who had woken him. Instinctively, he straightened his spine, and looked a little bit nervous.

“Oh,” he said, very quietly. “H-hello, Father.”

“Hello, son.” Vader sounded amused. “Was your choice of reading that dull?”

After a moment, Luke nodded. He made a face. "I know there's supposed to be a famous musical made from this or something. But a whole chapter on how the sewer system of Ryloth's capital city works doesn't seem like good song material."

He jumped when Vader laughed. It was a warm, rich sound, utterly at odds with his austere appearance.

"Poor boy!" He gently took the book from his son. "That was required reading for our literature studies when I was a boy. I loathed it. Very few of my peers sought it out voluntarily."

"I guess I can see why," Luke admitted. "But it seemed like it was going to be a good story."

"Then you are better served finding an abridged copy, I think," Vader chuckled. "Come. You should eat something."

Luke pushed himself up out of the chair. “Do I...need to put the books back?”

Vader leaned back on his heels. He looked at the books, then at the shelves. “I...will leave that to your best judgement. I do not know where you got them from.”

It was such a normal sounding conversation! Why?!

Why did you have to be like...like this?! Luke fought a surprising burst of frustration. I have no idea how to talk to you!

Serious and formal one moment, then laughing the next? Vader? Laughing?! It was as if the man he’d met on Cymoon and the man idly examining his stack of books were two completely different people.

Luke set the books on the console with the Holonet terminal eventually. Vader had suggested that he learn the cataloguing system of the room at a later time. At least that seemed to mean that he would be allowed to go back to the library again. Luke thought about his conversation with Artoo. Perhaps his father was trying to be kind to him. Whether that kindness would extend to anyone else was a different matter.

“I thought you were still meeting with dignitaries or something,” Luke said.

He trailed along behind Vader up an ornate staircase with his hands in his pockets. He was still uncomfortable walking too closely to the man. For all that he acknowledged that the new emperor was, indeed, his father, he was still a force to be reckoned with.

Luke took a moment to internally groan at his unintended pun. Han would probably have elbowed him in the ribs for saying something like that. Chewie would think it was hilarious.

Luke’s attempt to stay safely out of range failed quite suddenly. Vader deliberately slowed his steps so that Luke couldn’t hang back without being extremely obvious about it. He didn’t want to offend the emperor, so he tried to ignore his fight or flight instincts shaking his insides and kept pace with his father.

“I have several more meetings to endure today,” Vader said casually. “But the most onerous of those has been dealt with.”

This was not quite true. The Ruling Council was too full of Palpatine loyalists. Just intimidating them into compliance would only work for so long. They had connections, and they had money, and that could prove to be a headache if not dealt with sooner. Vader needed to replace at least three of them.

He had almost considered appointing Luke as Vizier in Amedda’s place, but had quickly thought better of it. Such a position would almost guarantee that Luke would never have time to fly again. Cutting a Skywalker off from the stars for good seemed too cruel.

His son had not had the childhood he could have had if his mother had lived. If Palpatine had died much sooner. Let him enjoy his youth while he could.

But the problem of finding a Ruling Council that Vader could trust would still be waiting.

“The stupid hat club, right?” Luke asked.

He was unsettled by Vader’s proximity. Vader could sense that. He understood: the armor had been made to terrify. Perhaps one day he would have the option of seeing his son with his own eyes, but for now the boy would have to acclimate himself to the sight.

It was not often that Vader found himself cursing the cold, impersonal nature of his mask. He would have liked to smile at his son.

“Yes. The...stupid hat club.” He settled for letting his amusement be clearly heard in his voice. “That is not an inaccurate description. They run the day-to-day matters of ruling an Empire. But as they were all close to the former ruler, I find that I’d rather not trust them in matters of delegating governance.”

Luke grimaced. “That doesn’t sound like a good idea,” he agreed.

#star wars #star wars wednesday #fic prompts #writing prompts #Reign of Vader #luke skywalker #darth vader #ooc vader because Palpatine is dead and he's trying to decide what that means for his personality #luke is very uncomfortable but seeing Vader and Artoo arguing over upgrades helps #palpatine did not give vader any indication that ruling an empire meant actually working #he's operating on the bits and pieces he remembers from Padme's work and hating every minute of it #guess how long the empire is going to last when it turns out the emperor hates being in charge of that much minutiae #dad vader #he's actually making an effort

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heliopauseentertainments · 3 years

Text

The Fox & The Hare

Continuity: IDW1 Rating: Teen Relationship: Megatron/Rodimus Characters: Megatron & Rodimus Warnings: implied sexual content, fade-to-black, mild horror elements AU: the “good” universe post-LL25, which needs a better name actually

Summary: In which Rodimus suggests a game he’s sure he’ll win to alleviate boredom.

Crossposting: In a reblog

Complete fic under the cut

Peacetime—and bouncing to a new universe—had made them all restless. In Rodimus’s opinion, that was one of the beautiful things about captaining a ship: endless adventure. Or at least, endless in theory. Between hijinks, there tended to be a lot of downtime or menial administrative work. Neither he nor Megatron were the sorts of people that could just be given a desk job with no physical outlets. Rodimus often became rapidly, incurably bored, whereas Megatron had a nasty habit of becoming frustrated and took to snapping at people.

Having just borne witness to his co-captain nearly—verbally—taking a pyrobot’s head clean off during a particularly slow day, as soon as the door was once again closed Rodimus threw himself sideways across Megatron’s desk without regard for the fuming former warlord’s feelings about it. Instead, propping his head up on his elbow, he beamed up at the red optics burning down at him in aggravation.

In his haste to get Megatron’s attention, Rodimus had knocked datapads and a pen caddy from the desk’s surface. The supplies clattered to the floor, and he knew he was only moments away from receiving a vicious tongue-lashing for being careless, especially with Megatron’s already incredibly short fuse. A little voice in the back of Rodimus’s processor reminded him that the odds of physical injury were low. Sure, the self-professed pacifist glowering at him had come a long way in reigning in his famously violent temper, but there was no suppressing the little jolt of thrill Rodimus’s spark got from occasionally sticking his head in the proverbial lion’s mouth.

Nevertheless, he had a plan, a plan he thought of five minutes ago while staring blankly at the ceiling from the safety of his own carved-up desk.

“Rodi—“

Rodimus cut the growl of his name off with a flippant wave of his unoccupied hand. No need to hear about how Megatron had been trying to get some work done. That was the same complaint every time Rodimus decided to bother him on shift.

Frowning down at his smaller co-captain, Megatron took a few very long, very deep ventilations, visibly trying to dial back his level of irritation. At least he was trying, though if he’d tried a little earlier for the pyrobot, that would have been even better. Some of the crew hadn’t quite yet gotten the message that the poor bastard was practically tame now.

Dude needed to get out more. Work off that pent up energy so he’d be less grumpy. That was part of the plan. Besides, they got along so much better when Megatron wasn’t in one of his “moods.”

“Wanna play game, big guy?” he asked, giving his scowling colleague a finger gun gesture.

“It’s the middle of the day, Rodimus. I’m not about to ‘play hooky’ with you just because you’re bored and can’t focus—“

Rodimus was really beginning to regret teaching Megatron about air quotes. It kept coming back to haunt him whenever Megatron was upset or in a mood to complain. They did say that no good deed went unpunished. He sighed, sitting up and swinging his legs around the side of the desk, finally propping up his feet on the tank’s shoulders like a comfy footrest. That was theoretically a dangerous move but what better way to show a measure of trust than by being both vulnerable and annoying.

“Yeah, okay, but I mean after work in a couple of hours.”

Megatron said nothing but raised an optical ridge in silent judgment.

“Hey, now don’t knock it till you try. It’s nothing weird, okay? Just you, me, and some good wholesome fun. Y’know, friendly team-building time and we can blow off some steam since slag’s been boring as hell around here for the past month.”

The tank heaved a resigned sigh, the resultant lifting of powerful shoulders shifted Rodimus’s feet, nearly pulling him off the desk and right into a lap. Yellow hands scrabbled for the edge of the desk, his grip catching just in time to keep himself from falling. Close call.

It was as though Megatron had figured out saying “no” would just lead to Rodimus badgering him into agreeing. And he would be right, because that was plan B if plan A didn’t pan out.

“What exactly did you have in mind this time?”

---

At the time Rodimus had suggested this unnecessarily complicated game of tag, it had seemed like a great idea. Crouching in the corner of a darkened shop in the corner of a simulated abandoned shopping center, he waited, keeping an ear out for his pursuer. So far, so good.

The repurposed holomatter projectors Perceptor and Brainstorm came up with made this otherwise empty room quite useful. Swerve had called it a “holodeck,” probably after something from one of his Earth shows, but Rodimus wasn’t going to knock it. They could practically simulate an entire planet in what was essentially a broom closet. A little mass displacement magic didn’t hurt either.

This sort of thing wasn’t the usual way he and Megatron worked tensions off when things were maddeningly slow, at least not yet. That this game would end in a shouting match over something incredibly stupid wasn’t out of the realm of possibility, but it certainly wasn’t an ideal outcome. The shouting matches were tedious and rarely did anyone actually win due to the captains both being equally stubborn. Something about the yelling was cathartic though.

Hopefully, this new game would be more fun than an argument about if they could ever truly know what time it was in space.

The rules were simple. Megatron had one hour to find and catch Rodimus in this simulated hellscape. Rodimus had the advantage of being small and quick, whereas Megatron, while much slower moving and bulkier, could beat him in a contest of stamina over an extended chase. That made it at least… more fair, if not still somewhat unbalanced. The goal, in that case, was to avoid the chase ever really getting started. Rodimus had to hide.

Ten minutes ago, when the game began and his tires squealing, Rodimus left Megatron in the dust several blocks over. It had sounded like the big oaf hadn’t even tried to follow. Given that now Rodimus had been sitting for five minutes, Megatron probably hadn’t the slightest idea of where to look, not after so much distance had been put between them.

Might as well get comfy in this corner and wait for the remaining fifty minutes. He could probably even take a nap. With a contented sigh, Rodimus stretched out his legs and tucked his arms behind his head as he leaned against the fake, dilapidated wall. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so good at this game, maybe he should have slowed down or left more obvious tracks to make it more sporting. Next time, maybe, after rubbing today’s all but certain victory in Megatron’s cranky face.

In the distance, the sickening crunch of metal rending echoed, followed by a thud as whatever it was was tossed aside like trash.

Slag.

Rodimus’s spark spun madly as it tried to climb up into his throat, especially with the heavy footfalls cautiously approaching. The pace of the steps seemed like Megatron was scanning the shopping center for signs of his prey’s presence.

Maybe the speedster had been less careful to hide his tracks than than he’d thought.

He was going to blame the rubber on his tires leaving marks every time he drifted around a corner. Like a dumbass, even if he had looked incredibly cool while doing it. Unfortunately, looking cool had apparently led his hunter right to him.

Crawling forward on his knees, Rodimus peered around the edge of the counter to see the door of the shop. Which he had left slightly ajar. Like an idiot. That’s what he got for slamming it shut earlier and assuming it would just stay put.

The heavy steps came closer, eventually stopping as a shadow loomed just beyond the door, hardly visible in the smudged glass. These “buildings” didn’t have any power to operate lighting, leaving the glow of scarlet biolights as the only way to identify the presence. Years ago, that sight would have been a nightmare.

The Autobots had once upon a time used stories, only somewhat embellished, of the Decepticon leader to frighten newly-onlined MTOs into behaving, as though their statistically short lives hadn’t already been hellish enough. “If you don’t train hard enough, he’ll catch you” was a common one he’d overheard. Luckily—or unluckily depending—Rodimus knew better, having met the mech early in the war in Nyon, before either of them had become Autobots. Being “caught” wasn’t the part to be afraid of, the horror of an excruciating, agonizing death afterward was.

Needless to say, Rodimus hadn’t helped ease the nervous circuitry of MTOs he came in contact with back in the day.

Now, however, that nightmare was looking for him. The shadow outside didn’t move, the diffuse glow of biolights shifting with calm ventilations behind the glass. His hunter was apparently waiting… listening maybe. Could Megatron see the blue light of Rodimus’ optics in the dark, in the same obscuring glass? Did his own red biolights reflect faintly off the rusty metal surfaces of the abandoned store? Enough for Megatron to see from outside?

Maybe, maybe not.

The door creaked as a large, black shape reached through the crack between the door and its frame. An unsettlingly long silence lapsed as the hand deliberately remained in place, doing nothing. Ungreased bearings squealed in their track when the door was slammed back into the recess in the wall.

Rodimus’s spark leapt into his throat as alarm spiked through his core.

The fact that this was only a game was far from Rodimus’s processor.

His optics snapped upward and spied an open vent in the ceiling. He could climb into the ductwork. This wasn’t the end. He could still escape.

Throwing caution to the wind as energy surged through his limbs, Rodimus hauled himself up onto the counter in plain view of the wide-open door. It hardly mattered now if he could be seen. With Megatron having found his hiding spot, he would have been flushed out sooner or later. He might as well bolt on his own terms.

Spoiler fins folded close against his back, Rodimus jumped up, grabbing the edge of the vent with his hands. He pulled his upper body up into the vent, but he struggled to wriggle the rest of the way in. His fingers scrabbled to get traction on the smooth interior surface while his legs kicked uselessly in the air below the ductwork.

Time ticked by mercilessly slow as he waited for a large hand to close around one of his feet and end the chase.

Somewhere in the rush of panic through his circuits, there was an undercurrent of thrill. Something about the risk of being seized by strong hands if he made the slightest mistake and the terror of what might follow.

At long last, his fingers caught on one of the seams joining the smooth sheet metal and Rodimus hauled himself the rest of the way into the ventilation system. Just as he pulled his feet in, something brushed against his heel, summoning a startled shout from his vocalizer which echoed down the duct as he scrambled away.

Who knew where this shaft would lead him, but that didn’t matter. He just needed to be anywhere else. At least, for the moment, he was somewhere Megatron couldn’t follow.

Narrowly escaping doom had always made him feel alive, even as he clambered away through the ductwork.

Rodimus crawled on his hands and knees through the ventilation shaft. It was a tight fit, even with his spoiler folded down. For a moment, he wished he could have the smaller size of his previous frame as Hot Rod. His shoulders threatened to catch on the walls of the shaft every time he moved, especially on the welded seems. Still, he managed to slip through thanks to the relative lack of friction on the metal surface of his container. Luckily, there seemed to be, according to his hands as he crept forward in the dark, a long straight path right ahead, probably to the shop just across the main hall of the shopping center. There seemed to be a few branches that went off from this main tunnel, but it was hard to see when the only source of illumination came from his optics and biolights bouncing off every surface. It wasn’t worth getting lost, he decided, not yet anyway.

Every step of the way, the thud of his weight shifting in the vent echoed off the thin sheet metal walls. It was probably echoing across the entire duct structure, so Rodimus hoped that wouldn’t help Megatron track his position.

Then again, the big guy couldn’t crawl up in here either so what good would it do? Maybe all he had to do was sit up here, high out of reach in a small crack too big for the monster at his heels. He could wait and just sit tight for an hour if he didn’t get too claustrophobic about it.

That could work, he thought, just as his hand ran over an odd texture in the bottom of the vent. A grate? That’s what it looked like when he cast his optics down, using their glow to get a better view. He could push that grate out of the way, maybe poke his head out to see if the coast was clear.

Then again, doing that would just make him vulnerable. His optics would announce his presence. If Megatron were paying the slightest bit of attention, he’d be drawn right to Rodimus’s location. He might even take Rodimus’s head clean off before there’d be a chance to scream for help.

Rodimus’s hands hesitated on the grate as he swallowed back that fear. How easy would it be for that to be his end? How easy would it be for Megatron to make it look like accident? An inadvertent outcome from some scheme Rodimus had cooked up to deflect blame. Maybe this was Megatron’s chance to wrest control of the ship from him at last and—No, he’d be fine. It would be fine. He’d get out of here.

It was just a game.

Megatron was his friend—or at least colleague—and they were just… playing a game after work to relax. It was no big deal. It wasn’t like either of them were going to get hurt playing an elaborate game of tag, right?

And yet Rodimus did not feel relaxed.

Worse, the hot rush of fuel and oil in his lines wasn’t solely from misplaced fear, though at the moment, Rodimus couldn’t really determine the other source or sources.

With a deep ventilation, he shook his head before prying up the grate as carefully as he could, hoping to make as little sound as possible.

The grate, only slightly mangled by his attempt to remove it, was set gingerly aside in the duct.

Nothing immediately moved below him, and he didn’t hear anything, so Rodimus poked his head out through the hole.

No sign of anyone else. Or any indication of what sort of store this was supposed to have been. Neither shop he’d been in had any goods remaining. The signage had been mostly blank. Advertisements had been nonsense glyphs in bold typeface. Probably because the simulation couldn’t decide on what stores in a scaled-up Earth shopping center were supposed to be. That’s what he got for having Swerve supply the data.

Cybertronian shopping centers would have had far more class dividers—markings on the floor, posted signage, bollards to block certain alt-modes, stanchions with color-coded ropes to keep mechs in root-mode apart, access points for checking identity documents, and so forth—left over to paint a picture of who could go where, not that Rodimus had seen a functional shopping center on Cybertron in more than four million years. Also, there wouldn’t have been those weird porcelain things on the wall in the washrooms that he’d looked in while trying to find a hiding place earlier. Those had to be the most inconvenient sinks he had ever seen. The brightly colored surfactant was just in the bottom of the sideways basin, of all damn places to put it!

With the coast clear, Rodimus climbed down, jumping onto the counter. It looked just the same as the last one, only mirrored for being across the hall. Now that he had a chance to look at some of the debris, it seemed like the debris had been mirrored as well. Copied and pasted by the simulation software. How boring, but he supposed it was all on short notice. You can’t expect lovingly placed garbage in a time crunch, he reasoned, lowering himself to the floor over the side of the counter.

This shop, however, did have something that Rodimus hadn’t seen in the other one.

A door in the back for staff. Maybe he could slip in there. Surely, the staff room had a way out of it that wasn’t through the store, an evacuation route in case of emergencies or something. After tiptoeing his way over to the door, checking over his shoulder every couple of paces, he was relieved to find the door unlocked.

There was still no sign of Megatron but that didn’t mean he wasn’t out there lurking somewhere. In fact, Rodimus could guarantee it. Unless Megatron had given up and decided to leave the simulation somehow. Unlikely, but that didn’t mean Rodimus couldn’t entertain the idea. Outlandish ideas have always been some of his best ones.

Hoping to avoid the same mistake he’d made last time, Rodimus pulled the door closed behind him, not letting go until he heard the latch snap closed. It wasn’t locked exactly, but… now that he looked at it, the doors didn’t seem to have been generated with actual locks.

Hm. That could be either a boon or a curse.

Though, turning to look for that evacuation route, Rodimus saw only a cramped, empty room. It was hardly more than a supply closet with a table and chair. The room was small enough that the meager glow of his optics and biolights bathed the room, corner to corner, in a weak light. No additional doors. No windows.

A dead end.

---

The thought of being cornered made Rodimus’s spark spin at a dizzying pace as he leaned against the door at his back, a thin shield that would tear as easily as a delicate mesh if Megatron so chose to go through it in pursuit of his quarry. He would probably go right through the folded-up spoiler fin, packed with nerves and a fragile network of fuel lines, too. The tender plating twinged at imagined pain that hadn’t yet been inflicted, if it ever would.

Yet somewhere, underneath the once more building dread, an uncomfortable warmth appeared in his midsection, a warmth that accompanied a traitorous desire to be caught and give in to whatever the consequences were. He prayed to whatever gods might be listening, Primus certainly never did, that the sensation would peter out and not get any funny ideas.

That was not the sort of “excitement” he’d been angling for today. Besides, the last thing he needed was his cooling fans kicking in at full whirl, announcing not only his location but… other… humiliating bonus problems.

Nothing but dirty white walls, two pieces of dilapidated furniture, and what looked like some strange informational posters nearly completely degraded. The one closest to him said something about “family” in a script from Earth and then more nonsense Cybertronian glyphs. Right, humans tended to design death traps. He shouldn’t have been surprised.

In that case, Rodimus’s best bet would probably be getting back into the vents and finding his way to the roof somehow. Did they even go that high? They had to, right?

There was no sound coming from the shop through the door. Megatron, with his heavy gait, would have make some sort of noise announcing his presence. That meant he wasn’t in the store, which meant Rodimus had a good chance of making it back into the vent.

Of course, he could do this. It wasn’t “game over,” not by a long shot. No, if there was an out somewhere, somehow, he wasn’t cornered and could—would—come out ahead.

After a deep ventilation to steel his nerves, he turned around, yanking the door open.

Not a sign of Megatron in sight. No red biolights shifting beyond the filthy windows of the shop, no sounds of movement, even though that Rodimus had just carelessly announced himself to the world in the dark. Still, he had no time to waste. A pair of hasty jumps and Rodimus had wedged himself once more into the ductwork.

All he had to do now was make his way somewhere else, hopefully to the roof, but if he was up here in the tunnel, he ought to be alright. Megatron couldn’t reach him there, not without—

Just as Rodimus started forward, the sickening rending of metal in the shop below hit his audio sensors. Alarm once more surged through his circuits as he scrambled down the shaft to make his escape.

A loud crunch echoed ahead of him, rattling the entire duct. His hands and knees slipped, his face smacking into the base of the vent as he lost his balance.

After the agonizingly long few seconds it took for him to right himself, Rodimus saw in the dim glow of his optics up ahead that the path was… gone. Closed. The sheet metal of the vent had been crushed upward, sealing the way out.

His mouth went dry, oral lubricant evaporating as he raced backwards awkwardly on his hands and knees. He wasn’t nearly as safe in here as he had previously, mistakenly thought.

Another crunching noise sounded behind his heels as Megatron crushed in the duct, trapping Rodimus with nowhere to go. Now that he was stuck with closed ends on either side of himself, his only way out was if he were forcibly removed—

His ventilations came faster as he tried to think of how to get out, confined like an animal in cage, waiting helplessly for whatever end fate would bring him. Worst of all, the heat that had cropped up earlier hadn’t gone away, but had, in fact, spread throughout his torso and limbs, warming him all the way out to the tips of his fingers. His cooling fans kicked on, loudly whirring and echoing in the small space he’d been penned into.

Before he could begin to separate any embarrassment from arousal interwoven into his terror, the sheet metal below him was ripped open like parchment.

Rodimus fell with a shout before landing in a pair of large palms.

Without thinking, he let his armor plating shift outwards, allowing oxygen rich air to flow in. Fuel reserves reflexively ignited, bathing Megatron in a wave of flame. He let go of the speedster with a pained howl.

Rodimus hit the floor with a yelp before rolling away and dashing out of the shop’s door. Thrill shot up his spine at the split-second chance for freedom. Internal pressure valves clamped down on the fuel lines to kill the reaction as he ran up a flight of stairs in the shopping center’s corridor, not even pausing to look over his shoulder at the chaos he’d caused.

---

It had taken some time to find his way up to the roof. Rodimus leaned forward, bracing his hands against his knees as he caught his breath and finally allowing his spoiler fins to unfold properly. They were beginning to cramp from being held so close to his back for so long. His ventilations were heavy and labored as he tried to bring his systems back down to a baseline. Running continuously was a drain over an extended period. On top of that, his fire abilities were incredibly fuel intensive, even in short bursts. He’d need to refuel after this, probably several cubes to get back to a comfortable operating level in his tanks. At least this time he hadn’t accidentally ignited any of his oil. Burning oil generally got him sent to the medbay for repairs to his lines since it was usually the result of a leak.

After several seconds, he straightened his back, stretching his arms overhead as his still fluffed up plating popped back into place.

He’d have to apologize to Megatron later for lighting him on fire during a simple game. That probably wasn’t fun for him but getting trapped in a box hadn’t been fun for Rodimus. Maybe it was fair. They probably broke even somewhere along the way.

Besides, Megatron had probably been too busy putting himself out to notice which way Rodimus had gone. Lost him, most likely. Hopefully. That would be ideal.

A breather was a good enough time as any to check the timer he had put in the corner of his HUD. Twenty minutes had gone by since the start of the game. Rodimus still had to make it through another forty minutes without getting snatched up by someone who had definitely not forgotten what it was like to be a walking nightmare.

This was not at all how he had thought this afternoon would go.

At least he’d cooled down enough that his fans had clicked back off. Hopefully, Megatron hadn’t noticed them earlier, otherwise there would be some… awkward questions accompanying Rodimus’s “I didn’t mean to torch you, buddy” apology. The last thing he needed was to explain how the thrill of the chase was thrilling in more ways than one.

How would he even begin to approach that? “I’m sorry, the thought of you catching me got me hot and bothered” seemed like a nonstarter. Besides, Rodimus wasn’t even sure what part of the situation was the cause: being caught, Megatron, or, Primus forbid, both. Not a way he had previously thought of his colleague. Talk about awkward. Oh well, ideally it wouldn’t come up because Megatron would be much more concerned with getting lit on fire rather than accidentally lighting anyone else’s fire, so to speak.

While so far, the roof seemed safe, Rodimus didn’t want to get complacent again. That first little shop had seemed safe as had the second. He wouldn’t want to linger here for long as it appeared Megatron was much more skilled at tracking than he’d originally given the old bastard credit for.

A loud thud from somewhere down below on the street level caught his attention. It was probably just Megatron breaking something to escape the building or something falling in the process thereof.

Whatever.

That was fine.

That meant Rodimus had more time than he thought to figure out his next move since Megatron wasn’t tearing up the shopping center’s stairs after him in hot pursuit.

Looking around, there were several simulated buildings nearby, mostly of a similar height to each other. Probably because the buildings were mostly copies of each other. There seemed to be three or four building types used by the simulation software and even then, they weren’t markedly different from one another aside from a few details like windows and heat pumps. It was strange to be at a scale with human-designed structures where he didn’t feel like a giant though.

The streets were narrow so Rodimus could have reasonably jumped across from rooftop to rooftop given the nearly identical building heights.

Leaping across would probably have been his best bet to get some distance between him and Megatron, wherever he’d gone.

Rodimus approached the edge of the shopping center’s roof and looked across. Yeah, it wasn’t too far, he thought, deciding it in his best interest to not look down. If he got a running start and kept his eyes on the prize, he’d be fine. Also, if Megatron was searching for him on the ground, he, hopefully, wouldn’t dream of checking up here. Rodimus could probably leap right over him if the big guy were standing in the alley below and Megatron wouldn’t even notice him.

That thud noise from below continued, a steady yet quick beat. Maybe it was some of the poorly constructed brickwork falling away and the building was getting ready to collapse. That would explain why it was sounding like it was coming closer. Who knew? It didn’t matter since he was about to blow this joint anyway. Newer, better, less former warlord-infested rooftops awaited.

Rodimus jogged back a bit to get some space before running up to the edge of the roof and launching over the narrow alley.

Something brushed his foot. For a brief second, panic that he might have gotten caught on the roof’s ledge shot through him, worrying that he’d miscalculated and now would be plummeting to the ground below. But the something, whatever it was, left as he yelped, and his hands met the ledge of the roof he’d been targeting. For a terrifying second, he dangled, clinging to the edge before hauling himself up.

Rodimus turned to look behind him, unsure of what had just happened.

Unfortunately, the answer was pulling himself up onto the roof the speedster had just used as a launchpad.

Megatron had just… climbed up the outside of the shopping center like it was a damned ladder.

He must have just missed catching Rodimus by the foot. While a cold, sticky dread settled around his spark chamber and spread outward, that terrible heat in his abdomen returned, threatening to tick his fans back on. His core temperature indicator on his HUD threw an error, unsure of what to make of the mixed sensations.

Rodimus had missed it before in the dark, but now in the faux twilight of the simulation as Megatron pulled himself up to his full height, he saw that Megatron had a cannon on his arm. Of course, the sane part of his processor knew that was just his field surgical kit, given that Megatron carried it everywhere and had seen it in use to patch up all manner of injuries. It only incidentally looked like a fusion cannon in general shape because it was easy to cart around that way.

The sane part of Rodimus’s processor, however, was presently nowhere to be found and in the confusing light of dusk, his processor rendered a cannon in front of his optics instead. He could almost imagine a faint purple glow and menacing mechanical whir as though the cannon were powering up to fire.

His optics move higher, only to realize he too is being intently stared at, burning red optics scanning him up and down, presumably for exploitable weaknesses. It was a sight right out of a new recruit’s nightmares. Yet there was something about the predatory gaze that drew Rodimus in, something caused that a treacherous processing thread to suggest staying put and find out what it would be like to let Megatron throw him to the ground.

Rodimus shunted that thread to a lower priority where he didn’t have to pay attention to it. Summoning up his courage, he turned and booked it across the rooftop, knowing full well that Megatron could easily clear that jump and follow him.

Now his only hope was to be faster and put enough distance between them to catch a break.

The end of this roof came, and he leapt across the alley. Then the next… and the next. With each jump, sooner or later came the massive thump of Megatron landing on the previous building, concrete and brick crumbling beneath him. And those intervals between Rodimus leaping and Megatron landing were getting shorter, a sign he was either speeding up… or Rodimus was finally slowing down.

The cacophony on Rodimus’s heels seemed… excessive. As his ventilations became ragged and labored once more, he realized that Megatron was purposefully announcing himself with each jump, telling Rodimus that he was there on his tail, that he was coming for him, and that there would be no escape.

Bastard.

Yet the terror of the inescapable flooding across Rodimus’s circuits came with an aroused tingling in his joints that made him want to squirm. It made no sense. He didn’t understand it, especially since it was starting to overcome that terror, envelope and intertwine with it as a combined sensation that he struggled to process.

His legs began to slow as he tried to summon the power to push forward. After clearing the most recent jump, Rodimus found he could no longer run at all. His legs refused to cooperate, the hydraulics cramping and burning in exhaustion. Frames like his were just not meant to sustain such high speeds for so long, especially not on foot.

The end of Megatron’s inexorable pursuit was rapidly approaching, but even reduced to a hobbling walk, Rodimus kept moving.

The roof underneath Rodimus’s feet shook, trembling as the surface structure began to fracture and crumble with the weight that had crashed into it.

This was it. The end.

Rodimus kept walking. He wasn’t going to just give in and hand himself over, no matter how tempting it was becoming to let himself be captured.

Worst of all, that seemed to suit Megatron just fine. It sounded like the former warlord was merely going for a casual stroll behind Rodimus, taking in the scenery and minding his own business as opposed to actively stalking his co-captain.

But, after several moments of unrelenting torment, the edge of this last roof was before him, before them.

He couldn’t do it. He just… couldn’t.

There was no way Rodimus could launch himself to the next roof, not unless he asked Megatron to be a pal and toss him across for a laugh, to prolong the inevitable. He wasn’t even sure he’d be able to get back up if Megatron threw him now. He was so… so exhausted, plating far… far too warm as he stared down over the ledge at the alley far below.

Frame rebelling against his wishes to not give up, his knees hit the concrete surface of the roof, the final nail in his coffin. He let some of his plating shift outward, fluffing to release some of the building heat of confusing arousal that threatened to burn him up.

Any second now… Any second now it would all be over. He’d be finished, he thought, core temperature rapidly rising at the thought of rough hands on him. Megatron would end the hunt and crush him—

“Got you,” came Megatron’s calm voice, right behind him. “Twenty-seven minutes. Longer than I had originally thought you’d elude me.”

Right. It was… a game. Rodimus had forgotten again. Megatron wasn’t going to murder him. Relief began to wash the fear away, draining its icy chill from his circuits.

Was Megatron even the slightest bit tired? Had he even exerted himself at all? Had this just been an unusual, yet relaxing stroll for him? Damn, war-frames, or whatever the hell Megatron was, had ridiculous stamina and endurance if that were the case. Rodimus couldn’t stop himself from wondering if that extended to other areas of exertion.

However, that naughty thought was cut short by strong hands grabbing him around the middle, hoisting him into the air. He didn’t have the energy left to truly fight but that wouldn’t stop him from trying, even though the game had obviously come to an end. His spark raced in circles in its chamber, fluttering like a captured songbird as he wriggled weakly in Megatron’s grasp.

Megatron turned him around, so they were facing each other as Rodimus’s legs dangled ineffectually in the air.

“It seems I win this time, Rodimus.” The smug bastard didn’t have to smirk about it, not that Rodimus would have behaved any differently. He had absolutely planned on grinning and lording a victory over Megatron, before he realized he wasn’t in any position to win this time.

That was all it took for the heat of unexpected desire to overtake the remaining, waning dread and kick his cooling fans on at their highest setting.

Oops.

Rodimus had never really thought before about his co-captain that way. Well, maybe sometimes, when he was drunk or bored or… sometimes when he was mad, like when they yelled at each other for no reason other than the mutual catharsis of screaming. Strong hands, a huge solid, sturdy build, a handsome weathered face, and a delightful, pervading sense of danger.

Could be a good idea. It probably wasn’t, but neither had this game. Why stop now?

Coyly raising an optical ridge, Rodimus smirked right back, as though he weren’t strung up like a freshly caught fish. “Hey, that’s cool, you got me. Great, so how about best two out of three? Maybe the next round’s a different kind of ‘game’?”

And by “game,” he meant being fragged stupid.

“What exactly did you have in mind?” Megatron, head inclined to the side in curiosity, was doing an admirable job of ignoring the roar of Rodimus’s cooling fans, was too hard of hearing to notice them, or was at least being polite enough to pretend he couldn’t hear them. Funny to think of Megatron as “polite” but it was true depending on the situation. Though Rodimus doubted his… situation had truly gone unnoticed, especially given that his plating was felt like it was scalding.

“So,” Rodimus began, reaching out to draw pointless, yet suggestive circles with his fingers on the heavily plated, gray arm supporting his weight, “I was thinking you could help me put out a… sort of fire.”

If Rodimus had any ability, it was getting Megatron to forgo sense and personally involve himself in his co-captain’s schemes.

“I’m listening.”

Bingo.

“Let me catch my breath though first, okay, big guy?” Rodimus let himself hang limp, grateful for the ability to effortlessly—and lewdly, for that matter—stretch out his legs from this aloft posture. “Then you can have at what’s behind my panels all you want.”

---

By the time they emerged from the room that had been fitted with the holomatter projectors, Rodimus’s internal chronometer read two hours later than when they’d gone in, long after the game was expected to end. That wasn’t… suspicious at all, nope, especially because they had agreed to pretend that Rodimus had simply gotten lost in the nearly identical fake buildings. They were not going to own up to wildly fragging on the ground like mechanimals to release pent up energy. It was a marked improvement over their shouting matches.

Rodimus was greeted by wide-eyed, embarrassed stares from Swerve and Ultra Magnus, who had apparently been lingering outside. Swerve had probably just wanted to know how they had liked the simulation program he had thrown together at the last minute, but what was Ultra Magnus doing here?

The blue bot had a datapad in one hand and a light-pen in the other, his expression neutral beyond the surprise in his optics.

Suddenly, glancing down at his sore, tired legs, Rodimus realized that his normally beautiful polished plating was tellingly covered in black paint transfers and dust from crushed concrete and brick. Megatron must have noticed as well. Both captains froze.

“So, how did it go?” Swerve asked, uncomfortably putting the tips of his index fingers together. He smiled like he wanted to be delicate about the glaringly obvious situation. Neither he nor Ultra Magnus would be able to stop themselves from putting two and two together to realize what their captains had gotten up to in there. “Would it be… a stretch to assume you had fun in the holodeck? Who won? Or did you both win? I guess it doesn’t matter—”

Swerve was starting to babble but Rodimus didn’t want to hear it.

“It was fine,” Rodimus blurted, optics stretched wide as he tried to look anywhere but at anyone here. The thought of making eye contact right now made him want to go into stasis for a million years. His facial plating burned, flushing purple as hot fuel rushed to his cheeks in shame. Better deflect, he thought. “Mags, what are you doing here?”

Ultra Magnus cleared his vocalizer with a cough. Rodimus was glad he couldn’t see his face right now.

“I… received a noise complaint… from this room here. I’ll….” Poor Magnus. He probably regretted following up on the complaint. “I’ll just put it down as a candidate for installing soundproofing, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t see a problem with that,” Megatron said, a thin veneer of professional stoicism barely covering the shame at being caught so brazenly fraternizing with a colleague like this. Then again, they were at least of equal rank. This could have been worse. “Submit the work order and it’ll be approved as soon as possible—”

The awkwardness of the situation was too much. Rodimus couldn’t take it anymore.

“I don’t know him and have never seen him before in my entire life,” he said, abruptly walking off down the hall. Megatron quickly excused himself and, from the sound of it, went in the opposite direction.

“Captain,” Swerve said with an uncomfortable chuckle, not specifying which one he was talking to, “aren’t your quarters in the opposite direction?”

Right. Dammit.

And it seemed Megatron got the message as well, given that their respective quarters were on different sides of the ship, passing Rodimus when they turned on their heels to correct their trajectories. They averted their gazes, pointedly not looking at each other.

“Same time next week, Megs?” he asked, optics still locked onto the floor.

“Yes.”

Playing a friendly game for recreation was not how Rodimus had wanted to discover a new kink, but it seemed he at least wasn’t alone in it. Though now he had a new goal: getting Megatron to start applying a topcoat so his paint wouldn’t transfer.

#fic #one shot #maccadam #idw1 #mtmte #megatron #rodimus #megarod

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