til-all-are-loved

[til-all-are-loved]

I had the honour of making a piece for the Transformers 2018 fan calendar project, it was a real pleasure to work along side some really lovely people    (╯✧∇✧)╯

[til-all-are-loved]

Megatron.

90 mins.

[til-all-are-loved]

{This Charming Man}

Chapter 11 - Permission / Flesh for Fantasy

word count 4.7 k ao3

You hadn’t intended to keep working.

After everything that was said you figured you’d step down quietly. You had submitted your resignation. You had meant it. But then nothing happened. No acknowledgement, no reply. No shuttle rerouted back to Earth, no official directive from Ultra Magnus or your Earth-side handlers. Just... silence.

So you kept showing up. One more report. One more meeting. One more datapad handed off without fanfare. It was just easier to pretend. And if Megatron had noticed your quiet return to routine, he didn’t say anything. He hadn’t said much at all.

The leadership meeting was uneventful—until it wasn’t.

Rodimus was at the front of the room, leaned lazily against the edge of the holo-console like he had nowhere else to be. Ultra Magnus stood beside him with arms crossed and optics narrowed, which was his default setting. Megatron sat to the side, as still as stone.

You took your usual seat. No one commented on it.

Rodimus tapped the screen, bringing up a star chart. “Alright, next matter—access clearance. Our planned route takes us through the C-X�� Expanse. There’s a neutral outpost in our path. Bureaucratic nonsense. We need someone to represent us at the station’s orbital council gathering so they’ll authorize passage.”

You blinked. “A... gathering?”

“Not a big deal,” Rodimus said with a dismissive wave. “They call it a ‘civic summit.’ It’s basically a glorified mixer with a roster and badge scanners. Show up, smile politely, leave with stamped clearance. Whole thing takes one night, maybe two.”

You glanced at Megatron. He hadn’t moved.

Rodimus continued, voice light. “Which is why I’m assigning our esteemed ambassador,” he gestured to you, “and our reformed co-captain—” he gestured at Megatron, “to attend on behalf of the Lost Light.”

Megatron’s optics finally lifted. “I fail to see why my presence is necessary.” His voice landed low and professionally. 

You wanted it to slip, just a little. Enough to tell you this was affecting him too.

“You’re a captain,” Rodimus said brightly. “Other captains will be there.”

Megatron, flatly: “So it’s politics.”

Rodimus shrugged. “Call it diplomacy if that helps.”

You spoke carefully. “We’ll be expected to represent the ship’s position on what exactly?”

“Trade neutrality, expedition rights, cultural cooperation, you know.” Rodimus grinned. “The usual fluff. It wouldn’t hurt to score the Cybertronian race some brownie points, would it? ”

“Which you’re not attending yourself?” Megatron asked.

“I’m terribly allergic to bureaucracy,” Rodimus replied. “Also, the last time I was there, I might’ve punched someone. This is a cleaner option, besides Megatron. You’re so much more reserved nowadays, more than me, even.”

Silence settled again. Megatron vented once, slow and steady.

“Very well,” he said at last.

Rodimus beamed. “Knew you'd see reason. Departure's scheduled for tomorrow. You'll be taking Shuttle Three.”

Magnus gave a subtle nod.

“Any questions?” Rodimus added.

You exchanged a look with Megatron. It wasn’t the old, easy kind of look, the kind you used to pass back and forth when Rodimus was being especially dramatic. But it wasn’t cold either. 

“No questions,” you said.

“Cool.” Rodimus clapped his hands. “Meeting adjourned.”

The others began filing out. You gathered your notes. Megatron left without a word.

As you turned to follow, Rodimus blocked your exit. 

“Hey,” he said, voice low. “One last thing.”

You paused.

“Pack a dress.”

You blinked. “Sorry—what?”

He grinned. “The summit’s not a briefing. It’s a party.”

You stared at him.

Rodimus winked, then turned on his heel and sauntered away.

The day of the assignment came faster than expected.

You hadn’t been nervous until now. You’d gotten through the briefings, the logistics updates, the security checks. You even made it through a mind-numbingly long discussion with an outpost liaison who spoke exclusively in caveats and procedural jargon. And still, you’d been fine.

Until you stepped into your quarters and realized it was time to get ready.

Your heart hammered.

You used to go to parties. Back in school—whatever version of that counted for you—it wasn’t a rare thing. Dress up, sneak drinks, pretend the night meant something. There were Greek life mixers and graduate socials and “girls' night” events where you'd trade outfits with your friends and laugh too hard and take pictures you’d regret the next morning.

But this felt nothing like that.

This wasn’t just a party. This was something else entirely. You weren’t even sure what it was.

You peeled off your uniform and stood in your undershirt for a long moment, staring down at the bag on your cot. “Pack a dress,” Rodimus had said, the smug bastard.

Still… you did pack one. A nice one. Just in case.

You tugged it out and started changing.

If he was wrong and it wasn’t a party—well, at least you’d feel more put together than usual. You could pretend this wasn’t about him. You could pretend you weren’t dressing for anyone.

Halfway through fixing your hair, a familiar jingle came from your doorbell comm console. Swerve’s voice crackled through before you could answer.

“Hey, uh. Just heard you’re shipping out with the Captain tonight. You two good?”

You blinked at your reflection. “We’re fine.”

“That’s not a yes.”

You snorted. “Do you need something?”

“Just to say: If he wears a tie, I’m gonna lose my mind. You’ll tell me, right?”

“Swerve.”

“Okay, okay! I’m leaving. Have fun storming the diplomatic summit!”

The line clicked off.

You stared at yourself in the mirror again. You didn’t look like someone heading to a summit. You looked like someone waiting to be seen.

The shuttle ride was quiet.

You sat across from Megatron, hands folded in your lap, watching stars streak past the viewport while he reviewed mission data in silence. You didn’t talk. Neither of you had to. 

When you finally landed, the docking clamps hissed and released, and the ramp unfolded with a smooth hydraulic sigh.

The station was vast. Even through the heavy atmosphere filters of the landing bay, you could feel the sheer scale of it. It was a satellite city, several times the size of the Lost Light. Lights streamed along the outer hull. Protocol drones hovered near arrivals, scanning new entrants and assigning escorts. Dozens of ships had already arrived. 

And stepping down the ramp with Megatron at your side, it became clear: this wasn’t some dry diplomatic formality. This was a display. Delegates gathered in pairs. Some arm-in-arm, others shoulder-to-shoulder. A soft orchestral score drifted in the air, piped through public speakers. Everyone was dressed to be seen.

And then you noticed it. The way some delegates looked at you then at Megatron. The slight pause. The way they waited, as if expecting something. Your breath caught as the realization settled. A formalized social display. Everyone was arriving together.

Megatron paused at your side. His optics narrowed as he scanned the crowd, as if parsing new information.

You felt your voice catch slightly. “We’re... expected to look like a pair.”

He tilted his head.

"Is this a procession?"

You blinked, realizing your mouth was slightly open. You shut it, trying to remember what words were.

"No," you said, voice low. "This is a grand ball."

Megatron glanced around the hall again, this time with clearer understanding. Guests posed for cameras. Couples walked arm in arm. Every movement was calculated and beautiful.

His gaze drifted back to you, catching on the line of your shoulders, the cut of your dress.

"That explains the dress."

There was no irony in it. No dryness. Just a quiet, pointed observation. His gaze lingered on you for one, two heartbeats. 

He exvented slowly. “A moment, please.”

He doubled back slowly at first, then turned the corner and presumably doubled back to the shuttle.The echo of his pounding footsteps over the music made you wince. Too loud. Too fast. Too Megatron.

A few breaths passed, from around the corner you heard your name be called.

You turned to look and your throat nearly closed.

Tall. Easily over six feet. Broad-shouldered, dark heavy duster tailored in sharp lines.  It was amusing, his stylistic choices didn’t quite suit the modern male style on earth, at least not any that you encountered like this. His design held an individualistic sentiment almost like that of alternative subcultures but tempered to flatter an older man… 

White streaks cut through silver hair at his temples, swept back in a style that looked effortless but wasn't. It exposed a tall square shaped forehead revealing somewhat deep age lines. 

The cut of his jaw was too clean to be real. His cheekbones were knife-sharp. His mouth serious, stern, perfectly sculpted. Beneath that familiar pout was a trimmed goatee, it seemed to mirror his cybertronian features perfectly.And his eyes. Not the usual deep red of his optics. These were dark, warm. Smoldering. Intelligent. Still him.

He turned to you slightly, as if unsure how you'd react.

You just stared.

Not because you didn’t recognize him. Because you did. Because it felt like seeing a secret he’d kept from you. A weaponized version of restraint. And damn if it didn’t work.

He didn’t move at first. Just let you look at him.

Then wryly: “You’re staring.”

You blinked hard. “Am I not supposed to?”

His mouth twitched at the corner. “I’m not used to being... admired.”

“Get used to it,” you said before thinking. Your voice came out smaller than intended.

He stepped toward you, closing the short distance between you both. Still at a respectful length, but no longer distant. The ambient glow of the station lights danced across his avatar’s shoulders, catching on subtle metallic threading in the long coat he’d chosen.

“Shall we?” he asked, offering his arm.

The act suddenly felt so... pointed. Symbolic. A thousand subtle cues passed between delegates in this place. Every pair walking together was making a statement.

But then, in a quiet motion, you turned your hand and touched the bend of his elbow. Permission.

In his expression you caught surprise, maybe, or a recalibration. He adjusted instantly, offering his arm in full, his other hand resting behind his back with courtly precision.You tested his bicep briefly, if he noticed he didn't show it.

His voice was low, soft at your ear as you began walking together.

“Thank you for not recoiling,” he murmured. “This form is... experimental.”

You glanced at him sidelong. “You’re handling it well.”

“I’ve studied human posture,” he said, tone just dry enough to be self-aware. “And basic expressions of chivalry .” 

“Oh?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He looked down at you, just the faintest glimmer in his eye. “Am I convincing you?”

You exhaled a single laugh. “A little too much.”

Your steps fell into a rhythm as the two of you moved through the grand hall, drawing more than a few curious looks. He didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he just didn’t care.

“Let’s get a drink,” you said, nodding toward the curved crystalline bar set into the far wall. Its base glowed with a slow pulse of color. Sleek-bellied glasses and phosphorescent bottles stood in minimalist display behind the counter, flanked by a bartender bot with an absolutely judgmental visor.

Megatron gave a slight nod. “Excellent idea. I believe I’m expected to make small talk soon, and I’d rather do it with a glass in hand.”

The two of you veered toward the bar, your arm still lightly tucked in his, the brush of his sleeve against your skin doing terrible things to your heart rate. You could feel the temperature rising in your own face—not from nerves, exactly, but from the proximity. The attention. And maybe from the fact that he was enjoying it, too. Not smugly. Not with power. But with something approaching pleasure. Delight, even.

The bar was sleeker up close, an art installation as much as a service station. Its surface shifted in subtle, mirrored waves beneath your fingers, like water frozen in the middle of movement. As you approached, Megatron let your arm go, his hand trailing away with practiced grace.

You ordered first, voice clear, posture composed. Megatron followed suit, his tones measured and surprisingly casual. He let you lead, a novelty in itself.

A pair of delegates sidled up beside you taller than either of you, vaguely insectoid, their limbs jointed in six distinct places. They spoke to each other in a dialect you didn’t understand then, in Galactic Basic, just loud enough to catch.

“Oh, how quaint. The human delegation brought representatives.”

“Must be difficult,” the other mused, not unkindly, “to keep such small creatures in sight.”

You felt Megatron shift beside you.

The taller delegate offered what might’ve been a polite nod, their expression unreadable. “Enjoy the festivities,” they added, and glided away, clicking softly as they moved.

Your drink arrived.

You stared into it for a moment before murmuring, “Do you think I count as quaint?”

Megatron’s gaze didn’t move from where the pair had gone. “If they knew anything about you, they’d never risk using the word.”

You glanced up at him. Something in his jaw had set differently. Not anger just... that old stiffness. Like a program running in the background. Like something uncomfortable in the code of his body.

So you touched his elbow lightly. “Come on,” you said, voice soft but purposeful. “Let’s make the rounds.”

You didn’t have to ask twice. He fell into step beside you again, his hand resting behind his back once more. The perfect dignitary.

The two of you slipped into the flow of the event, weaving between delegates, exchanging nods and hellos and the occasional comment. You played your part—answering questions about Earth’s current diplomatic ties to Cybertron, throwing in the occasional joke that flew over everyone’s head but made Megatron tilt his head in that amused little way that meant he got it.

Through the night you couldn't help but steal glances at him. He was handsome. Painfully so, in a way that didn’t seem fair. 

Mustering your confident-ambassador-baddie aura you continued to take the lead. One hand clasping a chilly glass you held it ahead of you like the bow of a ship parting the sea of party-goers. The other hand beckoning Megatron occasionally to keep up.

​​“You carry yourself like royalty.”

You blink. Did you just mishear him? 

“Come again?”

He stiffens immediately, eyes narrowing in defence. He regrets the words as soon as they’re spoken.

“That’s not—”

“You’re terrible at this,” you say, a grin playing on your lips.

“At what?”

“Flirting. That was a compliment, wasn’t it?”

“It was meant to be an observation.”

You bob your head playfully and roll your shoulders, hopefully the gesture comes off as foxy. “Sure. An observation with an aura of courtship.”

But eventually, the charm of the event began to turn. The lights felt too hot. The stares too long. The conversations started looping back, becoming redundant. Megatron’s answers became shorter. He leaned in less.

So you pulled back.

You nudged him gently with your shoulder and said, “Too much?”

He exvented quietly.

“Want to disappear?”

“Yes.”

Without ceremony, the two of you slipped through an archway, down a curved hallway lit in soft green, past a suspended sculpture that rotated slowly without sound. The noise of the ballroom faded behind you, replaced by a hush that felt like reprieve.

You found a quiet space tucked into an overlook meant for VIPs. Megatron stood beside you. But something in the posture had shifted. His shoulders were no longer squared. His hands, now clasped at the small of his back, opened and closed in restless intervals.

You leaned on the railing, watching the light show from below. The delegation was in full swing now, the dance floor slowly filling as a low, pulsing rhythm took over the speakers. It was orchestral in structure but deeply physical, percussive in a way that settled into your sternum. Behind you, Megatron remained quiet.

“I know that face,” you said, glancing sideways. “You look like you’re drafting a brutal speech about the flippancy of luxury.”

He didn’t look at you. “I’m calculating the cost of theater,” he said quietly. “How much it takes from a person to wear a mask. And how long before they forget it was a mask at all.”

You turned to face him fully, arms crossed, hip resting against the railing.

“You’re not being fair,” you said. “You did everything right.”

Megatron’s gaze drifted toward you now. The lighting softened the lines of his avatar, made his expression look more human than you’d ever seen it. Tired, but still alert.

“I wasn’t trying to be right,” he said. “Only tolerable.”

The music shifted. Below, couples moved together in deliberate, synchronized steps. One pair spun gently in a half-orbit around another. Someone dipped a partner low, and laughter followed.

“Would you prefer we just disappear entirely?” you asked.

“I prefer this,” he said at last.

You smiled faintly. “I don't mind either.”

He looked at you withdrawn again. “You’re just saying that.”

You took a pause, trying to steady the pulse in your veins urging you into doing impulsive things .“Can I say something?”

His head tilted. Permission. 

You stepped a little closer. Enough to be able to lower your voice while still being heard. “You didn’t have to do any of this,” you said. “The diplomacy. The avatar. Playing along. And I know you’ll try to tell yourself you did it for appearances, or the mission. But that’s not true.”

His jaw tensed, just slightly.

“I know it’s not,” you continued. “Because I’ve seen how you are when you’re just doing what you’re told. And this... this wasn’t that.”

For a moment, he said nothing. 

Then, softly: “And what do you think this was?”

You swallowed. “Something kind. And... something that’s made me feel very, very happy.”

Megatron looked away, back toward the window.

“You say that like it surprises me,” he said. “But I didn’t come here to make a statement. I came because I thought I might make you smile.”

You blinked, stunned. He wanted this? He planned this? That was—God. That was almost romantic. Too romantic. You felt the elation bloom in your chest, dizzy from what he’d just admitted so casually.

You reached for his hand. And he let you.

The music continued below. The swirl of dancers and delegates became a blur behind the glass.

You squeezed his fingers gently.

“If you wanted to dance,” you said, “I wouldn’t stop you.”

He glanced at you again.

“Do you?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I just know I’d like to stay near you.”

And this time, he stepped closer.

You cue for him to remove his coat by taking the sides of the collar in each hand and guiding it over his shoulders. He took the hint, shugging the garment off and slinging it over the railing. It revealed strong forearms beneath rolled sleeves, a neck just barely visible above the collar. Everything about him feels deliberately understated, and yet you can’t stop looking. You felt your stomach knot.

The music swelled again strings melting into a slow, pulsing rhythm, just enough tempo to guide motion without overwhelming it. Below, the crowd moved in waves. 

You turned to face him, heart kicking faster. 

“If you’d like to try,” you offered, lifting your hand, “I can lead.”

Megatron looked at you, visibly uncertain.

“I’ve never danced,” he said, as if it were a confession. “Not like this.”

“That’s alright,” you said gently. “I have. We’ll go slow.”

You reached for him, and he took your hand awkwardly,  unsure how much pressure was acceptable. You placed your free hand on his shoulder, guiding his other hand to your waist.

“There,” you murmured. “That’s the usual setup.”

He looked down at the contact, then up at you again. “This feels... unconventional.”

“That's because you're thinking too hard,” you said with a small grin.

“I’m trying not to step on you,” he said flatly.

“That’s very sweet,” you teased. “But unnecessary. If you stepped on me I’d forgive you”

He didn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth curved only a little. It was something.

You watched his gaze crawl across your shoulders, the line of your neck, your jaw. His eyes landed on your mouth for a beat too long. You swallowed. Hard.

“You’re observing me,” you said.

“I always do.”

Something about the way he said it left you lost for an appropriate response.

One step back. He followed, stiffly. You tried again. He mirrored, a beat late. Every motion was too precise. He was solving a puzzle rather than moving through space.

“You’re overcorrecting,” you murmured.

“I am attempting to mirror your tempo.”

“Okay,” you said softly, “but dancing isn’t just pattern recognition. It’s listening. To me. To the music. To yourself.”

He blinked once. “That’s vague.”

“You’re doing great,” you lied, because you were charmed out of your mind.

He huffed sharply,. “Where should my hands go now?”

“Same place,” you said, biting back a laugh. “We’re not doing a spin yet.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

You smiled up at him. “Exactly. So don’t worry about it.”

He hesitated again. His hands hadn’t moved. His whole form had gone a bit too still. Withdrawn, even.

You looked up at him, tilting your head. “Hey. Are you okay?”

He didn’t answer right away. His brow furrowed faintly. “This feels... unnecessary.”

You stepped back slightly. “Do you want to stop?”

His hand dropped from your waist. “I think I should.”

Your heart stung but you nodded, letting your arms fall, stepping gently away.

“Of course.”

You turned slightly, ready to give him the space he thought he needed.

But his voice stopped you.

“You said I didn’t have to go through all of this for you,” he said. “But I did. I wanted to.”

Your chest rose with your breath.

He looked at you like he just found the answer to a question he hadn’t realized he was asking. His gaze flicks to the side, and he adjusts his sleeve again—same nervous tell. Not ready to meet you where you are. Not yet. But he's still standing here, isn't he?

“You once said I didn’t understand what I was getting into,” you say quietly, “You were right. I didn’t. Not then. But I think I do now.”

He doesnt interrupt. 

“That night… when you told me the truth. I should’ve hated you. I wanted to. But instead, I felt—” you pause, licking your lips, “—seen. It terrified me.”

He says nothing, but you can tell: he’s listening.

“You keep showing up like this,” you say gently, your voice low. “It’s getting hard to tell what this is supposed to be.”

His mouth opens like he’s about to deflect.

“Don’t,” you add quickly. “Just—don’t. I’m not trying to corner you. I just want to know.”

You take a breath, fingers brushing your wrist. 

“Tell me what this is, Megatron,” you murmur. “Because I’m starting to hope it’s more than it should be.”

He looks at you—on the level—and for a moment, you see it: uncertainty. Caution. Want.

“I don’t know,” he admits.

“Okay,” you say, stepping closer. “Then let me ask something simpler.”

You tilt your chin, steady despite the quaking in your nerves.

“Would it be alright if I kissed you?”

He doesn’t speak. Just nods once. Permission.

You step into him, feeling heat radiating off his holomatter projection. Up close, he smells like ozone and something else, clean metal and the faintest scent of tobacco,, translated into something your brain can interpret.

When you kiss him, it’s not elegant. Your noses brush wrong. Your balance falters a bit. But his hand—warm and unsure—touches your side, steadying you.

His mouth is soft. Stubbled. There’s a moment when you feel him start to respond, just slightly, before he pulls back half an inch.

His eyes are still open. Of course they were.

You breathe against him, stunned.

And then he steps back. Not far. Just enough to look at you fully.

“That,” he says, voice low, “was very brave.”

You smile, half breathless. “I know.”

The satisfaction in his expression was subtle—but it was there.

Your face was at full burn by now, hot blood felt as if it was pooling beneath every pore. It was actually getting a bit too much. You looked away, it was all getting a bit overwhelming. The excitement you were gripping onto tightly the entire night refused to unwind even after your very reckless action.

Little words were exchanged between you as a few comfortable silences passed by. Meanwhile the music had drawn to a close. 

The walk back to the launch bay is slower than necessary. Neither of you speak, but the silence isn’t empty. At some point along the empty corridor, you catch him looking at you. 

His eyes—human eyes—flick downward, lingering a second longer than is strictly polite. Your collarbone, the hollow of your throat, the slight shift of fabric where your dress settles against your chest.

It’s not leering. It’s curious and innocent in its focus. You bite back a smile, heart thrumming high in your ribs. Cybertronians don’t have this kind of giveaway. You realize that now—how easily you can see where his gaze travels, how easily he betrays his own attention just by forgetting to guard it. When his eyes flick back up and meet yours, there’s no guilt there. No shame.

The launch bay doors slide open. You pause just before the ramp, and Megatron pauses with you. His form flickers and the holomatter projection dissolves into static. He’s there now. Fully. The real deal.

"So," you say, "you were already here."

"Of course," he replies, words reverberating through the thin station air. "I was never far."

The shuttle ramp hisses under the weight of Megatron’s heavy footfalls.

You follow at your own pace, the stairs ahead of you rising almost as high as your shoulders. You hesitate at the base of the first step, eyeing the climb.

Before you can even think about attempting it, a massive shadow falls over you.

You glance up—just as Megatron stoops low, one hand extending.

“Allow me,” he says, voice pitched low, almost dry. But you catch the undercurrent: an old memory. You smile without thinking and step carefully into his waiting palm.

His servos flex slightly beneath you, enclosing you. You sit demurely, hands braced lightly on the broad curve of his fingers. He lifts you smoothly, almost absentmindedly, like you weigh nothing at all.

He doesn’t set you down immediately. Instead, he carries you easily across the shuttle floor, his other hand adjusting the controls with practiced efficiency.

He glances down.

“You’ll stay here,” he says, the faintest flicker of amusement touching his tone. “I prefer to keep you within sight.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying not to smile too obviously.

He settles you near the front console, just beside the primary display—a safe, flat surface with enough of an edge to keep you secure. Close enough that if he turns slightly, you’re still within arm’s reach.

He powers up the shuttle. You sit quietly, the rush of takeoff pressing you back just slightly as the shuttle disengages from the station.

The night is ending. The fantasy is folding itself away.

And still, he keeps you close.

For a while, neither of you speak. The stars drift by outside the viewport, streaks of light against the velvet dark. You let your eyes follow them, feeling the hush settle deep into your bones.

Finally, he breaks the silence.

“Well,” he says, voice thoughtful. “What did you think?”

You don’t need to ask what he means. The night. The effort. The strange, human-shaped fantasy he built for you out of smoke and hope.

You consider your answer carefully.

“It was wonderful,” you say honestly. “Strange. Surreal. Like stepping into someone else’s life for a while.”

You shift, folding your hands in your lap.

“But…” you add, looking up at him again, eyes lidded and a smirk playing at your lips—“I think I find you more beguiling like this.”

“Good,” he says quietly. “Because this is the form you’ll see most often.”

There’s no regret in his voice. No apology.

And you find, to your own surprise, that you don’t want one. You lean back slightly, settling in as the shuttle speeds toward home.

___

WOAH big update FINALS ARE OVER YAY. Alexa play Flesh for Fantasy by Billy Idol

[til-all-are-loved]

Writing Notes: White Room Syndrome

White Room Syndrome - a significant lack of description in prose—often a lack of setting description.

A lack of description isn’t a major issue, but sometimes it can hold a story back.

If a reader can’t imagine where characters are, you’re missing out on a ton of opportunities to subtly show how they exist and interact in a setting.

Arguments take on a different tone if the speakers are seated in a church, floating around space, or on the phone at a street race.

Being conscious of the characters involved and showing how they’re interacting with the setting can really elevate what’s happening in the plot.

Here are a few quick things you can do to tackle the issue of white room syndrome:

Create a mood board to help you picture things. Moodboards are a collection of images, quotes, etc. that help evoke an image and feeling for whatever project you’re working on. For writing, they can help you picture what a place or character looks like at a glance. For reference, you may study artworks or photographs.

Remember your five senses: Consider not just what a character is seeing, but also what they hear, feel, smell, or taste. Just, don’t do all of that all the time. Focus on what matters to the scene at hand. For example, if a character just walked into a kitchen, they’re more likely to remark on the smell of food being cooked, not the sound of a dog barking in the yard—unless that matters to the scene.

Reinforce themes or moods with the setting. The Great Gatsby did this magnificently with weather—as tensions rose it became hotter and hotter. Everything comes to a climax on the hottest day of the year.

Embrace worldbuilding. If you don't know what the character looks like, you could exhaustively detail their cultures’ looks and fashion until you have a solid base to build off of. Do that for every character in the narrative and you're golden.

Momentum is also important. Struggling to imagine what a newly introduced character looks like slows anyone down. Consider adding a description edit phase to your writing process. When a new person or place shows up in your rough draft, you may write [Describe] in brackets and move on.

Finally, you may just need to accept it. Not every story needs paragraphs of prose lovingly describing characters that will only be around for three chapters. Excessive descriptions can also turn some readers off, so if you work best with leaner visuals, embrace it.

Source

[til-all-are-loved]

Chapter 11 of TCM is coming along well. It’s the longest chapter I’ve written thus far at close to 4k words. I’ve tried to make it really worth it for my special readers who have kept up so far! Someone last night commented on each chapter and it made my morning. As for my inbox… it’s on the back burner but I’m suuure it’ll keep me busy once finals are over

For now I’ll throw you a bone for all your encouragement. It’ll make sense once you’ve read it.. wink wink 😉

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I just got an ask based off the prompt list I reblogged yesterday, I'm sooo excited to get down to it. The weather has great this week so I've been spending a lot of time outdoors. I'll be getting to it soon while I also wrap up editing the next chapter of the Megatron fic.

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cybertronian headcanon.

They can literally produce steam when theyre mad huh?

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smut prompt list no. 2

1) overwhelmed, but happy crying during sex 

2) crying crying during sex that leads to a pause or early end to comfort and take care of whatever emotions bubbled over 

3) depression sex in order to feel something good for once

4) messy drunk sex that is then forgotten the morning after

5) filming it, either for private purposes or because they’re amateur pornstars

6) mutual masturbation

7) spying on/walking in on their partner touching themself 

8) sex in exchange for a favour

9) car sex

10) quiet airplane bathroom sex

11) touching the other while at the movies

12) sex while there is the background noise of a rainstorm outside

13) being snowed in together and fucking in front of the fireplace 

14) pool/hot tub sex

15) stargazing that turns into sex

16) the classic “oh, let me help you put some sunscreen on” but then the little massage turns into something more

17) sex while camping

18) fucking in the bar bathroom and being too drunk to care about being quiet 

19) when the teasing in the dressing room gets a little too hot

20) shower/bath sex

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emotional support human.

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ultra magnus x reader

I think that in any new relationship, romantic or otherwise, magnus would have an immediate reaction to hauling his guard up more than ever. he’s standoffish and withdrawn, not really displaying all that well that he wants to be in your presence. his reasoning, come to find, is he is unable to truly refine how he feels or dig deep enough to discover what he genuinely wants.

he wants to get it right, but doesn’t necessarily articulate that well, at least vocally.

that phase doesn’t last very long, because he finds himself unexplainably entranced by your mere company. it’s laughable to outsiders, but your ‘shadow’ rarely goes where you do not. and when his feelings shift and develop into a little more than just very good friends, that protectiveness escalates tenfold. if anything were to happen to you on his watch, it’s an unforgivable action, something he could not bounce back from.

his walls are high, but they aren’t impossible to climb over. and while he feels a twinge of guilt that he isn’t as outgoing or affectionate as others may be, you always meet him in the middle with utmost benevolence and compassion.

so as long as you’re there, magnus is highly content with doing just about anything, ranging from nothing to everything. yet, he very rarely allows himself a chance to fully relax, processor thinking of at least eight different things that simultaneously need to be done.

more often than not, he can be found multitasking, but always puts whatever he’s working on to the side when conversing with you. listening intently, he’d memorize every word you said if he could, hanging onto each syllable, but the only inkling he offers is leaning just a bit forward.

imagine, you’re curled up watching a documentary you’d think he’d enjoy, but he’s across the room at his desk. softly, you call his name, wondering what he was up to, and immediately he’s all yours. just like that, not a second of hesitation nor ‘hold on, one moment’.

when you ask if he’s drowning in work, he pauses, briefly enough that you can’t catch it, but an inner tug of war does begin. he has things to complete, paperwork to be signed and letters to be read, but it also isn’t very often that you inquire him to stop.

not that you really did, quietly asking if he was busy and if he could use a break. but to him, any time you ask, no, he isn’t busy. never for you.

so carefully, magnus peels himself away from his work and moves across the room. his movements are languid yet purposeful, your heart fluttering within it’s cage as he lowers himself to the floor, just beside you on his berth.

you almost whine, telling him it’s no good to sit on the floor, but he shakes his helm. here, you’re almost at eye level, as his left arm comes to drape behind you atop the metal slab. he likes it this way, digits ghosting over your pajama pants as the soft cotton beckons subconscious touches.

and when you press play, it isn’t long before you begin stealing glances his way, entranced by his softening stare. over time, his head slowly droops, not out of boredom, but because he is candidly at peace. unbeknownst to you, but he’s at his most vulnerable in this very moment.

he falls into recharge beside you, as you’ve come to discover he’s skipped just one rest too many. when he awakes, magnus feels downright terrible that he’d slept through the movie, but you don’t care, not in the slightest.

“you need your rest,” you’d mumbled, fingers running over his face-plate only to deposit a kiss on his cheek. “it’s okay, we can finish it another time.”

while he never really thought he requested much, any feasible time he can, he seeks your companionship. he finds you to be his major weakness, and that is a dangerous yet damn near impossible feat.

your kindness knows no bounds, and can’t help but wordlessly praise you for allowing himself to expose his vulnerabilities. magnus has been hurt but has been unable to express it in the past, so shedding his ‘armor’ around you is not only healing, but unraveling a whole side of him that few have had the pleasure of meeting.

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Ultra Magnus turns up at the wrong time. He can't help but stick around anyway. Meanwhile you're letting your thoughts run wild about strategic orgasms.

18+

Something from my drafts. I’m not sure if its too spicy for Tumblr so I posted directly to Ao3 so you can bookmark it there if you’d like! Tags are past the link. 

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I just noticed your banner image when I came here to reread This Charming Man (again) and I can't believe it missed it before! Where's it from? I'd love to know the context of that panel 🤣

Oh! It’s from a prequel one-shot to mtmte. I can’t recall the name but it wasn’t written by James Roberts. I’ve just had this in my camera roll for ages.

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megs time

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has this been done before or

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I AM IN LOVE WITH YOUR MEGATRON STORY!!! I have even downloaded it and saved it to my kindle! I love me a complex man <3 i know you see him as unintentionally creepy, but i wonder how he would be affectionate once he is in a relationship? on a personal note one of my courtship rituals that i'm doing with my to be partners is "book reports" essentially book club but written, I like know what poeple think about things. What would he do when presented with such a proposition? Sorry this is a chunky anon but I have slowly fallen in love with megs <3

Thank you so much that means everything to me oh my gosh.

I'm glad so many people are liking this version of Megatron

As for affection, once he’s in a relationship, I think Megatron would express it not through touch, not right away. but through attention.

Your courtship ritual, writing reports on books and sharing perspectives, that’s something I think would leave him genuinely moved. When presented with a reading list, he defaults to what comes naturally to him: analysis, scrutiny, reflection. His reports (essays really), wouldn’t just be summaries; they’d be his attempt to meet you on your terms, digest the information to understand your world. 

You’d notice he struggles with human concepts such as relationships, family, and belonging. He knows them intellectually, but not intuitively. So these essays would double as concealed cries: Help me understand this. Help me feel what you feel when you read it. He would never phrase it that directly.

Though he’s a reserved type of mech, stoic by habit and design. There’s something about the book reports that causes him to slip into a new way of thinking about affection and love. He starts to understand affection not just as concept, but as practice. He begins to imagine what it might look like to enact the things he reads about. 

The way a character steadies someone with a hand at the back. The way people touch to reassure and to show they’re listening. He ruminates on these actions, he picks up on when others in the room display casual affection. Constantly fantasizing about how you would react to that kind of attention. It intrigues and frightens him in equal measure, 

He begins to rehearse these things privately. Considers what it would take to reach out, to place a hand against your back, to let you lean into him. These simple gestures carry more weight than he knows how to measure. Public affection would be impossible, absolutely not with this rumor mongering crew.. But in private moments, he’d learn. Slowly.

When you offer your love, fingers at his jaw, your head resting against his chest—he accepts it with reverence. And afterward, he thinks about it for hours. Not because he doubts it, but because he’s trying to understand why it mattered. And how to do it again.

As things deepen, he surprises you. Once affection crosses into hunger, he doesn’t ration it. He kisses like it’s the only language he still remembers. Long, deliberate, all-consuming. One hand behind your back, the other braced against the wall, or the desk, or the nearest surface that can hold the weight of him. He gets caught in it,forgetting the time, forgetting restraint, until your lips are swollen and your knees are unsteady and you have to pull back just to breathe. And even then, he follows, chasing your mouth like its all he has left to hold on to 

He doesn’t mean to lose himself. But when he loves, he loves with his whole body. And when he’s allowed to touch, he doesn’t know how to stop.

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How would Megatron flirt? Or would he? I can't picture in my head how would Megs flirt, is he casual about it, subtle or down right not doing it. Probably just plan in his head and the scenarios not played well.

These asks are keeping me busy tonight. I love it.

Megatron doesn’t flirt so much as linger. In the pause after you speak. In the way his optics stay on you a fraction too long. It’s not subtle, and it’s not smooth. It’s the kind of attention that feels heavy. 

It especially comes off as creepy, a lot of his behavior does just come off as sinister. He doesn’t see how the way acts as suspicious, until someone else brings it up. When he puts it together he will act more politely to you. Slowly he’ll improve his… perceived charms to get you to see him more favorably. 

 If he likes you, it shows up in odd ways. He edits your writing for clarity but never for content. He reads every footnote you include and sometimes sends one-word acknowledgments—“noted,” “efficient,” “elegant.” He means them as compliments. You eventually learn to take them that way.

He’ll ask strange questions. “Why do humans give each other keepsakes?” “What is the purpose of eye contact?” “Do you find it… reassuring?” There’s always a reason under layers of curiosity.

If anything… Megatron is narcissistic. He learns to flirt because it makes you happier as well as to flatter himself. Verbally, it's a lot of him boasting himself to impress you. He wants you to think he’s more put-together, efficient, and reasonable than he actually is. He ends up complimenting you on the same admirable qualities you two share. 

To just add a little sweetness, I think Megatron would fall apart completely at a genuine compliment. He’ll start trying to fish for more. That might mean polishing himself when he knows he’ll be seeing you. He tries to look impeccable. (he is handsome idk what to say)

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Do you have a headcanon how a Cybertronian would court a Human? I figured they would be curious on Human courting, considering there are a lot of ways we can court. In my culture, usually the courter will sing a love song accompanied by friends whose playing the instrument, while the person being courted watching and will wait for the song end, if the person favoured the guy then they can accept their hand for dating. I don't know about other cultures tho... I thought it would be kind of sweet it a bot tries to imitate a courting ritual for their Human, depends on their culture.

What a lovely ask, thank you!

I do have some thoughts, though I think the specifics would vary wildly from mech to mech. Some Cybertronians would treat human courtship like a cultural exchange. Others might approach it the way they handle battle strategy: observe, study, overthink.

I’m somewhat entertained by the idea that if a Cybertronian was doing courting research they might stumble onto some old dating advice from the 1950’s. Like this video. 

Or they would find even more outdated material, I’m talking like the Victorian period kind of antiquated and repressive. But there's a certain antique charm to that I suppose. They would start  acting more “chivalrous” I suppose.

Maybe that means standing whenever you enter the room, or clearing a walkway so you don’t have to step over any debris. They might hold open a door—by removing the entire thing. Offering you their arm, though the height difference makes it awkward. Speaking in this overly formal, slightly anachronistic tone: “I would be remiss if I did not escort you personally.” So like RUNG and maybe like… dare I say Ultra Magnus.

But in most cases I think the bot would try to imitate behaviours from human movies. Probably American movies and tv. Full of dramatic declarations and impossible timing. But I think the cinemaphiles and xenophiles among their kind, namely Swerve, Bluestreak. They might pull out some unique one-liner or flirty joke from any other human culture. Mostly to show off. I would say those two are probably most likely to use phrases and innuendo correctly. Rodimus & Tailgate on the other hand will incorrectly imitate lines from movies not knowing how corny they actually are.