#the yellow stripe overhead | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bradshawssugarbaby · 1 month

Text

Meet The Teacher - Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

summary: Bradley Bradshaw's re-entering civilian life with a new mission - teaching second grade.

a/n: thank you to @nerdgirljen for suggesting the idea with her breakdown of Bradley's military file, and thank you to @floydsmuse, @mamachasesmayhem, and @purelyfiction for reading this over for me last night 😅

pairing: teacher!Bradley Bradshaw x single mom!reader (last name is given to reader) warnings/content: mentions of trauma/injury, mentions of death/parent loss, Bradley pining for a student's mom, allusions to smut (masturbating (m)).

word count: 2.9k

taglist: @avengersfan25 @nouis-bum @sorchathered @hangmansgbaby @sarahsmi13s @jessicab1991 @atarmychick007 @b-bradshaw @djs8891 @primroseluna @silversprings-mp3 @drxgxnslxyer @gardenavenue @seitmai @unhinged-bitch @mattyskies

“You’ve got this, Bradshaw. You’ve got this. It’s just two dozen second graders. You’ve flown fighter jets and stared enemy aircraft in the eye, shot them down midair, you can handle a classroom of second graders.”

Bradley repeated his mantra over and over in the rearview mirror of his car, taking a deep breath as he nodded his head. He adjusted the collar on his baby blue and white striped dress shirt, fingers tracing over the silver chain of his dog tags. His breath hitched in his throat as he ran his fingertip over the beaded chain, letting it out in a strained sigh. He was venturing into uncharted waters here, and he was beginning to wonder if he was in over his head.

Six months ago, he was flying planes, one of the US Navy’s finest aviators. He’d never cared much about what he could have been doing if he hadn’t become a pilot - he’d known as long as he could remember that he wanted to fly. Since his accident though, he began to process all the things he’d let himself miss out on over the past 18 years. At 40 years old, he knew he was pushing his body to its limits, but he didn’t think he’d reached that threshold yet.

He was wrong.

It’d been a routine flight exercise, the kind he’d done about 40,000 times before in his career. His plane’s engine cut out, a mechanical failure beyond anyone’s control that couldn’t have been predicted. He kept his composure, pulled the ejection handle and parachuted his way to the ground below. In an ideal situation, he would have landed perfectly, safe and sound and taken to the hospital for observation but released the next day.

Instead, he’d blown his knee out on his landing, making walking next to impossible, let alone flying.

Presented with his options, returning to flying seemed unlikely. His knee would only likely get worse, and he realized, he sort of liked the idea of settling down someday — he knew forty was a little late in life to realize it, but damn it, he did want a family. He didn’t want to be that dad who couldn’t keep up with his kid. He wanted to be an active, fun parent like he’d remembered his mom being in her lifetime. He wanted to be able to dance with his new bride at his wedding, if it ever happened, and he couldn’t do any of that if his knee was fucked beyond repair.

Dreams of coaching Little League and dancing around kitchens in the soft, yellow glow of overhead lights had suddenly flashed before him in his hospital room, and when the proposition of an honourable discharge came up, an offer absolving him of any guilt for abandoning his post in the pursuit of a civilian little fairytale life, he seized it. He loved flying, but he knew he couldn’t do it forever, despite his best efforts. He needed something to fall back on. And if these hopes and dreams suddenly crossing his mind — having a wife and a family, being a doting dad — were to come true, he needed to start somewhere.

Bradley always swore he’d never leave a wife and family behind. He’d seen what happened when a service member didn’t come home first hand - his dad was killed in a training incident when he was just over two years old, and he’d seen how his whole world turned on its side when it happened. Even as a toddler, he remembered a lot of crying from his mother, and suddenly noticing a huge absence in his life that couldn’t be explained.

He didn’t understand what happened until he turned five, when he finally worked up the courage to ask his mom where his dad was. Why he left. Why he didn’t want to be home with Bradley. The moment he was old enough to decide his career path, he knew he wouldn’t be able to put a wife and children through the things he and his mom had been through. He was better off alone if he was serving. And it suited him just fine for the most part. The odd pang of jealousy when a colleague got married, the occasional feeling that he was missing out on something each time someone he knew announced the arrival of a new baby — they were easy enough to ignore when he focused his attention on his work.

Now, sitting in his parked car, an hour before the start of the school year, he was talking himself through how to survive his first day in his chosen back-up profession — teaching.

He’d minored in education studies at university when he went. He’d promised his mother when he was applying to colleges that he’d pick a good back-up option to flying, just in case he didn’t get into the academy, and everyone knew he was great with kids. He’d often babysat for his mom’s friends, volunteered to coach softball teams and run summer camps at the community centre throughout high school. Teaching seemed like a no-brainer.

He let out a heavy sigh as he strolled into the school, his head held high, lesson plans tucked neatly in a file folder under his arm, his coffee cup in the other hand. He was ready to face the day, and whatever these seven-year-olds had to throw at him.

The day went on without a hitch, much to Bradley’s relief. Twenty-three little darlings sat in their desks, on their best behaviour for their first day of class. He knew it was unlikely that they’d continue to be so well-behaved, but he savoured it while it lasted. His co-workers seemed laidback and relaxed, friendly smiles and waves exchanged frequently in passing, words of advice and encouragement spoken at length over lunch and prep times.

Three o’clock came faster than anticipated, and Bradley felt like he’d barely covered any of his plans for the day. At dismissal, he’d politely waved goodbye to each and every child, introducing himself to the parents he’d missed that morning at drop off, and greeting the ones he’d already met with brief updates about their child’s day. The last child to be picked up was a sweet little boy, with blonde hair and hazel eyes, freckles dotted across the bridge of his nose. Bradley’s brown eyes scanned over the attendance record in his hand. Wells Montgomery.

At 3:10, Wells had grown bored of kicking his soccer ball around the grassy area around the side of the school. He picked his ball up under his arm and hurried back to Bradley.

“Mr. Bradshaw, is my mom here yet?”

“Not yet, bud. She’s probably stuck in traffic coming over the bridge into town. You know, it gets really busy around now. Do you want to come inside and read for a little bit in the classroom?” Bradley squinted, the sun shining brightly into his eyes as he scanned the parking lot for anyone who might be Wells’ mother.

“Ok,” Wells said with a heavy sigh. Bradley furrowed his brow for a moment before looking back to Wells as the two of them headed back into the building.

By 3:20, Bradley was beginning to worry about his new pupil. He didn’t anticipate a parent going missing-in-action on him on his first day of teaching, but faced with the possibility, he began going through the list of possible actions he could take. Just as he pondered over the idea of taking Wells down to the staff room to rummage the cupboards for a still-at-school-after-school snack, you came practically flying through the door, a panicked expression on your face, cheeks reddening when you saw Wells sitting at his desk, quietly reading.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry! I got held up in a meeting until 2:45, and then traffic was a nightmare, everything was backed up and there’s only two ways onto the island but I couldn’t ditch my car to take the ferry over, I’m so sorry,” you apologized profusely, nodding your head as you looked from Wells, to the teacher seated in the desk and back again, unsure who you needed to apologize to more.

Bradley turned to face you, his eyes raking over you as he assessed the situation. Dressed in a fitted lilac coloured pencil skirt, white tank-top and matching lilac coloured blazer, you looked like something out of a dream to him. He’d never given much thought about what his type in women was before. He’d dated blondes, brunettes, redheads, the occasional girl with bright pink hair, curvy girls, petite girls, mid-sized girls - he never had much of a preference one way or the other as far as appearances went, but God, if he had to sum up his dream girl right now - you were it.

“It’s alright, honestly,” Bradley nodded his head, smiling warmly at you in an effort to ease your concerns. “I’m Mr. Bradshaw, Wells’ teacher for second grade. He’s had a great day today, we were just about to head down to the staff room and see if there were any rogue granola bars hiding in the cupboard for him and I to share.”

“Thank you,” you nodded, your expression softening as Bradley spoke, an instant wave of relief washing over you. “You ready to go, Wellsy?”

“Mom, please,” Wells whined, shaking his head as he grabbed his book and shoved it into his backpack. “She thinks I’m a baby,” he griped, turning to Bradley for a sympathetic smile.

“Moms, huh? Mine was the same way with me.” Bradley laughed softly, waving as you and Wells headed out.

Later that night, Bradley sat on his couch, settling in to watch a baseball game as he poured over the plans for the upcoming week. Cracking open his beer bottle, he sipped the drink, sighing tiredly as he read over the social studies plan, visiting the list of important historical figures he was expected to familiarize the class with over the course of the school year. With one hand, shakily written notes were made in a notebook, scribbling out ideas for fun ways to engage the kids with each important person he was required to introduce.

Setting the beer down on a coaster, he exchanged it for a slice of greasy pizza, his reward for himself at the end of a successful first day of school. He shovelled it into his mouth, sighing as he watched the baseball game unfold. The Padres were down 3-7 in the bottom of the eighth, with not much hope left for them to pull through tonight. Bradley swallowed his mouthful, brushing the grease off his hands onto the leg of his grey sweatpants.

Bradley yawned, tired bleary eyes blinking as he padded down the hallway to his bedroom. He sighed softly and settled into bed, his mind wandering as his head rested on the pillow. Before he realized it, you were on his mind. He’d thought about you a lot that evening, brief intrusions of your smile flashing through his mind as he tried to plan out the upcoming week.

This time though, as he laid there looking up at his ceiling, he thought about your apologies for being late, how it felt like you were pleading with him or Wells to not be upset with you. He thought about how your hair, although tousled from clearly running through parking lots to your car and to the school, framed your face perfectly, and how even in the harsh fluorescent lighting of the classroom, you managed to look nothing short of beautiful.

He thought about how well the soft, purple hue of your skirt and blazer suited you, bringing out the glow of your skin and the colour of your eyes. He thought about how it hugged your curves as you left, hand in hand with Wells, the swish of your hips as you walked down the hallway. He thought about how he was pretty sure he didn’t see a wedding band on your finger, but also admonished himself for even checking. He couldn’t date a student’s parent. He knew better than that.

But still, he couldn’t help but think about you.

The next couple of weeks went by and Bradley’s interest in you grew fonder. He’d begun watching for you subtly at morning drop-offs and pick-ups, hoping to at least say hello once a day. On the last Friday of the month, you stopped him as he headed for his car, watching as Wells played on the playground equipment facing the parking lot.

“Mr. Bradshaw!” you called out, and Bradley couldn’t help but feel like you were making his name sound like a chorus of angels singing.

“Hey, Mrs. Montgomery! Is everything ok?” Bradley asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Everything’s fine, yes,” you nodded, smiling as you gently corrected him about your name. You hadn’t been Mrs. Montgomery in two years, but, you couldn’t fault Bradley for slipping up, you knew the school secretary likely didn’t alert him ahead of time. You stifled a giggle as Bradley’s cheeks flushed red with embarrassment, now his turn to apologize profusely to you.

You waved a hand dismissively and smiled, turning to watch Wells play once again.

“You know, it may have only been a few weeks, but Wells speaks very highly of you,” you started, nodding in confirmation as you watched him play, your gaze turning to land on Bradley for a moment, “He hasn’t been this interested in anything since his dad moved across the country.”

“Oh? I’m glad I could help him enjoy school again. I try my best to keep things fun and exciting in the classroom — kids learn better when they’re excited and interested in something. No one has fun being read to from a textbook over and over again all day,” Bradley explained.

“Well, Mr. Bradshaw, you’re doing a really good job of it. He came home excited to tell me that he learned about George Washington yesterday. I’m pretty sure two days ago he had no idea who that was.”

“Please,” Bradley laughed softly, shaking his head, “You can call me Bradley. It’s less formal.”

“Bradley,” you repeated, nodding as you chuckled to yourself, “Bradley Bradshaw?”

“My dad had a sense of humour,” Bradley shrugged, looking out at the playground as Wells chased one of his friends around. “He’s a good kid, you know. Wells.”

“I know, I’m proud of how well he’s handling things now that his dad got relocated. Pensacola’s a lot further than he anticipated. He was hoping for Corpus Christi at least.”

Bradley’s ears piqued at the mention of Wells’ dad relocating. Pensacola and Corpus Christi both housed Naval Air bases, he was more than familiar with both of them. He’d only ever been stationed between Oceana, Miramar and North Island, but in his eighteen years of service, he’d met plenty of service members who hailed from one of the two bases originally.

“Wells’ dad is a pilot?”

“Mhmm, well, mechanic, actually. He doesn’t fly them in combat,” you commented, raising an eyebrow at Bradley. “You seemed to guess that really well. Most people don’t guess pilot.”

“I used to be a Naval pilot, m’am,” he nodded, smiling proudly as he thought about his accomplished Naval career once again. “Lieutenant Commander Bradley Bradshaw, US Naval Air Force. I was stationed at NAS Oceana, transferred here to North Island, wrecked my knee, now I’m a teacher.”

“That’s quite the pipeline into teaching, Lieutenant Commander.”

“Please, it’s Bradley. It’s nice not going by my rank, actually.”

“Well, Bradley, I’d love to hear how exactly you landed on teaching second grade as a backup to flying F/A-18s for the United States Navy some day.” You nodded, hoping Bradley wouldn’t take offence to the suggestion of getting together at some point. Even if it was just as friends, you’d welcome it.

“That sounds like a good idea to me, actually. I’d love to.”

As Bradley headed to his car, he felt a little bounce in his step. He couldn’t help himself. Even if this just turned into a friendship and nothing more, he felt grateful that you wanted to spend time getting to know him better.

His drive home was filled with more thoughts of you, thoughts of your pretty pastel coloured outfits you always seemed to favour, thoughts of your perfect smile, always beaming and cheerful, bright enough to brighten his entire day in a way that should make the sun jealous, thoughts of your hair, how it always looked so perfectly imperfect.

In bed that night, Bradley thought about your legs, how they were long and lean, curving at your thigh. He thought about how good your ass looked in your skirt earlier today, how the material hugged it tightly. He thought about your thighs, how they looked so perfectly smooth and soft, how your plain white t-shirt that was tucked into your skirt did little to hide the swell of your breasts, and the way the curve of your neck looked irresistible, how badly he wanted to plant his lips on your skin and cover you in a trail of kisses.

Bradley thought about you in a lot of ways that night. None of them were ways he was proud of. But as he stared up at the ceiling this time, you were the only thing on his mind. He didn’t know much about how he’d go about this newfound infatuation with you. All he knew was that if he was going to settle down with anyone, he was almost positive it would be with you.

#bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw x y/n #bradley bradshaw x you #bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw x you #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw x y/n #rooster bradshaw #rooster bradshaw x you #rooster bradshaw x reader #rooster bradshaw x y/n

315 notes · View notes

undiscovered-horizon · 5 months

Text

Cold Blood - Coriolanus Snow x assassin!Reader

Enjoying my work? You can leave me a tip on Ko-Fi | Have a request?

***Third person POV + Can be read as either "x reader" or "x OC", just as long as you have fun babes. Thinking about making this like a loose series? idk

SUMMARY: Coriolanus thought that arranging Basil Flatberg's death was arduous. He's about to learn just how complicated things can get when he learns that his despicable actions have been noticed by someone or something. The stranger claims to be an ally but can a person so passionate about murder be worthy of trust?

WORDCOUNT: ~ 3.2k

The rain is thundering against the windows, a painful reminder that summer is long gone and the upcoming weeks will be drowned in cold and darkness. Except for a few cars, the streets of the Capitol are deserted. Freezing, biting wind howls as it pulls and tugs at everything it can lay its hands on. A thunder rolls in the distance, loud and ominous as though mountains have been split in two. The sky appears rancorous this evening.

If Coriolanus had a speck of poetry in him, he’d think the black clouds hanging over the Capitol are akin to the swirling thoughts inside his head. Albeit, he is a pragmatic man and such colourful comparisons escape him.

His home is drowned in darkness when he enters. The rhythmic ticking of the old clock is barely audible over the hollering of the storm. Although not a sound of life can be heard in these four walls, an aroma of gravy and soap fills the air: Tigris and Grandmother must have retired early.

Coriolanus guides his hand to turn on the overhead light when he notices a stripe of glow under the door to his bedroom. How strange - he could clearly remember turning off the bedside lamp when he was leaving in the morning.

Cagily, he turns the brass knob and pushes the door open. The hinges creak shrilly, slowly unravelling the inside of the room:

The bedside lamp is, indeed, on. It shines a faint, unpleasantly yellow light. The bed he had carefully made after waking up is left untouched - not an unfamiliar wrinkle on the expensive, dark duvet. His eyes glide along the sleek material towards the large window.

He clenches his fist and takes a sharp inhale. Coriolanus Snow is startled.

On the windowsill is sitting someone - a nimble silhouette dressed in various shades of grey. Their back is leaning against the wall, one leg propped up and the other casually hanging in the air. Dexterous fingers keep flipping a knife. The blade flows through the air, time and time again performing the same motion of doing a full circle, only to be caught at an angle that doesn’t seem to change either. Although not instantly, Coriolanus does recognize the weapon as an old filleting knife he keeps in the drawer of his bedside table. ‘Just in case,’ as he told himself once.

But what strikes him as the strangest about this already bizarre encounter is that she's completely dry, even though it's been raining for a few hours now.

"Sweating and breathing, Panting and screaming," a female voice resounds in his bedroom. She recites the poem in a comically dramatic tone. "Didn’t think I’d ever see him." The woman turns the blade in her skilled fingers, suddenly pointing its sharp tip at Coriolanus. "But I heard and so did you, The thud and smack of the steel-toed shoe." Suddenly, the woman taps her foot against the windowsill three times. “Dancing to the beat of that drum, Lolling head and swollen tongue. A baseline! “She exclaims with a theatrical gesture. “A crescendo!” Like the unbearable tension before the climax, her dramatics are brought to a halt as she hangs her voice and lays the knife against her chest. “A guttural moan when the thing was done.”

Only when she leans forward can Coriolanus see her face. The dim light of his bedside lamp is enough only to illuminate a part visage. Despite that, the twilight of his bedroom is sufficient for him to be certain that nothing about her features is familiar.

"Basil Flatberg fell dead in his own house, among friends and family,” she continues, although her voice is rid of dramatics. “Poison! They said. Which would be awfully sad if it wasn't so..." The unwelcome guest waves her hand looking for a suitable word. "Anti-climatic. Really, Coryo, you could do so much better,” she reprimands him with visible disappointment.

Coriolanus feels his blood turn cold. There is nothing that ties him to the premature demise of Basil. He’s made sure of that. So how come she knows? Has he missed out on a prying set of eyes? Ears, perhaps?

"Who are you?" he asks in a stern voice. Despite the tension inside him, Coriolanus doesn’t let his voice waver.

She does a half-hearted, mocking bow. A playful grin curves her lips. "A specialist at unfortunate accidents, if you will."

It’s not said directly, the important things rarely are, but Coriolanus knows there is only one reason such a ‘specialist’ would visit his bedroom in the late hours of a rainy evening.

Thunder rolls in the distance. Lightning splits the black sky in two. Quite fitting circumstances for the last night alive.

His mind is galloping as he’s considering all the possibilities of surviving this encounter. He may have his fair share of experience in the morbid matters but that doesn’t compare to someone who’s been doing this for years. "So you've come to kill me?" Coriolanus questions, hoping to buy himself a few more minutes.

But the stranger only chuckles.

The woman, whoever she really is, once again point the sharp tip of the filleting knife at Coriolanus. "That's where the dog is buried, my friend,” she says with amusement. The knife glides through the air as she resumes flipping it. “I come it peace. Even better!” Coriolanus closely watches the blade as it makes a few more turns mid-air. The visitor doesn’t catch it with their hand. The knife falls on their hanging foot, nestling perfectly on top of the worn-down work boot. With a swift move of her ankle, she tosses the blade towards Coriolanus. It lays at his feet, glistening in the yellow light of the bedside lamp. “I come with a proposal of an alliance of sorts,” she continues. A satisfied chuckle rumbles in her chest. “Oh, I know that look. You're curious. Good! You see, Coryo, you and I are not so different.” She points between him and her. “The plotting, the opportunistic tendencies, the disregard for morality or human life. Except for the unfortunate limelight. Whether you like it or not, you're kind of a public figure now. And public figures look awful behind prison bars, with blood on their hands. Say, if you could have the ability to have some inconveniences removed without as much as lifting a finger and in return you'd do a small favour every now and then, would you?"

Would you sign away your soul to the Devil?

Yet unsure how he’s supposed to feel about the change of the scenario, Coriolanus is all the more eager to learn about the identity of his unwelcome guest. "I won't ask the third time: who are you?" Anger drips from his words like a cornered animal that turns fear into violence. She has complete control over this situation and it’s making his skin crawl.

"Let's put it this way. If the world was a coronation, all of you self-important Capitol pricks are the princes,” she lays her hand on her chest, “while I'm the bishop."

He ponders her words for a moment. The stranger doesn’t strike him as someone who just runs their mouth - no, each of her words is carefully selected. Her analogy has another, hidden, meaning that is not lot on his quick wit.

"If you're the bishop,” he begins, piercing blue eyes studying all of the nonverbal cues he can see in the twilight of the room, “then who's the pope?"

A smile curves her lips once more. She’s amused, satisfied even. Which in turn means that, so far, Coriolanus is doing exactly what she wants him to do. The ambitious, young man is seething. He’s found himself in the eye of the storm with only basic knowledge on how to navigate restless tides.

"Excellent question!” she exclaims. “I can already tell we're going to get along. I speak in the name of Lucky Jade. She has a lot of emissaries, scattered across Panem. Some pose as simple workers, others as socialites. And some, like yours truly, live away from the public eye."

The notion that there’s some unknown persona pulling the proverbial strings is equally asinine and entirely probable. Panem, after all, is ruled by deplorable schemes and back-stabbing. Who’s to say that there isn’t some higher power orchestrating these morbid dramatics?

Still, no matter how plausible such things are, Coriolanus is a pragmatic man. Hearsays and gossips, as useful and lovely as they are, will always be inferior to material evidence. And such evidence, if she can provide it, might tell him more about the identity of the stranger than she’s willing to admit. "That's a lot of extraordinary claims you're making,” he states, new wave of confidence coursing through his veins. “You better have some proof."

Much to his satisfaction, the woman takes something out of her pocket. It’s small, metallic. The object glistens in the low light of the lamp when she tosses it towards him.

The supposed evidence in his hand is… a ring. It’s made out of silver. There’s an engraving of thorns wrapped around a fish on the inside of the band. Long years of wear and tear have flattened and dulled the image but it remains clear enough to be read.

"I'm always prepared, Coryo.” The nickname has a hint of mockery when she says it. “July, three years ago, district Four. Clover Pitforest, the only daughter of Caspian Thorneforge, dies in a lakehouse fire. Her husband, Fellord Pitforest, is in town, taking care of some business. Officially, the fire started from a lit cigarette that fell on wooden boards and set fresh resin aflame. Not that Clover ever smoked. After the fire is put out and the crispy bones of the fishmongering princess are found, another discovery is made: the jewellery box is gone. Now, you might think to yourself why would a thief set the house on fire but then, why shouldn't a barking dog bite? Good old Caspian breaks down and signs away his fishmongering fortune to Fellord.” The woman returns to her theatrics as she dramatically put the back of her hand against her forehead. “Oh, what a shame, that mister Pitforest has to live the life of a revered widower bathing in obscene wealth.” Then, she spreads her hands in a grand, welcoming gesture. “And they lived happily ever after, or something to that effect."

"Alright, let's say I agree to your proposal. What sort of favours would I have to do?"

"Nothing gory, if that's what you're asking. Unless that’s what gets you going. You see, Coryo, the thing about influential people is that the smallest of their deeds carry immense power. The fact that you say 'yes' to one question and 'no' to the other; whether you show up at an event or leave right before the self-absorbed host makes his pointless speech. All that will be asked of you is to simply be in the right place at the right time. Ask a question, mention an event or a name. Gently nudge the world in a certain direction like water carves the stone over long centuries." She mimics a flowing wave with her hand to get her point across.

But, like older people tend to say, he’s not been hit in the crown of his head. Coriolanus Snow is as smart as a Devil. Maybe even too smart for his own good.

"This all seems too easy to be true, don't you think? I find it hard to believe that you will kill someone if I agree to be ‘in the right place at the right time’ as you have elegantly put it."

"Believe," she muses, slowly nodding. "A strange word indeed. You must believe if there's not enough proof that something is real. I'm not asking you to believe, Coryo. I'm stating a fact of life. I'm asking you to know." A moment of tense silence falls between them. The woman fishes out an old fob watch from her grey jacket. Something must have surprised her because her eyebrows raise as she looks at the pocket watch. "We've been chatting for quite a while and a thunderstorm is perfect weather to fulfil some of my responsibilities. I'm afraid we'll have to part ways, for now. If you're willing to give our cooperation a try, just find someone with a vulture pin. They'll let me know."

He’s not yet done with her, so Coriolanus doesn’t move from his spot in front of the door. If she wants to go, she’ll have to go through him and that’s not happening anytime soon. Although she’s told him quite a lot about what kind of business she wants from him, Coriolanus is aware that he’s barely scraped the tip of this bizarre iceberg.

Just when he’s about to say something, egg her on to tell more, thunder roars and a purple vein of lightning crashes near the building. For a moment, Coriolanus’s bedroom is bright as though it’s daytime before it drowns in complete darkness. Some part of the wiring must have been struck.

Perhaps a minute passes by until the light turns on again. But to his surprise, Coriolanus is alone in his bedroom. If he didn’t know better, he’d think it was all a hallucination brought on by illness or stress. Nothing indicates that a stranger has trespassed into his home. Everything is disturbingly undisturbed.

Albeit the ring is still in his hand and the filleting knife still lays at his feet.

The next day, as he’s making his way to Doctor Gaul’s office, Coriolanus convinces himself to put the strange encounter aside until the proverbial viper comes back to bite. He is going to be Panem’s next president and even an intimidating stranger in the night can not dissuade him.

His footsteps echo through the cream-coloured halls. Someone passes him and says a half-hearted ‘Good morning’ but Coriolanus ignores them. He keeps on walking.

A cleaner is mopping the floor close to the wall. Whether it’s her attire or her small frame, she’s almost invisible to the man. Not that servants have any kind of presence to them. That is until something glistens as he’s walking past her.

A pin.

Coriolanus stops dead in his tracks. He takes a good look at the cleaner, only to realize he recognizes her - he’s seen her quite a few times cleaning windows and mopping bathroom floors at the Academy. Despite his memory working as it should, he can not recall whether she’s always had this bronze pin in the shape of a bird of prey. Surely, he’d notice such an out-of-place accessory.

A strange emotion overtakes him. The feeling of being seen through, as though he had been stripped naked and displayed for public humiliation. How long have these ‘emissaries’ been following him? Stalking his every movement?

How much does the woman in grey actually know?

If he wasn’t sure before, he is now - someone who might know him inside-out makes for a dangerous foe. His empire could fall before he has a good chance to start it.

Not caring for etiquette, Coriolanus harshly grabs the cleaner’s arm. She turns around, her body language speaking of fear but the calculated calmness in her hazel eyes shows anything but. The vulture pin sits proudly on her chest, right above where her heart’s supposed to be.

“Tell her I agree,” he barks at the maid.

The cleaner changes her demeanour instantaneously. Her body relaxes as she learns she can drop her A-grade act in front of him. Visibly offended, she yanks her arm out of his tight grasp.

“At once, sir,” she forces herself to sound polite but her eyes throw daggers at the blond man. In an ostentatious manner, she fixes the sleeve of her white shirt.

Coriolanus continues his quick walk towards Gaul’s office. He’s a few minutes late but that’s hardly his fault. How was he supposed to know he was going to run a friend of his most unwelcome guest?

When he enters the spacious room, Gaul is not alone. The woman standing next to her is looking through a folder, nodding along to the Doctor’s monologue. From time to time, the stranger asks a single question or gives a short answer.

It is only when the two women notice his presence that Coriolanus feels his heart drop for the second time this morning. Standing there, in a grey skirt and a matching grey jacket, is the very same person who had trespassed into his bedroom last night. She’s clutching the dossier close to her chest. Her legs are glued together. Contrary to just a few hours prior, she appears timid.

“And here he is,” Gaul’s voice echoes through the surgically white room. The irate tone of her voice is not lost on Coriolanus.

The stranger he met last night gives him a soft smile. She extends her arm, offering a polite handshake. "I don't think we've been introduced, mister...?"

"Snow,” he answers shaking her hand. He’s carefully studying her features but no matter how closely he examines her expression, nothing about it indicates that she’s putting up an act. By all means, this facade appears genuine. “Coriolanus Snow."

Her face lights up in a way so innocent, it makes him sick to his stomach. “One night I saw a snowflake fall. Past memories it did recall. And as the snow fell to the ground, So quietly without a sound, I watched until a blanket made, To glistening white - brown earth did fade.” Coriolanus feels a cold shiver run down his spine as the woman quotes the poem. This part about her is familiar. Judging by the knowing look in her eyes, this time, too, there is more to her words than just their surface-level meaning. Then, the familiarity disappears as she breaks into nervous laughter. "I'm sorry, it's a force of habit. My late father used to teach literature. Pleased to make your acquaintance, mister Snow."

The foreign accent, the syntax... It’s almost as though the woman in front of him is a completely different person. In some sense, she is.

"Likewise,” he hears himself slowly answer. How come this situation is only getting weirder by the second?

Then she simply leaves his side, walking towards the door. The way she moves is so ordinary, Coriolanus finds it hard to believe that the very same woman simply vanished in front of his eyes the night before.

‘Believe,’ he catches his thoughts. ‘A strange word indeed.’

"Tomorrow morning, miss Bishop and not a minute later,” Gaul calls after the woman.

Coriolanus fights hard against himself to control his expression. Bishop? It’s almost as if the whole point of this lark was to prove to him how far Lucky Jade’s roots reach. If this person, whoever they really are, can fabricate a persona to get her into the Ministry of War, she must be someone worth knowing. Even better - someone worth befriending.

"Of course, doctor Gaul,” she answers. Her eyes switch from the Doctor to Snow’s face. “I take pride in my work.”

Just like last night, when thunder rumbled and rain thudded on his windows, the woman disappears. Despite the answers she provided, he’s left with many more questions.

And just like yesterday, the lack of control leaves him seething.

___

The poems used are "A Snowflake Falls" by Ruth Adams and "Fin" by Collic

#tbosas #tbosas fanfiction #tbosas fanfic #coriolanus snow #coryo #coriolanus snow imagine #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus snow fanfiction #coriolanus snow fanfic #coriolanus x you #coriolanus snow x reader

103 notes · View notes

xxelleswrittingxx · 2 months

Text

A Curious Predator Part 2

Warnings: non-con, avatar x fem!human smut

Part 1

Hours had passed and the eclipse moved overhead out of sight. Soft light emerged through the leaves and cast warmth onto your cooled skin, the heavy humidity finally hit its precipice to fall as a soft mist. It woke you from your heavy slumber and weighty limbs moved you to an upright position.

Neytiri had not slept a wink. The heat inside of her developed into an exciting buzz that kept her on her toes, waiting for any movement from you. Her mind ran through possible scenarios to come: you willingly giving in, being scared but still doing as she says or even fighting back. None of these worried her because she knew that no matter what, she would have you.

Her upright ears twitched forward to follow your new movements and a small grin made its way to her lips. You had awoken.

Memories of the evening before slammed back into your mind and you immediately started checking yourself and the surroundings for any danger. Things seemed to be clear and nothing had gotten you in your sleep. Relief washed through your tense body and plans for finding your way back to the team formed.

You emerged from your grove of tree roots to begin the long walk back to where the team first landed, or at least until you were back in range of the other com-calls. Soft chirps and the drizzle of rain became music to your ears during the trek. Unknown to you Neytiri followed above, her movements less graceful than they were before. Now they were more aggressive...crouching and crawling her way through the trees. The hormones surging through her body transformed her into a different being. Years of training lost, she forgot how to move unnoticed.

You could hear it above you. Something had found you and decided that you were it's next meal. The heavy thumping of your combat boots picked up alongside your heart rate. You changed your course and zig-zagged through large shrubs, under massive leaves, and over moss covered rocks.

The development of your leisurely pace to a slight jog had only excited her more. Senses amplified, Neytiri could smell you through the rain. She could feel your heartbeat pumping in her ears. Your fear in her stomach.

You halted to a stop. Where were you going? You know you could never outrun any of Pandora's wildlife, your only hope was to find your team but you strayed far from the path a long time ago. Y/E/C orbs scanned the surrounding area, searching for something unknown. Maybe the path back? But more likely, the thing that was following you.

A blue figure was crouching on a branch high above the ground across from you. A new fear dawned through your body, and it moved you before your brain could tell it to. Your feet fled in the opposite direction and all you could think about was getting away.

A frenzy had started.

Neytiri lept up and ran across the tree limbs before her. She quickly gained on you and eventually ahead of you to where she could drop down to the wet grass.

The rain beat down across your face and your feet slipped through mud, but that never stopped you. The giant Na'vi that dropped down in front of you did.

A scream ripped out of your throat and you fell back.

The alien before you crouched down and glared hard into your eyes. You had never met a real native before, so to suddenly have the unique being before you had left you shocked.

The powerful and lean limbs stretched on and on... distinct stripes painted across them. Big yellow cat eyes stared.

Fear still burned deep inside you.

You slowly started to crawl backwards... and the woman mirrored the movement to cawl after you.

"Please, I mean no harm!"

Neytiri tisked at the first words you spoke to her.

"I'm only trying to find my way back." Your voice wavered out.

"I do not care..." Was spit out in return. Her scrutinizing gaze burned all over you, taking in every detail that stood out to her.

Your mind raced with any possible way to get out of this situation, but it kept short-circuiting, once an idea popped up it ran blank with the fear and danger hovering in front of you. "I'll do anything! Just, please, don't hurt me!" Begging is the only thing making sense to your rushed mind right now.

"Hm, I know you will," Neytiri said with a blank look. She only cared about the burning heat between her thighs, and the delicious scent you put off, like the sweetest fruit Pandora had to offer mixed with fear and tears. She couldn't get enough of it.

And this is what brought her closer to you, her bow now taken off of her back and pointed down to your throat. The tip of it tilted your chin up, your view of the Na'vi was wavered with tears, but you couldn't ignore the beauty in front of you. She slowly leaned down over you.

"You will not move, or I will kill you. Understand?"

"Yes!"

This answer seemed to satisfy her, for she paused in thought, staring at you as if to read your expression and see if you were lying or not.

She threw her bow aside into the damp flora. She had decided to believe you, besides if you did try anything she knew that you were no match for her. So she watched your small body lay in the mud and tried to decide what to do with you.

Neytiri dropped to her hands and knees above you, a small 'rah!' slipped her lips, her aggression getting the best of her. You flinched at the sudden movement and sound, your reaction seemed to satisfy her. She dipped her nose down to your neck and sniffed hard, taking in your intoxicating scent. It soothed her, but at the same time made the fire burn hotter.

She sat up above your body and tried to figure out what to do with your annoying clothing, pulling the knife from her hip, she grabbed the front of your T-shirt and sliced the cotton.

You gasped at the brutal action, "W-what are you doing?"

"Removing your clothing." She ripped your bra next.

"Stop!" Your hands covered your chest, trying to save your modesty.

But Neytiri did not like this, "What did I tell you!" She hissed in your face and brought both of your wrists above your head with her one hand. "You are MINE." How could you not understand this? You were really starting to frustrate her...

Your shorts and underwear were next. She crawled down the length of your body and pried your legs apart, kneeling between them she took a deep breath in of your heat, "Wait! Not there!" your pleas fell on deaf ears and she delved into you, drinking in anything you had to give her. She had to have a taste of you before starting.

You couldn't believe it, the way it felt, you were supposed to be yelling but only moans escaped your throat. Your face burned in shame. Your hips bucked in pleasure. The hands held by her grasp escaped and tried to push her head away. Show growled into you and held them down by your sides.

Bold licks lapped through your folds. Neytiri slurped every juice up. She loved the sounds you made, especially the pleas to stop. They were amusing, you both knew she wouldn't, and that deep down you didn't want her to.

Your clit throbbed against the wet heat of her mouth and your walls tightened around nothing. 'No, no, no. Don't cum...' your thoughts screamed out, but your body would do what it wanted. And it did. Hard.

Your cum squirted into Neytiris' mouth and she swallowed everything. Your body thrashed under her hold, but it didn't budge her, if anything it spurred her on. Her mouth stayed attached until you went limp in the mud.

She stood up and started to undo her top, letting it drop, her bottoms followed next.

Your body shook with the aftermath of her. The sight of Neytiri undressing brought a new bolt of fear through your body and you turned over to crawl away. To nobody's shock, she grabbed your ankle and dragged you back over to her.

"Now, now little one, we are not done." She finally smiled during the interaction. Her large hands grasped you around your waist, and she laid back to bring you above her, your legs scissoring between hers. Your weight pressed your wet heat against her own and you both gasped out at the contact.

Finally, Neytiri was getting what she needed. Her large hands covered the expanse of your torso and she used them to guide your body. Rutting your hips down onto her own, she used you to pleasure herself.

You could feel her wetness seeping between your thighs, sticking you two together with her need. Wet squelches came from you both and you looked down at the blue woman, her eyes squeezed shut, jaw dropped and ears pointed back... God, she was beautiful. Unknown to yourself, your hips started to move on their own accord, your hands pressed down onto Neytiris' hard stomach.

It felt too good, you couldn't help it, you might as well give in...

NO! You were supposed to be scared, disgusted, and revolted. But your mind kept getting caught up in the sight below you. Her mound was glistening with slick, your's and her's mixed together, you kept getting a peek of it every time she brought your hips back and forward. Dark blue folds molded with your own... and you loved it.

Neytiri could feel her orgasm coming up on her quick. Her little toy felt so good against her, it was exactly what she needed. Little 'ah ah ah's were slipping from her mouth and she couldn't bring herself to care. The lean muscles of her body tensed tight and the pleasure bowed her back. With a low whine, Neytiri came long and intense under you,

You thought it was coming to an end as her rutting slowed down but it never stopped. Of course it wasn't over! She was in heat and this meant that she wasn't stopping until she was satisfied, and from previous experience, she wasn't done until she just about passed out.

Your clit started to throb again. It was coming back and you had to try to hold it off. To distract your mind you stared down at Neytiri's tits, Her small buds shook with every thrust and your mouth watered...

Fuck it.

You leaned forward and took one into your mouth. Neytiri let out a strangled moan and brought a large hand to your head to push you closer to her.

You sucked, nipped, and bit at her until they were swollen and raw. Yet, this still only distracted you for a little while. Your pussy was clenching hard, and before you could pull away from her chest your orgasm washed over you. Your face scrunched up in pleasure and you pulled the woman below you closer. Hips bucking hard against her own.

God this felt so fucking good.

Neytiri chuckled at the little human lying on top of her. So you finally gave in to her? It was faster than she had anticipated, but she wasn't going to complain. She loved to watch you hump yourself above her. Maybe she would have to keep you around. Her own little toy she could play with whenever she wanted.

AN: Omg this took forever to write, I'm so sorry to anybody that wanted the second part. Anyways hope you liked it! feedback is always appreciated :)

#avatar smut #neytiri smut #neytiri x reader

68 notes · View notes

borg5of9 · 1 year

Text

Construction Drone

I lay on the conveyor belt, strapped to it. In preparation for this journey, we had been stripped naked, and all of our hair had been removed by some gel-like substance. And even when washed off, the gel gave our skin a strange unearthly sheen. Then, they injected us with some chemicals. What it was, we didn’t know. But I felt like I was starting to enter a trance-like state.

With a sharp jerk, the belt began to move. Staring straight upwards, motionless, I could only see the lights overhead, and the beams of the cold industrial interior passing by. We stopped at the first station, and the robotic arms mounted at it whirred to life. I felt, distantly, something being done to my limbs. I was only vaguely aware of any sensations. Mostly, I only felt the feeling in my shoulder that my arm was moving. We proceeded to the next station, and I felt similar sensations in my hip. I rotated my head slowly to see what might have been done.

If I hadn’t been sedated, I would’ve said it was a shock. My left arm ended above the elbow, ending in a shiny metallic port. By the feeling, I could tell they had done the same to the right. The next few stations worked on my four limb’s ports, machinery plugging in and detaching, twisting, fusing machinery together. Every now and then there was a spark.

An eyepiece came down and was pressed against my face, attaching to the nodes which had formed around my eye. It sealed with a click, and the curved domed interior perfectly cupped the surface of my eye. It was cold, like the feeling when you first put eyedrops in. It then painlessly penetrated the pupil and made contact directly with the optic nerve. When the eyepiece powered on, it was like my human vision blinked out of existence- replaced with something larger and more detailed. Enhanced. I felt a helmet cup my head, sealing itself. Circular dome-like pieces went over the ears and filled them, and I heard a sound as the earpiece’s surprisingly-soft (silicone?) mechanism brushed against the eardrum. It was all so tight. A robotic arm swiveled around and welded the eyepiece and earpieces to the helmet.

We stopped at the last station. There were strange sensations in my crotch although it was almost completely numb; Pressure, as I could tell there were changes being made there. This continued for some time. A little bit of fear broke through my trance state. After the machines withdrew, I looked to see what had been done: There was a big silver port that seemed to go a couple inches into me. The connector I assume was for not just connecting the waste collection system, but for both reading and stimulating nerve impulses for pleasure.

The conveyor belt started rotating downward so that I was in almost a standing pose, a few feet off of the ground. A heavy mechanized exoskeleton stood, ready for its occupant, the shoulder and chest plating open to allow me to fit inside. I was lowered into it, slowly. It was soft inside, and I sunk into the nanofabric. There were clicking and whirring sounds as the port above my knees docked with the leg port inside the exoskeleton. A couple seconds later, the same occurred with my elbow ports.

The suit’s soft interior then began to inflate until it was tight, like a blood pressure machine but squeezing my entire body. After it was frighteningly tight for a few seconds, it suddenly relaxed so that I was held in the suit but not uncomfortable.

I stood in the suit, a couple feet higher than I did before I was modified as the double-jointed legs were longer than a human’s. The armor surrounding me was boxy, yellow, and made of cold thick steel. It had various panels and warnings written in writing and illustrations: Warning: “Keep minimum 12 foot radius clearance while unit is in operation”. Cautionary symbols for the chemicals contained in the unit. The company logo was emblazoned on the side in a stark, simple font which the company thought might look futuristic. Black caution stripes lined some parts of the limbs. The two arms were equally large and bulky: suitable for a construction mech. One ended in a large clamp-like robotic hand, and the other an array of tools. The legs were double-jointed with thick shock absorbers and large pistons. Thick hydraulic hoses connected all of these limbs, gasketed to the back of my new robot body. The abdomen was made up of reinforced darker-colored overlapping and segmented metal strips. All kinds of heavy support servos hid beneath them. Something akin to a rollbar was welded to my frame, right above where my backpack-like structure was mounted.

Two workers approached and connected hoses to the side of my abdomen. For each one, they would place the metal ring of the tube’s end against my jack, then twist, locking it into place. Sometimes they would give it a tug to make sure it is secure. I then heard gurgling sounds as my various fluid storage tanks were filled for the first time. Hisses as the oxygen tanks filled. One worker swung up the crotch-plating, its metal cylindrical connector docking with my crotch jack as it swung upwards and inside, loudly clamping into place. It made the necessary connections. I gasped. It felt.. good. It then swung the buttplating closed, which also latched to the rest of the exoskeleton. It penetrated me, sealing me into the suit. I would have no need to leave it.

One of the workers swung down the shoulder guards while the other swung the chestplating up. They all clamped together, locking around me with loud clacking sounds, one at a time, spaced at about two a second. Now for the last two pieces.

The worker raised the mouthpiece that was attached to the suit in front of me, and I opened my mouth. He inserted it, and I bit down. It fed its tube down my throat, and with a hiss the oxygen mask activated. Then the other inserted a large tube going from the exoskeleton into the jack on the back of my head. As he inserted it, it felt like it went into my mind. I felt like my entire visual and audio glitched a few times. I had the sensation of a system booting up inside me, and inside my suit. One of the workers inserted a fuel cell into my backpack. It opened an adjacent panel and flipped the switch inside, then latched it shut again. When he hit the switch, I instantly felt a jolt in the exoskeleton. Then, a few seconds later, I could feel dull vibrations around me as the suit powered on and came to life.

I walked forward a few steps. Large, lumbering. With each step, I could feel the crotch and butt implants inside of me. I felt detached; removed. Most of my body could not feel much encased in this soft nanofabric, the world on the other side of inches of heavy steel. Each step made a loud but dull thump as the heavy rubber soles slammed against the floor, being driven into the surface by a two ton cyborg drone.

I stopped in the middle of the room. Two arms lowered from the ceiling and grabbed onto either side of my rollbar, and began to lift me straight up. It then began moving me forward, along a track, my heavy cybernetic body dangling awkwardly, limp. Eventually, we came to a small room packed with other construction cyborgs, just inches from each other’s heavy-duty mechanical bodies. It appeared to be some kind of shipping container. I was lowered down into the one remaining slot. My feet slid into place and were clamped down so that we wouldn’t move during the journey.

Then my hydraulic systems shut off, the motors winding down, the limbs rigidly locking into place. The only system still running were the vitals.

And then they lowered the lid onto the shipping container we were in. The light disappeared. Soft mechanical clicking and hissing noises of the life support system buried deep inside each mech were the only noises we could now hear. We were ready to be shipped out and activated for our first assignment.

#cybernetics #cyborg #borg #tf #transformation

260 notes · View notes

j-eryewrites · 1 year

Text

It Was a Rainy Day

Part One of The Arbitrary Lives of the Occupants of 221 B Baker Street

Word Count: 4.9k

Thanks to @bartokthealbinobat for helping me edit this chapter!

SERIES MASTER LIST | MAIN MASTER LIST

I'm planning this to be an ongoing Sherlock x Reader series that mainly flows the plot of the BBC series. Let me know what you would like to see.

DISCLOSURE: I do not own any of the characters and plot. Those belong to BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle.

__________________________________________________________

“On behalf of our crew, we thank you again for choosing to fly with BWA Airlines. Please stay seated until the seat belt sign has been turned off. We will begin exiting the plane soon.” The speakers above chimed.

Immediately, chatter filled up the air. People were anxious to get off the plane. In all honesty, they had just endured an eight-hour international flight. Ching. The glow from the seatbelt sign flashed off, signaling for people to stand up and stretch their legs. Y/N would have taken the opportunity to stretch her legs, but she was seated next to the window towards the back of the plane. She didn’t think she would be standing up any time soon. Instead, Y/N occupied herself with the view outside of her window.

The sky was an opaque gray. Numerous dark clouds of the same hue covered the warm light of the sun, stopping it from gracing its presence. It was raining. A typical forecast for London in September. But it wasn’t a gentle rain; the rain that tickled your skin as it fell from the sky. No, it was the rain that soaks you to the bone the minute you step outside– real rain. The best kind of rain. Y/N found the rain to be peaceful. Maybe it was the smell that came with the rain as it made the earth anew. Maybe it was the unpredictable yet consistent pattern of the pitter-patter as the water came in contact with the soil. Y/N enjoyed the view of the rain. She let her gaze flip out of focus as she watched the ripples in the puddles. Each wave moved farther away from the center.

“Pardon me, miss.” A cheery flight attendant chirped. The flight attendant’s eyes had dark circles underneath them, yet they held the most pleasant expression. “If you can exit the plane now, we need to prepare for the next flight.”

Y/N tore her eyes away from the view and quickly apologized. Her cheeks burned red out of embarrassment as she hurriedly stood up, snatched her luggage from the overhead compartment, and exited the plane. She was glad that the plane was docked at the main section of the airport, so she didn’t have to trudge through the rain. Any other day she would have been overjoyed to be soaked to the bone, but not today. Y/N wanted to look somewhat presentable when she reunited with her aunt, Mrs. Hudson.

Martha Louise Hudson wasn't Y/N’s aunt by blood, but she was her grandmother’s best friend. Those two were peas in a pod. After Y/N’s grandmother had suddenly passed away from a heart attack, Mrs. Hudson took it upon herself to occupy the vacant role.

“No child should grow up without a grandparent. They need someone to spoil them rotten,” Mrs. Hudson would say.

Despite her family’s abrupt decision to move to the United States, Mrs. Hudson continued filling that role. Occasionally, she would send postcards and presents for birthdays and Christmas detailing her adventures in London. The latest of which was a postcard describing a vacant apartment she was looking to rent. With the prospect of seeing Mrs. Hudson again, with the additional benefits of living in the United Kingdom, Y/N packed up her life and moved back across the ocean.

Baggage claim for flight AQ178. Baggage...It wasn’t hard to miss. All Y/N had to do was peer across the vast sea of people to where the crowd stood. They were all huddled around the baggage carousel. All of them dismissed the advice to stay behind the yellow and black striped line unless they were retrieving their baggage. One by one, they retrieved their bags as they moved down the line.

Eventually, after many turns of the metallic carousel, Y/N’s bags came into view. She crossed the line and grabbed the large suitcases. It was strange to think that all her worldly possessions fit into two suitcases. The cases were covered in dust and grime from the journey despite them being brand-new. Y/N counted each suitcase, a notion in the back of her mind told her something was missing. An unholy screech rang out above the crowd. A sound that could only come from the jaws of a tiny demon–her tiny demon. Y/N winced in embarrassment as she slipped out a small sheet of paper from her pocket. The screeching continued, dragging the attention of innocent travelers. Her cheeks began to flash red as she approached a desk.

Behind the desk there stood a poor young man who was made the unfortunate victim. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead and his brows were raised impossibly high. In his shaking hands, he held a crate at arm's length, as if the brown cat inside would bust down the door and steal his soul.

Y/N reached the desk, and coughed, “He’s mine.” She pointed towards the cat who stilled at the sound of her voice.

The man gulped, nodding, and asked to see her ticket to confirm ownership. She quickly presented it to him. His eyes quickly glanced over it. Then he sighed in relief and threw the crate into her hands.

Y/N carefully peered into the crate and was met with the wide golden eyes of Bjørn. The cat stood still as his golden eyes processed what was in front of him. They narrowed slightly and he began to meow again. He was no longer screeching like a demon but singing like an angelic child for his mother had arrived. Y/N whispered words of assurance to the cat, praising him for being the best boy on the flight. He purred under her sweet words.

Y/N’s pocket buzzed, and she carefully set Bjørn’s crate down. Her eyes quickly glanced outside to discover the rain had lightened up. Remembering someone had messaged her, she pulled out her phone and began to read.

___________________________________________________________________

Auntie M

I’m sending one of my good friends and one of your neighbours to come and pick you up from the airport.

His name is John Watson, blonde, and a kind man.

(Read)

___________________________________________________________________

Y/N raised her brow at the message. She was puzzled as to why Mrs. Hudson had sent the description of “kind”. As she read the text over, the cogs in her mind began to turn. Y/N tried to conjure up an image of what a kind British man named John, who happened to be a friend of her Auntie's, looked like.

Picking up Bjørn’s crate, she lugged her bags toward the exit. She passed by people entering and leaving the airport. Some people ran into the arms of their loved ones and others jumped into taxis that took them to their next destination.

Her feet began to slow finally coming to a stop. She turned her head, looking around the crowd. She bit her lip, and a dazed look filled her face. A low drone crept up to her. Y/N’s eyes were immediately dragged down to the taxi in front of her. With a creak, the passenger’s window rolled down.

“Hel’o there, how can I help you today?” inquired the taxi driver. The man wore a white and beige flat cap. He was an older-looking fellow who wore glasses. He flashed Y/N a smile that made her stomach fill with unease.

“Oh no thank you” she quickly replied, stepping away from the car window and closer to the booming crowd outside of the airport.

“American, eh? I’ll be able to take you where you need to go. No problem. You can trust me,” He insisted. With his hand aged with time, he took off his cap and brushed through his wispy white hair. His smile grew bigger as he faked a charming expression.

“No thanks,” answered Y/N. The alarms in her head were howling at her. “I am waiting for someone, you see, to come to pick me up.” Taking a big step back, she sank into the crowd behind her. A woman wearing all pink brushed her shoulder against Y/N. Y/N’s eyes winced at the explosion of color. Everything about this woman was pink: pink phone, pink suitcase, pink overcoat.

“Are you taking this cab?” distractedly asked the woman as she stuffed her baggage into the cab.

“No,” replied Y/N. She wanted to warn the woman in pink, but before she could, the taxi had pulled away from the pickup station and was on its way to who knows where. A buzzing feeling came from the back pocket of her trousers. Pulling her phone out she saw another message from her aunt.

________

Auntie M

I just realized I should probably give you John’s number.

Y/N

- That would actually be great.

Auntie M

Sending it to you right now. I’ll be making a nice dinner to warm you up after all that rain.

Also, your apartment is all set up and waiting for you. :)

Y/N

- Great, that sounds perfect. Thanks, Auntie M

____________

As she waited for John’s number, Y/N thought it would be best to head back inside and find a place to sit. Hearing the ding of her phone and a number pop up she mumbled, “Remind me to thank Auntie M for that…”

An Irish voice popped up next to her, and Y/N’s gaze rose from the screen of her phone to meet dark and mysterious chocolate eyes. “Remember to thank your aunt for that” he chuckled.

Y/N couldn’t help but smile. Her eyes scanned the man up and down. He had an edgy and cool air to him. With his smirk, he oozed confidence. There was something about him that intrigued her. He had brown hair that was well-groomed and wore a nicely tailored suit. He reciprocated Y/N’s smile and even more of his charm showed through. “The name is Jim, '' introduced the man. He extended his hand for her to shake.

Y/N couldn’t help but let a giggle escape her lips as she firmly shook Jim’s hand. His grip was warm and strong. “Y/N, and thank you for the reminder, Jim.”

“Anytime.” He replied, making himself comfortable in the open seat next to her. They settled into a pleasant silence. The only sounds that occupied their ears were the wheels of rolling luggage and the light chatter of the other travellers and guests of the airport.

“Work, family, or friends?” inquired Jim, his head tilting slightly to the right to look at Y/N.

“Sorry?”

“What are you here for?” Jim clarified.

“I guess you could say work and a bit of family,” answered Y/N. She began to secretly pick at her fingers, a stim, and nervous habit of hers. Jim cocked one of his eyebrows up with curiosity. “I'm moving back to my roots.”

“From London?” Jim questioned, furthering the conversation.

Y/N paused before answering. The encounter with the taxi driver was still fresh in her memory. She sighed and her shoulder’s relaxed. It wouldn’t hurt to have a friendly conversation, she thought.

“Yeah.” She replied. “I was born here but after a few years my parents and I moved to the U.S.” She shrugged, “and now I’m back.”

“And now you’re back,” Jim repeated softly. There was a minute shift in his expression into something Y/N couldn’t decipher. By the time she noticed it, it was gone; leaving Y/N to wonder if she had imagined it. “Well, London is delighted to have you back,” Jim winked. Then he readjusted his seating position as he straightened his black suit jacket.

“Well, I have to leave. Business to attend to” smiled Jim, “I bid you adieu”. Standing up from the seat next to her, he gave her one more smile. His eyes lingered on her figure. Without another word, he took a few steps, disappearing into the crowd of people.

She sat back in her seat, the image of Jim in her mind. Her thoughts trailed from Jim to her aunt and then…Shit! Y/N realized she did not text John’s number. Immediately pulling out her phone, she sent a quick text. A little gray bubble appeared, and he responded by saying he was there at the airport with a taxi outside. Raising from her seat, she, once again, made her way out of the airport. Y/N searched the crowd, her eyes looking for a man that fit the vague description her aunt had given her.

Just then a young man with kind dark eyes, the shade of morning coffee, and blonde hair approached her. He was wearing a beige knit sweater. Hand knitted...looks like Auntie’s knitting...is this… but her thought was interrupted by his voice. “Are you Y/N? Mrs. Hudson’s niece?” he inquired.

“Yes, that’s me, are you John?” replied Y/N.

“Yep, John. John Watson. Can I help you with your bags?” politely asked John.

A wave of relief fell over Y/N, “Yes, thank you, John.”

John reached for two bags of luggage and began directing Y/N to where the cab was. “It’s no problem really, just doing a favour for Mrs. Hudson” he explained, turning his gaze back to Y/N to smile at her. It was strange to think about how there could be so many different types of smiles. John’s smile was different from Jim’s confident grin, and the eerie smirk of that taxi driver. John’s smile was kind, caring, and calm. It reminded Y/N of the smile etched onto a Teddy bear’s face.

John carefully placed Y/N’s luggage in the trunk. Afterward, he held the door open for Y/N to enter the back seat. John sat down after her, closing the door behind him. “221 B Baker Street” instructed John. The driver nodded and drove off, the station growing smaller and smaller behind them.

After a few moments of silence, John peered at the crate on Y/N’s lap. “You have a cat,” stated John with a questioning tone to his voice.

“Yes, his name is Bjørn.” Bjørn happily meowed in response to his name.

“Didn’t know Mrs. Hudson allowed pets in the apartment,” replied John. He lowered his head to get a good look at Bjørn’s yellow eyes. He smiled at the cat which was reciprocated by a purr.

“Oh, I think he likes you!” Y/N beamed.

John raised his brows flattered by the obvious complement of the cat. He cautiously reached a hand out to pet Bjørn through the crate, his eyes glancing up at Y/N. She nodded and he proceeded to pet the cat. Bjørn’s purrs rumbled the cage as he brushed his neck eagerly against John’s fingers.

“Bjørn, you attention whore,” laughed Y/N. She watched as John’s eyes widened at the cat’s affection. It was as if he was a child who’d been handed an ice cream cone on a hot summer’s day.

“I’m sure Mrs. Hudson would approve of you getting a pet for your flat,” stated Y/N. Her eyes reflected John’s adoration for the cat.

“Oh god no!” Exclaimed John withdrawing his hand from Bjørn. “My flat mate is enough of an animal as it is.” He chuckled. “I don’t need another one.” His voice turned quieter towards the end, creating an awkward air between the two in the back of the cab.

“...You have a flat mate?” Y/N asked.

“Yeah.” Responded John.

Y/N awkwardly nodded her head and then moved her gaze to the window.

By now, the sky was the textbook definition of gray. The dark rain cloud from before had fled, leaving the sky empty and barren. Everything seemed dulled by the gray tint the sky cast down. Even the brightly colored leaves and the shimmering lights of the city seemed to fall victim to the solemness.

Eventually, the cab began to decrease in speed as it approached 221 B Baker Street, slowly coming to a halt.

“We’re here” stated John as he paid for the cab before exiting onto Baker Street. He then made his way around the car to Y/N’s side and opened the door for her. He eagerly took Bjørn’s crate from her hands.

Y/N stepped onto the black pavement of Baker Street and took a moment to process her new environment. Then she made her way to the trunk of the cab to retrieve her luggage. John had taken the liberty of placing Bjørn inside 221 and let Mrs. Hudson know that they had arrived back from the airport. He then walked back outside to help Y/N with her luggage. Mrs. Hudson followed suit to greet her grandniece.

“N/N, welcome home!” exclaimed Mrs. Hudson as she made her way to Y/N. Y/N turned toward her aunt. She had a gleeful smile on her face as she reunited with her aunt. Mrs. Hudson opened her arms wide beckoning Y/N in for a hug. As soon as her niece was in arms reach, Mrs. Hudson yanked the young woman into her arms and gave her a tight squeeze. She slightly rocked Y/N back and forth. A large smile erupted on Mrs. Hudson’s face, and she became overjoyed. “Let’s have a look at you, shall we?” she said, pulling away from the hug to place her hands on Y/N’s face and tugging at her cheeks. “My you have grown up to be so beautiful! Just like your mum!”

“Thanks, auntie” sheepishly replied Y/N. Her cheeks turned pink from all the attention she was receiving.

“Oh, it’s so good to have you home. We have some catching up to do!” cheered Mrs. Hudson as she led the way inside 221.

John was patiently waiting by the bottom of the stairs inside the building. Her eyes ran up the steps which Y/N assumed, led up to John’s apartment. “Need anything else Y/N?” inquired John, giving a cheerful smile.

“No, I don’t need anything else.” Y/N gratefully replied. “But if you want to take Bjørn out of his carrier and meet him properly, you are more than welcome to.”

John’s eyes widened with delight as he crouched down toward the crate. With a twang, he released the cat from its confines. Bjørn paraded around. His brown furry head was held high as explored his new kingdom. He then noticed John beside him, quickly bringing head to butt against John’s leg.

A loud creaking came from the upstairs flat, scaring Bjørn. He dashed from John’s side toward his mother. She picked him up and cradled him in her arms. His tail swished around as his golden eyes narrowed in the direction of the noise. Distaste eminent in his tiny figure.

John took that as his cue to leave. “Alright then, welcome to London.” He said before making his way up the stairs to his apartment.

A sigh escaped Mrs. Hudson's lips, “I’m so glad that you’ve moved in. At least, I’ll have a bit more normalcy with you here.” She moved her gaze upstairs to where muffled voices were coming from. Y/N could make out two voices. One belonged to John and the other to, who she assumed was, his flatmate. The flatmate’s voice was baritone and clear.

“Well dear, dinner will be ready soon. Why don’t you go on into your new apartment and get settled? I got it all checked out and even got rid of Sherlock's mold experiment.”

Y/N widened her eyes and opened her mouth to ask but was drowned out by her aunt's continued explanation.

“I had to replace the wallpaper, but I think you’ll like the paint I chose,” explained Mrs. Hudson. “I’ll come and get you when dinner’s done.” She then grabbed a pair of keys out of her pocket and handed them to Y/N. “This key is for entering the building,” she pointed to the brass key and then moved her finger towards a thin black key that looked quite old, “and this key is to your apartment.” Then she patted Y/N’s back sending her in the direction of her new apartment.

The apartment was located on the same floor as Mrs. Hudson’s apartment. Just underneath John’s apartment. The walls were covered in beautiful dark green paint. The curtains looked a bit worn around the edges, but overall, it was cozy. Mrs. Hudson had allowed Y/N to decorate and improve the apartment to her liking, which is something she was very grateful for. But first, she needed time to unpack everything. She placed Bjørn down once the door had been closed. The brown cat immediately gave a big stretch and yawned. Bjørn then looked up towards Y/N as if he was saying he would be exploring now and took off. Chuckling, Y/N brought her luggage to her room and began the time-consuming process of unpacking.

It wasn’t long before Mrs. Hudson entered her niece’s apartment to notify her that dinner was ready. When the elderly lady entered, she was met with open boxes scattered everywhere and loud music playing from the Y/N’s phone.

“Y/N, dear…” grabbing Y/N’s attention, “dinner is ready”.

Moving towards the phone, Y/N let the music die down. “I’ll be there in a minute, just let me finish unpacking this one thing.”

“Of course, dear” replied Mrs. Hudson. “Oh!” Mrs. Hudson chuckled as Bjørn rubbed up against her. “What a good boy.” She reached down to pet the cat. Standing up she brushed her hands off and made her way back out the door, slowly and carefully closing it behind her.

Y/N placed the last book on the shelf and smacked her hands together in a wiping motion. “Right then, dinner.” She carefully stepped over the numerous cardboard boxes lying around the apartment. Eventually, she reached her door. Bjørn’s head peaked up in interest as the knob of the door turned. “No, Bjørn. I’ll be back”. The cat seemed to acknowledge her statement and jumped on the couch. After a few customary circles, he was satisfied and collapsed down to the soft surface.

Upon closing the door, Y/N heard two pairs of footsteps making their way down the stairs. She stood still listening to them.

“No John, I do not intend on greeting the new neighbor.” There was that baritone voice again. John’s flat mate.

“Come on Sherlock. She’s Mrs. Hudson’s niece, at least do it for her.” pleaded John.

The footsteps had ceased, and a deafening silence had filled the air. “For the last time, John. I do not intend to meet this new neighbor. I guarantee you that she will have moved out by the end of the week. As most of the other tenants of 221 do.” Then a tall man wearing a long black trench coat appeared and then quickly disappeared as he slammed the door to Baker Street.

“For heaven’s sake, Sherlock,” yelled John as he followed his flat mate out the door.

Y/N huffed in anger, as she made her way to her aunt’s flat. I don’t want to meet you too, Sherlock, she thought. Y/N didn’t even have to knock on the door for Mrs. Hudson to state that she could come in. “Door’s open, come on in”.

Mrs. Hudson was finishing placing the dishware on the table. “Sounds like you just missed John and Sherlock” chimed Mrs. Hudson.

“And a good thing too,” muttered Y/N, causing Mrs. Hudson to ask her to repeat, “Oh nothing.”

“Alright then. Let’s not let dinner get cold,” Mrs. Hudson said as she motioned to the seats signaling Y/N to sit down for dinner.

They chatted amongst themselves. Y/N relayed all the latest detail of her life to her surrogate grandmother: who she was friends with, her job, past relationships, how her family was, the whole lot. As they shared the meal, Y/N felt her bond with Mrs. Hudson restore as if she never moved away in the first place.

Now, it was Y/N’s turn to ask a question. “Who is John’s flat mate?,” Y/N pondered.

“That’ll be Sherlock.” Mrs. Hudson crinkled her eyes and nose with fondness. “He’s a consulting detective.”

“A consulting detective? Never heard of it,” Y/N mentioned.

“Consults on difficult criminal cases. He helps Scotland Yard solves crimes and murders. He’s the one who got my husband the death sentence” explained Mrs. Hudson. Her eyes widened at the statement. “Any tea, Y/N?”

Glancing up from the now empty plate, Y/N replied, “Oh, no thanks”.

Mrs. Hudson then nodded her head and continued to talk about Sherlock, bringing a hand to her heart. She talked about all the strange people who came to visit him. Often relaying stories that would make Y/N raise her brows in concern. Mrs. Hudson’s face contorted as she mentioned his strange and disturbing experiments, one of which was the mold that used to occupy Y/N’s flat. Switching back to her cheerful smile, she began proudly explaining Sherlock’s gift of being able to tell almost everything about a person.

Y/N’s head began pounding as it filled up with all the compliments her aunt had to say about Sherlock. She chuckled trying to hide a wince from the pain in her head. Y/N placed down her fork and knife and leaned in slightly toward her aunt. “Auntie M, thank you for dinner, but…” she trailed off. “I’m feeling tired, and I think that the jet lag is getting to me.”

Looking up in concern, Mrs. Hudson rose from her seat, “Of course, N/N.” She gave Y/N a soft smile and headed towards the door, opening it to let her niece out. “Goodnight, sleep well.” She reached out a hand to pat her niece’s shoulder.

“Goodnight” replied Y/N.

As Mrs. Hudson closed the door, Y/N brought a hand to her temple massaging it. It was still pounding. She trudged to her flat and opened it. With little effort, she crawled into bed. Bjørn hopped up next to her. He snuggled up close purring loudly as she lazily pet him. Her hand slowly fell limp on top of Bjørn’s brown fur. His deep purrs slowly guided his owner gently to sleep.

_____________________________________________________________

Comment below if you would like to be added to the tag list!

____________________________________________________________

169 notes · View notes

kyuziipon · 5 months

Text

Road to recovery

ID: [a digital drawing of op’s oc hotaru ibe. There are four images of him in a row, all in different stages of his life. Furthest to the right, is thirteen year old hotaru. He is a small thin boy with pale skin and should length light blue hair half tied back, and heterochromic eyes, one brown and one yellow. He wears a white and blue frilly outfit and is sitting on the floor with his knees curled to his chest, surrounded by boxes with a single lightbulb overhead. He is shrouded in darkness here. One more to the left is fifteen year old hotaru, a bit taller and standing up now, however he is hunched over and holding his arm close to him. His hair is longer and dyed brown, worn in a low ponytail, and his yellow eye now has a brown contact hiding it. He wears a pair of round glasses and a school uniform. Behind him are two blurry people and a couple basketballs on the floor. It is still slightly dark around him, but lighter than before. To the left again is hotaru at sixteen, his hair no longer in a ponytail and the blue roots growing out, and his yellow eye no longer hidden. He still wears his glasses, and is wearing a white striped shirt and blue jeans. Behind him is a cherry blossom tree, and his environment is once again looking lighter, and his pose is more open, with him finally smiling a bit. The furthest left image is him at twenty three, very slightly taller, and is now fat. His hair is completely blue again and cut short, and he still has his glasses. He is smiling brightly with his eyes closed, and is wearing a simple but brightly colored star themed outfit. Behind him is an arrangement of dress mannequins and the environment is completely brightened.] /End ID

ID: [the same image but without the background elements and lighting effects] /End ID

#this was kind of experimental and idk how I feel about it really #but I love hotaru a lot so. yeah #my art #digital art #illustration #artists on tumblr #my ocs !!#the promise of the cherry blossoms #hotaru ibe #original character #character design

26 notes · View notes

covecreekphotography · 7 months

Text

Hello, White-Throated Sparrows!

The hummingbirds have migrated south, ducks are flying overhead, and dark-eyed juncos (Junco hyemalis) began arriving a week ago. Today I spotted a couple of white-throated sparrows. All of this signals that winter is knocking at our door.

Sparrow identification can be tough. Many of our native sparrows look very similar, and often there is no glaring difference in behaviors. However, the white-throated sparrow (Zonotrichia albicollis) may be considered an exception to this identification dilemma.

The time of year is a good clue. White-throated sparrows are migratory, and spend the non-breeding season (late fall and winter) in Arkansas, as well as the rest of the eastern and south-central United States. Their pattern of arrival tends to be what I have observed over the course of the last week. White-throated sparrows start filtering in not long after the arrival of dark-eyed juncos.

Feather color and pattern also aid in identification. A white throat patch (hence the name, white-throated sparrow) between the bill and the gray breast is very apparent. In the "white-striped" form of this species, a white patch on the side of the head highlights a bright yellow spot located between the base of the gray bill and the eye. On the other hand, there is a "tan-striped" form of white-throated sparrow, and the yellow spot is less noticeable and difficult to see because the white patch near the eye is absent. Additionally, a white and black striped crown will be observed in the "white-striped" form, and a brown and black striped crown is present in the "tan-striped" form. I have observed and recorded both forms in Arkansas, in the field and at home. Anecdotally, the "white-striped" form is more prevalent every year.

The call of the white-throated sparrow is described as a song sing a that sounds like "Oh-sweet-canada-canada" or "Old-Sam-Peabody-Peabody". One thing is certain. If you hear its beautiful and distinct call, you'll know white-throated sparrows are around without ever seeing them!

#bird migration #bird photography #birdwatching #nature photography #wildlife photography #photographers on tumblr #songbirds #bird identification #winter #sparrows

20 notes · View notes

dinitride-art · 1 year

Text

Colour Theory - A Brief Introduction

Aka, why byler shippers care so much about the blue and yellow coded ship poll (honestly mostly for us because no one else will see this but I needed an excuse to talk about blue and yellow for a bit).

Stranger Things doesn’t just use bright colours to fit in with the time period the story is set in. Colours are used as motifs and throughout the seasons have become part of the shows iconography. There's a lot to say about season one and how it set everything up, but that would include talking about colours outside of blue and yellow and would cause this to be an extensive rather than brief introduction. In this post I will only be covering some of the occurrences of colour significance in season four regarding Mike and Will, and blue and yellow.

In this scene at the airport, Mike is wearing blue and yellow (and green and red but that has different meaning and significance), and Will is wearing blue. Yellow, outside of the show, has meanings such as deceit and happiness. Mike wearing yellow in this scene points to deceit because he is lying to everyone about who he is. However, the flowers that Mike gives El, have a different meaning. When he gives them to her he mentions a seventy-thirty split between the yellow and purple flowers.

The game beside Mike and Will after their argument, has the numbers 70, 50 and 30. Will is represented by the yellow flowers in El's bouquet and the series of numbers behind him and Mike. "From, Mike" was written on the card attached to the bouquet and is what Mike and El fight about later; Mike isn't able to tell El that he loves her. Will is 70% of what Mike is worried about because of how he feels about him. The yellow flowers represent Will, while El is represented by the 30%; the purple flowers.

Season two, which has very non-brief introduction to colour theory related symbols, also shows blue and yellow, and purple. The overhead strip lighting at the arcade is blue and yellow, and the outside of the arcade is yellow and blue, green, and purple. The use of colours is intentional and has been seen throughout all the seasons, but this isn't why the arcade in season two is important to season four.

Rink O' Mania also has blue and yellow strip lighting, but it's inverted. This connects blue and yellow to Will and Mike, despite other people being present, because they are the only two characters who are in both settings with this lighting.

The strip lighting can be seen beside Mike during their fight. Blue and yellow lighting can also be seen behind will during this, but in a different form; the singular blue and yellow light sources behind and beside his head.

Blue and yellow is still seen in relation to Mike and Will even when the show focus's on something outside of them, like El after she smacked Angela with a roller skate. The lighting strip is behind their heads and the shot slides until the blue and yellow overhead lights are above Mike and Will. Blue above Mike and yellow above Will. Even though Mike and Will are wearing the opposite, the symbols that surround them still point to them being associated with a singular colour. Blue represents Mike and yellow represents Will.

The strip lighting, the blue and yellow individual lights, and their clothes are seen very clearly in this shot, along with other symbols and colours and things that will not fit in this post. A brief introduction.

Will's shirt is mostly grey but does have blue, yellow and white and red stripes. Blue and yellow are still included in his costuming even though his relevance in the scenes he wears it in is lesser than Rink O' Mania. Mike, on the other hand, is wearing a blue and yellow plaid shirt. His and El's argument concerns Mike and his feelings towards Will. Again, Mike in yellow is representative of lies and deceit, but blue and yellow together relates to something that concerns both Mike and Will and or similar themes that surround Mike and Will and these symbols.

In this scene, Mike is wearing blue and yellow plaid. El mirrors and contrasts him by wearing blue and red plaid. They aren't on the same page, Mike is trying to hide his identity and El can see through his lies, due to the open yellow curtains. The extent of what she knows isn't clear, but she doesn't buy Mike telling her that he does love her, mostly because he is still unable to say it. Yellow both represents lying and Will.

El is placed in front of the open yellow curtains throughout this scene, and in this shot, there is a poster behind her depicting hearts. She sees past Mike's lies, that he does say that he loves her, and she even brings out the letters he's signed "from, Mike" as proof. She knows that he's lying to her. However, it seems that El hasn't worked out why yet, for she says that Mike thinks she's a monster and that's why he doesn't love her, rather than the actual problem which is Will. The yellow curtains have a double meaning, deceit and Will, which El hasn't picked up on at this point in the story.

After El is arrested and the story moves along, we see the final set of costumes for Mike and Will. Mike is wearing a blue shirt with a grey triangle chest pocket, and Will is wearing pale yellow plaid with pale blue and red stripes.

The scene where Mike apologizes to Will happens in Will's room, which is yellow.

While Will's room is yellow, we saw in episode one that Mike's room is blue. More blue and yellow associations with Mike and Will.

In this scene from episode four, where they're burying the body of the agent who saved them, the cars in the background are another way Mike and Will are associated with blue and yellow. Yellow is behind Mike, and blue is behind Will.

They are then placed on a yellow car, and framed in the window of a blue one.

Yellow cars behind Mike and blue cars behind Will is nearly constant in this setting.

Even this shot places a yellow car between Jonathan and Mike, and a blue one between Will and Mike.

This isn't the first time that cars have been used in shots with Mike and Will. In this scene in season three there's a car behind Mike in a close up shot, and one behind Will in the shot that includes both of them. The windows seem to be the focus of these cars, and their meaning might be related to that. This scene is also another occurrence of Mike and Will's colours being flipped around, Mike wearing a yellow shirt and Will wearing a blue shirt.

This scene in season three and the scenes in season four episode four in the setting with the cars are related. Mike and Will's fight in season three was centered around Mike and El's relationship and Mike pulling away from Will. Mike is wearing yellow in this scene, and others including one where he lies to El, and is most likely hiding something or lying in some way to Will in this scene. In season four Mike and Will discuss "the truth." Mike and El's relationship is falling apart and we see Mike and Will's relationship continue to develop. The colours of the cars being flipped could be a further reference to this scene in season three.

As this is a brief introduction, and I've reached the image cap for this post, I will end it at the rain fight and the tiple take/"the truth" scene. Mike and Will, especially in season four considering the subtextual approach to their plotline, are continually shown to be associated with the colours blue and yellow. These symbols are used and have meanings further than simply relating two characters. There are other colours that have been used similarly in Stranger Things, like red and green, but blue and yellow are two of the most prominent symbols relating to Mike and Will, and two of the more complex symbols used in the entirely of Stranger Things.

#byler #colour theory #brief is... an abstract concept #listen its not 70k okay #its a normal length for a post

79 notes · View notes

outpost51 · 4 months

Text

ROY G BIV tag

tagged by @void-botanist over here, ty ilysm bb <3

Rules: Search your your writing for the colours of the rainbow and post the excerpt.

low/no pressure tagging: @sparatus @thetrashbagswasteland @teamdilf @omniblades-and-stars @lag-train @commander-krios @vacantgodling

shoving the rest below a cut for dash courtesy, also violence

RED

from Stellar Parallax, Chapter 2: Red Fish, Blue Fish

You could die, you fool! “Better dead than whatever the fuck you want me to be,” Jane rasped. It screamed with a thousand voices. Her ears felt wet. Metallic salt seeped into her mouth. She was on the ground. Pieces of the beacon rained down around her. Rain poured into her mouth and nose, washing blood into her sinuses and making her choke until she retched. Faces blurred in and out of view, vaguely familiar ones and one she remembered for sure, stark white against the blood red sky. It looked wrong, though, and it took until ship engines howled overhead and unconsciousness had nearly taken her away to figure out why. Fear didn’t look right on the bogeyman.

ORANGE

from Stellar Parallax, Chapter 9: Unshackled

Jane had been hospitalized for two weeks following the Skyllian Shitshow — less for the gunshot wound and more for ‘being a danger to herself and others’. The food had been unremarkable at best; allegedly, psych ward ate better than regular hospital patients for morale reasons, and all she could think at the time was how much it would suck to be bedridden and eat worse food than the shit they shoved at her through the door hatch. The worst had been tomato bisque, viscous and orange and somehow tasting of nothing but black pepper and whatever pills they’d ground up and mixed in.

YELLOW

from Stellar Parallax, Chapter 7: H(a)unt

Nihlus stepped between Jane and the stairs, but before she could chew him out for blocking her shot, his body rippled, organic flesh burning to ash and floating away. The thing that looked back at her had too many eyes and too-sharp teeth and the tree beneath the endless glass ocean shattered the surface with spires. The spires stretched up, up, up to the ceiling, like children begging for a parent’s love. But the great black ships were just things made of metal and wires and hate. They weren’t capable of love. Some monstrous creature painted up with white and blue kissed her brow with the muzzle of a Vindicator. Its fingers looked like the spires still growing towards the stars, and its mouth was peeled back in a permanent grin. Jane’s lip curled up to match. She would show these things she had teeth, too. That hers weren’t an empty threat. That she had used them before and would use them again. Behind the shadowy figures presiding over her trial for crimes against the Old Machines, a yellow-striped geth uncloaked. Its big yellow eye stayed trained on her Firestorm like it was the biggest threat in the room. She’d just killed a man with a plastic fork. She didn’t need a gun to be dangerous.

GREEN

from Stellar Parallax, Chapter 4: Unfortunate Things

Jane didn’t have clothes of her own since they had to evacuate so quickly, so he’d gladly given up one of his PT shirts and a pair of sleep shorts once Williams and Dr. Chakwas got her cracked out of her armor. She practically drowned in them, but they did the job, even if they made her look so incredibly small. She’d always been on the shorter end, and all the muscle she put on over the years still didn’t bulk out her scrawny frame much more, but she was so… larger than life, it was easy to forget how physically unimposing she looked out of armor and not armed to the teeth. And with teeth, too. Unfortunate things happen in battle, John. Ruthless. That’s what they’d called her after Torfan. If he believed nothing else, he knew that descriptor was true, especially after their final test in N-school. Especially after she’d gunned down a retreating man. Her eyes had looked so hollow afterwards; he’d expected anger, something hot and hissing, coiled up like a viper ready to strike, but there was no life in that deep green lake. That looked personal, Commander. It was. He couldn’t reconcile that person with the small, fragile thing lying so concerningly still under so many blankets – they’d had a hard time getting her body temperature stable, Dr. Chakwas said. They had to sedate her, too, and it had taken Nihlus to restrain her long enough to get the IV catheter in. What had that thing done to her?

BLUE

from Stellar Parallax, Chapter 12: Dig (unpublished)

The seagrass had been lost to the river for a long time, but the river couldn’t take that memory from her, of a scrawny boy with minnow-grey plates and eyes like tidepools. “Really?” Garrus drawled. “I give you the last of my lunch, and this is the thanks I— ack!” Jane shook the tingle from her knuckles and pushed off his keel, then offered him the same hand. “Stabbed a salarian with your fork, too,” she snorted. “So that’s two I owe you. You look good.” Her mouth curled up. “Even without the tinfoil hat.” Garrus rubbed the sore spot from his throat as he stood. “Think I liked you in the hospital gown better,” he groused. A blue flush had already darkened his throat. “You’re still a bad liar, Garrus Vakarian.” Jane socked his bicep and turned back to their shore party.

INDIGO

from Blinding Neon, Shades of Grey, Chapter 1: Hello World

It’s dark when she enters, save for a floor lamp in the corner. One of the show droids, the rabbit, lurks beside the chair that’s turned away from her, a hulking indigo mass that looks far fucking bigger than it does on stage. Someone has traded its stage look for a far more muted suit, finely tailored pinstripes emphasizing every inhuman bend and curve and making it appear taller, endless, looming.

VIOLET

i know i used pink shhhshhh from The Unlikely Adventures of Bitchface and Go F*ck Yourself, Chapter 6: Playing With Fire

Taking another breath, Dillon pushed all thoughts of Zadimus being an asshole out of her mind. He was right, not that she’d admit it out loud. The line of energy glowed a dull violet as it stretched on and on, deep underground, as far as she could sense. She flexed her fingers towards her feet, then closed them, trying to feel the hum solidifying in her hands as she guided it upward. The less she strained, the easier it got to pull, and the higher it rose, the stronger the buzz became until finally she felt it right beneath her feet, tingling her arches where she balanced on it like a tightrope.

#sneeps.txt #stellar parallax #blinding neon #unlikely adventures

10 notes · View notes

toastydoll · 10 months

Text

Okay so obv pch is never coming back but because I loved the summer beachy vibe I’m making a wave 2 for my own benefit 😌

First of all, we should have gotten pch twins like hello every other school got a two pack of twins? The twins are navy blue sailor stripe and mermaid iridescent girls, maybe navy has a pixie cut w nylon hair (always mad about Avery lol), mermaid has long wavy hair ofc. Mermaid girl also comes w a tail of COURSE w regular swimsuit bottoms underneath.

As for the actual second wave, I really liked how w1 included a rainbow high character! If they did a second wave I feel like it would end up being amaya bc duh, but bc this is my pch2 it’s gonna be Gabi or Sheryl. Whichever isn’t in w2 is in w3!

The other six dolls:

Coral red! HOW was this not in w1?? Coral red would be beach sporty, with cornrows (more protective hairstyles please!), a hibiscus print rash guard, hibiscus board shorts, slide sandals, sport sunglasses, and a visor. She also comes with either a surfboard like Finn or a boogie board.

Valencia Orange! When I think of summery warm colors of course I think of orange. Early aughts vibe, Valencia orange has two big orange Afro puffs (similar to jh krystal), an orange slice hair clip, a bright orange one piece, a scalloped orange cover up dress, and orange cork platform sandals. She’s also definitely got the y2k orange translucent sunglasses.

Sunshine yellow! Again, how was this not in w1? Sunrise, sunset, but no noon time directly overhead sunshine? Sunshine yellow would be non-binary bc again, it’s my line and I get to make the rules lmao. They’d have a soft mop of short blond hair, a muscle tee w a big sun, sun print board shorts, a big yellow sunhat, and yellow Birkenstocks.

Lime green!! Karma is a little limey, but I want a true lime green boy. Shaved lime head w wave patterns along the bottom (similar to Rexx’s hair), lime AirPods, loose lime Hawaiian shirt, lime short shorts, and lime slides. Comes w a towel bc he’s a beach boy (unlike sporty Finn)

Seaweed green! Two greens in one line? Yes we need more green 😌 Seaweed green is the beach goth we missed out on in the first wave. Long wavy seaweed hair, big circle shades, giant seaweed sunhat, seaweed green one piece, long loose seaweed maxi skirt, seaweed gladiator sandals. Her lipstick is also dark green ofc.

Passionfruit purple! This is a deep purplish red, a bit darker than emi. She comes with passionfruit locs, a passionfruit two piece, loose high waisted passionfruit pants, and heeled passionfruit sandals. Tbh she’d be super cute w a sunhat too but I’ve already given two other dolls a hat so idk 😅 she definitely has those circle shades w the extra third lens on top bc those are so cool

#rainbow high #rh #pch #my ocs ig

23 notes · View notes

zelphin124 · 11 months

Text

DISCLAIMER: I do not know much about Therapist!Sans, but I was bored so I thought I'd write a lil script with him giving therapy to Ink!Sans (which I think would be very chaotic)

Also, I've never been to therapy before so I don't know how this technically works 😅

Therapist!Sans belongs to @tehrogueva

Ink!Sans belongs to @comyet

Enjoy!

The room was still. There was no breeze, no sound, and no darkness. Every part of the room was lit with a dim light overhead, erasing the shadows from all of the objects. There was only a wooden chair to the left of the room which was accompanied with a small desk by its side. In front of this chair was a maroon sofa. A rectangular carpet with a pine tree design laid between the furniture.

There wasn't much to observe. In fact, the tan walls of the room were quite barren. Occasionally, there were small papers with green and brown designs hung across the room. There was a small billboard above the desk with a few drawings on them. The door was darker than all the browns in the area. It reflected off the yellow-tinted light. The lights themselves were small lightbulbs hung by a single chain on the ceiling. The air would've been heavy and filled with stench if it wasn't for the air conditioner in the corner.

The dark brown door opened as Ink stepped inside. His eyes lit with curiosity as he observed the room. He wasn't sure why he needed therapy. Heck, he didn't even remember how he got there. Why was he here again?

He checked the notes on his scarf. He tried to make out what he wrote. Ah, there it was. He had gone to therapy because _____ told him to go. He couldn't make out the smudged word of who told him to come here. However, Ink trusted whoever it was; he wouldn't have written it down if the person wasn't someone he trusted.

Or did Error tell him to go to therapy as an insult and he wanted to remember it?

Ink patted himself down when he forgot what he was thinking about. Where was his sketchbook? Did he leave it in the doodle sphere again? He didn't like being bored and had no intention to stay bored. He would've started to draw on the billboard, but he couldn't find the right markers to do so.

The room reminded the guardian of the Anti-Void. He didn't care for big open spaces. He wanted to fill such empty expanses with light, color, and beauty. At least, that's what he wanted to do if he drank his vials.

To his relief, it wasn't completely barren. However, the walls were lacking any decoration. Maybe it was to keep people from being distracted, or it was a new office and it hadn't been decorated yet.

No matter! Ink loved making decorations. He could assist with drawing the pictures and hanging them up! This place would look more vibrant in no time. All he needed was his brush...

His brush that he left outside the office.

Why did he leave it out there again? Ink checked his scarf again. Something about it being too big and whacking things... As well as covering the area in paint...

He eyes glanced back down to the notes he previously read. Someone had told him to go to therapy after he burned down an AU.

Wait... I did WHAT?!

"Good afternoon," an unfamiliar voice said softly behind him. "I apologize for being late. Please, take a seat."

Ink spun around to find a skeleton he had never seen before. He was a variation of Sans like himself. He had large eyes and a genuine smile. Green glasses rested on his non-existent nose; Ink noticed they were taped to the side of his head. Ink could tell he was tired, but not the sleepy kind of tired. It was more the-past-week-has-felt-like-one-giant-day tired.

Ink loved the soft colors that bounced off the skeleton's attire. He wore an off-white wool cardigan and dark brown gloves. His green turtleneck shirt complimented his glasses. The blue shorts on his legs possessed green stripes and visually led onlookers down to his pink slippers. His small hands held a clipboard and a pen made from a small bone. Although Ink saw that he was more expressive than Classic, he could tell the skeleton's shoulders were tense despite his fatigue.

"Hello!" Ink greeted, waving his hand before extending it. "I'm Ink! It's nice to meet you, what's your name?"

"You can call me Doc, Ink," Doc shook Ink's hand before signaling for him to sit down. "Tell me a bit about yourself. I heard that you love art."

"Who told you that? Because loving art is a total understatement," Ink adjusted his clothes as he sat down on the sofa. "I adore it! It's one of the best things in the world! In fact, I wouldn't be here without art! Creativity is a beautiful thing that should inspire others and be shared!"

"Indeed it should," Doc nodded as he wrote something down on his clipboard. "What else do you like to do?"

"Well, I love to inspire others. When I'm not battling Error or chilling with Dream and Swap, I adore going to different AUs and observing people's creations! Sometimes I talk with the creators of the AUs themselves to help them out. Like one time I inspired my friend named XGaster..." Ink trailed off, glancing at the billboard with the small green and brown drawing. "What were we talking about again?"

Doc scribbled more things on his paper before giving a warm smile. "I'm asking some ice-breaker questions before we get started on your therapy," he answered. "I'm here to help you with your problems."

"What problems?" Colorful question marks glimmered in Ink's eyes. Why was it so hard to remember simple things today? He knew his memory was bad, but surely it wasn't always this bad. Is it getting worse? Ink asked himself in his head.

The therapist stared at Ink for a long time. To Ink's surprise, he didn't find the silence uncomfortable. He was perfectly content with the skeleton staring at him and not saying anything at all. Had it been anyone else, Ink would've started to become nervous.

"I have an idea," Doc set his clipboard down. "Why don't we draw something to hang up on my walls? I would love to display some of your art here. Plus, while we are drawing, you can tell me what's been happening in your life recently."

"Oh that would be great!" Joy surged through Ink's mind. "I was going to comment about the emptiness of the room. I wondered why it was so barren."

"This office is new, so I haven't had much time to hang things up yet," Doc answered before he informed Ink he would return with art supplies.

When the therapist returned, Ink wasted no time, grabbing the acrylic paints as quickly as he could. He had so many ideas on what he wanted to draw. He eventually decided he was going to draw a pine forest to match the aesthetic of the room. Doc sat his clipboard by his side as he watched Ink's brush fly across the paper.

Doc didn't even have to ask any questions. Ink started to ramble about his day... At least what he could remember of it. He talked about having tea with Dream and Swap before mentioning his battle with Error. He went on and on about how beautiful OuterTale was before he lost his train of thought.

Doc listened intently, drawing a cliffed landscape and taking notes. "You mentioned Dream and Swap, are these your friends?"

"Oh yeah. We are the Star Sanses. We fight for the AUs and their happiness. We work together a lot," Ink stroked the brown paint on the trunks of his trees. "Although we've been separating lately."

"How does that make you feel?"

Ink glanced away from his art up at the therapist. What an odd question; no one had asked him that before. He started to twitch with his fingers before replying. "I don't know how to answer that question, Doc. I don't really feel anything about it." He glanced down at his vials. "I don't have emotions. I'm given emotions through these vials, but they're fake. Nothing that I feel is actually real. I don't have a soul to feel things."

"I see," Doc picked up his pen and wrote it down on his paper.

"Me and Dream have different motives and intentions for the AUs sometimes. Swap wanted to go home and assist his brother more. I spend most of my time bugging Error about his love for chocolate and the truce he forced me to accept. Although we both kinda broke that recently."

"Tell me more about Error."

Ink told the Doc all that he could recall about the glitched skeleton. He described how they met, how they became enemies, and how the truce was agreed upon. He backtracked to find moments with Error and memorable fights between them. Ink tried to explain to Doc how Error was the only skeleton who could understand him, and yet they were complete opposites, driving them apart.

About an hour had passed. The therapist listened to the guardian closely, however, he stopped Ink when black tears started to run down his face. Ink had gotten emotional when he recalled how Error destroyed most if not all the AUs.

"I... I didn't feel anything at the time," Ink wiped his face. He glanced in confusion at his fingers. Am I crying? "I didn't drink my vials so I felt nothing when Error destroyed the multiverse. But now... It hurts to even think about."

The Doc sat his drawing aside and picked up his clipboard. "Why do you think that is?"

Ink's tears fell onto his drawing. They covered the trees in various patches. He wondered how he could incorporate them into his forest drawing. "I guess... Because I love the AUs and their creativity. I wouldn't want anyone's inspiration to be crushed. I wouldn't want to harm an AU..." He glanced at his scarf. "It says on my scarf I came here because I burned down an AU though..."

"What do you think about that?"

"It doesn't help my reputation..." Ink wiped his face again. "I'm portrayed as a villain now. A lot of people don't like me after certain actions-" He wiped his face again. He didn't like crying. He didn't even know why he was crying, let alone in front of a Sans he didn't know. He didn't feel sad on the inside, but it was as if something inside him had shattered. Did he regret his actions? Was he mourning for the loss of the AUs? Was all the talk about him being a murderous psychopath with no emotions getting to him? He couldn't say. His emotions were confusing as they were. If he couldn't figure himself out, how could Doc Sans figure him out?

"This is good for you to acknowledge all of this," Doc Sans broke his thoughts. His voice was soothing and slow. "There's a lot to unpack here. I would love to meet with you on a regular basis so we can work through all this. Can you meet the same time next week?"

The tears had stopped flowing from the guardians eyes. "Time is a little hard for me to grasp since I love outside of it."

"Oh, yes of course," the therapist replied. "In that case, I'll talk with the office to find a way to signal you to come back when it's time. But might I reassure you in one thing today?"

Ink shrugged. "Go for it."

"You don't just drink one of your vials, right? You drink all of them at once."

Ink glanced down at his paint vials. They glowed with intensity according to their designated color. All of them were nearly empty. "Yeah, I drink all of them."

"So that means you feel all the emotions and they can alternate your mood depending on the situation. I wouldn't call your emotions fake. You're not forcing yourself to drink one vial to feel that way. You drink all of them at once, making your emotions as real as anyone else's; constantly present."

"Really?" Ink exclaimed before he vomited a bunch of ink from his mouth. He stared blankly at the Doc before looking back at his drawing. Whew, the ink missed his paper entirely.

"I'll uh... call someone to come clean that up," the smile on the therapist's face faded. He glanced over at Ink's drawing. "You're very talented, Ink. Can I hang that on my wall?"

Ink nodded. Doc knelt down and picked up the drawing. The smile returned to his face. "Look at these black streaks across the trees that you made with your tears."

Ink was quite proud of how we wove his tears into his art. They created shadows across the forest and shade between the leaves. There were millions of shades of greens and browns in the pine forest that he drew. The painting would look lovely under the dim lights of the office.

"That's what we are going to do with everything you've bottled up," Doc explained. "We are going to take that pain and weave it into the beautiful story of your life. No story is complete without suffering. Here's your first lesson, Ink."

For the first time in his life, Ink had nothing to say. He wanted to listen to Doc talk. His fingers twitched as he waited for the therapist to continue.

"Suffering is necessary in our lives. Because without it, the happiest moments of our lives wouldn't be so sweet as they are," he explained. "Our lives will never be perfect. Just like paintings are never perfect. But our lives, like these paintings, aren't supposed to show us perfection. They reflect who we are, and the progress we made."

What an interesting take. It was as if Doc was talking like they had run out of time.

Wait... they had run out of time.

Was the session already over? Ink didn't feel like he spent an entire hour talking. Was that what therapy was? Just talking until stuff comes up?

Ink wasn't sure how to feel about the whole therapy thing. He enjoyed drawing and talking to the new Sans, but it was odd for him to feel things so raw when he recalled memories. He never felt such strong emotions about any memories before, why had it struck him now? What was all of that hidden pain Doc was talking about? Did he really have bottled up pain like all the rest of the Sanses?

He lost his trail of thought, only remembering what the therapist had said Ink grabbed a pen and started to write down what the therapist said on his scarf. "I bet all of that was important, I just don't understand it right now."

Doc chuckled softly. "You'll understand more as we work through your life together. I'll be in touch with you shortly, thank you for coming."

Ink finished writing down what the therapist had said. "Thanks for having me, Doc! I'll see you next time!"

The guardians gaze went from Doc's warm smile to the painting Ink drew within the hour. It wasn't perfect, no, but it reminded Ink about what the therapist had said before he exited the room.

It's not about about perfection... But about the progress I make.

#therapist!sans #doc sans #docs #DocSans #therapist sans #ink!sans #ink sans #therapy #i tried #fandom #this is not canon #ITS ELEVEN FRICKIN O'CLOCK AT NIGHT #Dont expect good writing from me at this hour :3

25 notes · View notes

florauna-robotics · 3 months

Text

@masters-menagerie

The half moon hung overhead, casting it's pale moonlight onto the quiet surface of the lake as Luna sat patiently on a fallen log close to the grassy shore, her hands resting in her lap and her faintly glowing wings folded in a relaxed position behind her back. The only sounds that could be heard on this night were that of chirping crickets and the periodic rustling of leaves from the trees that surrounded the lake, with a hooting owl also joining in on occasion. Innumerable stars dotted the inky night sky thanks to the minimal light pollution -- one of the perks of living so far out in the country. Luna had visited this particular lake near her family's cottage several times in the past on her own, but this time she wouldn't be by herself.

She and Wasp were going to spend time together again, and Luna couldn't help but feel a little excited.

It had been many months since they'd last seen each other, and Luna had received a few modifications to her design since then. Rounded spherical shoulders replaced her pauldrons to allow her arms more free range of motion, and a yellow stripe ran down the middle of her torso, cutting through the black of her bodysuit. Even her wings had been slightly redesigned, with pale lines now streaking throughout them much like her namesake moth.

Luna had chosen this location and time of day in particular for the fact that no people would be out visiting at this late hour, which would only leave the two robot masters to privately bask in the calming, peaceful atmosphere, something she thought Wasp would appreciate.

It was the perfect meeting place.

#luminous moth; (lunawoman)#waspman #masters-menagerie #((THEM AGAIN AAAAAA))

6 notes · View notes

pluralsword · 6 months

Text

Very Late Transformers: 2023 Rare Pairing Fest Post: The Fall of Mars (was less late on Ao3 lmao)

Hey so our life has kind of had a lot going on, so we weren't able to put this story out on the right day (got it out on the 22nd, the theme trust and failure was earlier so this fitting lol) and we weren't able to get it on tumblr along with a lot of other content that hasn't made it to tumblr, but here's the summary of this story that is near and dear to us:

Rating: PG-13 Written for the theme of Day 3 of the 2023 Transformers Rare Pairing Fest, the theme being Trust and Failure, which we were fittingly late for due to having to take care of family. In this story, the Great War rages on in the Solar System: Mars has fallen, and among remaining Autobots are three special forces Wreckers deployed there; reluctant warrior Arcee, die hard soldier Impactor, and hopeful strategist Aileron. They are holding the line against the Decepticons until civilians can be evacuated by the Earth Defense Command, but things take a turn for the worse when a Decepticon battlecruiser starts to fall out of the sky near the spaceport, and a bearer if Unicron's Matrix of Conquest enters the field... the three don't give up on hope, on love, and must make some difficult decisions in their last stand, including whether to bear the Matrix of Leadership... as always, the transformation of the present is the key to the future. Thank you to dear @maximus-dork (Take_it_to_the_Max on Ao3) for looking this over and greenlighting it!

Please note Unicron is a gaslighting jerk on trans stuff for a bit but this is not at all in the same way as how we write Functionists in other fics etc. they is entirely is doing it for the gaslight intentionally and not because they believe it. Also this is a Wrecker Love Wrecker (wlw, pun intended) story so yeah there is a casualty rate.

One other thing. This story was inspired by @quetzalpapalotl shipping Impactor and Arcee, this is our own spin on the concept with she/her Impactor, while also dating Aileron and Roddy (who's a trans gal)

And now, the story, which you can also check out on Ao3:

Ishtar Port, Nemesis Polity, surrounded by the Valles Marineris canyons, Mars. 2258 CE.

“At least I get to go out in your arms,” purple and yellow bulky slope chested Impactor tried to smile, but her jaw was too loose, bleeding inside and out, and she reached up with a quivering hand to touch Arcee’s own battle scarred helm’s left cheek guard, broken, missing the lower half, while she tended to the gash across Impactor’s waist with a metal seal painted with yellow and black stripes.

“Shh, save your strength, you flirt, you’ll need it for the next attack, you’ll live, if I don’t see to it, Aileron will, and to saving my aft too,” robust back stacked deep pink cyan white and gray Arcee leaned into Impactor’s touch as she finished sealing the wound by pressing firmly by hand.

Her work was done under the dying flickers of biolights of the dozens of felled Deceptivons nearby, blazing light of spreading fires, passing artillery and blaster fire screaming overhead, and shadows of steely colorful halls and towers falling and collapsing from barrages throughout the broken hab dome. Booms shook through the atmosphere down from the pinkish-red sky every time a lone massive golden half circle bowed long Autobot dreadnought overhead exchanged volleys with three pointy purple Decepticon battlecruisers.

While Arcee helped lift Impactor to her feet, the two’s Conjunx was busy watching the front and on a comms line from behind a mangled white with blue trim Earth Defense Command cybersteel barricade.

=“Windblade, we’re the last non-militia combat unit operational that we know of. The fight is finished here. I… I watched Optimus fall with my own optics,”= rounded stout and Aileron winced, her wings flapped nervously while she held her ironsighted double barreled pistol and fiery orange thermal saber ahead of her, the transformer and human body part strewn street before her vivid with the image of seeing blocky tall red and blue Optimus fire cyan light from the golden orb Matrix of Leadership with handles in their hands. The Matrix beam fired from there that promptly melted Nova Prime through his spark chamber before Optimus was struck down from a headshot from behind by burly blue and gold armored Zeta, before Aileron and her team could respond. =“The Wreckers here are finished. The rest gave their lives bringing down the traitorous Elite Guard along with Decepticon Mayhem forces. How long until reinforcements?”=

Windblade’s voice from her busy command center’s battle room within the Titan Metroplex on Earth in the Pacific crackled through Decepticon ship jamming, relayed by the Autobot dreadnought and aided by Windblade’s battle meditative cityspeaking in tandem with Metroplex, while the two attempted to manage command of the Sol System’s defenses with hundreds of staff and commanders to attend to: = “Thank you, Aileron, and your loves. Admiral Faireborn has broken through the high orbit and lunar sieges. Extraction: 2 hours from now. Do you have the Matrix?”=

Aileron gripped her sword hilt tightly, and looked behind her to see her loves moving to cover her, Arcee with her long side mlunted scope sniper rifle aimed ahead in her arms sweeping around, Impactor with a blue-green ununtrium cutlass ready alongside her harpoon and shoulder cannon.

Aileron looked at Arcee for a little longer than tactically advisable, thinking about the relic in one of her back stacks above a wheel, that Aileron had wished Arcee would put over her spark. =“Optimus gave the Matrix to Arcee. She refuses to bear it. She’s scared. You know how it is. She doesn’t want to have even more mythos around her and be made into a keeper of the status quo, instead of working to transform the world for the better more freely. She’s scared of- being the excuse for a new hierarchy.”=

Windblade-Metroplex minds churned with empathy and memory of the work for collective history for autonomy and transformation they and Arcee had been part of for hundreds and thousands of years, and amped up their neutrino channeling broadcast to Aileron, ready to reach out to her lancemates. =“Aileron, let her know we wish to speak to her. If our intel reports are right, there is a Matrix of Conquest bearer among the enemy.”=

A younger Aileron would have trembled in fear. Instead, she nodded, acknowledging her elected leader, home, and immense fear all at once. =“I’ll tell her.”= She looked over at Arcee, who had advanced up to her right shoulder, Impactor on her left. “Darling, Windblade and Metroplex want to speak with you. It’s about the Matrix… there’s a Conquest bearer on the field. I know that’s a touchy subject for you…”

Arcee stiffened, her memories rushed back to that fateful hour she and her purple brawny tank brother Galvatron and the old Knight Vanguard had bought time for Solus Prime and the delegates she defended of Cybertron’s early democracy to escape the mutated Terrorcon army and armada with towering gray densely armored Megatronus at the head of the assault. Megatronus, willing bearer of the violet blade spiraled Matrix of Conquest, who after the twins’ bloody fight defeating him and his vanguard, the dying Megatronus shoved the Matrix into Galvatron, leaving Arcee to kill her own Unicron corrupted sibling. To wander the planet after the war for a millennia, consumed by grief until she had the will to care to be around other people again.

The memories boiled in her into a wordless rage that she did her best to hold in, not wanting to alert enemies to their position. “I thought Unicron was dead long before I met either of you. Tell me. Where. I will. End it and them.”

“Dear, we have to defend the remaining civilians so they can leave,” Aileron’s face softened as she leaned on Arcee’s arm. “I think this is about a defensive measure.”

“I-,” Arcee blinked. “You are right. Tell Windblade she can reach out.”

=“All clear, Windplex,= Aileron turned her gaze skyward. The Autobot dreadnought’s hull was overheated and torn up by enemy plasma and railgun fire, while one of the Decepticon battlecruisers with thrusters aflame and hull broken towards the rear started to plummet from the sky down towards the outer perimeter of the habdome. Her yellow optics widened with alarm and rapid trajectory calculations, immediately thinking of the massive explosion that would occur when the warship crashed. =“All Autobot units and civilians, abandon the shuttle ports and get to the blast bunkers! A Decepticon battlecruiser is going to hit outside the city in ten minutes! DECEPTICON VESSEL, PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GODS HIT ALL THE BREAKS YOU CAN TO SLOW YOUR FALL! YOU’LL DIE IN THE EXPLOSION OTHERWISE!!”=

The battlecruiser did not reply, but the other three ships stopped fighting and moved in after the falling vessel, attempting to fire grapple tows to pull the ship up or slow it down to no avail.

Aileron turned and ran towards the nearest bunker entrance, down the street behind the barricade, next to the hexagonal port hall layered in dying red vines slowly suffocating from the loss of an oxygen rich atmosphere when the habdome was blown out. She leapt into her spaceplane mode, shoulders and forearms forming her engine thrusters, and rocketed off towards the hall, checking for ambushes in the surrounding buildings while her partners caught up. =“Um- Windblade, Arcee is willing to speak with you.”=

Impactor in her blocky artillery tank mode tailed behind armored muscle car Arcee, and while Impactor would have liked to take the time to admire Arcee and Aileron in action, she knew it was not the time. Instead, she swiveled her turret around to guard the rear of their retreat, raising her flat and wide cannon up towards the sky.

No one came. Impactor’s unease at the lack of fighting in the warzone clenched her fuel tank tight, as her spark roiled for vengeance. For Topspin, for Xaaron, for Spindle, for Thunderclash, for Cyclonus, for all of them… damn you Decepticons.

=“Thank you love,”= Arcee reached the thickset metal bunker blast gate built into the side of the port hall and stepped out of her car mode while Aileron finished her sweep of the skies, equally perplexed as Impactor to see the enemy had not fled in the direction of the militia and conventional military units they had fought for the nearest bunker.

Arcee was not surprised. She had expected this as soon as the Matrix of Conquest was mentioned. =“I expect they want to pull back and wait for the inevitable attack by their Matrix bearer rather than… overextend. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Bearer was directing the battlecruiser to crash, Unicron not caring about the allied death toll.”= She inputted the keypad code to to get inside and waited for the bunker gates to part while Aileron landed on her feet and Impactor folded herself up to a stand, both with guns raised, while Arcee gripped a two handed guarded hilt of silver and electric blue, and sighed. =“Windplex, can you hear me?”=

Windblade and Metroplex were quickly redirecting any spareable ship from the fights around the Solar System to aid in recovery efforts at Nemesis and the surrounding Martian area, and their sparks sang to hear Arcee finally make contact for a moment long awaited. =“We hear you, Arcee of Protohex, beloved friend. We will do everything in our power to continue to prevent and reduce mythologizing of you. And you know that power entrusted by the people is vast. Please. Take up the conduit. Do as I will, one day.”=

=“All right, once we are safe, thank you both.”= Arcee smiled as she felt the golden neural soft warmth of the vastness of Metroplex and Windblade’s joined minds across the solar system touch her, to share adoration for her, to say do what you must, a kiss of encouragement to her spark that overlocked Arcee’s self repair and fuel circulation systems. She started to make her way inside, following Impactor and Aileron, and then pressed the red button within to shut the gates while Aileron called an elevator up in the white-blue Sentinel sized shaft.

The whirr of an elevator on that scale rose up before the lift itself arrived. When the doors whished open the three hurried inside, and sat down together, holding each other.

Finally away from the fighting, Aileron started to tear up first.

“I can’t believe it… we lost our whole company we deployed with… and Optimus…” Aileron held on tightly to Arcee’s and Impactor’s rounded and square backs. “I just- I knew we never should have kept Zeta on, but Optimus wouldn’t listen… All I know is that between now and when Marissa’s fleet gets here in less than two hours, we might well join them to save lives. If either of you or both of you die I’ll- probably die inside.” She started to quake, sobbing, missing the trees, leafed and solar paneled, and mountains and song filled forges of her home at Caminus’s capital Dialgem. “I never thought when the Autobot Revolution got kicked off of Cybertron, that it would come down to this… to not even die where our bodies could be recycled on Earth or Caminus…”

Impactor held back from expressing the bloodlust that suffused her, enraged to see Aileron so pained. She knew it would scare Aileron and Arcee, that it scared her too. “I-,” she pressed her lips together tightly as she ran a hand over Aileron’s wing, finding that part of her holding still from her gentle caresses. “We’re not going to die, Aileron. We know you won’t let us, that we won’t let each other. That company of rascals died for us because they wouldn’t have it any other way, when they had a choice in the matter. I’ll never forget when Firedrive told me that the loss of us would break all their sparks and hearts and then she-” Impactor shut her optics, trying to shake the image of the black and red exosuit entwined Nebulan cyborg who had binary bonded to the late Rodimus Prime take down Thunderwing with final forearm blasts after Thunderwing had torn her in half at the waist. “For her to say that- with how much we all miss Roddy… my spark has been off ever since, and I want to live up to what she wanted for us.”

The elevator stopped at the bottom, and the three quickly ran towards the inner doors, which opened for them, revealing a brightly painted interior walls that had been decorated with art by children, protoforms, and adults alike, showing scenes of people dancing, reading, sparring, embracing, sculpting, healing wounds, cultivating plants, flying through skies and the starry void.

Among them were thousands of bots, green toned Nebulans in spacesuits and humans also in protective gear filtering in from other elevators or hallways into the vast underground plaza. Many carried arms: solid and thermal blades, rifles, holstered pistols, amd some bots with body integrated blasters, missile launchers, and cannons. About a third of the organics were also too young for combat duty. People were huddling together over food and gladness to meet each other or sorrow over those they had lost. Aileron, Arcee, and Impactor looked on and put away their armaments and held hands.

Impactor simmered. “Damn the Decepticons for fighting with so little care for how they destroy people’s homes and lives.”

Arcee took a curious, concerned look at Impactor’s glowing narrowed optics, and gave her hand a squeeze. “Even though we fight with the goal of only bombarding conventional military installations, it is not as if our infantry scuffles or missing artillery and bomb salvos do not have accidents that we weep over and cannot ever fully repay. All war, all violence beyond sparring and the like, is a violation of autonomy, even with supposedly good cause. Are you all right love?”

“The line has indeed grown thin between us and them despite our ideals, darling, we are part of a many thousands of years old actively fighting military industrial complex,” Impactor bowed her head, pressing a hand against her purple crest. “I just want to get over with as quickly as possible so we can actually practice peace. And that scares me, about myself, that the corners we’re not supposed to cut are looking… cuttable.”

“Peace at the cost of ethics of love and mercy would make us into them. We would have lost,” Aileron put a hand on Impactor’s waist, and pressed her own dome helmed low crested head against the blue squat Wrecker head over hammers insignia on Impactor’s chest. “Please- we will find a way. We have fallback strategies…” she noticed the room had grown quiet except for whispers. “They’re looking at us, aren’t they.”

“Yes, the only military personnel here and with enough publicly known record to be household names, that would make sense,” Arcee sighed. “They want to know that we can save them. Stand up tall you two, it’s time to inspire.”

Aileron and Impactor parted the huddle to flank Arcee, arms around her, faces with half smiles in response to the onlookers muttering curiosity, admiration, and worry.

One human came forward, the only one in a conventional military exosuit, sleek and white in the thighs, waist, and shoulders, boxy and red in the forearms, chest, pelvis, helmet, and legs, her forearms bearing cannons. She turned off her blue visor obscurer to reveal her beige-bronze skinned face, shiny straight jet black hair, and piercing brown eyes meeting the Wreckers in turn. “I know you three by reputation and what you’ve done here today, and speaking over comms. Always wanted to meet you, wish it wasn’t like this. My name is Verity Carlo, she/her, I’m sure you might recognize me...”

“Yes, of course,” Impactor saluted with a left hand over her spark. “Mayor of Nemesis, EDF reservist, veteran of the Battle of the Curve. It’s an honor.”

Aileron and Arcee joined in, and Verity returned the gesture with a grin, “Likewise, Wreckers, from the head diplomat and commander of first contact and alliance with Earth, to a first generation Solusian Knight, to the former Wrecker admiral, Autobot founders all. Tell me, how do you propose our bunker cells will survive-”

A thundering boom the likes of which Arcee had not heard since the collision of scuttled Autobot capital ships onto Unicron while she, Rodimus, other Wreckers and entire fleets fought Scourge desperately to keep Unicron’s fleet from launching back in 2005 before Unicron was finally killed. The sharp memory of the cacophony on top of the din of the din of battle made her think of orange and pink Rodimus fighting alongside her, and she reached out a hand to hold hers, and remembered she wasn’t here. “Roddy…” she tightened her hand into a fist, hoping no one had heard her.

Indeed no one had, many of the organics stumbling from the awful crashing sound and hungry burningly loud shockwave that came after and passed overhead.

Arcee took the time to, slowly, reluctantly, acknowledging all her fear, to pull the Matrix of Leadership out of her back stack and hold it in her hands by it’s gray handles, and all she could think of was how she wanted her mentees Gauge and Sideswipe to be safe, and that she wanted to teach when this was over, to carry and care for younger life and encourage them to go their own way-

Ah, so this is what the Matrix is trying to show me, ask me if I want to change my shape with its power. Her face tightened with thought while urges coursed through her to assume an affirming set of shapes the likes of which she had not had to see to since her youth.

What everyone else in the room saw was her enveloped in cyan light emanating from the blue crystals within the spokes and core of the Matrix. She was barely visible.

Do you want this? My dear knight, you can keep your form if you want. The Matrix only wishes to encourage you to be who you want to be. You are tired of the path of the warrior, old friend. the voice and ghostly visage of colossal lavender and purple rounded and squarish cable hair helmed Solus Prime towered over Arcee, smiling, golden and silver Forge hammer in hand, among a sea of stars forming the millions of faces Arcee had come across and cared for, near those she knew they were close to. The room she stood in was beyond sight, but she could feel Aileron and Impactor’s hands on her back, and hear Aileron singing wordlessly, humming a slow, high and low tune with her thruster shoulders providing soft thrumming percussion base chords to the melody Arcee recognized as a mountain song from her village she grew up in on Caminus: Love To and From a Prime.

Arcee’s spark oscillated and crashed around in its chamber, and she put her hands over the car hood armor covered it while Matrix remained hovering ahead of her. Her body and mind warmly relived all the amorous touches, dancing, sparring, and resting together with her loves she could remember, with her shape as it was now and as it had been in her first relationship both roiled in sensation across her. She knew that if she took the shape she thought she wanted, she would be taller than she had ever been, that Aileron’s hand would barely reach her waist, and neither her nor Impactor would be able to lean up or in to kiss her.

Aileron spoke a single verse, as her hand trembled, a tear down her face, worrying about Arcee being in the Matrix’s light so long:

“I will always love you,

No matter how large or small you are,

No matter who you become for goodness.”

Impactor wrapped her harpoon arm around Aileron, while looking around behind at the door they had come through, hearing the elevator going up, and immediately whirled around to face the doors. “Arcee, you may need to differ some of this for later. We’re about to have company, and I’m not about to let another Prime or you get shot in the back.”

“I…” Arcee tried to meet Solus’s violet optics she had last seen smiling and dim when Solus rejoined the Allspark when she immersed herself back in, cables of Cybertron’s metal underground plugged into her neck and back, prismatic crystals growing around her as she said goodbye.

“Solus, and Matrix both, the shape decision can wait. But I accept being a Prime.” Arcee smiled, and the energies around her permeate her frame, and she knelt, grunting at the searing pain of her armor, actuators, engine, and fuel lines getting souped up, and forming a new conduit of circuit responsive connection to the Star Saber hilt in her back stacks, usable as more than a blade. As she grabbed onto the Matrix, the A deep breeze of signals ran through her circuits to her module via my neural cluster and spark chamber. Arcee was one with the awareness of a vast conglomeration of sparks across a vastness, with billions grouped together in thirty different star systems, and less so in other places. The Matrix posed ideas and strategies to her the way a Titan does to a Cityspeaker, an array of thoughts and data, in this case drawn from her life, Rodimus’, Optimus’s, Tigerhawk’s, Override’s, Delta Magnus’s, Solus’s, and Primon’s, the previous Primes. All at once with the roiling emotional turmoil of the sparks around, mountainous waves of pain and stress and terror and fear and misery, pushed against with recognition and joy and resolve and spite.

Arcee let the access to knowledge and spark-visible kind guide her, and immediately she became aware that a terrible hunger consuming a desperately brave spark that… longed for me, Aileron, and Impactor? Oh no… Roddy… not you…

She narrowed her optics and drew in the Matrix energies and vision around her, Solus nodding at her as her visage disappeared into the Matrix that Arcee stored in her own opened car hood chest, feeling crushed by the weight of what lay ahead, wracking her mind and the Matrix for a solution. Maybe there’s a way to cleanse her… She sensed no other sparks with the descending one suffused with the Matrix of Conquest that gnawed at Arcee’s spark perception.

No. She blocked out Unicron’s Matrix using all her love and will, thinking of fighting for her loved ones and for her home, Earth, and for the galaxy’s sake.

Militia bots and humans had formed up with Impactor and Aileron to get between Arcee and the doors, weapons brandished.

“Stand back,” Arcee stepped forward, drawing the Star Saber, while still running through options offered by the Matrix of Conquest from past encounters with Conquest bearers, all unsatisfactorily lethal to her. “The Conquest Bearer is approaching. And I think I know who she is. Rodimus.”

Mutters and whispers ran through the group, who backed away to the edges of the hall, except for Verity, Impactor, and Aileron, the latter two conflicted between relief that Rodimus was alive and anguish that she was not in control of her faculties. Some of the adults who backed off shielded the eyes of the youngsters, wrapping themselves around them or urged them to hide under bunks or in smaller rooms. The interactions were not all tearless.

Arcee drew and ignited the Star Saber’s cyan golden broad blade. “If the Matrix and all the Primes don’t have a solution that doesn’t involve killing her, I damn well will touch my way through finding one. I make my own magic with strength, have all my life and because of that my name besides Arcee-” she and the Matrix spoke as one, “is Arcana Magnus. You all down to fight a Cron we care for? Keep in mind we have to minimize violence, since that feeds Unicron.”

The elevator hit the ground floor, and slow heavy footsteps thundered towards the doors.

“Being a Wrecker means signing up with a high chance of dying in some nearly impossible operation that we make possible,” Aileron smiled, her fingers wry around her sabers. “Wouldn’t have that any other way than for love, it’s why we’re here.”

“Aye, though this seems to be dangerously close relationship abuse, at the very least traumatic for everyone. But at least it’s not the bloody Noisemaze, Circuit Smasher, Flame’s zombies, Shadow Leeches, or Thunder Mayhem.” Impactor sighed and assumed a front stance with her harpoon, cutlass, and shoulder cannon. “Suppose this makes you a Wrecker, Verity. Though a counselor will have to assess you later.”

“Honored,” Verity leveled her cannons. “I do have this odd feeling that most of us are outclassed, though.”

The footsteps reached the doors ahead of the four, and stopped. Violet flames cut the doors in twain, revealing large thighed angularly and roundly lanky Rodimus in black and purple with smoking forearm barrels and a twisted grin. “How delightful, maybe I can finally crush the lazy vain hothead’s do-gooder attitude with the torture killing you will be for her.”

“Scrap you, Unicron,” Arcana Magnus seethed, showing her fangs, while Aileron and Impactor simmered and Verity stared slack jawed. Arcee cut down, channeling the might of her spark and the Matrix to galvanize the Star Saber’s energies into a precise arc of blue-white hot plasma that cut through the opening towards Rodimus, while Arcana still raced to construct a solution of Matrix of Leadership energies to quell the Matrix of Conquest, until considering what her own spark was doing. “Expose her spark housing so I can destroy her Matrix with mine!” She yelled as she leapt forward alongside her cut to stab forward-

Meeting Rodimus leaping over the arc of plasma, who stared with wide optics at Arcee’s follow up: “Would you really kill me sweetiegear?” Unicron toned in Rodimus’s softest coo that left Arcana and her partners freeze and want to belch up their energon, as did Rodimus’s own spark and mind overwhelmed by Unicron.

Verity immediately growled and fired off a volley of blue bolt ion blaster rounds into the center of Rodimus’s chest, tearing off the glacis point and halfway through the exterior armor as Rodimus twisted her torso to avoid Arcana’s stab, but was thrown back towards the floor by Verity’s blasts-

As Aileron and Arcana ran up on Rodimus, Impactor promptly aimed and fired her harpoon with the words “forgive me dear,” pinning Rodimus to the ground by her left arm, spilling purple Dark Energon out near her shoulder.

“How dare you! You say you love me for who I am, and this is how you treat me?” Unicron bellowed and fired a steady triple flare of violet Angolmois fire from the pinned arm into Impactor, straight through the armor towards the spark chamber-

Arcana Magnus had followed the move since the cannons started heating up and extended a protective cascade of energon plasma from the Matrix of Leadership through her hand that reached Impactor just as her armor was torn up, holding the blast short of the spark chamber.

“Of course you’d take her side, Arcee,” Unicron sneered through Rodimus’s face. “You don’t think I’m as real as you or your journey, do you? I’m not worth it. A waste. You bloody gatekeeper.”

Arcana struggled to stay afoot, tears streaming down her cheeks in equal measure to the quakes of Rodimus’s spark, the only thing Arcee could hold onto to keep from collapsing and sobbing. “Roddy would never say that… we helped each other find our way. You would never understand that.”

Aileron made use of the conversation to angrily move in with a heavy spark to rush and slice out the remaining front portion of Roddy’s car hood covering her spark and the cyclopean glow of the bladed Matrix of Conquest her two blades.

The Matrix’s twelve blades turned and launched cutting through Aileron’s torso from front to back, one through the spark.

“ AILERON! ” Arcana and Impactor both screamed.

“What do you expect Arcee would do if you did that to her, hmm? Our love is dead, like you,” Unicron kicked optics dimming Aileron over, and then pulled out the harpoon from Rodimus’s arm, shutting off the fire, cackling at the sensation of her spark shrinking and dying from the traumatic agony, and sealed the wound with Angolmois while projecting a shield sphere of such Unicron blood with a teethy maw and horns around Rodimus’s body. “You sweet fool. You denied me my champion of violence by showing her that she is ‘loveable and trustworthy,’ and listening to her when few would in the millennia leading to my triumph. I never wanted you, Rodimus Cron. I was always after Arcana, and you were never in the way. Aileron was, and so is the companion of violence, Impactor.”

The onlooking militia and civilians looked on in distraught, some saying prayers or speaking last rites, others turning to run into the tunnels only to see dead mangled and torn Angolmois filled bodies both human and transformer advancing slowly, and retreating back inside, opening fire on the Terrorcons, panic rising among the mass.

Arcee ran the words over in her head while she wove a song of wordless love with Matrix energies towards Aileron’s spark instinctively from Matrix memory, rekindling the sweet fire of the beloved bot, mending pierced fuel lines, while Arcana braced the Star Saber, knowing she could kill Rodimus and maybe the Matrix of Conquest, but it would be in violence. That cannot be the solution to this problem… Unicron feeds on that, something all prior Primes had missed, that we only learned during the recent Armada Wars after Unicron’s destruction. What if…

She will never give up. You are getting more than you bargained for. I took down Scourge and Shockwave and sent the Matrix away from your grasp so the last of your soul would have to possess me to avoid the Omniversal Matrix reconciling you before your Light and Dark peers, you idiot. I let you have me, knowing that the Autobots and my partners can beat you. Rodimus’s spark laughed, and reached out during Unicron’s shock to say to Arcee, Aileron, and Impactor: I love you all. Keep trying. Whatever it takes.

Impactor knelt, trembling after the shoulder cannon blast she fired did nothing to Rodimus’s Angolmois shield. “What use am I? I just know how to fight, to kill, to teach those things! Tearing into Rodimus made me feel worse than anything i’ve ever done. I’m no mage or philosopher! I just- have always been the last line. Arcee, what do we do?”

Verity looked up at Arcana Magnus. “Arcee… if not violence, then…”

“Then love,” Arcana Magnus leapt into the Angolmois sphere, shutting off the Star Saber to let it’s Cutting energies mingle with the Matrix, tearing apart the Angolmois shielding while Unicron attempted to fire full blasts of Hungry Fire with Rodimus’s arms, only to find the flames deflected-

Arcana let the Cutting fall away from her hands that she wrapped around Rodimus’s long pointy helm guard audials and her back, and plucked a kiss on her lips that Rodimus’s spark and module eagerly met, while Arcee exposed her own Matrix to simply shine upon the Matrix of Conquest, not attack it. “I love you, Roddy, dear transformation of my spark.”

I’m sorry, Primus toned through the Matrix to Unicron, all the way from and as the distant Allspark deep in the planet Cybertron. I didn’t mean for you to have to be the arbiter of destruction for so long, but ‘I’m sorry’ won’t fix that. Please- take this time as-

Rodimus put her arms around Arcana, smirking, “well this is just prime,” and smooched back, hands moving to her back stacks, while Impactor quickly ran over to a finger twitching Aileron, and Verity backed off to check on her people, trying to give assurances with words of hope.

Sibling, this is inane. You expect me to stop taking down your grand experiment with exposed spark life because of- sensory realizations and soulful iteration and… family? Unicron harumphed from within the Matrix of Conquest.

Then what are you, if not soulful iteration of someone lost in violence? Is it no surprise you were drawn to Arcee and her brother? You wanted to find a way to be good again. You can see into her, into me, right now. We have no moves to make. Primus-AllSpark hummed chords of song of Light and Dark that made emanations of stars and black holes dance among the onlookers, and stopped the Terrorcons in their tracks. You need rest. I don’t think I get to say I love you, sibling, after all this, but I do get to say- please take care. You can kill my spark, if you like- but it will live on in all of them, in all of you. We have done this dance before and will again. But Arcana convinced me that- violence is never the final answer. It is just a failure of society. And our Omniversal society, myself included, failed you.

Aileron came to slowly in Impactor’s arms, looking up at the splendor of starstuff filling the room and smiling down on her, and within Angolmois sharing tender touches hosting long lost family. “Wha- what did I miss? Did we win?”

“I have no damn idea,” Impactor kissed Aileron’s helm softly and laughed. “But I bet Arcee can tell you.”

“Let me go see her, then,” Aileron clasped Impactor’s chin, and the latter helped lift her to her feet, the two making their way over to Rodimus and Arcana, with only the Angolmois between them.

Unicron gazed, gazed upon the Matrix and AllSpark they had craved to consume for so long, and saw the lives that relived time after time in the memories of the sparks that came and went, that formed multitudes and stories, that all shared the conclusion of we are each other, different and alike, we are alone, we are together, infinite variation sparking again and again even when all times end, love remembers .

And Unicron gazed at Arcee’s spark, too, seeing that in all her anguish over the Cybertron’s bouts of reactionary violence and empire that had led to the Decepticons, that in all her loneliness when those cycles devalued all that she was and her only fearful worth to many was her honed capacity to fight, that she never let go of wanting to trust and love, because love is the greatest strength in the universe , because of the love she had gotten and given from time to time, once often, and then often once more a long while after.

Oh. The Matrix of Conquest dissolved, the last remains of Unicron’s violet anti-spark departing through a golden circle that formed in the ceiling. Will you join me?

I must. For all that I have done wrong. Primus departed from the AllSpark, saying farewells, and passed from the Matrix of Leadership, that remained not from their will, but from the love of an arcane mage for knowledge and teaching, longing to share all it’s wisdom, in peace, when the Great War would hopefully end. Good luck, Arcee, Rodimus, for all time. It was nice knowing you both. Their cyan spark left through the golden circle, which disappeared after.

The Angolmois and miniature stellar apparitions all fell away, the Terrorcons collapsing into corpses that blossomed with blue flowers and shrubs whether organic or metal- and the four Wrecker bots embraced, smiling, apologizing, soothing, kissing.

=”To all remaining Autobots and allies, this is Admiral Marissa Faireborn with EDCS Admiral Screwball! We have made an opening over Nemesis Polity, do any of you read? Do you need extra transport or medical evacs? We are ready to receive or send any transports necessary.”=

=“We read you, Admirals,”= Verity smiled. =“This is Mayor Verity Carlo, I will direct my people and remaining military units to take the shuttles now. We may be leaving Mars, but I trust that Unicron is no longer a problem. We also have a new Prime- maybe an old one again too.”

10 notes · View notes