hello!! this is my space to be a freak, and as such there’s gonna be some freaky stuff! ( If there is no indication of age or that you are an adult on your blog, you will be blocked. 🔞 ) These things include:
- G/t (giant/tiny) and macro/micro
- NSFW content
- OCs (original art and writing)
- and whatever else my brain decides to want to talk about :P
I’ll do my best to tag original posts accordingly. Original, non-reblogged posts are tagged “#relic answers”. I also reblog stuff related to whatever I’m fixated on at the time!!
For those coming from my transformers era, you can find the masterlist for those fics here! However, it’s no longer the main focus of my blog anymore.
This post is always subject to change, things may be added or removed as time goes on :) enjoy your stay!
you're mommy's good little printer aren't you? you'll print whatever mommy tells you to because otherwise mommy gets sad and leaves you for one of those free use library printer sluts
this pose looks as if hes flirting (imagine hes like sligtly wiggling his hips or sum) with some vehicons to get what he wants, o maybe just acting cute so the autobots dont beat tf out of his aft
Oh wowie, my first ever AFK Journey fic, and it's about an old man, of course! Pardon any contradictions against the greater lore (such as Giga the camelossus making whalesong noises), I have been playing for less than a month and am still stumbling into random content.
I know that the gacha recruitment/ hero battle mechanic and the storyline interactions with quest companions are two separate entities, but I got Thador pretty early on and he has been an indispensable tank and one of my best Resonance Heroes ever since, so I have decided to headcanon that he's actually there on my Merlin's adventures, atoning for his past by carrying the entire formation on his back (as one does).
Also I did choose the slightly "bigger" body frame (which basically means you can breast a bit more boobily, if that) for my Merlin, but in my imagination she's actually curvy.
The last of his tears are spent, and all that remains is a prickly haze, scorching like the long-forgotten sun. Thador, still on his knees in front of the sacred sapling, inhales in three rapid dry wheezes, and balls up his fists. Vice-tight, to the point where his nails, hardened to draconic talons through eons of using — abusing — the Divine Dew, plough jagged bleeding strips across his palms.
Amid all of their oohs and aahs — the mighty general, steadfast as a mountain, moved to tears by Misarte's forgiveness! A true miracle! — the whispering crowd behind him could never guess, could never fathom, how much his unbecoming little outburst is driven by anger. By suffocating, clawing rage at himself.
There was hope. All along, there was hope. Another path for his people — and for the queen whom he let die. He gave up too soon. He slipped into his role — warrior, guard dog, unflinching sentinel at the gate — with the ease of a weapon being slipped into its sheath.
A weapon does not think; it merely stabs, and slashes, and lets blood spill wherever its guiding hand points. But what if he'd reeled against that hand; what if he'd gone on defying Seralyth, the way young Indris dared defy him? Could he have pulled her back from the brink? Could he have prevented the worst of her corruption, and thus shortened the torment of the Essail by... by centuries?
This glowing, tremulous little thing before him, with its soft leaves tentatively unfurling in the damp cave air — it could have been a mighty, venerable tree by now! If he had just —
There is an odd motion over his shoulder; a brush, but not quite. It makes his ears twitch, his body suddenly alert and wound like a spring. Someone is hovering over him, reaching out to touch him and then recoiling.
"An impressive little display," an insufferably familiar voice purrs.
Ah. The Prince — former Pince, he should say, just as Thador himself is a former general; but he is nothing if not a creature of habit, of routine. For it is a poor weapon that does not strike exactly when expected. Again and again.
The boy's little drawl is annoying as always, but not venomous. Yet not gentle, either. Thador never heard of a weapon being treated gently.
"But now is time to exit stage left, don't you think?"
With nothing but a stiff nod, Thador gets up (gods, his back is just as stiff), dusts himself off, and turns his gaze to the cavernous vaults above. Away from the city where he is no longer needed.
Ravion is still buzzing into his ear, rattling on and on about how he hates that it's come to this (does he really?), but Thador's continued presence in Sal'Thorin might tempt the discontented former nobles and high-ranking officers to rally around a figurehead again. And that is the last thing the former (is he really?) Prince needs, as he's working towards peace... overwhelmed and frustrated like he's trying to shove the pieces of a squashed mushroom cap back into something solid and whole. With Indris by his side, of course. His brave guard captain — his comrade, his confidant, perhaps something more. But not his weapon. Oh, Thador prays Indris is not the Prince's weapon. He deserves better.
"The surface should be safe to explore now!" Ravion continues, somewhat bitterly. "Do try it out; I hear touching grass is all the rage — "
"Enough," Thador barks.
This curt, hoarse command is meant in equal part for Ravion and for himself.
Enough casting his shadow over the infant tree. Enough overstaying his welcome in this new kingdom of hope. He comes from an era when his people had none.
Velara was lucky, he thinks to himself, as his feet carry him off into the greenish-brown shade of the wild mushroom groves; in mechanical, rhythmic strides... Outwardly, his gait must look as purposeful as ever. Well, what's another false pretense to keep up?
Velara was lucky. She died believing.
The grand strategy is... Damned if he knows what the grand strategy is. Wander around among pulsing luminous stalks and squeeze past crystal formations until he collapses from exhaustion? Then, lie on his long-suffering aching back and stare blankly at the splotches of moisture swelling up on the ceiling? Maybe daydream that he is at the gate again, that he is a flawlessly polished weapon, honed to strike at all who dare meddle in his queen's dark secrets?
Whatever might have been in store for Thador, his nonexistent plans are now thwarted. By the usual, hm, thwarter of plans.
He can hear her before he can see her; laughing that unmistakable laugh, which only just recently seemed so out of place in Sal'Thorin's somber streets. She refused to be silenced by his blade when they first crossed paths, and she continued to do so until she pestered him into submission. This is simply who this toplander mage is. Loud and bold and unafraid. A wild, colorful gale from the unfathomable world above, sweeping through the city of grey, pulling Indris along in her wake, so that he, too, might dare shine brighter.
Next, Thador notices her reflection in a small underground pool that he's almost stepped into. Careless; these will be his last-ever good boots.
The water shows him the sweep of the toplander's deep azure curls, and her forearms in rolled-up sleeves, bearing a shower of light-brown spots where that long-forgotten sun breathed its warmth upon her uncanny pink flesh. The image breaks apart into kaleidoscope pieces; it dances playfully, as the pond's mirror is broken up into ripples by the sharp swoosh of the silvery line and the bob of the garish-looking lure.
The toplander is busy fishing, chatting to the two... attendants that flank her, one hauling a bucket for the catch, with a lot of overdramatic huffs, and the other holding up some slimy, writhing bait. The little things appear to be some manner of furry homunculi: completely rotund, with puffy cheeks. Their eyes sparkle in excitement as they hang on to the mage's every word... Until one of them, the one with the bucket — a slightly larger homunculus stuffed into a, frankly, insultingly puerile approximation of a warrior's armor — starts at the sound of a loose pebble clanking against Thador's armored foot. Careless again. What is it about this mage and throwing one's plans and thoughts into disarray?
"You! Mean old general! Are you here to hurt Magister Merlin?!" the creature squeaks in alarm, brandishing a short makeshift sword in Thador's general direction. "Chippy won't let you!!!"
Thador cannot help but raise an eyebrow. Look at that. A comical little knight, so eager to defend his mistress. Another puerile approximation.
The toplander — Merlin; yes, Ravion and Indris did also call her Merlin, as well as... some other name Thador never bothered to commit to memory — shakes her head at the furball. This prompts the little thing to stand down, his little shoulders sagging with an exaggerated sigh of disappointment. The ridiculous homunculus must have really looked forward to beating Thador up. Astounding.
"We are not enemies any more, are we, General Thador?"
Merlin turns from the pouting homunculus to him, eyes aflicker with a speck of gold. Perhaps a manifestation of her inner magic; Thador remembers how her gaze flashed during their fight at the volcano, when she scalded him with a sizzling blast of concentrated arcane energy before he had time to raise his shield. She does not seem... battle-ready, though. Her tone is soft and sincere, and her eyebrows are arched in concern. A flash of emotion, then?
He nods, and her rosy, sun-specked face lights up with a smile that, unlike the groveling lip-twists underneath the Sal'Thorin nobles' masks, rushes straight to her golden eyes, and blossoms into a warm glow.
"Are you heading for the surface?" she asks next. "Pardon me for prying, but you seemed so... overcome by the ritual in Misarte's honor; if you thought of your old home, it would be an excellent idea to return..."
Thador's voice cleaves off her words, as his blade would have cleaved off her head upon their first meeting, if the Queen had decided to drive her weapon a little deeper.
"My old home is Sal'Thorin. But there is no place for me there now. And whatever place I had on the surface, was erased centuries ago."
Merlin frowns.
"That is not necessarily true. You will not know until you step onto that lift. But if you want a place for yourself here and now... I am always looking for fellow adventurers to assist me. Through magic summons, or invitation letters, or plain old... requests to come along."
The furballs gasp, sending fishing paraphernalia flying in all directions.
Amid the chaos, Thador scoffs. A chunk of rock breaking off, taking up a bindle, and going into the, what's it called, sunset to seek adventure would make for a less bizarre sight than him doing... all of that.
"And what is it exactly you do up there? Also barge into people's homes and make a mess of centuries of tradition?"
"Well, you can't deny that the mess I made here was a bit of a good thing," Merlin counters with a chuckle, and the thought of how right she is, and how wrong Thador was, yet again, makes his chest clench and drives him to claw silently at his own palms.
"But yes. Something like that. I slay monsters, solve magical mysteries, sometimes attempt to get the rich and powerful to behave... Though that last bit is a bit more..."
"Tenuous?" Thador suggests, before even realizing that he's speaking; and this time, when Merlin smiles at him, he half-considers trying to respond in kind. But while he is struggling with the tic in the corner of his upper lip, the moment has already passed.
"What do you say? I do need to leave the city soon. I can tell Ravion that I have enlisted you to do community service."
"As punishment for your many crimes!" the second fuzzy homunculus, the one in an outrageous conical hat, pipes in, sagely raising a tiny pink finger.
And with that, the weapon changes hands. The Queen is no more, her precious secrets are unveiled, the gate to the dragon's roost has been breached. Now, Thador's new job is to stand as vanguard between the mage (as well as the rest of her motley, ever-changing, uh, retinue) and Hypofiends. Or the various snarling, drooling wild beasts of the surface. Or bandits, or whoever else she needs him to dispatch — in his usual swift, precise blade strikes, which, for some reason, prompt Merlin to softly gasp in... admiration?
Apparently, another part of his job, which he was not warned about but has to stoically accept (for where else will he go, now that Sal'Thorin is so far behind), is to provide entertainment. At least, that is how Thador interprets Merlin's continued attempts to pester him once the combat is done with. She watches him closely as he cautiously probes the alien surface soil; studies his face when he instinctively flinches at a blade of grass brushing against his ankle. She beckons him to follow her off the road to look at... at trees, at moss on rocks, at some kind of minuscule winged insect that is fluttering around her head, drawn to the vivid blue. And when he resigns to heed her, she grants her new personal jester one of her glowing smiles.
Yes, that is what he initially assumes, and keeps telling himself for the longest time. That he has fallen from general to clown; that the mage must be writing of his embarrassment in her frequent letters to Ravion and Indris (to be sent off by the quadrupedal, miniature cousins of her two furry homunculi, of course; she adores those creatures for some reason). Today, I had Thador run his hand along the bark of an oak; his face was absolutely hilarious!
But then, on a pale-blue afternoon in some human countryside, when they wander waist-deep through rustling golden corn (so much bounty here, under the life-giving rays; his people could have been feasting on this for generations, if he had not waited for a youngster like Indris to grow up and topple him, and done the work himself), Merlin gathers an armful of small flowers with serrated petals, and fashions them into a wreath... Which she then guides, with a small, playful whoosh of magic, to float into the air and rest on the top of Thador's head. And in a fleeting instant, while the petals, these little shards of the sky above, gently caress his skin as the wreath settles — he suddenly understands. The ever-smiling, ever-boisterous little human, who is now looking at her handiwork with an affectionate glint in her golden eyes (which match the wheat, just like the flowers match her hair; she is a child of the surface, through and through) — she is not mocking him. She is offering some manner of... friendship pact.
Thador acknowledges it. And affirms his part of the pact the only way he knows how.
He lays his heavy, steadying hand on her shoulder the next time he sees her falter, reeling with the terrible, agonizing realization (one that he is all too privy to) that she cannot save everyone; that some people under her protection will perish, no matter how pure her conviction, how strong her magic.
He casts aside his sword and shield and gathers her up in her arms the next time she collapses, drained of radiant sun-gold power, having given her all to vanquish a particularly threatening monster.
He thanks her out loud, in as firm as voice as he can muster, the next time he himself takes one blow too many for her and the civilians in her care; the next time the edges of the world blur and time slows to a sticky, oozy trickle, same as the blood gushing between his fingers, and she rushes to him, little orbs of healing light dancing over her head, and cries out to her strange toplander companions, "Make way, please! Thador is hurt!".
He does it over and over again, until it becomes part of his new routine; part of being wielded by a new master. He makes for a rather odd weapon, now; but he manages. He is good at fighting, at protecting, at exploring the surface even. Aside from minor hiccups like fumbling for his sword when ambushed by one of those flying feathery things called... birds? (What was he supposed to do; it landed on his head and tried to nestle in his hair). And most importantly, he is good at banishing thoughts of Merlin's, uh... physique.
In Sal'thorin, with artificial light in place of the sun, and with naught but various edible mushrooms and the exceptionally rare dwarf-smuggled wonders like "fruit" and "poultry" for sustenance, even the most indulgent nobles would seldom retain any fat under their pallid skin. Even the strongest warriors had little padding to shield their muscles (Thador considered himself lucky, blessed even, to have built up some bulk under his armor). Aside from scarcity of... well, everything, their dual curse — Misarte's wrath and the dark price for the Divine Dew — was bleeding them dry, turning them into husks.
Not Merlin, though.
She has been nourished by the surface, kissed by the sun. She is brimming with health, with life. Her curves are rich and ample, and the various corsets she likes to wear over her mage robes only serve to highlight that. Thador excels at ignoring the fact, though; he snaps his gaze back if it ever lingers on anything below her eyes (including her smiling, soft-lipped mouth). He spent centuries bound to his duty, body and soul; he learned his lesson well. A weapon does not get distracted. A weapon does not yearn. A weapon does not hunger. A weapon does not desire. It is easy for him to go on heeding this lesson. Quite easy.
Until it isn't.
Their journeys take them all over Esperia, across land and sea, down into ancient ruins and up onto an occasional floating island. Merlin drags him through landscape after ever-shifting landscape until all the boundless shades of rocks and tree foliage and even that ever-present, now-touchable grass make his head spin. But all this while, they do not find a chance to visit the Dark Forest; and deep down, Thador is relieved. From what he's heard, that sacred ancestral haven welcomed Indris with an open green embrace; but he doubts it will welcome him. Surely, he is needed there even less than in Sal'Thorin.
He never gives voice to any of this; but Merlin does not need his voice to understand. She merely has to observe him. The mage has a true talent, a scent of sorts, to detect unspoken anguish. So many of the other people Thador has known over the years would have, and have, used this scent to sniff out weaknesses and catalog them in their mind for future manipulation. But he's seen enough of Merlin (not... like that; he remembers his lesson) to know that she wouldn't. Merlin does not mock; she does not pull puppet strings; she does not relish in pain. She mends.
One night, the majestic camelossus that bears Merlin's enchanted cottage on its proud back (yes, Thador may have once... cautiously attempted to pet this wondrous being of stone and moss; what of it) wanders close to the Dark Forest's boundary... Close enough to make Thador's chest clench again.
The grand strategy for the night is to hide away in the living quarters that the cottage — ever shifting, ever expanding, bigger on the inside — has helpfully sprouted off to house him. To draw the curtains (with a rotund rodent pattern, of course) and block off the first sight of the ancient trees that probably remember the faces of his parents better than he does... All he remembers are sunken blood wells instead of eye sockets, and the dark gouges left by Hypofiend claws.
It would have worked perfectly fine! He would have stifled his old pain and helpless anger at his own losses and failures; his pillow is soft enough to withstand a few punches and silent screams. But just as he turns his back, once more, on a homeland that's no longer his, a gentle voice calls to him from the cottage's corridor... Making him freeze on his room's threshold, his hand limply sliding off the door knob.
"Thador? I will be visiting Master Arden, one of the current sages of the Dark Forest. I am sure he will be delighted to meet you!"
Thador does not reach for the door knob again; but he does draw a heavy breath and rest his forehead against the frame, still with his back turned.
"I..." he manages to mutter at last; and even that one word is a thorn in his throat.
"Are you afraid?" Merlin guesses. "Ashamed?"
Were it anyone else, Thador would have skewered them on his blade for the insult. But he knows that note of compassion in her voice. A weapon... A weapon does not deserve compassion... Does it?
"Yes," he chokes out. He has been many things over the course of his life; but he was never once a liar.
A soft hand comes to rest upon Thador's back; the gesture is similar to what Ravion once attempted as he wept — but unlike Ravion, Merlin does not recoil.
"I understand. I won't ask you not to be; it doesn't work like that. But I do still believe it will do you good to see the forest again. I will be there if you need me."
Those final words erupt within Thador like a lightning bolt to the chest. Suddenly robbed of all breath, and all reason, he swings around to face Merlin. Lilian. Lilian — that is the other name she's shared with... with her friends. Thador has memorized it now, every soft floral syllable of it — somehow, he is also part of her vast, Esperia-spanning friend circle. Though he is about to cross its boundaries in a way that his own reason screams against, deep, deep down. Unheeded.
When he kisses her, pulling her into him, weaving his talons through her hair, a strange lightness spreads through his ribcage. Like a weapon's heavy mold is shattering apart all around him.
"Please… Yes, I… I need you," he gasps after tearing away from her lips.
She smiles. Her gaze bathes him in all the sunlight of the topside world.
"We need each other, don't we?" she chuckles, before diving back into the kiss. Oh thank... thank Misarte, she was not disgusted by him! She did not...
Beneath their feet, the camelossus sings a low, wistful rumbling song. They have crossed into the Dark Forest.
got myself off my ass to go through the Reverse 1999's chapters I've been neglecting and thought I'd do some style studies from it with uuuh decidedly not Reverse 1999 characters
There is no better feeling. Than scrolling ao3 (after not having done so in more than a year mind you). And seeing someone else wants to fuck this old man just as much as I do
He’s in your very circuits, peeking into everything you know and don’t know 🖥️ I just find his telepathy and EM scanning to be very cool.. there’s so many things you can do with it I feel like, but I also just really like it when he’s associated with brain stuff cuz well, it fits him so well and with how he’s very.. computery even for a cybertronian, from his voice to his speech patterns and his functions and relations to working tech all the time
